"Giovanni," she continued vehemently, and half sinking on her knees before him, "deceive me not. If there be aught of truth in this accusation, let me depart. I am your wife but in name: a slight ceremony only has passed between us, and we both know how readily, with such influence as ours, the Church at Rome would dissolve that. Suffer me to depart ere I shall be indeed your wife."
"Adelaide," he replied mournfully, as he held her, "I thought you loved me."
"I do—I do. None, save God, know how passionately. My very life is bound up in yours; but it is because I so love you, that I could not brook a rival. Let me know the truth at once—even though it be the worst; for should I trust to you now, and find afterwards that I had been deceived, it would be most unhappy for both of us. My whole affection would be turned to hate; and not only would my own existence be wretched, but I should render yours so."
"You have no rival, Adelaide. You never shall have one."
"I mean not a rival in the vulgar acceptation of the term," she replied, a shade of haughtiness mixing with her tone—"but one in your heart—your mind—this I could not bear."
"Adelaide, hear me. Some enemy, wishing to do me a foul injury, has thrust himself between us; but, rely on it, they are but false cowards who stab in the dark. I have sought you these many months; I have striven to gain your love; I have now made you mine. Why should I have done this had my affections been another's? Talk not of separation, Adelaide." She burst into a passionate fit of weeping. "Adelaide," he whispered, as he fondly clasped her to his heart, "believe that I love you; believe that you have no rival, and that I will give you none. I have made you my wife—the wife of my bosom: you are, and ever shall be, my only love."
Sweet words! And the Lady Adelaide suffered her disturbed mind to yield to them, resolutely thrusting away the dreadful thought that the heart of her attractive husband could ever have been given to another.
V.
Months elapsed, and the Lady Adelaide was the happiest of the happy, although now and again the remembrance of that anonymous letter would dart before her mind, like a dream. That most rare felicity was, indeed, hers, of passionately idolizing one from whom she need never be separated by night or by day. But how was it with him? Love is almost the only passion which cannot be called forth or turned aside at will, and though the Count di Visinara treated his wife in all respects, and ever would, with the most cautious attention, his heart was still true to Gina Montani. But now the Count had to leave home; business called him forth; and to remain away fifteen days. In those earlier times women could not accompany their lords every where, as they may in these; and when Giovanni rode away from his castle gates, the Lady Adelaide sank in solitude upon the arm of one of her costly sofas, all rich with brocaded velvet; and though not a tear dimmed her eye, or a line of pain marked her forehead, to tell of suppressed feelings, it seemed to her that her heart was breaking. It was on the morrow, news was brought to the countess that one craved admission to her—a maiden, young and beautiful, the servitor said; and the Lady Adelaide ordered her to be admitted. Young and beautiful indeed, and so she looked, as, with downcast eyes, the visitor was ushered in—you know her, reader, though the Lady Adelaide did not. She began to stammer out an incoherent explanation; that news had reached her of the retirement of one of the Lady Adelaide's attendants, and of her wish to fill the vacant place. "What is your name?" inquired the countess, already taken, as the young are apt to be, with the prepossessing manners and appearance of her visitor.
"Signora, it is Gina Montani."