A DARK DEED OF THE DAYS GONE BY.
I.
In one of the sunniest spots of sunny Tuscany, that favored department of Italy, may still be seen the ruins of a strong, ancient-built castle, or palace, surrounded by extensive grounds now run to waste; and which was, a century or two ago, one of the proudest buildings in that balmy land.
It was on an evening of delicious coolness, there so coveted, that a cavalier issued on horseback from the gates of the castle, which was then at the acme of its pride and strength. Numerous retainers stood on either side by the drawbridge their heads bared to the evening sun, until the horseman should have passed, but he went forth unattended; and the men resumed their caps, and swung to the drawbridge, as he urged his horse to a quick pace. It was the lord of that stately castle, the young inheritor of the lands of Visinara. His form, tall and graceful, was bent occasionally to the very neck of his horse, in acknowledgment of the homage that was universally paid him, though he sat his steed proudly, as if conscious that such bearing befitted the descendant of one of Italia's noblest families. In years he had numbered scarcely more than a quarter of a century, and yet on his beautiful features might be traced a shade, which told of perplexity or care.
Turning down a narrow and not much frequented way, which branched off from the main road, a mile or two distant from his residence, he urged his horse to a fast pace, and at length came in view of one of those pretty places, partly mansion, partly cottage, and partly temple, at that period to be seen in Italy; but which we now meet with rarely save in pictures. Fastening the bridle of his charger to a tree, he walked towards the house, and passing down the colonade, which ran along the south side of it, entered one of the rooms through the open window.
A lady, young and beautiful, sat there alone. She had delicate features, and a fair, open countenance, the complexion of which resembled more that of an English than an Italian one, inasmuch as a fine, transparent color was glowing on the cheeks. The expression of her eyes was mild and sweet, and her hair, of a chestnut brown, fell in curls upon her neck, according to the fashion of the times. She started visibly at sight of the count, and her tongue gave utterance to words, but what she apparently knew not. "So you have returned, signor?"
"At last, Gina," was the count's answer, as he threw his arm around her slender waist, and essayed to draw her affectionately towards him.
"Unhand me, Count di Visinara!" she impetuously exclaimed, sliding from his embrace, and standing apart, her whole form heaving with agitation.
He stood irresolute; aghast at this reception from her, who was his early and dearest love. "Are you out of your senses?" was his exclamation.
"No, but I soon shall be. And I have prayed to Heaven that insanity may fall upon me rather than experience the wretchedness of these last few days."
"My love, my love, what mean you?"
"My love! you call me your love, Count di Visinara! Be silent, hypocrite! I know you now. Cajoled that I have been in listening to you so long!"
"Gina!"
"And so the honorable Count di Visinara has amused his leisure hours in making love to Gina Montani!" she cried, vehemently. "The lordly chieftain who——"
"Be silent, Gina!" he interrupted. "Before you continue your strange accusations, tell me the origin of them. My love has never wandered from you."
"Yet you are seeking a wife in the heiress of Della Ripa! Ah, Sir Count, your complexion changes now!" Gina Montani was right: the flush of excitement on his face had turned to paleness. "Your long and repeated journeys, for days together, are now explained," she continued. "It was well to tell me business took you from home."
"I have had business to transact with the Prince of Della Ripa," he replied, boldly, recovering his equanimity.
"And to combine business with pleasure," she answered, with a curl of her delicate lip, "you have been wont to linger by the side of his daughter."
"And what though I have sometimes seen the Lady Adelaide?" he rejoined. "I have no love for her."
Gina was silent for awhile, as if struggling with her strong emotion, and then spoke calmly. "My mother has enjoined me, times out of mind, not to suffer your continued visits here, for that you would never marry me. You never will, Giovanni."
"Turn to my own faith, Gina," he exclaimed, with emotion, "and I will marry thee to-morrow."
"They say you are about to marry Adelaide of Della Ripa," she replied, passing by his own words with a gesture.
"They deceive you, Gina."
"You deceive me," she answered, passionately; "you, upon whose veracity I would have staked my life. And this is to be my reward!"
"You are like all your sex, Gina—when their jealousy is aroused, good-by to reason; one and all are alike."
"Can you say that in this case my suspicions are unfounded?"
"Gina," he answered, as he once again would have folded her to his heart, "let us not waste the hours in vain recriminations: I have no love for Adelaide of Della Ripa." And, alas! for the credulity of woman, Gina Montani lent ear once more to his honeyed persuasions, until she deemed them true: and they were again happy together, as of old. But this security was not to last long for her. As the weeks and months flew on, the visits of the count to her mother's house grew few and far between. He made long stays at the territory of Della Ripa, and people told it as a fact, no longer disputable, that he was about to make a bride of the Lady Adelaide.
They had come strangers into Tuscany, the Signora Montani and her daughter, but a year or two before. The signora was in deep grief for the loss of her husband, and they lived the most secluded life, making no acquaintances. They were scarcely known by name or by sight, and, save the Count di Visinara, no visitors were ever found there. The signora was of northern extraction, and of the Reformed faith, and had reared her daughter in the principles of the latter, which of itself would cause them to court seclusion, at that period, in Italy. And the Lord of Visinara, independent and haughty as he was by nature and by position, would no more have dared to take Gina Montani to be his wedded wife, than he would have braved his Mightiness the Pope in St. Peter's chair.
II.
It was on a calm moonlight night, that a closely-wrapped-up form stood in the deep shade of a grove of cypress-trees, within the gates of the Castle of Visinara, anxiously watching. Parties passed and repassed, and the figure stirred not; but now there came one, the very echo of whose footsteps had command in it, and the form advanced stealthily, and glided out of its hiding-place, right upon the path of the Lord of Visinara. He stood still, and faced the intruder. "Who are you—and what do you do here?"
"I came to bid you farewell, my Lord; to wish you joy of your marriage!" And, throwing back the mantle and hood, Gina Montani's fragile form stood out to view.
"You here, Gina!"
"Ay; I have struggled long—long. Pride, resentment, jealousy—I have struggled fiercely with them; but all are forgotten in my unhappy love." He folded her to his heart, as in their happy days. "You depart to-morrow morning on your way to bring home your bride. I have seen your preparations; I have watched the movements of your retainers. No farewell was given me—no word offered of consolation—no last visit vouchsafed." It would seem that he could not gainsay her words, for he made no reply. "Know you how long it is since we met?" she continued; "how long—"
"Reproach me not," he interrupted. "I have suffered more than you, and, for a farewell visit, I did not dare to trust myself."
"And so this is to be the end of your enduring love, that you said was to be mine, and only mine, till death!"
"And before Heaven I spoke the truth. I have never loved—I never shall love but you. Yet, Gina, what would you have me do? I may not speak to you of marriage; and it is necessary to my position that I wed."
"She is of your own rank, therefore you have wooed her?"
"And of my own faith. Difference in rank may be overcome; in faith, never."
"Oh that the time had come when God's children shall be all of one mind!" she uttered; "when the same mode of worship, and that a pure one, shall animate us all. In the later ages, this peace may be upon the earth."
"Would to the saints that it were now, Gina; or that you and I had never met."
"What! do you wish it?" she contemptuously exclaimed; "you, who voluntarily sever yourself from me?"
"I have acted an honorable part, Gina," he cried, striding to and fro in his agitation.
"Honorable, did you say?"
"Ay, honorable. You were growing too dear to me, and I could not speak of marriage to you." There was a long pause. She was standing against one of the cypress-trees, the moon, through an opening above, casting its light upon her pure face, down which were coursing tears of anguish. "So henceforth we must be brother and sister," he whispered.
"Brother and sister," she repeated, in a moaning voice, pressing the cold tree against her aching temples.
"After awhile, Gina, when time shall have tamed our feelings down. Until then, we may not meet."
"Not meet!" she exclaimed, startled by the words into sudden pain. "Will you never come to see us? Shall we never be together again—like brother and sister, as you have just said?"
"Nay, Gina, I must not do so great wrong to the Lady Adelaide."
"So great wrong!" she exclaimed in amazement.
"Not real wrong, I am aware. But I shall undertake at the altar to love and cherish her; and though I cannot do the one, I will the other. Knowing this, it is incumbent on me to be doubly careful of her feelings."
"I see, I see," interrupted the young lady, indignantly; "her feelings must be respected whilst mine—Farewell, Giovanni."
"One word yet, Gina," he said, detaining her. "You will probably hear of me much—foremost in the chase, gayest in the ballroom, last at the banquet—the gay, fortunate Lord of Visinara; and when you do so, remember that that gay lord wears about him a secret chain, suspected by and known to none—a chain, some links of which will remain entwined around his heart to his dying day, though the gilding that made it precious must from this time moulder away. Know you what the chain is, Gina?"
The suffocating sobs were rising in her throat, and she made no answer.
"His love for you. Fare thee well, my dearest and best. Nay, another instant; it is our last embrace in this world."
III.
It was a princely cavalcade that bore the heiress of Della Ripa to her new territories, and all eyes looked out upon it. The armor of the warlike retainers of the house of Visinara sparkled in the sun, and the more peaceful servitors were attired with a gorgeousness that would have done honor to an Eastern clime. The old Prince of Della Ripa, than whom one more fierce and brave never existed in all Italy, had that morning given his daughter's hand to Giovanni of Visinara; and as she neared the castle that was henceforth to be her home, every point from which a view of the procession could be obtained was seized upon.
"By my patron saint, but it is a goodly sight!" exclaimed one of a group of maidens, gathered at a window beneath which the bridal cavalcade was prancing. "Only look at Master Pietro, the seneschal."
"And at the steel points of the halberds,—how they shine in the crimson of the setting sun."
"Nay, rather look at these lovely dames that follow—the Lady Adelaide's tire-women. By the sacred relics! if her beauty exceed that of her maidens, it must be rare to look upon. See the gold and purple of their palfreys' horsecloths waving in the air."
"Hist! hist! it is the Count of Visinara in his emblazoned carriage! How haughtily he sits; but the Visinara is a haughty race. And—yes—see—by his side—oh, how lovely! Signora Montani, look! That face might win a kingdom."
Gina Montani, who stood in the corner of the lattice, shielded from view by its massive frame, may possibly have heard, but she answered not.
"Say what you will of his pride, he is the handsomest man that ever lived," exclaimed a damsel, enthusiastically. "Look at him as he sits there now—he rides bareheaded, his plumed cap resting on his knee—where will you find such a face and form as that!"
"What is she like?" interrupted an old duenna, snappishly, who, standing behind, could not as yet obtain a view of the coveted sight; "we know enough of his looks, let us hear something of hers. But you girls are ever the same: if a troop of sister angels came down from heaven, headed by the Virgin Mother herself, and a graceless cavalier appeared at the other side, you would turn your backs to the angels and your eyes upon Beatrice. Is she as handsome as the young Lady Beatrice, the count's sister, who married away a year agone?"
"Oh, mother, she is not like her. Beatrice of Visinara had a warm countenance, with eyes black as the darkest night, and brilliant as a diamond aigrette."
"And are the wife's not black," screamed out the duenna. "They ought to be; her blood is pure Italian."
"They are blue as heaven's sky, and her face is dazzling to behold from its extreme fairness, and her golden hair droops in curls almost to her waist—it is a band of diamonds, you see, that confines it from the temples. But you can see her now, mother; remember you one half so lovely?"
"Dio mio!" uttered the woman, startled at the beautiful vision that now came within her sight; "the Lord of Visinara has not sacrificed his liberty for nothing."
"Mark you her rich white dress, mother, with its corsage of diamonds, and the sleeves looped up to the elbow with lace and jewels? And over it, nearly hiding her fair neck, is a mantle of blue velvet, clasped by a diamond star. And see, she is taking her glove off, and her hand is raised to her cheek—small and delicate it is too, as befitteth her rank and beauty. And—look!—he lays his own upon it as she drops it, but she would draw it from him to replace the glove. Now he bends to speak to her, and she steals a glance at him with her blushing cheeks and her eye full of love. And now he is bowing to the people—hark how they shout, 'Long life to the Lady Adelaide—long life and happiness to the Count and Countess of Visinara!'"
"She is very beautiful, Bianca; but—"
"Ay, what, you are a reader of countenances, madra mia; what see you there?"
"That she is proud and self-willed. And woe be to any who may hereafter look upon her handsome husband with an eye of favor, for she loves him."
"Can there be a doubt of that?" echoed Bianca; "has she not married him? And look at his attractions: see this goodly lot of cavaliers speeding on to join his banquet; can any there compare with him?"
"Chi é stracco di bonaccie, si mariti," answered the lady; "and have you, Bianca, yet to learn that the comeliest mates oftentimes bring any thing but love to the altar?"
Bianca made a grimace, as if she doubted. "It will come sure enough, then," she said aloud; "for none could be brought into daily contact with one so attractive and not learn to love him."
"And who should this be in a holy habit, following the bridal equipage on his mule? Surely the spiritual director of the Lady Adelaide—the Father Anselmo it must be, that we have heard speak of. A faithful man, but stern, it is told; and so his countenance would betray. Bend your heads in reverend meekness, my children, the holy man is bestowing his blessings."
"How savage I should be if I were the Lady Beatrice, not to be able to come to the wedding after all," broke in the giddy Bianca. "She reckoned fully upon it, too, they say, and had caused her dress for the ceremony to be prepared—one to rival the bride's in splendor."
"She has enough to do with her newly-born infant," mumbled the good duenna. "Gayety first, care afterwards; a christening usually follows a wedding. Come, girls, there's nothing more to see."
"Nay, mother mine, some of these dames that follow lack not beauty."
"Pish!" uttered a fair young girl who had hitherto been silent; "it would be waste of time to look at their faces after the Lady Adelaide's."
"Who is that going away? The Signora Montani? Why, it has not all passed, signora. She is gone, I declare! What a curious girl she seems, that."
"Do you know what they say?" cried little Lisa, Bianca's cousin.
"What do they say?"
"That her mother is a descendant of those dreadful people over the sea, who have no religion, the heretics."
The pious duenna boxed her niece's ears.
"You sinful little monkey, to utter such heresy!" she cried, when anger allowed her to speak.
"So they do say so!" sobbed the young lady, dancing about with the passion she dared not otherwise vent. "And people do say," she continued, out of bravado, and smarting under the pain, "that they are heretics themselves, or else why do they never come to mass?"
"The old Signora Montani is bedridden; how could she get to mass?" laughed Bianca.
"Don't answer her, Bianca. If she says such a thing here again—if she insinuates that the Signora Gina, knowing herself to be in such league with the Evil One, would dare to put her head inside a faithful house such as this, I will cause her to do public penance—the wicked little calumniator!" concluded the good duenna, adding a few finishing strokes upon Lisa's ears.
III.
Long lasted the bridal banquet, and merrily it sped. Ere its conclusion, and when the hours were drawing towards midnight, the young Lady Adelaide, attended by her maidens, was conducted to her dressing-chamber, according to the custom of the times and of the country. She sat down in front of a large mirror whilst they disrobed her. They took the circlet of diamonds from her head, the jewels from her neck and arms, and the elegant bridal dress was carefully removed; and there she sat, in a dressing-robe of cambric and lace, while they brushed out and braided her beautiful hair. As they were thus engaged, the lady's eyes ran round and round the costly chamber. The furniture and appurtenances were of the most recherché description. One article in particular attracted her admiration. It was a small, but costly cabinet of malachite marble, exquisitely mounted in silver, and had been a present to the count from a Russian despot. In the inner part was fixed a mirror, encircled by a large frame of silver, and on the projecting slab stood open essence-bottles of pure crystal, in silver frames, emitting various perfumes. As she continued to look at this novelty—the marble called malachite was even more rare and costly in those days than it is in ours—she perceived, lying by the side of the scent-bottles, a piece of folded paper, and, wondering what it could be, she desired one of the ladies to bring it to her. It proved to be a sealed letter, and was addressed to herself. The conscious blush of love rose to her cheeks, for she deemed it was some communication or present from her husband. She opened it, and the contents instantly caught her eye, in the soft, pure light which the lamps shed over the apartment:
"To the Lady Adelaide, Countess of Visinara.
"You fancy yourself the beloved of Giovanni, Count of Visinara, but retire not to your rest this night, lady, in any such vain imagining. The heart of the count has long been given to another, and you know, by your love for him, that such passion can never change its object. Had he met you in earlier life, it might have been otherwise. He marries you, for your lineage is a high one, and she, in the world's eye and in that of his own haughty race, was no fit mate for him."
The bridegroom was still at the banquet, for some of his guests drank deeply, when a hasty summons came to him. Quitting the hall, he found, standing outside, two of his bride's attendants.
"Sir Count, the Lady Adelaide—"
"Has retired?" he observed, finding they hesitated, yet feeling somewhat surprised at so speedy a summons.
"Nay, signor, not retired, but—"
"But what? Speak out."
"We were disrobing the Lady Adelaide, Sir Count, when she saw in the chamber a note addressed to her. And—and—she read it, and fainted, in spite of the essence we poured on her hands and brow."
"A note!—fainted!" ejaculated the count.
"It was an insulting letter, signor; for Irene, the youngest of the Lady Adelaide's attendants, read the first line or two of it aloud, before we could prevent her, it having fallen, open, on the floor. Our lady is yet insensible, and the Signora Lucrezia desired us to acquaint you, my lord."
Without another word he turned from them, and passing through the various corridors, entered the dressing-chamber. The Lady Adelaide was still motionless, but a faint coloring had begun to appear in her face. "What is this, signora?" demanded the count of the chief attendant, Lucrezia.
"It must be owing to this letter, my lord, which was waiting for her on the cabinet," was the lady's reply, holding out the open note. "The Lady Adelaide fainted whilst she was perusing it."
"Fold it up," interrupted the count, "and replace it there." Lucrezia did as she was bid. "You may now go," said Giovanni to the attendants, advancing to support his bride. "When the countess has need of you, you shall be summoned."
"You have read that letter?" were the first connected words of the Lady Adelaide.
"Nay, my love, surely not, without your permission. Will you that I read it?"
She motioned in the affirmative.
"A guilty, glowing color came over his face as he read. Who could have written it? That it alluded to Gina Montani there was no doubt. Who could have sent it? He felt convinced that she had no act or part in so dishonorable a trick—yet what may not be expected from a jealous woman? Now came his trial.
"Was it not enough to make me ill?" demanded Adelaide.
He stammered something. He was not yet sufficiently collected to speak connectedly.
"Giovanni," she exclaimed, passionately, "deceive me not. Tell me what I have to fear: how much of your love is left for me—if any."
He tried to soothe her. He told her an enemy must have done this; and he mentioned Gina Montani, though not by name. He said that he had sometimes visited her house, but not to love; and that the letter must allude to this.
"You say you did not love her!" she cried, resentment in her tone, as she listened to the tale.
He hesitated a single second; but, he reasoned to himself, he ought at all risks to lull her suspicions—it was his duty. So he replied firmly, though the flush of shame rose to his brow, for he deemed a falsehood dishonorable. "In truth I did not. My love is yours, Adelaide."
"Why did you visit her?"
"I can hardly tell you. I hardly know myself: want of thought—or of occupation, probably."
"You surely did not wrong her?" was the next whispered question, as she turned her face from him.
"Wrong her! Had you known her, you could not have admitted the possibility of the idea," he answered, resentment in his tone now. "She has been carefully reared, and is as innocent as you are."
"Who is she?—what is her name?"
"Adelaide, let us rather forget the subject. I have told you I loved her not: and I should not have mentioned this at all, but that I can think of nothing else to which that diabolical letter can have alluded. Believe me, my own wife"—and he drew her to his bosom as he spoke—"that I have not done you so great an injury as to marry where I did not love."
"Oh," she exclaimed, wringing her hands, and extricating herself from him, "that this cruel news had not been given me!"
"My love, be comforted—be convinced. I tell you it is a false letter."
"How can I know it is false?" she lamented—"how can you prove it to me?"
"Adelaide, I can but tell you so now: the future and my conduct must prove it."
"Giovanni," she continued vehemently, and half sinking on her knees before him, "deceive me not. If there be aught of truth in this accusation, let me depart. I am your wife but in name: a slight ceremony only has passed between us, and we both know how readily, with such influence as ours, the Church at Rome would dissolve that. Suffer me to depart ere I shall be indeed your wife."
"Adelaide," he replied mournfully, as he held her, "I thought you loved me."
"I do—I do. None, save God, know how passionately. My very life is bound up in yours; but it is because I so love you, that I could not brook a rival. Let me know the truth at once—even though it be the worst; for should I trust to you now, and find afterwards that I had been deceived, it would be most unhappy for both of us. My whole affection would be turned to hate; and not only would my own existence be wretched, but I should render yours so."
"You have no rival, Adelaide. You never shall have one."
"I mean not a rival in the vulgar acceptation of the term," she replied, a shade of haughtiness mixing with her tone—"but one in your heart—your mind—this I could not bear."
"Adelaide, hear me. Some enemy, wishing to do me a foul injury, has thrust himself between us; but, rely on it, they are but false cowards who stab in the dark. I have sought you these many months; I have striven to gain your love; I have now made you mine. Why should I have done this had my affections been another's? Talk not of separation, Adelaide." She burst into a passionate fit of weeping. "Adelaide," he whispered, as he fondly clasped her to his heart, "believe that I love you; believe that you have no rival, and that I will give you none. I have made you my wife—the wife of my bosom: you are, and ever shall be, my only love."
Sweet words! And the Lady Adelaide suffered her disturbed mind to yield to them, resolutely thrusting away the dreadful thought that the heart of her attractive husband could ever have been given to another.
V.
Months elapsed, and the Lady Adelaide was the happiest of the happy, although now and again the remembrance of that anonymous letter would dart before her mind, like a dream. That most rare felicity was, indeed, hers, of passionately idolizing one from whom she need never be separated by night or by day. But how was it with him? Love is almost the only passion which cannot be called forth or turned aside at will, and though the Count di Visinara treated his wife in all respects, and ever would, with the most cautious attention, his heart was still true to Gina Montani. But now the Count had to leave home; business called him forth; and to remain away fifteen days. In those earlier times women could not accompany their lords every where, as they may in these; and when Giovanni rode away from his castle gates, the Lady Adelaide sank in solitude upon the arm of one of her costly sofas, all rich with brocaded velvet; and though not a tear dimmed her eye, or a line of pain marked her forehead, to tell of suppressed feelings, it seemed to her that her heart was breaking. It was on the morrow, news was brought to the countess that one craved admission to her—a maiden, young and beautiful, the servitor said; and the Lady Adelaide ordered her to be admitted. Young and beautiful indeed, and so she looked, as, with downcast eyes, the visitor was ushered in—you know her, reader, though the Lady Adelaide did not. She began to stammer out an incoherent explanation; that news had reached her of the retirement of one of the Lady Adelaide's attendants, and of her wish to fill the vacant place. "What is your name?" inquired the countess, already taken, as the young are apt to be, with the prepossessing manners and appearance of her visitor.
"Signora, it is Gina Montani."
"And in whose household have you resided?"
A deep shade rose to Gina's face. "Madam, I am a stranger as yet to servitude. I was not reared to expect such. But my mother is dead, and I am now alone in the world. I have heard much, too, of the Countess of Visinara's gentleness and worth, and should wish to serve her."
Some further conversation, a few preliminary arrangements, and Gina Montani was installed at the castle as one of the countess's maids in waiting: a somewhat contradistinctive term, be it understood, to a waiting-maid, these attendants of high-born gentle-women being then made, in a great degree, their companions. Gina speedily rose in favor. Her manners were elegant and unassuming, and there was a sadness about her which, coupled with her great beauty, rendered her eminently interesting.
VI.
The Lady Adelaide stood at the eastern window of the Purple Room—so called from its magnificent hangings—watching eagerly for the appearance of her husband, it being the day and hour of his expected return. So had she stood since the morning. Ah! what pleasure is there in this world like that of watching for a beloved one! At the opposite end of the apartment were her ladies, engaged upon some fancy work, in those times violently in vogue, like that eternal knitting or crotchet-work is in ours. "Come hither, Lucrezia," said the lady, at length. "Discern you yon trees—groups of them scattered about, and through which an occasional glimpse of the highway may be distinguished? Nay, not there; far, far away in the distance. See you aught?"
"Nothing but the road, my lady. And yet, now I look attentively, there seems to be a movement, as of a body of horsemen, Ah! now there is an open space, and they are more distinct. It should be the count, madam, and his followers."
"I think it is, Lucrezia," said the Lady Adelaide, calmly, not suffering her emotion to appear in the presence of her maidens, for that haughty girl brooked not that others should read her deep love for Giovanni. "You may return to your embroidery."
The Count di Visinara rode at a sharp trot towards his home, followed by his retainers; but when he discerned the form of his wife at the window, he quickened the pace to a gallop, after taking off his plumed cap, and waving his hand towards her in the distance. She pressed her heart to still its throbbing, and waited his approach.
She heard him rattle over the drawbridge, and was turning to leave the apartment to welcome him home, when he entered, so great haste had he made. Without observing that she was not alone, he advanced, and, throwing his arms round her, drew aside her fair golden curls, and kissed her repeatedly, like many a man possessed of a lovely wife will kiss, though his love may be far away from her. But she shrank from his embrace, the glowing crimson overspreading her face; and then the count turned and saw they were not alone. At the extreme end of the apartment, out of hearing, but within sight, were the damsels seated over their embroidery. "Gina," murmured one of the girls, still pursuing her work, "what has made you turn so pale? You are as white as Juliette's dress."
"Is the Signora Montani ill?" demanded Lucrezia, sharply, for she liked not Gina.
"A sudden pain—a spasm in my side," gasped Gina. "It is over now."
"Is he not an attractive man?" whispered another of the ladies in Gina's ear.
"He?"
"The Count di Visinara: you never saw him before. They are well matched for beauty, he and the Lady Adelaide."
"Pray attend to your work, and let this gossiping cease," exclaimed Lucrezia, angrily.
Giovanni and his wife remained at the window, with their backs towards the damsels. She suffered her hand to remain in his—they could not see that—and conversed with him in a confidential tone. Then she began chattering to him of her new attendant, telling how lovely she was, when a servant entered and announced the mid-day meal.
"Now you shall see my favorite," she exclaimed, as he took her hand to conduct her to the banquet-hall. "I will stop as I pass them, to look at their work, and you shall tell me if you do not think her very beautiful."
"Scarcely, Adelaide, when beside you."
"She is about my age," ran on Adelaide, whose spirits were raised to exuberance. But it had never entered the mind of that haughty lady to imagine the possibility of the Lord of Visinara, her husband, looking upon an attendant of hers with an eye of real admiration; or she might not have discussed their personal merits.
"How do you get on with the work, Lucrezia?" demanded the Lady Adelaide, stopping close to her attendants.
"Favorably, madam," answered the signora, rising from her seat.
"That is a beautiful part that you are engaged upon, Gina. Bring it forward, that we may exhibit our handiwork."
Gina Montani, without raising her eyes, and trembling inwardly and outwardly, rose, and advanced with the embroidery. The Signora Lucrezia eyed her, covertly.
"Is it not a handsome pattern?" exclaimed Adelaide, her thoughts now really occupied with the beauty of the work. "And I was so industrious while you were away, Giovanni. I did a good portion of this myself—I did, indeed; all the shadings of the rosebuds are my doing, and those interlaces of silver."
The Lady Adelaide stopped, for, on looking to his face for approbation, she was startled by the frightful pallor which had overspread it. "Oh, Giovanni, you are ill!—my husband, what is it? Giovanni—"
"It is nothing," interrupted the count, leading her hurriedly from the room. "I rode hard, and the sun was hot. A cup of wine will restore me."
But not less awake to this emotion of the count's than she had been to Gina's, was the Signora Lucrezia, and she came to the conclusion that there was some unaccountable mystery at the bottom of it, which she determined to do all in her power to find out.
VII.
Days passed. The count had not yet seen Gina alone, though he had sought for the opportunity; but one morning when he entered the Lady Adelaide's embroidery room—so called—Gina sat there alone, sorting silks. He did not observe her at the first moment, and, being in search of his wife, called to her, "Adelaide!"
"The Lady Adelaide is not here, signor," was Gina's reply, as she rose from her seat.
"Gina," he said, advancing cautiously, and speaking in an under tone, "what in the name of all the saints brought you here—an inmate of my castle—the attendant of the Lady Adelaide?"
"You shall hear the truth," she gasped, leaning against the wall for support. "I have lived long, these many months, in my dreary home, unseeing you, uncared for, knowing only that you were happy with another. Giovanni, can you picture what I endured? My mother died—you may have heard of it—and her relations sent for me into their distant country, and would have comforted me; but I remained on alone to be near you. I struggled much with my unhappy passion. My very soul was wearing away with despair. I would see you pass sometimes at a distance with your retainers—and that was heaven to me. Then came a thought into my mind; I wrestled with it, and would have driven it away—but there it was, ever urging me; it may be that my better angel sent it there; it may be that the Evil One, who is ever tempting us for ill, drove it on."
"What mean you?" he inquired.
"It suggested," she continued in a low voice, "that if but to see you at a distance, and at rare intervals, could almost compensate for my life of misery, what bliss would be mine were I living under the roof of your own castle, liable to see you any hour of the day; hence you find me numbered amongst your wife's waiting-maids. And blame me not, Giovanni," she hastily concluded, seeing him about to interrupt her; "you are the cause of all, for you sought and gained my love; and such love! I think none can have ever known such. And yet I must suppress this love. The fiercest jealousy of the Lady Adelaide rages in my heart—and yet I must suppress it! Giovanni, you have brought this anguish upon me; so blame me not."
"It is a dangerous proceeding, Gina. I was becoming reconciled to our separation; but now—it will be dangerous for both of us."
"Ay," she answered, bitterly, "you had all. Friends, revelry, a wife of rare beauty, the chase, the bustle of an immense household—in short, what had you not to aid your mental struggles? I but my home of solitude, and the jealous pictures, self, but ever inflicted, of your happiness with the Lady Adelaide."
"I still love but you, Gina," he repeated, "but I will be honorable to her, and must show it not."
"Do I ask you to show it? or think you I would permit it?" she replied quickly; "no, no; I did not come here to sow discord in your household. Suffer me to live on unnoticed as of these last few days, but, oh! drive me not away from you."
"Believe me, Gina, this will never do. I mistrust my own powers of endurance; ay, and of concealment."
"You can think of me but as the waiting-maid of your lady," she interrupted, in a tone of bitterness. "In time you will really regard me as such."
"There would be another obstacle, Gina," he returned, sinking his voice to a lower tone, as if fearful even to mention the subject—"how can you live in my household, and not conform to the usages of our faith? You know that yours must never be suspected."
"Trust to me to manage all," she reiterated; "but send me not away from you."
"Be it so, Gina," he observed, after reflection; "you deserve more sacrifice on my part than this. But all confidence must cease between us: from this time we are to each other as strangers."
"Even so," she acquiesced. "Yet if you deem my enduring affection deserves requital, give me at times a look as of old; a smile, unperceived by others, but acknowledged by, and too dear to, my own heart. It will be a token that you have not driven away all remembrance of our once youthful love, though it is at an end for ever."
He took her hand and clasped it tenderly, but the next moment he almost flung it from him, and had turned and quitted the room. Gina burst into a violent fit of weeping, and slowly retreated to seek the solitude of her chamber.
Scarcely had the echo of her footsteps died away in the gallery, when the door of a closet appertaining to the room was cautiously pushed open, and out stepped the Signora Lucrezia, her eyes and mouth wide open, and her hair standing on end.
"May all the saints reject me if ever I met with such a plot as this!" she ejaculated. "I knew there was something going on underneath, but the deuce himself would never have suspected this. So the innocent-faced madam has not been winding herself round the Lady Adelaide for nothing—the she-wolf in sheep's petticoats! Something was said, too, that I could not catch, about her irreligion. The hypocrite dare not go to confession, probably, and so keeps away. The letter of the wedding night is explained now, and that changing, as they both did, to the hue of a mort-cloth at sight of each other. May I die unabsolved if so sly a conspiracy ever came up. However, I shall not interfere yet awhile. Let my baby-mistress look out for herself: she has not pleased me of late, showering down marks of favor upon this false jade. Her rival! if she did but know it! I'll keep my eyes and ears open. Two lovers cannot live for ever under the same roof without betraying their secret; and there will be an explosion some day, or my name is not Lucrezia Andrini."