“At the request of Signor Tarsis,” Hera explained, “I shall send a telegram to Signor Forza, who is on the way to Rome. In the message I shall ask him what to do.”
“And your promised husband?” said Donna Beatrice. “Is he by chance to be consulted—to have a voice in the matter?”
“He has agreed to abide by what Signor Forza says,” Hera answered.
“Agreed to abide! Monstrous! Perfectly monstrous! Abide, indeed! Will you be good enough to tell me what alternative he has when you are capable of breaking your promise in this conscienceless manner? But it is not you. The daughter of my brother, a Barbiondi, could not commit this crime of her will. It is the man under whose dreadful influence she has fallen.”
“Dear aunt,” Hera pleaded, going up to her, “try to calm yourself. There has been no influence. Believe me, I do but obey the prompting of my heart.”
“Prompting of the heart!” the other repeated, vixenishly. “That is a luxury we cannot afford. Oh, where is your father?”
She rang for a servant, and unconsciously sounded as well the signal for Don Riccardo to withdraw from the ante-room. The Duke was well content with the step Hera had taken. It was the one he had longed to advise since the night of Mario’s visit in the villa, but always he had lacked the courage. Like Hera, he felt confident that Mario, his love alone inspiring the answer to the telegram, would tell her to be true to the call of her soul; and he had no misgiving for the outcome of his daughter’s adventure.
So he went for a stroll in the villa park, taking care to walk where no servant sent by his sister should be likely to find him. That poor lady was in the last despair when Hera left the room to go to her own apartments to write the message. She assigned a footman to hunt for Don Riccardo, and although the man did his best he brought back only the customary G’he minga. A little while and Hera, the message in hand, was in the reception hall, where Tarsis waited alone.
“This is what I have written,” she said. He cast his eye quickly over the lines at first, reread them slowly, and folding the sheet nodded his head in approval.
“You have put the case fairly,” he said, returning the paper to her hands. “It is most gracious of you.” And then, as if in sudden memory of an appointment, he added: “I must set off for Milan. Will you make my compliments to your aunt, and say that I am unable to stay for dinner? A meeting of directors to-night calls me to the city. By midnight I shall be back—for his answer, and yours. Au revoir.”