They had warned him that he could not keep her long. They had advised him to humour her fancies, to let her be present at the wedding, even at the hazard of her suffering afterwards for that exertion and excitement. She would suffer more perhaps—physically as well as mentally—if she were thwarted in her natural wish to be by Allegra’s side on that day.
All was finished. Neither Church nor law could do anything more towards making the lovers man and wife. The law might undo the bond for them in the time to come, but the part of the Church was done for ever. In the eye of the Church their union was indissoluble.
Isola clung with her arms round the bride’s neck.
“Think of me sometimes, dearest, in the years to come. Think that I loved you fondly. Be sure that I was grateful for all your goodness to me,” she said tearfully.
“My own love, I shall think of you every day till we meet again.”
“And if we never meet again on earth—will you remember me kindly?”
“Isa, how can you?” cried Allegra, silencing the pale lips with kisses.
“You may be glad to think how much you did towards making my life happy—happier than it ought to have been.” Isola went on in a low voice. “Dearest, I am more glad of your marriage than words can say; and, Allegra, love him with all your heart, and never let your lives be parted—remember, dearest, never, never let anything upon this earth part you from him.”
Her voice was choked with sobs, and then came a worse fit of coughing than she had suffered for some time; a fit which left her exhausted and speechless. Her husband looked at her in an agony of apprehension.