Taquisara Part 18

She drew nearer to him, strong and soft.

"Yes? Well--but say goodbye--not as yesterday--not as though it were good bye--one kiss, Bosio, only one kiss--one, dear--one--"

And in it, her voice was silent, for it had done its tempting, and she had her will, on the selfsame spot where he had kissed Veronica. Then he trembled from head to foot, and his heart stood still. An instant later he was gone, and she had not tried to keep him. She watched him as he left her and went to the door without turning.

He walked quickly when he had shut the door behind him, and his face was livid. The depth below the depths had been too deep. He had but one thought as he went through the rooms, and the antechamber, and hall, and out upon the cold staircase, and up to his own door, and on, and in, till he turned the key of his own room behind him. There was no stopping then, either, between the door and the table, between key and lock, and hand and weapon.

Before the woman's kiss had been upon his lips two minutes, Bosio Macomer lay dead, alone, under the green-shaded lamp in his own remote room.

Peace upon him, if there be peace for such men, in the mercy of Almighty G.o.d. He did evil all his life, but there was an evil which even he would not do upon the innocent life of another. He died lest he should do it, and desperately grasping at the universal strength of death, he cast himself and his weakness into the impregnable stronghold of the grave.

CHAPTER XI.

It was still early in the morning, and all Naples knew that Count Bosio Macomer had committed suicide on the preceding evening. Every morning newspaper had a paragraph about the shocking tragedy, but few ventured to guess at any reason for the deed. It was merely stated that Count Bosio's servant had been alarmed by the report of a pistol about nine o'clock in the evening, and on finding the door of his master's room locked had broken in, suspecting some terrible accident. He had found the count stretched upon the floor, in evening dress, with his own revolver lying beside him.

That was precisely what had happened, but the meagre account gave no idea of the confusion which had ensued upon the discovery. It contained no mention of Matilde nor of Veronica, and merely observed that the brother of the deceased was overcome with grief.

That would have been too weak an expression to apply to what Matilde suffered during the hours which followed the first appalling blow. In the overpowering horror of the situation, she did not lose her mind, but she sincerely believed that her body could not live till the morning.

To do her justice, as she sat there beside the dead man, bent and doubled in silent, tearless grief, a dark shawl drawn over her head to hide her face, and utterly regardless, for once, of what any one might think, she thought only of him and of what she had done. For she understood, and she only, in all the household.

Beyond her conscious thoughts, if they could be called thoughts at all, the black figures of the forbidding future loomed darkly in her consciousness. They were the things she knew, rather than the things she felt, but the terror of what was to be was as real as the grief for what had been, though as yet it had less strength to move her. The blow had struck her down, and until she should try to rise she could feel nothing but the blow. In truth she did not think that she should live until the morning.

It was midnight when they lit candles, and set them beside him in great candlesticks as he lay. And she sat down at his feet and watched his still face, from beneath the shawl that hung over her head. It had been in her hands when they had told her, and her fingers had closed upon it stiffly; so she had it when she came to his room. She was glad, for she could cover herself from the eyes of those who came and went, but her own eyes could see out, from under it, and no tears blinded her. After she had sat down, she did not move.

Gregorio Macomer had come, and had gone away, and then he had come again, when all was done, and had knelt a long time beside the couch on which his brother lay, repeating prayers audibly. His face was as grey as a stone. He only spoke to give directions in a whisper, and he said nothing to his wife, but let her alone, bowed and covered as she sat.

When he had prayed, he went away, with reverently bent head, and she heard that he trod softly. In two hours he came back, knelt again, and again repeated Latin words. She knew that he was doing it for a show of sorrow, and she wished to kill him. Then, when he was softly gone again, she wondered how soon she herself was to die. There were two servants in the room, behind her, keeping watch. They were relieved by two others, changing through the night. She heard them come and go, but did not turn her head.

When the dawn forelightened, like the ghost of a buried day risen from the grave to see its past deeds, she was not yet dead. She had once read how the murderers of Vittoria Accoramboni had been torn with red-hot pincers and otherwise grievously tortured, and how knives had been thrust deep into their b.r.e.a.s.t.s just where the heart was not, but near it, and how they had died hard, for they had lived more than half an hour with the knives in them, and at the last had been quartered alive.

She had not believed what she had read, but now she knew that it was true. She envied them the searing, the tearing, and the knives which had at last killed them, though they had died so hard.

The wan dawn turned the dead man's face from waxen yellow to stone grey.

The servants saw it, whispered, and closed the inner shutters, and the yellow candle-light shone again in the room. Any light is better than daylight on a dead face.

Matilde sat still, bowed and covered. Fixed in the world of grief, the hours of sorrow pa.s.sed her by. There was neither night nor day in the dead watch of the closed room, under the tall candles, burning steadily.

Then, at last, other feet were on the threshold, stumbling, shuffling, ill-shod feet of men bearing a burden. In that city, one may not lie in his home more than one day after he is dead. They set down what they bore, beside the couch, and waited, and the woman saw their questioning faces and heard them whispering. Then one of them, with some reverence and gentleness, thrust his arm under the low pillow, and with his eyes bade another lift the feet. But Matilde rose then and came between them and the dead. They thought that she would look at him once more, and they drew back, while she looked, for she bent over his face. But the shawl about her head fell about her, and they could not see that she kissed him. They waited.

The great woman put her hands about him, and bowed herself, and lifted him from the couch, and the men could not believe it when they saw her turn with him and lay him down in his coffin, alone, with no one to help her.

For she was very strong. She stood and looked down at him a long time, and once she stopped and moved one of his crossed hands, which touched the edge. And then she drew from her neck, from beneath the shawl, a piece of fine black lace, and laid it gently over and about his head.

"Cover it," she said to the men, and she stood waiting, lest they should touch him with their hands.

She had seen his face for the last time, and when they had covered him, they laid the coffin in another of lead which they had brought, and she stood quite still, watching the gleaming melted stuff that ran along the edges of the grey lead, like quicksilver, under the hot tool of copper.

When that was done, with main strength they laid him in the third, which was covered with black velvet. And there were screws.

At last they went away, and Matilde set the tall candlesticks on each side of the velvet thing, and looked at it again. Then she, too, with still covered head, went towards the door. But between the coffin and the door, she stood still, swaying a little, till she fell to her full length backwards and straight, as a cypress tree falls when it is cut down. But she was not dead, for she was too strong to die then. The servants carried her away to her own room, calling others to help them, for she was heavy, and they had to take her down the stairs. It was afternoon then, and when she came to herself and opened her eyes, she bitterly cursed the day, for it would have been good to die. But she never went again to the room where she had watched.

She lay still a long time, alone in silence. Then, from a room beyond hers, came the wild crash of her husband's laughter. She sat up. Her face was grim and terrible, ghastly and stained with rouge, as the shawl fell back upon her shoulders. She sat up and listened, and her smooth lips twisted themselves angrily, one against the other, as a tiger's sometimes do, when there is blood in the air. She knew now that she was really alive, for she thought of Veronica.

Veronica had not known in the night. Her rooms were at the farther end of the apartment in a quiet part of the house, and when she had left Bosio she had gone to bed immediately and had dismissed her maid.

Elettra came from the room to find the household in the hideous uproar and confusion which first followed the discovery of Bosio's death.

Elettra was a wise woman as well as a revengeful one. By the deeds of the Macomer, as she looked at it, her own husband had been killed, and she had cursed their house, living and dead. She had blood now, for her blood, and in the dark corridor she smiled once. But no one should disturb Veronica, and she stood there, where any one must pa.s.s to go to the girl's room, silent, satisfied, watchful. She loved her mistress, as she hated all the Macomer, body and soul, alive and dead. Some foolish women of the household would have roused Veronica, for they came, two together, asking in loud hysterical voices, whether she knew. But Elettra kept them off, and took the news herself in the morning when Veronica rang for her.

"A terrible thing has happened in the night," she said, when she had opened the windows.

Veronica opened her eyes wide and then rubbed them slowly with her slim, dark fingers and looked again at Elettra.

"It is a very terrible thing," continued the woman, gravely. "It happened in the night, and all was confusion, but I would not let them disturb you. They heard the pistol-shot and broke down the door. He was already dead. He had shot himself."

"Who?" asked Veronica, in instant horror. "Some one in the house? A servant?"

Elettra shook her head.

"No. I would not tell you--but you must know. It was Count Bosio."

Veronica turned pale and started up. "Bosio? Bosio dead?" she cried in a voice that was almost a scream.

The woman was sensible and understood her, and by that time the household was quiet, so that there was no fear lest any one else should come to Veronica's room.

But when she was quite sure of what had happened, Veronica wept bitterly for a long time, burying her face in her pillows and refusing to listen any more to Elettra. Then, if the woman had not prevented her, almost forcibly, she would have gone upstairs to see him where he lay dead. But Elettra would not let her go, for she knew that Matilde was there, and why; and moreover, it was not within her ideas of custom that a young girl should go and look at any one dead. But Veronica's tears flowed on.

At first it was only sorrow, real and heartfelt, without any attempt to reason and explain. But by and by she began to ask herself questions for the dead man's sake. In her dreams the sweet words he had spoken in the evening had come back to her, and when she had first opened her eyes at the sound of Elettra's voice she had thought that she saw his eyes before her in the dimness, before the windows were all opened. She had not loved him yet, but those words of his had touched something which would have felt, by and by. And suddenly, he was gone. Why? It was so sudden. It was as though a part of the earth had fallen through, into s.p.a.ce beneath, without warning. There was too much gone, all at once.

She could only ask why. And there was no answer to that.

Her eyes fell upon the artificial gardenia she had worn. It lay upon the dressing-table where she had tossed it when she had taken it from her bodice. Her tears broke out again, for it had meant so much last night, and could mean now but the memory of that much, and never again anything more. It was a long time before Veronica dried her eyes, and consented to dress.

Apart from the sorrowful horror that filled her, it seemed so very strange that he should have killed himself just after she had promised to marry him, within an hour after they had spoken together of the happiness to come.

"It was an accident," she said at last, speaking to herself, as though she had reached a conclusion. "He did not mean to do it."

Elettra shook her head, but said nothing. Accident, or no accident, it was the blood of a Macomer for the blood of her own dead husband, murdered up there in Muro by the peasants because Macomer had burdened them beyond their power to pay.

She said nothing, and Veronica expected no answer, but sat still, trying to think, while Elettra noiselessly set the big dressing-room in order.

The woman had given her a black frock without consulting her.

Though Veronica liked her, and knew that she could rely on her devotion, she was not one of those Italian girls who readily confide in their serving-women, and she had told Elettra nothing about the projected marriage, and she said nothing of it now, though she was mourning her betrothed husband. But she told Elettra to go out and buy a little c.r.a.pe to put on the black frock, and to send for dressmakers to make mourning things quickly.

The confusion in the house had subsided into stillness. Bosio Macomer was in his coffin. The servants were exhausted, and there was no one to direct. Gregorio had been heard laughing wildly in his room, and a frightened chambermaid said that he was going mad. Elettra had great difficulty in getting something to eat, which she brought to Veronica's room with a gla.s.s of wine.

The girl's first outbreak of sorrow ebbed to a melancholy placidity, as the hours went by. She got her prayer-book, and read certain prayers for the dead. When her maid had gone out to buy the c.r.a.pe, she knelt down and said prayers that were not in the book, very earnestly and simply; and now and then her tears flowed afresh for a little while. She took the artificial gardenia and put it away in a safe place, after she had kissed it; and she wondered when she remembered how she had blushed last night when Bosio kissed her that once--that only once that ever was to be. And she took his photograph and looked at it, too. But she could not bear that yet--at least, not to look at it too closely.

Vaguely she tried to think what the others might be doing in the house, and why no one came to her but her maid. It seemed to her that she was always to be alone, now, for days, for weeks, for years. As she grew more calm, she attempted to imagine what life would be without the companions.h.i.+p of Bosio. That was what she should miss, for she was but little nearer to love than that. It all looked so blank and gloomy that she cried again, out of sheer desolation and loneliness. But of this she was somewhat ashamed, and she presently dried her eyes again.