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Updated: August 1, 2024
Gianluca leaned back suddenly in his seat, overcome with a sort of shame at the thought that Taquisara had spoken to her for him, and that he himself could find nothing to say. His face pale and red, and his hands trembled. "I like your friend," said Veronica, quietly, wondering whether he felt ill. "Yes I am glad," answered Gianluca. "He is a true friend, a good friend.
But Gianluca had written on the morning of her departure, and before Veronica had half finished what she was doing, one of her women brought her his letter, for the post came in at about midday. It came alone, for Bianca had not written yet, and Veronica's correspondence was not large. She had not even thought of ordering a newspaper to be sent to her.
Some of her people had been bad, and some good, but most of them had been strong, and she liked strength, as a natural consequence. Moreover, she had not enough experience of the world to put Gianluca at his ease; and a sort of girlish feeling that she must not encourage him to say too much made her answer in such a way as to throw him off his track.
There was something in him that appealed to her, as like to like. He had been rude and had spoken almost insolently, and even now he dared to write that he meant what he had said and only regretted the words he had used. For them, indeed, his apology was sufficient for the rest, she was undecided. She went on to what referred to Gianluca, and her face grew grave and sad again. It must be true.
The Duchessa was with him, and supported all he said with approving nods and futile gestures and incoherent phrases thrown in, as one throws straws upon a stream to see the current carry them away. Gianluca said nothing, and Veronica stood alone against them all, for she knew that he was on his father's side.
He started, and looked up through the broad leaves. "Get Don Teodoro at once, and bring him," she cried. "He is in the house somewhere." Taquisara thought that Gianluca was dying, and neither paused nor answered, as he disappeared within. Veronica came back instantly. She had not been gone thirty seconds, but already the sick man's face was grey again, though his eyes were wide and staring.
She had resumed her seat beside Gianluca, and was stroking his white hand, less thin than it had been, but somehow even more lifeless, and she looked down at it very thoughtfully, while he watched her face. He was happier than he had been for a long time, for he knew that she was going to make a concession, and that he had not asked for it. There was silence, and Veronica raised her head.
In other circumstances of fortune he might have become eminent as a man of letters. Without possessing any of that practical, masculine knowledge of women, which Taquisara so roughly expressed, Gianluca had a keen and sure understanding of the feminine mind.
On each side, before him, knelt the living, Veronica and Taquisara, their hands clasped and wedded, as they had been when he had spoken the high sacramental words, and between them, white, motionless, the halo of his fair hair about his marble brow, lay Gianluca della Spina, like an angel dead on earth. "Merciful Lord! What have I done!" cried the priest.
She was sorry for him, indeed, in a superior sort of fashion, but she thought of Taquisara's bold eyes and strong face, and of Bosio Macomer's quiet and refined assurance of manner, and Gianluca seemed to her slightly ridiculous. It was in her blood, and she could not help it.
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