Don Riccardo suppressed the rumor of future destitution, and told Beatrice only enough to show her that the exchange of bridegrooms need not be attended by financial disaster. He found his sister down with a headache, and as for consoling her, try as he would, that was impossible with the hateful name of Mario Forza on his lips. The mere pronouncing of it caused her face to wrinkle in an expression of deep contempt.
“Oh, Riccardo!” she wailed. “Do you not feel the shame of it? Our house will be disgraced forever!”
“Not forever, dear Beatrice,” he said in an effort to comfort. “It will give the gossips a nine-day wonder, and then we shall hear of it no more. Better a nine-day wonder than a lifetime of regret.”
“Regret?” she asked in genuine amazement. “For whom?”
“For all of us, my sister. With Tarsis Hera’s life could be no other than one of misery. In the end you will be glad that matters have taken this turn. Of that I am sure.” But the other only shook her head and dried her eyes.
The dinner was not such a gloomy affair as it had promised to be, although only three of the company of five expected were present—the Duke, Hera, and Colonel Rosario. The hearty old soldier marvelled at the absence of the bridegroom-elect, but Don Riccardo asked him how Tarsis could go on being the richest man in Italy if he did not put business before dinner. It was an explanation that did not satisfy the Colonel, but he accepted it with a laugh and the comment, “Italy is no longer a country; it is a machine for making money.” Donna Beatrice had sent word that she would have a bowl of broth above stairs. It was well for her feelings she was not there to witness the good spirits that prevailed at the board. Don Riccardo called for one of the precious bottles of Lacrimae Christi put in the cellar by his grandfather. The Colonel gave the toast “To the wedding to-morrow,” but the Duke secretly drank to Hera’s narrow escape.
The dinner ended, and the Colonel gone to his barracks, Hera, alone with her father in a corner of the reception hall where the piano stood, ran over, in a resurge of sweet memory, the ballad of the vintage Mario gave that night. She remembered it all, and sang as one whose soul overflowed with joy. For hours, awaiting the answer from Rome—the answer their hearts had already given—they sat together in the great old room, where portraits, one above the other, dimmed by time, covered the walls. The wings of the broad, mullioned casements, beneath their transoms of stained glass, stood ajar to the breath of spring, and the mysterious night lispings of the new-born season toned the silence at times, foretelling long sunny days, roses, and music in the woods.
Hera was first to hear the clatter of hoofs, and she rose, keen for the tidings. A footman entered with a message from the Castel-Minore bureau of telegraphs. She held it under a light, read it first with puzzled countenance, and again with clearer, too certain understanding. Her father saw her catch her breath and press a hand to her side.
“What is it?” he asked, and she handed him the message.
“Justice gives him first claim,” he read. “Let justice be your guide.”