"Most unhappily, at once," he answered "I start by the early train to-morrow morning."

"Well, I am glad I knew of this in time," I said, glancing at my writing-table, which was strewn with unsent invitation cards, and estimates from decorators and ball furnishers. "I shall not think of starting any more gayeties till you return."

He looked gratefully at me "Really? It is very kind of you, but I should be sorry to interfere with any of your plans--"

"Say no more about it, amico" I interrupted him lightly "Everything can wait till you come back. Besides, I am sure you will prefer to think of madama as living in some sort of seclusion during your enforced absence--"

"I should not like her to be dull!" he eagerly exclaimed.

"Oh, no!" I said, with a slight smile at his folly, as if she--Nina--would permit herself to be dull! "I will take care of that.

Little distractions, such as a drive now and then, or a very quiet, select musical evening! I understand--leave it all to me! But the dances, dinners, and other diversions shall wait till your return."

A delighted look flashed into his eyes. He was greatly flattered and pleased.

"You are uncommonly good to me, conte!" he said, earnestly. "I can never thank you sufficiently."

"I shall demand a proof of your grat.i.tude some day," I answered. "And now, had you not better be packing your portmanteau? To-morrow will soon be here. I will come and see you off in the morning."

Receiving this a.s.surance as another testimony of my friendship, he left me. I saw him no more that day; it was easy to guess where he was! With my wife, of course!--no doubt binding her, by all the most sacred vows he could think of or invent, to be true to him--as true as she had been false to me. In fancy I could see him clasping her in his arms, and kissing her many times in his pa.s.sionate fervor, imploring her to think of him faithfully, night and day, till he should again return to the joy of her caresses! I smiled coldly, as this glowing picture came before my imagination. Ay, Guido! kiss her and fondle her now to your heart's content--it is for the last time! Never again will that witching glance be turned to you in either fear or favor--never again will that fair body nestle in your jealous embrace--never again will your kisses burn on that curved sweet mouth; never, never again! Your day is done--the last brief moments of your sin's enjoyment have come--make the most of them!--no one shall interfere! Drink the last drop of sweet wine--MY hand shall not dash the cup from your lips on this, the final night of your amour! Traitor, liar, and hypocrite! make haste to be happy for the short time that yet remains to you--shut the door close, lest the pure pale stars behold your love ecstasies! but let the perfumed lamps shed their softest artificial l.u.s.ter on all that radiant beauty which tempted your sensual soul to ruin, and of which you are now permitted to take your last look! Let there be music too--the music of her voice, which murmurs in your ear such entrancing falsehoods! "She will be true," she says. You must believe her, Guido, as I did--and, believing her thus, part from her as lingeringly and tenderly as you will--part from her--FOREVER!

CHAPTER XVII.

Next morning I kept my appointment and met Ferrari at the railway station. He looked pale and haggard, though he brightened a little on seeing me. He was curiously irritable and fussy with the porters concerning his luggage, and argued with them about some petty trifles as obstinately and pertinaciously as a deaf old woman. His nerves were evidently jarred and unstrung, and it was a relief when he at last got into his coupe. He carried a yellow paper-covered volume in his hand. I asked him if it contained any amusing reading.

"I really do not know," he answered, indifferently, "I have only just bought it. It is by Victor Hugo."

And he held up the t.i.tle-page for me to see.

"Le Dernier Jour d'un Cond.a.m.ne," I read aloud with careful slowness.

"Ah, indeed! You do well to read that. It is a very fine study!"

The train was on the point of starting, when he leaned out of the carriage window and beckoned me to approach more closely.

"Remember!" he whispered, "I trust you to take care of her!"

"Never fear!" I answered, "I will do my best to replace YOU!"

He smiled a pale uneasy smile, and pressed my hand. These were our last words, for with a warning shriek the train moved off, and in another minute had rushed out of sight. I was alone--alone with perfect freedom of action--I could do as I pleased with my wife now! I could even kill her if I chose--no one would interfere. I could visit her that evening and declare myself to her--could accuse her of her infidelity and stab her to the heart! Any Italian jury would find "extenuating circ.u.mstances" for me. But why? Why should I lay myself open to a charge of murder, even for a just cause? No! my original design was perfect, and I must keep to it and work it out with patience, though patience was difficult. While I thus meditated, walking from the station homeward, I was startled by the unexpected appearance of my valet, who came upon me quite suddenly. He was out of breath with running, and he carried a note for me marked "Immediate." It was from my wife, and ran briefly thus:

"Please come at once. Stella is very ill, and asks for you."

"Who brought this?" I demanded, quickening my pace, and signing to Vincenzo to keep beside me.

"The old man, eccellenza--Giacomo. He was weeping and in great trouble--he said the little donzella had the fever in her throat--it is the diphtheria he means, I think. She was taken ill in the middle of the night, but the nurse thought it was nothing serious. This morning she has been getting worse, and is in danger."

"A doctor has been sent for, of course?"

"Yes, eccellenza. So Giacomo said. But--"

"But WHAT?" I asked, quickly.

"Nothing, eccellenza! Only the old man said the doctor had come too late."

My heart sunk heavily, and a sob rose in my throat. I stopped in my rapid walk and bade Vincenzo call a carriage, one of the ordinary vehicles that are everywhere standing about for hire in the princ.i.p.al thoroughfares of Naples. I sprung into this and told the driver to take me as quickly as possible to the Villa Romani, and adding to Vincenzo that I should not return to the hotel all day, I was soon rattling along the uphill road. On my arrival at the villa I found the gates open, as though in expectation of my visit, and as I approached the entrance door of the house, Giacomo himself met me.

"How is the child?" I asked him eagerly.

He made no reply, but shook his head gravely, and pointed to a kindly looking man who was at that moment descending the stairs--a man whom I instantly recognized as a celebrated English doctor resident in the neighborhood. To him I repeated my inquiry--he beckoned me into a side room and closed the door.

"The fact is," he said, simply, "it is a case of gross neglect. The child has evidently been in a weakly condition for some time past, and therefore is an easy prey to any disease that may be lurking about. She was naturally strong--I can see that--and had I been called in when the symptoms first developed themselves, I could have cured her. The nurse tells me she dared not enter the mother's room to disturb her after midnight, otherwise she would have called her to see the child--it is unfortunate, for now I can do nothing."

I listened like one in a dream. Not even old a.s.sunta dared to enter her mistress's room after midnight--no! not though the child might be seriously ill and suffering. I knew the reason well--too well! And so while Ferrari had taken his fill of rapturous embraces and lingering farewells, my little one had been allowed to struggle in pain and fever without her mother's care or comfort. Not that such consolation would have been much at its best, but I was fool enough to wish there had been this one faint spark of womanhood left in her upon whom I had wasted all the first and only love of my life. The doctor watched me as I remained silent, and after a pause he spoke again.

"The child has earnestly asked to see you," he said, "and I persuaded the countess to send for you, though she was very reluctant to do so, as she said you might catch the disease. Of course there is always a risk--"

"I am no coward, monsieur," I interrupted him, "though many of us Italians prove but miserable panic-stricken wretches in time of plague--the more especially when compared with the intrepidity and pluck of Englishmen. Still there are exceptions--"

The doctor smiled courteously and bowed. "Then I have no more to say, except that it would be well for you to see my little patient at once.

I am compelled to be absent for half an hour, but at the expiration of that time I will return."

"Stay!" I said, laying a detaining hand on his arm. "Is there any hope?"

He eyed me gravely. "I fear not."

"Can nothing be done?"

"Nothing--except to keep her as quiet and warm as possible. I have left some medicine with the nurse which will alleviate the pain. I shall be able to judge of her better when I return; the illness will have then reached its crisis." In a couple of minutes more he had left the house, and a young maid-servant showed me to the nursery.

"Where is the contessa?" I asked in a whisper, as I trod softly up the stairs.

"The contessa?" said the girl, opening her eyes in astonishment. "In her own bedroom, eccellenza--madama would not think of leaving it; because of the danger of infection." I smothered a rough oath that roses involuntarily to my lips. Another proof of the woman's utter heartlessness, I thought!

"Has she not seen her child?"

"Since the illness? Oh, no, eccellenza!"

Very gently and on tiptoe I entered the nursery. The blinds were partially drawn as the strong light worried the child, and by the little white bed sat a.s.sunta, her brown face pale and almost rigid with anxiety. At my approach she raised her eyes to mine, muttering softly:

"It is always so. Our Lady will have the best of all, first the father, then the child; it is right and just--only the bad are left."

"Papa!" moaned a little voice feebly, and Stella sat up among her tumbled pillows, with wide-opened wild eyes, feverish cheeks, and parted lips through which the breath came in quick, uneasy gasps.

Shocked at the marks of intense suffering in her face, I put my arms tenderly round her--she smiled faintly and tried to kiss me. I pressed the poor parched little mouth and murmured, soothingly:

"Stella must be patient and quiet--Stella must lie down, the pain will be better so; there! that is right!" as the child sunk back on her bed obediently, still keeping her gaze fixed upon me. I knelt at the bedside, and watched her yearningly--while a.s.sunta moistened her lips, and did all she could to ease the pain endured so meekly by the poor little thing whose breathing grew quicker and fainter with every tick of the clock. "You are my papa, are you not?" she asked, a deeper flush crossing her forehead and cheeks. I made no answer--I only kissed the small hot hand I held. a.s.sunta shook her head.