The regularity of the existence at Muro pleased the old couple, and contributed in a measure to allay their perpetual anxiety about their son and to calm their uneasiness about the whole situation.  They were both too wise and too courteous to press the question of marriage upon Veronica under the present circumstances, but they did not feel that they were led too far by their affection for Gianluca when they told each other, in the privacy of the Duchessa’s dressing-room, that after what Veronica had now done she was bound, in common self-respect, to marry him.  That he would recover from his illness, they never doubted; for, as has been said, the truth had been kept from them, in so far as the prognostications of doctors could be looked upon as worthy of belief.  He had certainly been much better since they had brought him to Muro, and they secretly wished that they might all stay where they were until the autumn.

On that first day, Veronica had been on the point of speaking very plainly to Gianluca, intending to tell him once again that he must not be deceived, that she should never marry him, and indeed had no intention of ever marrying at all.  But she had been interrupted by the coming of the Duchessa; and, as she had not spoken at the first opportunity, she did not purposely create another at once.  She was not skilful in such situations.  When her directness came into conflict with her sense of delicacy, one or the other gave way; for in serious matters she instinctively hated complicated methods, and though she could be hard and perhaps unnecessarily cruel, yet she would at any time rather be over-kind than take refuge in the compromises of what most people call tact.  The weaknesses of the strong are like the crevasses in a glacier; they have a general direction, but it is impossible to know certainly beforehand the precise depth or importance of any one of them, nor how far it may lead.  The little strengths of weak people are like jagged rocks jutting up in shifting sands and changing tide, the more dangerous to the unwary because they are few and unexpected, and no one can tell where they lie, just below the surface.  Many a brave enterprise has gone to pieces upon the stupid, unforeseen obstinacy of a despised weakling.

Veronica, like other people, even the very strongest, had weak points, or moments when some points of her character were weak, which comes to the same thing in result.  She dreaded to hurt Gianluca, and since the occasion had passed when she might have made everything clear, and would have done so, she found it hard to decide how to act.

Taquisara had told her that the man was dying.  If that were true, it could make no difference, whether he believed that she would marry him or not.  The thought of his death was terribly painful, and she thrust it from her; for she was not heartless, and in the days that followed their conversation on the balcony, her affection grew to be as real and deep as it could possibly have been for a most dearly loved brother.  For her, there had been none of those ties in which such affections live and grow and become parts of life itself.  Fatherless, motherless, without brother, or sisters, the girl had grown up not knowing what she had to give, and giving scarcely anything at all of what was best in her.  She was reticent and proud, and could never be attached to many people.  Bianca had been her friend, in a way, but Bianca’s life was mysterious to her, and Pietro Ghisleri had come between the two.

And now, through many months, by the intimacy of correspondence which had suddenly turned to an intimacy of real converse in which she had not been disappointed, she had grown ­for it was a true growth ­to the power of a most devoted friendship, capable of great and lasting sacrifice.  It was a friendship, too, that was, as it were, pre-sanctified by the rising shadow of near death, fore-hallowed by the sure suffering of its coming end.  It would be hard indeed to cut from Gianluca’s heart the one flower of his loving belief.

But then, when she sat beside him on the balcony in the shady hours, and the great wave of life came up to her from the southern valley, she could not believe that he was really to die.  And then, she hesitated, and she wished to do what was right and true by him, pain or no pain.  Sometimes there was a little colour in his face, and often the deep blue light came into his beautiful eyes.  He was to live, then, and she felt that she was cruel, and base, and cowardly to let his thoughts of her grow.

Those were the good days.  There were worse ones, when he lay like a dead angel before her, and only in his eyes there was a little life.  Then more than once, she gave him the magic of her touch, laid one hand softly upon one of his, or smoothed his silk pillow and arranged the shawl about him.  Perhaps she was wrong to do such things, just because she was so young; but when she did them he breathed freely again, and the faint false dawn of a new day that might never brighten rose in the alabaster cheeks.

Once, Taquisara, standing on the great round bastion below, unnoticed by them both under the spreading vine, turned suddenly by chance and looked up through the leaves, and he saw how Veronica was bending forward towards his friend and touching one hand of his ­for it was not far to see.  Taquisara did not look again, but presently he went in, and there was less of unconcern in his handsome bronze face that day, and his dark eyes were harder and colder than they were wont to be.

Veronica liked him, and forgot altogether the unpleasantness which there had been between them.  He was as gentle as a woman with Gianluca.  He seemed to be strong, too, for on the bad days when his friend could not walk at all, he carried him like a child from room to room.  Veronica saw how necessary he was, and he knew it himself, for after his first protest he made no attempt to go away.  Gianluca, naturally sensitive and abnormally impressionable, hated to be touched by servants, as some invalids do, and Taquisara’s constant presence saved him much suffering, none the less acute because it was imaginary.

At luncheon, at dinner, whenever the Duca and Duchessa were present, Taquisara did his best to help the conversation and always seemed cheerful, unconcerned, and hopeful for Gianluca’s recovery.  It was on rare occasions, when Veronica found herself alone with him for a few moments, or together with him and Don Teodoro, that the man appeared to her silent, morose, and sometimes almost ill-tempered.  He did not again speak rudely in her presence, but she guessed that the unspoken thought was constantly in his mind ­that, and something else which she could not understand.  Daily, hourly perhaps, he was inwardly accusing her of playing with Gianluca, as he had expressed it.

Strange to say, she began to care for his opinion and to wish that he could understand her better; and because he could not, she resented the opinion which she thought he held of her.  When she was with him, she felt something which she did not recognize in herself ­a desire to attack him, for no reason whatever, and at the same time a wish that he might like her better.  Even in her childhood she had never cared very much whether people liked her or not.

One day it rained, ­for it was in August, ­and from time to time the enormous thunder-storms rolled up out of the valley and crashed and split themselves upon the sharp peak above Muro, and rumbled away to northward up the pass, while the deluge of cold rain descended in their track.

It was afternoon.  The windows were all shut, the Duca and Duchessa had disappeared for their daily sleep, as they always did, and Veronica and Taquisara kept Gianluca company in one of the big rooms.  He was better than usual, but Veronica found it hard to amuse him, and tried to imagine some diversion for the long hours.

“Can you fence?” she asked suddenly, of Taquisara.

“Of course ­after a fashion,” he answered, with a laugh of surprise at the question, which seemed absurd to him.

“Will you fence with me?”

“I?  Oh ­I remember hearing that you took fencing lessons at the Princess Corleone’s.  If it amuses you, of course I will.”

“I have all my things here,” said Veronica.  “There are any number of foils, and I got two men’s jackets and masks, just in the hope that they might be wanted some day.  I am very fond of it, you know.  We can move the table away from the middle of the room ­it will be something to do.  It is dull, when it rains, and Don Gianluca can watch us and tell me when I make mistakes.  It will amuse us all.”

“Gianluca could give us both lessons,” said Taquisara.  “He fences beautifully.”

“Ah ­if I only could!” exclaimed Gianluca, in a tone that hurt Veronica.

The invalid looked down at his long, thin legs and emaciated hands, and he tried to smile bravely.

“You would rather not see us ­we will not do it,” said Veronica, gently, bending a little to see his face, as she stood near him.

“Oh no!  Please do!” he answered.  “I have never seen a woman fence ­I cannot imagine how you could.  It would amuse me very much.  Please send for the foils.”

The things were brought, the tables and chairs were moved away, Taquisara drew Gianluca’s big easy-chair, with him in it, towards the window, and Veronica put on her leathern jacket and glove, and stood holding her mask in her hand, as she bent over the foils looking for her favourite one.  She found it, and came forward, carrying both mask and foil, while Taquisara got ready.  Gianluca looked at her and smiled.  There was something defiant and warlike about the small, well-poised head, the aquiline features, and the bright eyes.  With one foot a little in advance she stood up, straight and daring, in the middle of the room, waiting for her adversary.  The grey light of the rainy afternoon gleamed coldly along the steel.

Taquisara took the one of the two masks which fitted him the better, and picked out a foil.  He did not think of putting on a jacket to fence with a woman.

“No jacket?” asked Veronica, with a short laugh, as she slipped her mask over her head.

He laughed, too, but said nothing, considering it as a matter of course, and stepping into position he stood before Veronica with lowered foil.  She raised hers, saluted him, and then Gianluca, as though they were to fence a bout for a prize.  Taquisara did the same.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, in surprise, as both were about to fall into guard.  “Are you left-handed?”

“Yes ­did you never notice it?” She laughed again, as her foil played upon his for a second.  “Now then!” she cried.

Taquisara was not an exceptionally good fencer, and had spent very little time in the study of the art.  He was bold, quick, and somewhat reckless, and in two or three slight affairs in which, like most men of his society in the south, he had been unavoidably engaged, he had wounded his adversaries rather by surprise and indifference to his own safety, than by any superior skill.  He had expected that Veronica would make a few conventional passes and parries, and grow tired of the sport in a few minutes.  To his astonishment, he saw in a moment that she could really fence fairly well, while the fact of being left-handed gave her a great advantage, even against an otherwise superior adversary.  He had of course intended and expected only to defend himself without ever really attacking, as men generally do when they fence with women.  But he was mistaken in supposing that this was what Veronica wanted.

She tried his wrist once or twice and played a little, feeling her way.  Then there was a quick flash, a disengagement, a feint, a lunge that was like a man’s, and as her long left arm shot out like lightning, her foil bent nearly double, with the button full on his breast.  She stepped back, and he heard her short laugh again, followed by Gianluca’s, and he laughed, too, somewhat disconcerted.

“I took you by surprise,” she said.  “You had better put on a jacket ­it is just as well.”

“Oh no ­but you can really fence!  I had no idea.  I shall be more careful.  Try again!”

They engaged once more, and Taquisara was cautious.  His defence did not compare with his attack, and he could not take the offensive in earnest.  He parried her quick thrusts with some difficulty, and presently she touched him on the arm.

“Why do you not attack me?” she asked impatiently.  “You need not be afraid ­I can defend myself pretty well.”

He did not altogether like to lunge as though he were fencing with a man, and his hesitation gave her a still greater advantage.  She felt an unaccountable delight in attacking him furiously, and in her excitement she uttered sharp little cries when she touched him, as she did more than once.  She felt that she had never fenced so well in her life, and she was glad that she should do better against him than against Bianca or her fencing-master.  There was a strange delight in it.  He, on his part, did his best at defence, but he could not bring himself to a real attack.  He tried to disarm her, by sheer strength, but he failed utterly.  Her wrist was more supple than the steel foil itself, and she was left-handed.

It was rather wild play, but it was amusing to watch, and Gianluca looked on with delighted appreciation.  She was so slight and graceful, and yet so quick and strong.  As for Taquisara, he was glad when she drew back, took her mask from her face, and said that it was enough.

“You ought to know that you can hardly ever disarm a left-handed person when you are engaged in carte,” observed Gianluca, looking at Taquisara.

Though he had never been in a quarrel in his life, he had been passionately fond of fencing, and in his real interest in what he had seen he did not even think of complimenting Veronica.  She was keen enough to feel that his scientific remark was better than any flattery.

Taquisara shrugged his shoulders and smiled.

“Donna Veronica fences like a man,” he said.  “And I am not very good at it either.  She would have killed me two or three times!”

“You never really attacked me,” she answered, flushed and happy.  “By the by,” she added, seeing that he was looking over the other foils, “one of those is sharp ­the one with the green hilt ­be careful not to take it by mistake if we fence again, for you might really kill me.”

“How did it come here?” he asked, taking up the one she indicated.

“It was lying about at the Princess Corleone’s.  I took it by mistake, I suppose, with my things.  I believe that Signor Ghisleri brought it to show her, one day.  I think he said it had been used.”

She threw off her leathern jacket, and tossed the other things aside.

“Let us fence a little every day,” she said.  “That is, if you will really fence, instead of playing with me.”

“I am certainly not able to play with you,” he answered.  “And I shall wear a jacket next time.”

“You are wonderful,” said Gianluca, still watching her with admiration.

The storm had passed, and the rain was over.  Before long the Duca and Duchessa would appear for tea, and Taquisara said that he would go for a walk.  Veronica rang and had the room set in order again, and sat down by Gianluca.  The exercise had done her good, and she still felt that fierce little satisfaction at having fought with Taquisara.  There was an unwonted colour in her cheeks, and her brown hair had been somewhat ruffled by the mask.  Her hands were warm, and tingled, and she felt intensely alive.  It had been pleasant, for once, to put out all her energy in something like a real struggle.

Little by little her sensations wore off, and she was quite quiet again, but the recollection of them remained and made her wish to renew them every day.

“You are wonderful,” Gianluca repeated, when they had talked of other things for a while.  “Taquisara is not a fencing-master, but he is as good as most men, and better than many.  You gave him trouble, I could see.  It was all he could do to defend himself against you, sometimes.”

“Did it amuse you to watch us?” asked Veronica.

“Yes ­of course!”

“Then we will do it again, every day.  I am glad of a little practice, and it will not hurt him either.  A descendant of Tancred ought to fence better than that!  I suppose that your mother would be horrified.”

“She might be a little surprised.”

“Shall we tell her?”

“Not unless we are obliged to,” answered Gianluca, with a smile.  “We do not tell her everything.”

“No,” said Veronica, acquiescing rather thoughtfully.

Gianluca was in that state in which there is a delight in having little, harmless secrets from the world in common with one much loved, but not yet wholly won, and each small secrecy was to the bond that held him what the silver threads are to Damascus steel, welded into the whole that the blade may bend double without breaking.  But to Veronica it was different; for she guessed instinctively how he looked upon such trifles, and she did not wish them to multiply unduly.  Each one was a sting to her conscience.

“I hate secrets,” she said gravely, after a pause.  “Let us tell her.  It is much better.”

“As you like,” answered Gianluca, with a little disappointment, which she did not fail to notice.

“You think that she will be scandalized?  And that we shall not fence any more?  Why?  I am sure, if she could see us, she would think it very proper.  It is not improper, is it?” She asked the last question anxiously, as though in an after-thought.

“Improper?  No!  How absurd!  If everything that is unusual were to be considered improper, our writing to each other would be improper, too.  But we kept it a secret, all the same.  I cannot imagine talking about it.  For me ­everything that belongs to you is a secret.”

Veronica leaned back in her chair, and her face grew still more grave, but she did not answer.  The struggle had begun again, and the hesitation.  Should she tell him, once for all, that she really never could love him?  Should she leave him the illusion he loved so well?  Was he to die, or was he to live?  The answer to each question seemed to lie in the query of the next.  He spoke again before she broke the silence.

“Do you not feel that ­a little ­not as I do, but just a little, about me?” he asked in a voice not timid, but very soft.

“No,” she answered sadly.  “Not as you do.  No; it is quite different.”

She did not look at him at once, for she was almost afraid to meet his eyes, but she heard him catch his breath, as though to strangle a sigh by main force, and his head moved on the cushion.

She had begun to hurt him.

“I thought you might,” he said, faintly but steadily.  “I almost thought you did.”

“No,” she repeated, with ever-increasing gentleness.  “No.  Do not think that ­please do not!”

He said nothing, but again he moved his head.  Then, seeing that the moment had come, and that she must face it with truth or lie to him while he lived, she turned her face bravely towards him, to tell him all her heart.

“You are the only real friend I have in the world,” she said.  “But I can never love you ­never, Gianluca ­never.  It is not in me.  There is no one in the whole world for whom I care as I do for you.  I cannot imagine anything that I could not do for your sake.  But not love ­not love.  That is something else.  I do not know what it means.  You could make me understand anything but that.  Oh ­why must I say it, when it is so hard to say?”

His face seemed cut, as a mask of pain, in alabaster, and the appealing, hungry eyes waited for each fresh hurt.

“You made me think that you might love me,” he said, the slow words hardly forming themselves on his dry lips.

“Then God forgive me!” she cried, clasping her hands and bending her face over them.  “And yet ­and yet I knew it.  I felt it.  I meant to tell you, if you did not know!  I only wished not to hurt you ­it is so hard to say.”

“Yes,” he answered, scarcely above his breath.  “I see it is,” he added, after a long time.

As he lay in the deep chair, he turned his face from her, on the cushion, till she could not see his eyes, and then was quite still.  It would have been easier if he had reproached her vehemently, if he had turned and tried to win her again, and poured out his heart full of love.  But he lay there, like a dead angel, with his face turned from her, hardly breathing.

“I have been cowardly, and base, and bad!” she cried, bending over her clasped hands, and speaking to herself.  “I should have said it ­I said it long ago, at Bianca’s, and I should have said it again ­but I was afraid ­afraid ­oh! afraid!”

Her low voice trembled in anger against herself, in pity for him, in sorrow for them both.  She looked up and saw him still motionless.  It was as though she had killed him and were sitting beside his body.  But he still lived, and might live.  For one instant she felt a mad impulse to give him her life, to marry him, not loving him, to save him if she could, to atone for what she had done.  But a horrible under-thought told her that it would be but gambling for her freedom with his existence, and that if she did it, she should do it because she felt that he must surely die.  Even her simplicity seemed gone.  She looked again; he had not moved.

She threw herself upon her knees, beside his great chair, her clasped hands on his thin shoulder, in a sort of agony of despair.

“Speak to me!” she cried.  “Forgive me ­say that I have not killed you ­Gianluca ­dear!”

One shadowy hand of his was lifted, and touched hers.  It was as cold as though it had lain dead in the dew.  She took it quickly and held it fast.  He did not turn his head.

“It has been my life,” he said, “my whole life.”

He did not try to draw away his hand, but let her hold it, if she would.  There was still magic in her touch.

“Forgive me!” she repeated more softly, and her cheek touched the arm of the chair.  “Forgive me!”

At last he turned his face very wearily and slowly on the brown silk cushion, and looked at her bent head.  Instinctively she raised her hot eyes.

“Forgive you?” He spoke very sorrowfully.  “I love you.  What is there to forgive?  It is not your fault ­”

“It is ­it is!” she cried, speaking into his sad eyes for forgiveness, with all her soul.

“I shall die ­but it is not your fault,” he answered, and he sank back, for he had raised himself a little.  “It is not your fault,” he repeated.  “Do not ask me to forgive you.  Perhaps I should have lived longer ­I do not know, for I only lived for you.  No ­I am quiet now.  I can speak better than I could.  You must not think that you have killed me, if I die.  Men live through worse, but not men like me, perhaps.  Something else is killing me slowly, but they will not tell me what it is.  Never mind.  It will do as well without a name, and if I get well, it needs none.  After all, I am not dead yet, and while I am alive, I can love you.  You have been all to me.  If you had loved me, I should have had more than all the world, and that would have been too much.  If I deceived myself, loving you as I did, ­as I do, ­it is not your fault, Veronica.  It is not your fault.  There was a time last year, when I would have done anything, given everything, life and all, for one of a thousand words you have written and said to me since then ­when I would have committed crimes for the touch of this little hand.  Do you see?  It is all my fault.  That is what I wanted you to understand.”

He had said all he could, and his breath came with an effort at the last.  But his lips smiled bravely as he looked at her, still kneeling by his side.  Then he seemed to realize that she should not be there.

“Get up, dear,” he said, with failing voice.  “You must not kneel ­some one might come ­they would think ­that you meant ­something.”

His lids quivered and closed, and his lips trembled oddly.  She felt his hand relax, and she thought that he was gone.  Instantly she sprang to her feet beside him, and lifted his head, her face full of the horror that goes before the wave of pain for those one loves.  But he had not even fainted.  He opened his eyes, and smiled, and tried to speak again, but could not.

Veronica’s lips moved, too, as she stood there, supporting him a little with her arm and stiffened with terror for his life.  But she could not speak either.  She watched his face with most intense anxiety.  Again and again, he opened his eyes, and saw her, and he felt her arm under him.

“It is nothing,” he said suddenly.  “I was a little faint.”

She drew away her arm with a deep breath of relief, and he sighed when it was gone.  But neither of them spoke.  Veronica rang, and sent for his favourite wine, and he drank a little of it.  Then she sat down beside him, where she had sat before, and the room was very still.

It was hot, too, for no one had opened the window since it had stopped raining.  Veronica rose and undid the fastenings and threw back the glass, and the cool air rushed in, laden with the sweet smell of the wet earth.  As she came back, she saw that his eyes followed all her movements, gravely, as a sick child watches its nurse moving about its room.  There was no reproach in their look, but they were still fixed on her, when she sat down again by his side.

“Veronica,” said the faint, far voice, presently.  “May I ask you one question, that I have no right to ask?”

“Anything,” she answered.  “And you have the right to ask anything.”

“No ­not this.  Do you love another man?”

The still blue eyes widened, in earnestness.

“No, Gianluca.  No ­by the truth of God ­no living man!”

“Nor one dead?” His tone sank almost to a whisper, and still his eyes were wide for her answer.

A faint and tender light came into her face, so faint, so far reflected from an infinite somewhere, that only such eyes as his could have seen it.

“There was Bosio,” she said softly.  “He spoke to me the night he died ­I could have married him ­I should have loved him ­perhaps.”

If the little phrases were broken, it was not by hesitation; it seemed rather as though what they meant must find each memory to have meaning, one by one, and word by word ­and finding, wondered at what had once been true.

And Gianluca smiled, as he lay still, and the lids of his eyes closed peacefully and naturally, opening again with another look.  He was too weak to be surprised by what he had only vaguely guessed, from some word she had let fall, but he knew well enough, from her voice and face, that she had never loved Bosio Macomer, nor any other man, dead or living.  And Hope, that is ever last to leave a breaking heart, nestled back into her own sweet place, breathing soft things of love, and life, and golden years to be.

“Thank you,” he said.  “I should not have asked you.  It was kind to answer.”

They did not speak again, and presently the door opened.  The old Duca held it back with a stately bow, and the Duchessa swept into the room with that sort of uncertain swaying motion, which is all that weakness leaves of grace.  And the Duca shuffled in after her, and closed the door most precisely, for he was a precise old man.

“I thought it was time for tea, my dear,” said the Duchessa.  “We have had such a good sleep!”