The Italians Part 26

Silvestro shakes from head to foot. One hand slides from the lock; he joins it to the other, clasps them both together, and sways himself to and fro as a man in bodily anguish.

At the sight of the balance-sheet a kind of horror has come over the marchesa. So intense is this feeling, she absolutely forgets to abuse Silvestro. All she desires is to get rid of him before she has betrayed her alarm.

"I shall call a council," she says, collecting herself; "I shall take the chair. I shall find funds to meet these wants. Give the sindaco and Ser Giacomo notice of this, Silvestro, immediately."

The steward stares at his mistress in mute amazement. He inclines his head, and turns to go; better ask her no questions and escape.

"Silvestro!"--the marchesa calls after him imperiously--"come here."

(She is resolved that he, a menial, shall see no change in her.) "At this season the woods are full of game. I will have no poachers, mind.

Let notices be posted up at the town-gate and at the church-door--do you hear? No one shall carry a gun within my woods."

Silvestro's lips form to two single words, and these come very faint: "The poor!" Then he holds himself together, terrified.

"The poor!" retorts the marchesa, defiantly--"the poor! For shame, Silvestro! They shall not overrun my woods and break through my vineyards--they shall not! You hear?" Her shrill voice rings round the low room, "No poachers--no trespa.s.sers, remember that; I shall tell Adamo the same. Now go, and, as you pa.s.s, tell Fra Pacifico I want him to-morrow." ("He must help me with Enrica," was her thought.)

When Silvestro was gone, a haggard look came over the marchesa's pale face. One by one she turned over the leaves of the rental lying before her, glanced at them, then laid the book down upon the desk. She leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms, and fell into a fit of musing--the burning papers on the hearth, and those also smouldering on the floor, lighting up every grain in the wood-work of the cupboards at her back.

This was ruin--absolute ruin! The broad lands that spread wellnigh for forty miles in the mountains and along the river Serchio--the feudal tower in which she sat, over which still floated, on festivals, the banner of the Guinigi (crosses of gold on a red field--borne at the Crusades); the stately palace at Lucca--its precious heirlooms--strangers must have it all!

She had so fortified herself against all signs of outward emotion, other than she chose to show, that even in solitude she was composed; but the veins swelled in her forehead, and she turned very white. Yet there had been a way. "Enrica"--her name escaped the marchesa's thin lips unwittingly. "Enrica."--The sound of her own voice startled her. (Enrica was now alone, shut up by her aunt's order in her little chamber on the third floor over her own. On their arrival, the marchesa had sternly dismissed her without a word.)

"Enrica."--With that name rose up within her a thousand conflicting thoughts. She had severed herself from Enrica. But for Cavaliere Trenta she would have driven her from the palace. She had not cared whether Enrica lived or died--indeed, she had wished her dead. Yet Enrica could save the land--the palace--make the great name live! Had she but known all this at Lucca! Was it too late? Trenta had urged the marriage with Count n.o.bili. But Trenta urged every marriage. Could she consent to such a marriage? Own herself ruined--wrong?--Feel n.o.bili's foot upon her neck?--Impossible! Her obstinacy was so great, that she could not bring herself to yield, though all that made life dear was slipping from her grasp.

Yes--yes, it was too late.--The thing was done. She must stand to her own words. Tortures would not have wrung it from her--but in the solitude of that bare room the marchesa felt she had gone too far.

The landmark of her life, her pride, broke down; her stout heart failed--tears stood in her dark eyes.

At this moment the report of a gun was heard ringing out from the mountains opposite. It echoed along the cliffs and died away into the abyss below. The marchesa was instantly leaning out of the lowest loop-hole, and calling in a loud voice, "Adamo--Adamo--Angelo, where are you?" (Adamo and Pipa his wife, and Angelo their son, were her attendants.)

Adamo, a stout, big-limbed man, bull-necked--with large lazy eyes and a black beard as thick as horse-hair, a rifle slung by a leather strap across his chest, answered out of the shrubs--now blackening in the twilight: "I am here, padrona, command me."

"Adamo, who is shooting on my land?"

"Padrona, I do not know."

"Where is Angelo?"

"Here am I," answered a childish voice, and a ragged, loose-limbed lad--a shock of chestnut hair, out of which the sun had taken all the color, hanging over his face, from which his merry eyes twinkle--leaped out on the gravel.

"You do not know, Adamo? What does this mean? You ought to know. I am but just come back, and there are strangers about already with guns.

Is this the way you serve me, Adamo?--and I pay you a crown a month.

You idle vagabond!"

"Padrona," spoke Adamo in a deep voice--"I am here alone--this boy helps me but little."

"Alone, Adamo! you dare to say alone, and you have the dogs? Hear how they bark--they have heard the shot too--good dogs, good dogs, they are left me--alone.--Argo is stronger than three men; Argo knocks over any one, and he is trained to follow on the scent like a bloodhound.

Adamo, you are an idiot!" Adamo hung his head, either in shame or rage, but he dared not reply.

"Now take the dogs out with you instantly--you hear, Adamo? Argo, and Ponto the bull-dog, and Tuzzi and the others. Take them and go down at once to the bottom of the cliffs. Search among the rocks everywhere.

Creep along the vines-terraces, and through the olive-grounds. Be sure when you go down below the cliffs to search the mouth of the chasm.

Go at once. Set the dogs on all you find. Argo will pin them. He is a brave dog. With Argo you are stronger than any one you will meet. If you catch any men, take them at once to the munic.i.p.ality. Wretches, they deserve it!--poaching in my woods! Listen--before you go, tell Pipa to come to me soon."

Pipa's footsteps came clattering up the stairs to the marchesa's room.

The light of the lamp she carried--for it was already dark within the tower--caught the spray of the fountain outside as she pa.s.sed the narrow slits that served for windows.

"Pipa," said the marchesa, as she stood before her in the doorway, a broad smile on her merry brown face, "set that lamp on the desk here before me. So--that will do. Now go up-stairs and tell the Signorina Enrica that I bid her 'Good-night,' and that I will see her to-morrow morning after breakfast. Then you may go to bed, Pipa. I am busy, and shall sit up late." Pipa curtsied in silence, and closed the marchesa's door.

CHAPTER III.

WHAT CAME OF BURNING THE MARCHESA'S PAPERS.

Midnight had struck from the church-clock at Corellia. The strokes seemed to come slower by night than day, and sounded hollower. Hours ago the last light had gone out. The moon had set behind the cleft summits of La Pagna. Distant thunder had died away among the rocks.

The night was close and still. The villa lay in deep shadow, but the outline of the turrets of the tower were clearly marked against the starry sky. All slept, or seemed to sleep.

A thin blue vapor curls out from the marchesa's cas.e.m.e.nt. This vapor, at first light as a fog-drift, winds itself upward, and settles into a cloud, that hovers in the air. Each moment the cloud rises higher and higher. Now it has grown into a lurid canopy, that overhangs the tower. A sudden glow from an arched loop-hole on the second story shows every bar of iron across it. This is caught up below in a broad flash across the basin of the fountain. Within there is a crackling as of dry leaves--a clinging, heavy smell of heated air. Another and another flame curls round the narrow loop-hole, twisting upward on the solid wall.

At this instant there is a low growl, as from a kicked dog. A door below is banged-to and locked. Then steps are heard upon the gravel.

It is Adamo. He had returned, as the marchesa bade him, and has come to tell her he has searched everywhere--down even to the reeds by the river Serchio (where he had discharged his gun at a water-hen), but had found no one, though all the way the dogs had sniffed and whined.

Adamo catches sight of the crimson glare reflected upon the fountain.

He looks up at the tower--he sees the flames. A look of horror comes into his round black eyes. Then, with a twitch, settling his gun firmly upon his shoulder, he rushes to the unlocked door and flings it wide open.

"Pipa! Wife! Angelo!" Adamo shouts down the stone pa.s.sage connecting the tower with the villa where they slept. "Wake up! The tower is on fire! Fire! Fire!"

As Adam opened his mouth, the rush of hot air, pent upon the winding stair, drawn downward by the draught from the open door, catches his breath. He staggers against the wall. Then the strong man shook himself together--again he shouts, "Pipa! Pipa! rise!"

Without waiting for an answer, putting his hand over his mouth, Adamo charges up the stone stairs--up to the marchesa's door. Her room is on fire.

"I must save her! I must save her! I will think of Pipa and the children afterward."

Each step Adamo takes upward, the heat grows fiercer, the smoke that pours down denser. Twice he had slipped and almost fallen, but he battles bravely with the heat and blinding smoke, and keeps his footing.

Now Adamo is on the landing of the first floor--Adamo blinded, his head reeling--but lifting his strong limbs, and firm broad feet, he struggles upward. He has reached the marchesa's door. The place is marked by a c.h.i.n.k of fire underneath. Adamo pa.s.ses his hand over the panel; it is unconsumed, the fire drawing the other way out by the window.

"O G.o.d! if the door is bolted! I shall drop if I am not quick."

Adamo's fingers were on the lock. "The door is bolted! Blessed Virgin, help me!"

He unslings his unloaded gun--he had forgotten it till then--and, tightly seizing it in his strong hands, he flings the b.u.t.t end against the lock. The wood is old, the bolt is loose.

"Holy Jesus! It yields! It opens!"

Overcome by the rush of fiery air, again Adamo staggers. As he lifts his hands to raise the hair, which, moist from heat, clings to his forehead, his fingers strike against a medal of the Virgin he wore round his naked throat.

"Mother of G.o.d, help me!" A desperate courage seizes him; he rushes in--all before him swims in a red mist. "Help me, Madonna!" comes to his parched lips. "O G.o.d, where is the marchesa?"