What I am going to write now was not known to me until very lately—at least, the greater part of it was not. Before I left Florence, however, I had begun to feel pretty sure that Ida’s mysterious illness came of her grief for L——. One day I said to her, “Ida, tell me if I have guessed rightly: you have suffered more about L—— than you have been willing to tell.” And she answered, “If I have, I have never troubled any one else about it.”
A few days after I left her, L—— made his long promised visit to Florence. He seemed troubled at the change in Ida, and met her at first very kindly. He saw her, however, only once, and then left her, saying that he would come again the next day. The next day, however, instead of L—— himself, came a letter from him saying that he had been obliged to leave Florence in haste, and that he had not felt able to support the sorrow of taking leave of Ida. They never met again.
Ida was much grieved at his leaving her so abruptly. Giulia was more than grieved,—she was suspicious of something worse than appeared. Now, there lived in Florence a cousin of L——’s, a married lady, with whom the two girls were hardly acquainted. To her Giulia went in her trouble, and told her all about Ida, and how strangely L—— had behaved towards her; and she asked her to tell her the truth, if she knew it, whether he really intended to marry her when he should leave the army. The lady appeared troubled, and answered her very sadly, “You must know that L—— is in a very difficult position; he has grave duties to perform.” “What duties?” asked Giulia, who could not imagine that any duty could be greater than his duty to her sister. And the lady answered, yet more sadly than before, that he was the father of two children. The horror of the innocent open-hearted Giulia is more easily imagined than described. Trembling, she asked of the children’s mother, and learned that she was another victim, even more unfortunate than Ida. L—— had married her by a religious marriage,[6] promising to marry her legally when he should leave the army. She was a Neapolitan, the very same widowed sister-in-law to whom he had been in the habit of sending money. So all was explained.
Her first impulse was to tell everything to her sister; but Ida was very weak just then, and she almost feared that such a shock would be fatal to her. The same consideration prevented her telling either of her parents, as she feared that they would be unable to contain their indignation. Then she thought that perhaps Ida was going to die, and in that case perhaps it would be better that she should never know on what a worthless object she had set her heart. But she did what was most natural to such an open, straightforward girl as Giulia. She wrote to L—— himself, and let him know that she had discovered all. She also told him that Ida was growing always worse, and that she should not tell her anything about it while she was so ill; and she entreated him not to let her suspect anything until she should have recovered.
Now, I cannot imagine what was the captain’s motive for what he did—whether he did not believe Giulia’s promise of silence, or whether he was tired of Ida and wished to rid himself of her. However it may have been, he did what was sufficiently cruel: he wrote Ida a letter, and told her the whole. Ida never showed that letter to any one, so I only know what she told Giulia, who told me. He told her that he was not legally bound to his Neapolitan wife, and that he meant to separate from her and to marry Ida, but that it might be some little time before he could complete the necessary arrangements.
From the day that this letter arrived all hope was over for Ida, so far as this world was concerned. She broke a blood-vessel the same day, and was never the same again. She wrote immediately to L——, without reproach or resentment, and told him that there was only one thing for him to do: to marry the poor woman whom he had deceived, and to give a name to his children.
Meanwhile she told no one, not even her sister. In the utter unselfishness of her affection for L——, she seems almost to have forgotten her own trouble, and to have thought only of saving him from all appearance of blame.[7] And so, for a long time, those two young girls lived on together, each one bearing her own burden in silence. Ida’s hold on this world had never been very strong, and it had quite given way now. Her life was going fast away from her.
Meanwhile, L—— seems to have felt his old affection for her, such as it was, revive, at the idea of losing her altogether; and he continued to write her passionate and imploring letters. Her answers were very gentle and patient, written so as to spare his feelings as much as possible, but they were very decided. She could never belong to him now—he must not think of that any more—but she entreated him to make what reparation he could to the poor Neapolitan, and to give her the happiness, before they parted, of knowing that he had done right.
And poor Giulia was at her wits’ end, seeing her sister grow so rapidly worse, and not knowing the reason. She wrote to me at Venice, begging that I would use my influence to have her sister admitted to the Marine Hospital at Viareggio, that she might have a month’s sea bathing, which some thought would be good for her. As soon as Ida heard that I was interesting myself about this, she also wrote me a few lines—the last which I ever received from her. She thanked me most affectionately, but did not wish me to do anything more about it, or to spend any money: if it was the Lord’s will that she should recover, then she should recover. And then, for the last time, came the old signature, in a very tremulous hand now—“La sua Ida, che li vuol tanto bene.”
However, I still worked to have her admitted, and she was admitted. Poor girl! I did not understand then, as I do now, the meaning of her letter. I thought that she wished only to save me trouble; but I know now that she wrote me because she felt that her malady was such a one as no doctors can cure. It was about that time that Giulia discovered, by some means, that her sister knew the secret which she had been keeping from her so carefully. I think they were both a little happier, or at least a little less miserable, when they were able to speak freely to each other of what was weighing so heavily on both their minds. About that time also L—— left the army, having obtained his dismission a little sooner than was expected. So Ida went to the Marine Hospital for a month, and won the hearts of the sisters of charity by her beauty, her patience, and her self-forgetfulness. She always waited on herself, being careful to give no one trouble; and when the doctor ordered her to use some particular herb which grew wild at Viareggio, she went out every morning to search for it, gathered, and prepared it herself. She was very kind and attentive also to the poor sick children, who, as usual, made up nearly all the inmates of the hospital.