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The marchesa accentuated each word with bitter emphasis. "I do," answered Enrica, faintly. "If Count Nobili returns here, will you marry him?" As the marchesa spoke, Enrica trembled like a leaf. "What was she to answer?" The little composure she had been able to assume utterly forsook her. She who had believed that nothing was left but to die, was suddenly called upon to live!
No, though she worshiped him, Enrica would never lend herself to tempt Nobili with the bait of her beauty no, even though she was his wife. It would be useless to ask her. "Keep him how?" the marchesa asked herself with feverish impatience. Every moment was precious. She heard footsteps. They must be leaving the chapel. Nobili, perhaps, was going. No.
"It is not worthy of you!" he exclaimed, with excitement; "it is worthy neither of you nor of me! No, no," and he leaned over the tower, and watched the paper as it floated downward in the still air. "Let it perish." "Oh! why have you destroyed it?" cried Enrica, greatly distressed. "That paper would have told me all I want to know. How cruel! how unkind!" But there was no help for it.
Enrica was not only to be gazed at and flattered, but to engross attention. The marchesa showed evident tokens of serious displeasure. Had Count Marescotti not been present, she would assuredly have expressed this displeasure in very strong language.
There can be but one lady in question between you and me that lady is Enrica Guinigi." His voice drops. There is a dead silence. "That the marriage is suitable in all respects," Trenta continues, reassured by the silence "I need not tell you; else I, Cesare Trenta, would not be here as the ambassador."
He avowed that he was deeply enamored of Enrica a man in love is already half vanquished. Why should Marescotti throw away his chance of happiness for a phantasy a mere dream? There was no real obstacle. He was versatile and visionary, but the very soul of honor.
I have no thought but you. I never dreamed of such happiness as this! O Nobili!" And she hid her face in the strong arm entwined about her. "Speak to me, Enrica; I will listen to you forever." Enrica clasped his hand, looked at it, sighed, pressed it between both of hers, sighed again, then raised it to her lips. "Dear hand," she said, "how it is burnt!
As she lay encircled in his arms, a burning blush crimsoned her cheeks. She turned away her face, and feebly tried to loosen herself from him. Nobili only pressed her closer. He would not let her go. "Do not turn from me, Enrica," he softly murmured. "Would you rob me of the rapture of my first embrace?" There was a passionate tremor in his voice that re vibrated within her from head to foot.
Fra Pacifico placed Enrica's hand in that of Nobili. Poor little hand how it trembled! Ah! would Nobili not recall how fondly he had clasped it? What kisses he had showered upon each rosy little finger! So lately, too! No Nobili is impassive; not a feature of his face changes. But the contact of Nobili's beloved hand utterly overcame Enrica. The limit of her endurance was reached.
Enrica's conscience acquitted her of any wrong save the wrong of concealment, "Had you asked me," she adds, more timidly, "I should have spoken. You have asked me now, and I have told you." The very spirit of truth spoke in Enrica. Not even the marchesa could doubt her. Enrica had not disgraced the name she bore. She believed her; but there was a sting behind sharper to her than death.
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