six hours between midnight and the December dawn in his easy-chair before the fireplace. Once or twice, towards morning, he had felt sleep creeping upon him through sheer physical exhaustion, but he had fought it off, afraid to lose one of the precious moments which he still had before him in which to think over what he should do. They were few enough, for a man of his nature.
He knew the absolute truth of all that Matilde had told him, and he had even suspected much of it before she had first spoken. He knew that his brother had secretly ruined himself in financial speculations, in which he had employed Lamberto Squarci as his agent, and that, with Squarci's assistance, Gregorio had staved off the consequences of his actions by a fraudulent use of Veronica's fortune—of such part of it as he could control, of course—absorbing much of the enormous income, and even, from time to time, obtaining the consent of Cardinal Campodonico for the sale of certain lands, on pretence of making more profitable investments. During fully ten years, Gregorio's management of the estate must have been a systematic fraud upon Veronica Serra, carried on with sufficient skill to evade all inquiry from the cardinal. Gregorio's fictitious reputation as a strictly honourable man had helped him, together with the fact that his wife was the ward's own aunt, which was a strong presumption in favour of her honesty as a guardian. Then, too, it was generally believed that Macomer was a miser, and much richer than he allowed any one to suppose. As for the accounts of the estate, they could bear inspection, as Matilde had said, provided that no attempt were made to verify the existence of all the property therein described.
The worst of the case was that Squarci had been an accomplice from the beginning, and had doubtless enriched himself while Macomer had lost everything. In the event of a suit brought by the ward against the guardians, it would be in Squarci's power to turn evidence in favour of Veronica, and expose the whole enormous theft; and it would be like him to keep on the side of wealth against ruin. For Veronica was still very rich, in spite of all that had been stolen.
There could be little doubt but that in the event of an action, Gregorio and Matilde Macomer would be condemned to penal servitude, as the countess herself anticipated. It was equally certain that if Veronica married any one but Bosio, her husband and his family would demand that the accounts of the estate should be formally audited and the property scheduled; this must ultimately lead to the dreaded prosecution, which could have no possible conclusion but conviction and infamy.
Whatever Bosio's true relations with Matilde had been in the course of the last ten years, he had at least loved her faithfully, with the complete devotion of a man who not only loves a woman, but is morally dominated by her in all the circumstances of life. He had not the character which seeks ideals, and he asked for none.
Matilde's beauty and conversation had sufficed him, for in his opinion he had never known any one to be compared with her; and on her side she had been strong enough to make a slave of him from the first. To the extent of his weak character and considerable physical courage, there was no sacrifice which Bosio would not have been ready to make for her, and few dangers which he would not at least have attempted to face for her sake.
But where all moral sense of right and all natural action of conscience were gone, there remained in the man an inheritance of traditional feeling, which even Matilde's influence could not make him wittingly violate any further—a remnant of honour, a thread, as it were, by which his soul was still held above the level of total destruction. There was nothing, perhaps, involving himself alone, which he would have refused to do for Matilde's sake, under the pressure of her strong will. But what she required of him now was more than that, and worse. After a night of thought, he still felt that he could not do it.
Of course, there was the possibility that Veronica herself might absolutely refuse to marry him, and thus save his weakness from the necessity of trying to be strong. But Bosio thought this improbable.
The fatherless and motherless girl had been purposely kept from all outside influences by Gregorio and Matilde, in order that they might control her disposition for their own interests. She had been taught to expect that in due time they would select a husband for her from the men who might offer themselves, and that it would be more or less her duty to accept their decision, as being really the best for her own happiness. They had hindered her from forming friendships with girls of her own age, and altogether from acquaintanceship with young married women, excepting Bianca Corleone, who had been her friend in the convent. In society, when she went with them, men were introduced to her very rarely. Bosio had been present once or twice on such occasions, and he remembered having seen her with Gianluca. It had been very much as Taquisara had described it to Gianluca himself—a mere exchange of a few words, while the girl watched her aunt almost all the time with a sort of childish fear of doing something not quite right. Veronica could not be said to know any man to the extent of exchanging ideas with him, except her uncle and Bosio himself. And she liked Bosio very much. It was not at all improbable, considering all the circumstances, that she might be delighted with the idea of marrying him, merely because she liked him, and he was familiar in her daily life. Bosio knew that Matilde would speak to her about it at once; and when he tried to think what he should do if Veronica readily accepted the proposition, the pain in his head grew intolerable, and he found it impossible to think connectedly. The horrible dishonour of it stared him in the face—and beyond the dishonour, still more fearfully imposing, rose the vision of sure disgrace and infamy for the woman he loved, if he himself refused to do this vile deed.
He looked ill, worn out with mental distress and physical exhaustion, when Taquisara entered the room, and the servant closed the door. The Sicilian came forward, and Bosio rose to meet him, still wondering why he had come, but far too much disturbed by his own troubles to care. Nevertheless, he supposed that the matter must be of some importance. Taquisara was surprised by his appearance, for he was evidently suffering.
"I ought almost to ask you to excuse me for having received you, in my condition," said Bosio, politely. "I have a violent headache. But I am wholly at your service. In what can I be of use to you?"
Taquisara found himself in an awkward position. He had expected to find Bosio Macomer radiant and ready to be congratulated by any one who chose to knock at his door. Instead, he found a man apparently both ill and distressed. He hesitated a moment, for he knew Bosio but slightly, after all.
"I do not know whether you will think it strange that I should come," he said, and his square face grew more square as he looked straight at Bosio. "I am Gianluca della Spina's best friend."
"Ah! Yes—I think I have heard so," answered Bosio, not startled, but considerably disturbed, as his gentle eyes met Taquisara's bold glance.
"I have come, as a friend, to ask whether it is really true that you are to marry Donna Veronica Serra," continued Taquisara, feeling that after all he might as well go straight to the point.
Bosio straightened himself a little in his chair, and there was a look of surprise in his face. But he hesitated an instant, in his turn.
"That was the answer which my brother and his wife gave to the Duca della Spina," he replied coldly.
"Yes," said Taquisara. "I know it was. That is the reason why I have come to you, directly, as Gianluca's friend."
"Does Don Gianluca propose to call me out, because he cannot marry Donna Veronica?" asked Bosio, in surprise, and in a tone which showed that he was already offended.
"No. He is very ill, and in no condition for that sort of amusement."
"I am sorry to hear it," said Bosio, with cold civility. "But you come to represent him, in some way. Do I understand?"
"He is ill—of love, as they say." Taquisara smiled at the idea, in spite of himself. "It is serious, at all events—so serious, that I have come in person to ask whether it is really true
