The word was spoken. Now she had courage to meet the marchesa's gaze unmoved, spite of the menace of her look and attitude. Enrica's conscience acquitted her of any wrong save the wrong of concealment, "Had you asked me," she adds, more timidly, "I should have spoken. You have asked me now, and I have told you."
The very spirit of truth spoke in Enrica. Not even the marchesa could doubt her. Enrica had not disgraced the name she bore. She believed her; but there was a sting behind sharper to her than death. That sting remained. Enrica had confessed her love for the man she hated!
As to the cavaliere, the difficulty he experienced at this moment in controlling his feelings amounted to positive agony. His Enrica is safe! San Riccardo be thanked! She is safe—she is pure! Except his eyes, which glowed with the secret ecstasy he felt, he appeared outwardly as impassive as a stone. The marchesa turned and reseated herself. There is, spite of her violence, an indescribable majesty about her as she sits erect and firm upon her chair in judgment on her niece. Right or wrong, the marchesa is a woman born to command.
"It is not for me," she says, with lofty composure, "to reason with a love-sick girl, whose mind runs to the tune of her lover's name. Of all living men I abhor Count Nobili. To love him, in my eyes, is a crime—yes, a crime," she repeats, raising her voice, seeing that Enrica is about to speak. "I know him—he is a vain, purse-proud reprobate. He has come and planted himself like a mushroom within our ancient walls. Nor did this content him—he has had the presumption to lodge himself in a Guinigi palace. The blood in his veins is as mud. That he cannot help, nor do I reproach him for it; but he has forced himself into our class—he has mingled his name with the old names of the city; he has dared to speak—live—act—as if he were one of us. You, Enrica, are the last of the Guinigi. I had hoped that a child I had reared at my side would have learned and reflected my will—would have repaid me for years of care by her obedience."
"O my aunt!" exclaims Enrica, sinking on her knees, "forgive me—forgive me! I am ungrateful."
"Rise," cries the marchesa, sternly, not in the least touched by this outburst of natural feeling. "I care not for words—your acts show you have defied me. The project which for years I have silently nursed in my bosom, waiting for the fitting time to disclose it to you—the project of building up through you the great Guinigi name."
The marchesa pauses; she gasps, as if for breath. A quick flush steals over her white face, and for a moment she leans back in her chair, unable to proceed. Then she presses her hand to her forehead, on which the perspiration had risen in beads.
"Alas! I did not know it!" Enrica is now sobbing bitterly. "Why—oh! why, did you not trust me?"
In a strange, weary-sounding voice the marchesa continues:
"Let us not speak of it. Enrica"—she turns her gray eyes full upon her, as she stands motionless in front of the pillared casement—"Enrica, you must choose. Renounce Nobili, or prepare to enter a convent. His wife you can never be."