her looks, her name, and that great fortune of which Gregorio Macomer was taking such good care.
CHAPTER II.
On that same night, when Veronica had gone to her room, Bosio Macomer remained alone with the countess in the small drawing-room in which the family generally spent the evening. Gregorio was presumably in his study, busy with his perpetual accounts or otherwise occupied. He very often spent the hours between dinner and bed-time by himself, leaving his brother to keep his wife company if Veronica chose to retire early.
The room was small and the first impression of colour which it gave was that of a strong, deep yellow. There was yellow damask on the walls, the curtains were of an old sort of silk material in stripes of yellow and chocolate, and most of the furniture was covered with yellow satin. The whole was in the style of the early part of this century, modified by the bad taste of the Second Empire, with much gilded carving about the doors and the corners of the big panels in which the damask was stretched, while the low, vaulted ceiling was a mass of gilt stucco, modelled in heavy acanthus leaves and arabesques, from the centre of which hung a chandelier of white Venetian glass. There were no pictures on the walls, and there were no flowers nor plants in pots, to relieve the strong colour which filled the eye. Nevertheless the room had the air of being inhabited, and was less glaring and stiff and old-fashioned than it might seem from this description. There were a good many books on the tables, chiefly French novels, as yellow as the hangings; and there were writing materials and a couple of newspapers and two or three open notes. A small wood fire burned in a deep, low fireplace adorned with marble and gilt brass.
Matilde Macomer sat, leaning back, upon a little sofa which stood across a corner of the room far from the fire. One hand lay idly in her lap, the other, as she stretched out her arm, lay upon the back of the sofa, and her head with its thick, brown hair was bent down. She had fixed her eyes upon a point of the carpet and had not moved from her position for a long time. The folds of her black gown made graceful lines from her knees to her feet, and her imposing figure was thrown into strong relief against the yellow background as she leaned to the corner, one foot just touching the floor.
Bosio sat at a distance from her, on a low chair, his elbows on his knees, staring at the fire. Neither had spoken for several minutes. Matilde broke the silence first, her eyes still fixed on the carpet.
"You must marry Veronica," she said slowly; "nothing else can save us."
It was clear that the idea was not new to Bosio, for he showed no surprise. But he turned deliberately and looked at the countess before he answered her. There were unusual lines in his quiet face—lines of great distress and perplexity.
"It is a crime," he said in a low voice.
Matilda raised her eyes, with an almost imperceptible movement of the shoulders.
"Murder is a crime," she answered simply. Then Bosio started violently and turned very white, almost rising from his seat.
"Murder?" he cried; "what do you mean?"
Matilde's smooth red lips smiled.
"I merely mentioned it as an instance of a crime," she said, without any change of tone. "You said it would be a crime for you to marry Veronica. It did not strike me that it could be called by that name. Crimes are murder, stealing, forgery—such things. Who would say that it was criminal for Bosio Macomer to marry Veronica Serra? There is no reason against it. I daresay that many people wonder why you have not married her already, and that many others suppose that you will before long. You are young, you have never been married, you have a very good name and a small fortune of your own."
"Take it, then!" exclaimed Bosio, impulsively. "You shall have it all to-morrow—everything I possess. God knows, I am ready to give you all I have. Take it. I can live somehow. What do I care? I have given you my life—what is a little money? But do not ask me to marry her, your niece, here, under your very roof. I am not a saint, but I cannot do that!"
"No," answered the countess, "we are not saints, you and I, it is true. For my part, I make no pretences. But the trouble is desperate, Bosio. I do not know what to do. It is desperate!" she repeated with sudden energy. "Desperate, I tell you!"
"I suppose that all I have would be of no use, then?" asked Bosio, disheartened.
"It would pay the interest for a few months longer. That would be all.
Then we should be where we are now, or shall be in three weeks."
"Throw yourself upon her mercy. Ask her to forgive you and to lend you money," suggested Bosio. "She is kind—she will do it, when she knows the truth."
"I had thought of that," answered Matilde. "But, in the first place, you do not know her. Secondly, you forget Cardinal Campodonico."
"Since he has left the management of her fortune in Gregorio's hands, he will not begin to ask questions at this point. Besides, the guardianship is at an end—"
"The estate has not been made over. He will insist upon seeing the accounts—that is no matter, for they will bear his inspection well enough. Squarci is clever! But Veronica sees him. She would tell him of our trouble, if we went to her. If not, she would certainly tell Bianca Corleone, who is his niece. If he suspected anything, let alone knowing the truth, that would be the end of everything. It would be better for us to escape before the crash—if we could. It comes to that—unless you will help us."
"By marrying Veronica?" asked Bosio, with a bitterness not natural to him.
"I see no other way. The cardinal could see the accounts. You could be married, and the fortune could be made over to you. She would never know, nor ask questions. You could set our affairs straight, and still be the richest man in Naples or Sicily. It would all be over. It would be peace—at last, at last!" she repeated, with a sudden change of tone that ended in a deep-drawn sigh of anticipated relief. "You do not know half there is to tell," she continued, speaking rapidly after a moment's pause. "We are ruined, and worse than ruined. We have been, for years. Gregorio got himself into that horrible speculation years and years ago, though I knew nothing about it. While Veronica was a minor, he helped himself, as he could—with her money. It was easy, for he controlled everything. But now he can do nothing without her signature. Squarci said so last week. He cannot sell a bit of land, a stick of timber, anything, without her name. And we are ruined, Bosio. This house is mortgaged, and the mortgage expires on the first of January, in three weeks. We have nothing left—nothing but the hope of Veronica's charity—or the hope that you will marry her and save us from starvation and disgrace. I got her to sign the will. There was—"
The countess checked herself and stopped short, turning an emerald ring which she wore. She was pale.
"There was what?" asked Bosio, in an unsteady tone.
"There was just the bare possibility that she might die before January," said Matilde, almost in a whisper. "People die young sometimes, you know—very young. It pleases Providence to do strange things. Of course it would be most dreadful, if she were to die, would it not? It would be lonely in the house, without her. It seems to me that I should see her at night, in the dark corners, when I should be alone. Ugh!"
Matilde Macomer shivered suddenly, and then stared at Bosio with frightened eyes. He glanced at her nervously.
"I am afraid
