Taquisara

"Put it under the edge of the carpet in the corner near the door," he suggested. "You can easily turn the carpet up a little between the rings."

"That is a good idea," she said. "It is as well that you should know where it is, in case anything were to happen to me."

She was already in the corner, and she thrust the key under the doubled edge of the crimson carpet.

"You are ingenious," she observed drily, as she rose to her feet. "I should not have thought of that. It is a pity that you have not been able to apply your ingenuity better in other ways, too. It has been wasted."

"I am not sure," answered Macomer, thoughtfully. "If Bosio marries Veronica, our position will be a very good one, considering the misfortunes through which we have pa.s.sed. If he should not, and if Veronica should die, it will be much better. I am not sure but that, if I had no affection for the girl, I might prefer that she should die."

Matilde glanced at him sideways, uneasily.

"We will not speak of that," she said, as though it were a disagreeable subject.

"No."

Then, without warning, his jarring, crashing laughter filled the room again for a moment, and she started as she heard it, and looked round nervously.

"I really wish you would not laugh in that way," she said, with a frown.

"There is nothing to laugh at, I a.s.sure you."

"I did not know that I laughed," said Macomer, indifferently. "That is the second time in a quarter of an hour. How odd it would be if I were to laugh unconsciously in that way when--" He seemed to check the words that were coming.

"When, for instance?" asked Matilde, not guessing what was pa.s.sing in his mind.

"At the funeral," he answered shortly. Matilde started again, and looked at him anxiously. She had resumed her seat after she had hidden the key, but she now rose and went to him. He was still standing before the window, though he had finished his cigarette and had thrown away the end of it. She stood before him a moment before she spoke, fixing her eyes severely on his face.

"Control yourself!" she said sternly. "I understand that you are nervous and over-strained. That is no reason for behaving like a fool."

He also paused an instant before speaking. Then, all at once, his features a.s.sumed an expression of docility, not at all natural to him.

"Yes," he answered, "I will try. I think you are quite right. I really am very much over-strained in these days."

Matilde was surprised by his change of manner, but was glad to find that she could control him so easily.

"It will pa.s.s," she said more gently. "You will be better in a day or two, when everything is settled."

"Yes--when everything is settled. But meanwhile, my dear, perhaps it would be better, if you should notice anything strange in my behaviour, like my laughing in this absurd way, for instance, just to look at me without saying anything--you understand--it will recall me to myself. I am convinced that it is only absence of mind, brought on by great anxiety. But people are spiteful, you know, and somebody might think that I was losing my mind."

"Yes," she answered gravely. "If you laugh in that way, without any reason, somebody might think so. I will try and call your attention to it, if I can."

"Thank you," said Macomer, with his unpleasant smile. "I think I will go and lie down now, for I feel tired."

He turned from her, and made a few steps towards the door. He did not walk like a man tired, for he held himself as erect as ever, with his head thrown back, and his narrow shoulders high and square.

Nevertheless, Matilde was anxious.

"You do not feel ill, do you?" she asked, before he had reached the door.

He stopped, half turning back.

"No--oh, no! I do not feel ill. Pray do not be anxious, my dear. I will take a little aconite for my heart, and then I will lie down for an hour or two."

"I did not know that you had been converted to h.o.m.oeopathy," said Matilde, indifferently. "But, of course, if it does you good, take the aconite, by all means."

"I do not take it in h.o.m.oeopathic doses," answered Gregorio. "It is the tincture, and I sometimes take as much as thirty or forty drops of it in water. Of course, that would be too much for a person not used to taking it. But it is a very good medicine. Indeed, I should advise you to take it, too, if you ever have any trouble with your heart."

"How does it affect one?" asked Matilde, turning her face from him, and speaking indifferently.

"It lowers the action of the heart. Of course, one has to be careful. I suppose that one or two hundred drops would stop the heart altogether, but a little of it is excellent for palpitations. Do you suffer from them? Should you like some? I have a large supply, for I always use it.

I can give you a small bottle, if you like."

"No," answered Matilde, still looking away from him, towards the photographs on the mantelpiece. "I am afraid of those things. They get into the system, as a.r.s.enic does, and mercury, and such things."

"Not at all," said Macomer. "You are quite mistaken. That is the peculiarity of those vegetable--those strong vegetable medicines. They are quite untraceable in the system, and altogether defy chemistry."

Matilde was silent a moment.

"Well," she answered, with an air of indifference, "I have a tendency to a little palpitation of the heart, and if you will give me a bottle of your medicine, I will try it once. It can do no harm, I suppose."

"Not in small quant.i.ties. I will bring it to you by and by."

"Very well."

He went out, and a moment later she heard his dreadful laugh outside. In an instant she reached the door, opened it, and called after him:--

"Gregorio! Do not laugh!"

But he was gone, and there was no one in the pa.s.sage.

CHAPTER VIII.

Veronica did not appear at dinner that evening, but remained in her room, sending word to the countess that she had a headache and wished to be alone. Matilde thought it not unnatural that the girl should wish to reflect in solitude upon the grave problem which had been given her for consideration. It would be wiser, too, not to disturb her, but to leave her to herself to reach her own conclusions. Matilde knew that Veronica had considerable gifts of contrariety, and that it would be a mistake to press her too closely for a definite answer. Besides, it was always a tradition in such cases that a young girl should have, in name at least, perfect independence of action, and the ultimate right to refuse an offer or accept it.

It was hard to sit still at the dinner table and behave with an appearance of being reasonable, while knowing that the fate of the household depended upon the answer of the young girl--from the personal liberty of two out of the three persons who sat at the meal, to the disposal of the forks and spoons with which they were eating, and the roof over their heads. It was very hard even to make a pretence of swallowing a little food, when all three knew the truth, and none dared to refer to it in any way lest the servants should guess at what was taking place. They spent a terribly uncomfortable hour in one another"s society. The two men exchanged indifferent remarks. Matilde occasionally said something, but her mind ran constantly on absurd details, such as the incident of the hiding of the will. As soon as her husband had left her, she had taken it from the drawer, relocking the latter, and again placing the key under the carpet. Then she had taken the will into her dressing-room and had hidden it temporarily in another drawer. To distract her mind during dinner, she tried to think of a better place for it, and at last determined to unscrew the wooden back of a large old silver mirror which stood on her dressing-table, and to lay the two open sheets of the doc.u.ment upon the back of the looking-gla.s.s. When it was all screwed up again, it would not be easy to find Veronica"s will.

Matilde also thought of the aconite which Gregorio had recommended her to keep, and of where she could put it, out of the way of the servants.

Once, towards the end of dinner, Gregorio"s terrifying laugh broke out suddenly, as the butler was offering him something. The man started back a little and stared, and the spoon and fork clattered to the ground over the edge of the silver dish. Bosio started, too, but Matilde fixed her eyes sternly on Gregorio"s face. He saw that she looked at him, and he nodded, suddenly a.s.suming the expression of docility she had noticed for the first time in the afternoon.

Before they left the table they were all three in that excruciating state of rawness of the nerves, in which a man has the sensation that his brain is a violent explosive which a single jarring sound or word must ignite and blow to atoms, like a bomb-sh.e.l.l.

And all the while Veronica sat peacefully in her room, before her fire, wrapped in a loose soft dressing-gown, her little feet upon the fender before her and a book in her hand. A lamp in an upright sliding stand was on one side of her, and on the other stood a small table. From time to time her maid brought her something from dinner, of which she ate a mouthful or two between two paragraphs of her novel.

It was a great pleasure to her to dine in this way, alone, but it was one she rarely had an opportunity of indulging. Even when her aunt and uncle dined out she generally had her dinner in the dining-room with Bosio, who scarcely ever went into society at all. On such occasions they generally sat together half an hour after the meal was over, before separating, and it was then that they really enjoyed each other"s conversation. It was very rarely that Veronica yielded to her wish to be alone and pleaded a more or less imaginary indisposition in order to stay in her room. Even then, she was not quite sure of being alone for the whole evening, for Matilde sometimes came in after dinner and remained with her for half an hour. It had always been the countess"s habit to show the greatest concern and consideration for her niece. But to-night Veronica knew that she should not be disturbed; for she understood that this was to be an important epoch in her life, upon which all the future must depend, and that, since she had asked time for consideration, Matilde would not intrude upon her solitude. Knowing that she had as many hours before her as she pleased to take, she began the arduous task of self-examination by greedily reading a novel which Bosio had given her two days earlier, and which she had not opened. Somehow, she fancied that while she was reading her mind would decide itself. The immediate question was not really whether she should accept Bosio or not, but whether she should go again on the morrow to her friend Bianca Corleone, between eleven and, twelve o"clock. That Gianluca della Spina would be there, she had not a doubt, and the idea of going there to meet him presented itself to her mind as a dangerous and mad adventure. If she hesitated, however, it was not on account of meeting the man who was dying of love for her, but rather for fear of what Taquisara might think of her if she thus answered his summons to the interview. He had promised that he would not be present, and this gave her courage; but Bianca would see and understand, for Bianca had first spoken to her of Gianluca, that very morning, and as for Taquisara, he would, of course, soon know all about it from his friend.

The arguments in favour of going were very strong, since she was asked to say, at short notice, whether she would marry Bosio Macomer or not.