CHAPTER II.
While the Marchesa Melani was making inquiries at the gate of thepalace, Fabio was sitting alone in the apartment which his wife usuallyoccupied when she was in health. It was her favorite room, and had beenprettily decorated, by her own desire, with hangings in yellow satin andfurniture of the same color. Fabio was now waiting in it, to hear thereport of the doctors after their evening visit.
Although Maddalena Lomi had not been his first love, and although hehad married her under circumstances which are generally and rightlyconsidered to afford few chances of lasting happiness in wedded life,still they had lived together through the one year of their uniontranquilly, if not fondly. She had molded herself wisely to his peculiarhumors, had made the most of his easy disposition; and, when her quicktemper had got the better of her, had seldom hesitated in hercooler moments to acknowledge that she had been wrong. She had beenextravagant, it is true, and had irritated him by fits of unreasonablejealousy; but these were faults not to be thought of now. He could onlyremember that she was the mother of his child, and that she lay ill buttwo rooms away from him--dangerously ill, as the doctors had unwillinglyconfessed on that very day.
The darkness was closing in upon him, and he took up the handbell toring for lights. When the servant entered there was genuine sorrow inhis face, genuine anxiety in his voice, as he inquired for news from thesick-room. The man only answered that his mistress was still asleep, andthen withdrew, after first leaving a sealed letter on the table by hismaster's side. Fabio summoned him back into the room, and asked when theletter had arrived. He replied that it had been delivered at the palacetwo days since, and that he had observed it lying unopened on a desk inhis master's study.
Left alone again, Fabio remembered that the letter had arrived at a timewhen the first dangerous symptoms of his wife's illness had declaredthemselves, and that he had thrown it aside, after observing the addressto be in a handwriting unknown to him. In his present state of suspense,any occupation was better than sitting idle. So he took up the letterwith a sigh, broke the seal, and turned inquiringly to the name signedat the end.
It was "NANINA."
He started, and changed color. "A letter from her," he whispered tohimself. "Why does it come at such a time as this?"
His face grew paler, and the letter trembled in his fingers. Thosesuperstitious feelings which he had ascribed to the nursery influencesof his childhood, when Father Rocco charged him with them in the studio,seemed to be overcoming him now. He hesitated, and listened anxiouslyin the direction of his wife's room, before reading the letter. Was itsarrival ominous of good or evil? That was the thought in his heart as hedrew the lamp near to him, and looked at the first lines.
"Am I wrong in writing to you?" (the letter began abruptly). "If I am,you have but to throw this little leaf of paper into the fire, and tothink no more of it after it is burned up and gone. I can never reproachyou for treating my letter in that way; for we are never likely to meetagain.
"Why did I go away? Only to save you from the consequences of marrying apoor girl who was not fit to become your wife. It almost broke myheart to leave you; for I had nothing to keep up my courage but theremembrance that I was going away for your sake. I had to think of that,morning and night--to think of it always, or I am afraid I should havefaltered in my resolution, and have gone back to Pisa. I longed so muchat first to see you once more, only to tell you that Nanina was notheartless and ungrateful, and that you might pity her and think kindlyof her, though you might love her no longer.
"Only to tell you that! If I had been a lady I might have told it to youin a letter; but I had never learned to write, and I could not prevailon myself to get others to take the pen for me. All I could do was tolearn secretly how to write with my own hand. It was long, longwork; but the uppermost thought in my heart was always the thought ofjustifying myself to you, and that made me patient and persevering. Ilearned, at last, to write so as not to be ashamed of myself, or to makeyou ashamed of me. I began a letter--my first letter to you--but I heardof your marriage before it was done, and then I had to tear the paperup, and put the pen down again.
"I had no right to come between you and your wife, even with so littlea thing as a letter; I had no right to do anything but hope and pray foryour happiness. Are you happy? I am sure you ought to be; for how canyour wife help loving you?
"It is very hard for me to explain why I have ventured on writing now,and yet I can't think that I am doing wrong. I heard a few days ago (forI have a friend at Pisa who keeps me informed, by my own desire, of allthe pleasant changes in your life)--I heard of your child being born;and I thought myself, after that, justified at last in writing to you.No letter from me, at such a time as this, can rob your child's motherof so much as a thought of yours that is due to her. Thus, at least, itseems to me. I wish so well to your child, that I cannot surely be doingwrong in writing these lines.
"I have said already what I wanted to say--what I have been longing tosay for a whole year past. I have told you why I left Pisa; and have,perhaps, persuaded you that I have gone through some suffering, andborne some heart-aches for your sake. Have I more to write? Only a wordor two, to tell you that I am earning my bread, as I always wished toearn it, quietly at home--at least, at what I must call home now. I amliving with reputable people, and I want for nothing. La Biondella hasgrown very much; she would hardly be obliged to get on your knee to kissyou now; and she can plait her dinner-mats faster and more neatly thanever. Our old dog is with us, and has learned two new tricks; but youcan't be expected to remember him, although you were the only stranger Iever saw him take kindly to at first.
"It is time I finished. If you have read this letter through to the end,I am sure you will excuse me if I have written it badly. There is nodate to it, because I feel that it is safest and best for both of usthat you should know nothing of where I am living. I bless you and prayfor you, and bid you affectionately farewell. If you can think of me asa sister, think of me sometimes still."
Fabio sighed bitterly while he read the letter. "Why," he whispered tohimself, "why does it come at such a time as this, when I cannot darenot think of her?" As he slowly folded the letter up the tears came intohis eyes, and he half raised the paper to his lips. At the same moment,some one knocked at the door of the room. He started, and felt himselfchanging color guiltily as one of his servants entered.
"My mistress is awake," the man said, with a very grave face, and a veryconstrained manner; "and the gentlemen in attendance desire me to say--"
He was interrupted, before he could give his message, by one of themedical men, who had followed him into the room.
"I wish I had better news to communicate," began the doctor, gently.
"She is worse, then?" said Fabio, sinking back into the chair from whichhe had risen the moment before.
"She has awakened weaker instead of stronger after her sleep," returnedthe doctor, evasively. "I never like to give up all hope till the verylast, but--"
"It is cruel not to be candid with him," interposed another voice--thevoice of the doctor from Florence, who had just entered the room."Strengthen yourself to bear the worst," he continued, addressinghimself to Fabio. "She is dying. Can you compose yourself enough to goto her bedside?"
Pale and speechless, Fabio rose from his chair, and made a sign in theaffirmative. He trembled so that the doctor who had first spoken wasobliged to lead him out of the room.
"Your mistress has some near relations in Pisa, has she not?" said thedoctor from Florence, appealing to the servant who waited near him.
"Her father, sir, Signor Luca Lomi; and her uncle, Father Rocco,"answered the man. "They were here all through the day, until my mistressfell asleep."
"Do you know where to find them now?"
"Signor Luca told me he should be at his studio, and Father Rocco said Imight find him at his lodgings."
"Send for them both directly. Stay, who is your mistress's confessor? Heought to be summoned without loss of
time."
"My mistress's confessor is Father Rocco, sir."
"Very well--send, or go yourself, at once. Even minutes may be ofimportance now." Saying this, the doctor turned away, and sat down towait for any last demands on his services, in the chair which Fabio hadjust left.