[CHAPTER XVI.]
THE DUCHESS AND THE MARCHIONESS.
It was given out to the world that Ippolito had been carried off by fever, caught on the marshes during his hot ride to and from Fondi; and this filled the tender-hearted Duchess with grief, as she knew not but that, had she been at home, he might yet be alive. She dwelt with mournfulness on his long-cherished attachment, wept over his poems, recalled his brightest points, and even questioned herself whether she ought to have accepted him; but the answer always was no. And surely she was right; for whatever Ippolito's society-attractions might have been, and however his character might have been purified by household association with a better nature, his worse qualities would undoubtedly have cropped out as long as he remained an unconverted man. Might not she have converted him? Why, Vittoria, who knew her best, would have told you that, at this time, Giulia was not even converted herself. She was very sweet, very amiable and charming; but she had not the faith which saves. Vittoria, with her higher views and deeper nature, was almost out of patience with her sometimes.
"What is it you want? What is it you need?" she would say to her; trying to rouse her to a nobler life. "I can tell you: you want the Holy Spirit; and He will come to you if you seek Him: but unsought, He is unfound."
"O Vittoria! why will you torment me so?" said Giulia, fretfully. "I want rest; I want peace."
"Rest and peace? Why, you have a great deal too much of both to be good for you; and as for your lawsuit, that is a mere mosquito-sting, that draws neither blood nor tears. Fie on you, Giulia! with all your advantages, you ought not to sit and wail about nothing. I think you loved Ippolito more than you say you did, or you would not give way so."
"I did not love Ippolito at all," said Giulia, nettled. "I suppose one may be sorry for a friend, without having been in love with him. You do injustice to the memory of my dear Duke, to suppose I could ever forget him."
"As to that," said Vittoria, "considering your good Duke's years and infirmities, it is difficult for any one to see why you should be inconsolable. I am sure I am quite ready to do justice to all his qualities of head and heart; but, if I am to speak sincerely, I must own that your deploring him in the way you have done has always seemed to me a little exaggerated."
"I never asked you to speak sincerely," returned Giulia; "and people generally make that a pretext for saying things that are disagreeable. As for exaggeration, nobody possessed of any feeling could consistently accuse me of having too much of it."