CHAPTER VIII.
FOR THE HONOR OF A NAME.
When the marchesa entered the sala after she had left the chapel, her steps were slow and measured. Count Nobili's words rang in her ear: "I will not live with her." She could not put these words from her. For the first time in her life the marchesa was shaken in the belief of her mission.
If Count Nobili refused to live with Enrica as his wife, all the law in the world could not force him. If no heir was born to the Guinigi, she had lived in vain.
As the marchesa stood in the dull light of the misty afternoon, leaning against the solid carved table on which refreshments were spread, the old palace at Lucca rose up before her dyed with the ruddy tints of summer sunsets. She trod again in thought those mysterious rooms, shrouded in perpetual twilight. She gazed upon the faces of the dead, looking down upon her from the walls. How could she answer to those dead; for what had she done? That heroic face too with the stern, soft eyes—how could she meet it? What was Count Nobili or his wealth to her without an heir? By threats she had forced Nobili to make Enrica his wife, but no threats could compel him to complete the marriage.
As she lingered in the sala, stunned by the blow that had fallen upon her, the marchesa suddenly recollected the penciled lines which Guglielmi had torn from his tablet and slipped into her hand. She drew the paper from the folds of her dress and read these words:
"We are beaten if Count Nobili leaves the house to-night. Keep him at all hazards."
A sudden revulsion seized her. She raised her head with that snake-like action natural to her. The blood rushed to her face and neck. Guglielmi then still had hope?—All was not lost. In an instant her energy returned to her. What could she do to keep him? Would Enrica—Enrica was still within the chapel. The marchesa heard the murmur of voices coming through the corridor. No, though she worshiped him, Enrica would never lend herself to tempt Nobili with the bait of her beauty—no, even though she was his wife. It would be useless to ask her. "Keep him—how?" the marchesa asked herself with feverish impatience. Every moment was precious. She heard footsteps. They must be leaving the chapel. Nobili, perhaps, was going. No. The door to the garden, by which Nobili had entered the chapel, was now locked. Adamo had given her the key. She must therefore see them when they passed out through the sala. At this moment the howling of the dogs was audible. They were chained up in the cave under the tower. Poor beasts, they had been forgotten in the hurry of the day. The dogs were hungry; were yelping for their food. Through the open door the marchesa saw Adamo pass—a sudden thought struck her.
"Adamo!"
"Padrona." And Adamo's bullet-head and broad shoulders fill up the doorway.
"Where is Count Nobili?"
"Along with the lawyer from Lucca."
"He is safe, then, for the present," the marchesa told herself.
Adamo could not speak for staring at his mistress as she stood opposite to him full in the light. He had never seen such a look upon her face all the years he had served her.
She almost smiled at him.
"Adamo," the marchesa addresses him eagerly, "come here. How many years have you lived with me?"
Adamo grins and shows two rows of white teeth.
"Thirty years, padrona—I came when I was a little lad."
"Have I treated you well, Adamo?"
As she asks this question, the marchesa moves close to him.
"Have I ever complained," is Adamo's answer, "that the marchesa asks me?"
"You saved my life, Adamo, not long ago, from the fire." The eager look is growing intenser. "I have never thanked you. Adamo—"
"Padrona"—he is more and more amazed at her—"she must be going to die! Gesù mio! I wish she would swear at me," Adamo thought. "Padrona, don't thank me—Domine Dio did it."
"Take these"—and the marchesa puts her hand into her pocket and draws out some notes—"take these, these are better than thanks."
Adamo drew back much affronted. "Padrona, I don't want money."
"Yes, yes, take them—for Pipa and the boys"—and she thrusts the notes into his big red hands.
"After all," thought Adamo to himself, "if the padrona is going to die, I may as well have these notes as another."
"I would save your life any day, padrona," Adamo says aloud. "It is a pleasure."
"Would you?" the marchesa fell into a muse.
Again the dogs howled. Adamo makes a motion to go to them.
"Were you going to feed the dogs when I called to you?" she asks.
"Padrona, yes. I was going to feed them."
"Are they very hungry?"
"Very—poverini! they have had nothing since this morning. Now it is five o'clock."
"Don't feed them, Adamo, don't feed them." The marchesa is strangely excited. She holds out her hand to detain him.
Adamo stares at her in mute consternation. "The padrona is certainly going mad before she dies," he mutters, trying to get away.
"Adamo, come here!" He approaches her, secretly making horns against the evil-eye with his fingers. "You saved my life, now you must save my honor."
The words came hissing into his ear. Adamo drew back a step or two.
"Blessed mother, what ails her?" But he held his tongue.
The marchesa stands before him drawn up to her full height, every nerve and muscle strained to the utmost.
"Adamo, do you hear?—My honor, the honor of my name. Quick, quick!"
She lays her hand on his rough jacket and grasps it.
Adamo, struck with superstitious awe, cannot speak. He nods.
"The dogs are hungry, you say. Let them loose without feeding. No one must leave the house to-night. Do you understand? You must prevent it. Let the dogs loose."
Again Adamo nods. He is utterly bewildered. He will obey her, of course, but what can she mean?
"Is your gun loaded?" she asks, anxiously.
"Yes, padrona."
"That is well." A vindictive smile lights up her features. "No one must leave the house to-night. You understand? The dogs will be loose—the guns loaded.—Where is Pipa? Say nothing to Pipa. Do you understand? Don't tell Pipa—"
"Understand? No, diavalo! I don't understand," bursts out Adamo. "If you want any one shot, tell me who it is, padrona, and I will do it."
"That would be murder, Adamo." The marchesa is standing very near him. Adamo sees the savage gleam that comes into her eyes. "If any one leaves the house to-night except Fra Pacifico, stop him, Adamo, stop him. You, or the dogs, or the gun—no matter. Stop him, I command you. I have my reasons. If a life is lost I cannot help it—nor can you, Adamo, eh?"
She smiles grimly. Adamo smiles too, a stolid smile, and nods. He is greatly relieved. The padrona is not mad, nor will she die.
"You may sleep in peace, padrona." With the utmost respect Adamo raises her hand to his lips and kisses it. "Next time ask Adamo to do something more, and he will do it. Trust me, no one shall leave the house to-night alive."
The marchesa listens to Adamo breathlessly. "Go—go," she says; "we must not be seen together."
"The signora shall be obeyed," answers Adamo. He vanishes behind the trees.
"Now I can meet Guglielmi!" The marchesa rapidly crosses the sala to the door of her own room, which she leaves ajar.