“And pray, Lorenzo, am I to be kept a prisoner in this house?” demanded Laura, in a tone of unfeigned surprise. “I had certain purchases to make at different shops—and I went out in the carriage for the purpose. Permit me to observe that your conduct is undignified in the extreme, since you so far forget yourself as to express your feelings to my lady’s-maid.”
“My God! and were I to proclaim my feelings to the whole world, there would be but little cause for wonder!” exclaimed the Italian, vehemently; and as he spoke, he thrust his hand into his bosom, and clutched a dagger which he had concealed there.
But his eyes fell upon the countenance of his wife,—that countenance so glorious in its beauty, though now with the sombre cloud overshadowing it;—and he would have slain her then and there, had not his glance thus suddenly embraced all the loveliness of her features and all the rich contours of her splendid form. For, like a whelming tide, rushed to his soul a thousand tender reminiscences,—vividly recalling to his imagination all the joys and delights he had experienced in her arms—the fervid passion he had seen reflected in those magnificent eyes—the luscious kisses he had imprinted on those lips—the wanton playfulness with which her long luxuriant hair had oft-times swept across his cheeks—the ineffable bliss that had filled his raptured soul when his head was pillowed on that glowing, swelling bosom, which now palpitated with haughty indignation,—oh! he thought of all this, and he felt that he could not slay one so exquisitely lovely—so transcendently beautiful!
“Assuredly, your humour is strange to-day, Lorenzo,” said Laura, who, though longing to make it up with the man whom she really and sincerely loved, nevertheless was resolved to exact the homage which all women under such circumstances require—namely, the first overture towards a reconciliation. “At one moment your eyes glare savagely upon me as if I had given you some mortal offence;—and now they assume an expression of pity and commiseration. Come, sir, confess that you have entertained some outrageous suspicion—that you are jealous of me—and I shall take the avowal as a proof of affection. Do this,” she added, a faint smile of encouragement appearing upon her lips, and allowing a glimpse of her brilliant teeth; “do this, Lorenzo—and I will pardon your unkindness.”
“Pardon me!” exclaimed the Italian, bitterly—for the conduct of his wife now appeared to him to be aggravated by levity and flippancy of the most irritating nature, though in reality she was totally ignorant of the fact that grave and serious charges were agitating in his mind against her: “pardon me!” he repeated, his tone now assuming a fierceness that began to amaze and even alarm the young woman, whose conscience, as the reader is well aware, was not the clearest in the world. “Oh! this is indeed a hideous mockery—a cool, deliberate insult,” he continued,—“yes—a vile insult, to offer to pardon me! What have I ever done to offend you—or merit your forbearance or your forgiveness? My God! ’tis I who have been generous and confiding—and ’tis you who have been the gross deceiver and the unprincipled hypocrite!”
“These are harsh words, Lorenzo,” exclaimed Laura, rising from the sofa, and drawing herself up to her full height; and though not tall in stature, there was nevertheless something regal and majestically imperious in her air and bearing: “yes—they are harsh words, I repeat—and they may lead to a quarrel which no subsequent regrets nor apologies can repair.”
“Let the quarrel be eternal—or to the very death!” returned Lorenzo, his handsome countenance now distorted with rage. “Oh! I am sick of this world with its hideous deceits—its hollow hearts—its boundless profligacy! I care not how soon I throw off the coil of this life’s trammels: but with my last breath shall I curse—bitterly, bitterly curse—the odious name of Perdita!”
“Ah!” ejaculated the guilty woman, now perceiving that she was indeed unmasked: but almost immediately recovering her self-possession, she approached her husband and said in her softest, most seductive tones, “You have heard evil reports concerning me, Lorenzo: and I hope ere you prejudge me, that I shall be allowed an opportunity to give a full explanation. Consider my position:—it is that of a friendless and orphan woman, about to lose, perhaps, the only being on earth whom she ever loved, or who has ever sincerely loved her!”
“Oh! how is it that such a demon heart is harboured in such an angelic form!” cried Lorenzo Barthelma, surveying her for a moment with mingled pity and admiration: then immediately afterwards, a full sense of all her tremendous profligacy and deceit springing up in his soul, his eyes glared upon her with the ferocity of a lynx, and a feeling of deep and burning hatred took possession of him.
“If you refuse me a hearing—if you intend to cast me off with contumely and insult,” said Perdita, her own eyes flashing fire in their turn—but it seemed like living fire!—“if such be your intentions,” she continued, in a tone of mingled bitterness and haughty indifference, “the sooner this interview be terminated, the better.”