A scornful gesture of disbelief, one of those movements which, with Italians, have a significance no words ever convey, interrupted his protestation.

'This is too bad!' he cried; 'nor had you ever conceived such distrust of me if your own heart did not give the prompting. There, there,' cried he, as he pointed his finger at her, while her eyes flashed and sparkled with a wild and l.u.s.trous expression, 'your very looks betray you.'

'Betray me! this is no betrayal,' said she haughtily. 'I have no shame in declaring that I too covet fame, even as you do. Were some mighty patron to condescend to favour _me_--to fancy that _I_ resembled, I know not what great personage--to imagine that in _my_ traits of look and voice theirs were reflected, it is just as likely I should thank fortune for the accident, and bid adieu to _you_, as you intend, to-morrow or next day, to take leave of _me_.'

She spoke boldly and defiantly, her large, full eyes gazing at his with a steadfast and unflinching look, while Gerald held down his head in sorrow and in shame.

Nor was it alone with himself that Gerald was at war, for Marietta had shocked and startled him by qualities he had never suspected in her.

In her pa.s.sion she had declared that her heart was set upon ambitions daring as his own; and, even granting that much of what she said was prompted by wounded pride, there was in her wildly excited glances and her trembling lips the sign of a temperament that knew little of forgiveness. If he was then amazed by discovering Marietta to be different from all he had ever seen her, he was more in love with her than ever.

She had opened the window, and, with her face between her hands, gazed out upon the silent street. Gerald took his place at her side, and thus they remained for some time without a word. A low, faint sigh at last came from the girl, and, placing his arm around her, Gerald drew her gently to him, murmuring softly in her ear:

'L'onda che mormora, Tra sponda e sponda; L'aura che tremola, Tra fronda e fronda.

E meno instabile, Del vostro cor.'

She never spoke, but, averting her head still farther from him, screened herself from his view. At last a low, soft murmuring broke from her lips, and she sang, in accents scarcely above her breath, one of those little native songs she was so fond of. It was a wild but plaintive air, sounding like the wayward cadences of one who left her fancy free to give music to the verse, each stanza ending with the words:

'Non ho piu remi, Non ho piu vele, E al silo talento Mi porta il mar.'

With a touching tenderness that thrilled through Gerald's heart she sung, with many a faltering accent, and in a tremulous tone, the simple words:

'In a lone, frail hark, forsaken, I float on a nameless sea, Nor care to what morrow I waken; I drift where the waves bear me.

'I look not up to the starry sky, For I have no course to run, Nor eagerly wait, as the dawn draws nigh, To watch for the rising sun.

'For noon is drear as the night to me, To-day is as dark as to-morrow: Forsaken, I float on the nameless sea, To think and weep over my sorrow.*

'Oh, Marietta, if thou wouldst not wring my heart, do not sing that sad air,' cried Gerald, pressing her tenderly to him. 'I bore it ill in our happiest hours, when all went well and hopefully with us.'

'It bettor suits the present, then,' said she calmly; then added, with a sudden energy--'at all events, it suits my humour!'

'Thou wouldst break with me, then, Marietta?' said Gerald, relaxing his hold on her, and turning his eyes fully upon her face.

'Look down there,' cried she, pointing with her finger: 'that street beneath us is narrow enough, but it has two exits: why shouldn't _you_ take one road, and _I_ the other?'

'Agreed: so be it, then!' said Gerald pa.s.sionately, 'only remember, this project never came from _me_.'

'If there be blame for it, I accept it all,' said she calmly. 'These things come ever of caprice, and they go as they come. As your own poet has it:

'"Si sente che diletta Ma non si sa perche."'

And with a cold smile and a light motion of the hand, as in adieu, she turned away and left the room. Gerald buried his face between his hands and sobbed as though his heart was breaking. Alternately accusing Marietta and himself of cruelty and injustice, his mind was racked by a conflict, to which nothing offered consolation.

He tried to compose himself to sleep: he lay down on his bed, and endeavoured in many ways to induce that calm spirit which leads to slumber; he even murmured to himself the long-forgotten litanies he had learned, as a student, in the college; but the fever that raged within defied all these attempts, and, foiled in his efforts, he arose and left the house. The day was just dawning, and a pinkish streak of sky could be seen over the mountains of Vail' Ombrosa, while all the vale of the Arno and Florence itself lay in deep shadow, the great 'Duomo' and the tall tower at its side not yet catching the first gleam of the rising sun.

Gerald left the gates of the city, and strode on manfully till he gained the crest of the 'Bello Sguardo,' whence the view of the city and its environs is peculiarly fine. Here he sat down to gaze on the scene beneath him; that wondrous map, whose history contains records of mingled greatness, crime, genius, n.o.ble patriotism, and of treachery so base that all Europe cannot show its equal; and thus gazing, and thus musing, he sank into deep sleep.

CHAPTER XVIII. THE DROP

The morning was already far advanced and the sun high when Gerald awoke.

The heavy dews had penetrated his frail clothing and chilled him, while the hot gleam of the sun glowed fiercely on his face and temples. He was so confused besides, by his dream and by the objects about him, that he sat vainly endeavouring to remember how and why he had come there.

One by one, like stragglers falling into line, his wandering faculties came back, and he bethought him of the poet's house, Alfieri himself, the d.u.c.h.ess, and lastly, of his quarrel with Marietta--an incident which, do what he might, seemed utterly unaccountable to him. If he felt persuaded that he was in the right throughout, the persuasion gave him no pleasure--far from it. It had been infinitely easier for him now, if he had wronged her, to seek her forgiveness, than forgive himself for having offended her. She, so devoted to him! She, who had taken such pains to teach him all the excellences of the poets she loved; who had stored his mind with Petrarch, and filled his imagination with Ariosto; who taught him to recognise in himself feelings, and thoughts, and hopes akin to those their heroes felt, and thus elevated him in his own esteem. And what a genius was hers!--how easily she adapted herself to each pa.s.sing mood, and was gay or sorrowful, volatile or pa.s.sionate, as fancy inclined her. How instinctively her beautiful features caught up the expression of each pa.s.sion; how wild the transports of her joy; how terrible the agonies of her hatred!

With what fine subtlety, too, she interpreted all she read, discovering hidden meanings, and eliciting springs of action from words apparently insignificant; and then her memory, was it not inexhaustible? An image, a pa.s.sing simile from a poet she loved, was enough to bring up before her whole cantos; and thus, stored with rich gems of thought, her conversation acquired a grace and a charm that were actual fascination.

And was he now to tear himself away from charms like these, and for ever, too? But why was she displeased with him? how had he offended her? Surely it was not the notice of the great poet had awakened her jealousy; and yet, when she thought over her own great gifts, the many attractions she herself possessed--claims to notice far greater than his could ever be--Gerald felt that she might well have resented this neglect.

'And how much of this is my own fault?' cried he aloud. 'Why did I not tell the poet of her great genius? Why not stimulate his curiosity to see and hear her? How soon would _he_ have recognised the n.o.ble qualities of her nature!'

Angry with himself, and eager to repair the injustice he had done, he arose and set out for the city, resolved to see Alfieri, and proclaim all Marietta's accomplishments and talents.

'He praised _me_ last night,' muttered he, as he went along; 'but what will he say of _her_? She shall recite for him the "Didone," the lines beginning,

'"No! sdegnata non sono!"

If his heart does not thrill as he listens, he is more or less than man!

He shall hear, too, his own "Cleopatra" uttered in accents that he never dreamed of. And then she shall vary her mood, and sing him one of ter Sicilian barcarolles, or dance the Tiranna. Ah, Signor Poeta,' said he aloud, * even thy lofty imagination shall gain by gazing upon one gifted and beautiful as she is.'

When Gerald reached the Roman gate he found a large cavalcade making its exit through the deep archway, and the crowd, falling back, made way for the mounted party. Upward of twenty cavaliers and ladies rode past, each mounted and followed by a numerous suite, whose equipment proclaimed the party to be of rank and consideration. As Gerald stood aside to make place for them to pa.s.s, a pair of dark eyes were darted keenly toward him, and a deep voice called out:

'There's my Cerretano, that I was telling you about! Gherardi, boy, what brings thee here?'

Gerald looked up and saw it was the poet who addressed him; but before he could summon courage to answer, Alfieri said:

'Thou didst promise to be with me this morning early, and hast forgotten it all, not to say that thou wert to equip thyself in something more suitable than this motley. Never mind, come along with us. Cesare, give him your pony; he is quiet and easy to ride. Fair ladies all,' added he, addressing the party, 'this youth declaims the verse of Alfieri as such a great poet merits. _Gherardi mio_, this is a public worthy of thy best efforts to please. Get into the saddle; it's the surest, not to say the pleasantest, way to jog toward Parna.s.sus!'

Gerald was not exactly in the mood to like this bantering; he was ill at ease with himself, and not over well satisfied with the world at large, and he had half turned to decline the poet's invitation, when a gentle voice addressed him, saying:

'Pray be my cavalier, Signorino; you see I have none.'

'Not ours the fault, Madame la Marquise,' quickly retorted Alfieri; 'you rejected us each in turn. Felice was too dull, Adriano too lively, Giorgio was vain, and I--I forget what I was.'

'Worst of all, a great genius in the full blaze of his glory. No; I 'll take Signor Gherardi--that is, if he will permit me.'

Gerald took off his cap and bowed deeply in reply; as he lifted his head he beheld for the first time the features of her who addressed him. She was a lady no longer young, past even the prime of life, but retaining still something more than the traces of what had once been great beauty: fair brown hair, and blue eyes shaded by long dark lashes, preserved to her face a semblance of youthfulness; and there was a coquetry in her riding-dress--the hat looped up with a richly jewelled band, and the front of her habit embroidered in gold--which showed that she maintained pretensions to be noticed and honoured.

As Gerald rode along at her side, she drew him gradually and easily into conversation, with the consummate art of one who had brought the gift to high perfection. She knew how to lead a timid talker on, to induce him to venture on opinions, and even try and sustain them. She understood well, besides, when and how, and how far, to offer a dissent, and at what moments to appear to yield convictions to another. She possessed all that graceful tact which supplies to mere chit-chat that much of epigram that elevates, without pedantry; a degree of point that stimulates, yet never wounds.

'The resemblance is marvellous!' whispered she to Alfieri, as he chanced to ride up beside her; 'and not only in look, but actually in voice, and in many a trick of gesture.'

'I knew you 'll see it!' cried the poet triumphantly.

'And can nothing be known about his history? Surely we could trace him.'

'I like the episode better as it is,' said he carelessly. 'Some vulgar fact might, like a rude blow, demolish the whole edifice one's fancy had nigh completed. There he stands now, handsome, gifted, and a mystery.