me?" Her presence of mind returned. "What an idea! just because I suggested that poor little Veronica might catch a cold or a fever in this horrible weather and might die of the one or the other? And just because I am fond of her, and said that I should be afraid of seeing her in the dark! Heaven give her a hundred years of life! Why should we talk of such sad things?"
"It is certainly not I who wish to talk of them, or think of them," answered Bosio, thoughtfully, and turning once more to the fire. "You are overwrought, Matilde—you are unhappy, afraid of the future—what shall I say? Sometimes you speak in a strange way."
"Is it any wonder? The case is desperate, and I am desperate, too—"
"Do not say it—"
"Then say that you will marry Veronica, and save us all, and bring peace into the house—for my sake, Bosio—for me!"
She leaned forward, and her hands met upon her knee in something like a gesture of supplication, while she sought his eyes.
"For your sake," repeated Bosio, dreamily. "For your sake? But you ask the impossible, Matilde. Besides, she would not marry me. She would laugh at the idea. And then—for you and me—it is horrible! You have no right to ask it."
"No right? Ah, Bosio! Have I not the right to ask anything of you, after all these years?"
"Anything—but not that! Your niece—under your roof! No—no—no! I cannot, even if she would consent."
"Not even—" Matilda's splendid eyes, so cruelly close together, fastened themselves upon the weak man's face, and she frowned.
"Not even if you thought it would be much better for her?" she asked very slowly, completing the sentence.
Again he started and shrank from her.
"Just God!" he exclaimed under his breath. "That a woman should have such thoughts!" Then he turned upon her with an instinctive revival of manhood and honour. "You shall not hurt her!" he cried, as fiercely as his voice could speak. "You shall not hurt a hair of her head, not even to save yourself! I will warn her—I will have her protected—I will tell everything! What is my life worth?"
"You would merely be told that you were mad, and we should have you taken out to the asylum at Aversa—as mad as I am, or soon shall be, if this goes on! You are mad to believe that I could do such things—I, a woman! And yet, I know I say words that have no reason in them! And I think crimes—horrible crimes, when I am alone—and I can tell no one but you. Have pity on me, Bosio! I was not always what I am now—"
She spoke incoherently, and her steadiness broke down all at once, for she had been living long under a fearful strain of terror and anxiety. The consciousness that she could say with safety whatever came first to her lips helped to weaken her. She half expected that Bosio would rise, and come to her and comfort her, perhaps, as she hid her face in her hands, shivering in fear of herself and shaking a little with the convulsive sob that was so near.
But Bosio did not move from his seat. He sat quite still, staring at the fire. He was not a physical coward, but, morally speaking, he was terrified and stunned by what he had understood her to say. Probably no man of any great strength of character, however bad, could have lived the life he had led in that house for many years, dominated by such a woman as Matilde Macomer. And now his weakness showed itself, to himself and to her, in what he felt, and in what he did, respectively. A strong man, having once felt that revival of manly instinct, would have turned upon her and terrified her and mastered her; and, within himself, his heart might have broken because he had ever loved such a woman. But Bosio sat still in his seat and said nothing more, though his brow was moist with a creeping, painful, trembling emotion that twisted his heart and tore his delicate nerves. He felt that his hands were very cold, but that he could not speak. She dominated him still, and he was ashamed of the weakness, and of his own desire to go and comfort her and forget the things she had said.
If he had spoken to her, she would have burst into tears; but his silence betrayed that he had no strength, and she suddenly felt that she was strong again, and that there was hope, and that he might marry Veronica, after all. A woman rarely breaks down to very tears before a man weaker than herself, though she may be near it.
"You must marry her," said Matilde, with returning steadiness. "You owe it to your brother and to me. Should I say, 'to me,' first? It is to save us from disgrace—from being prosecuted as well as ruined, from being dragged into court to answer for having wilfully defrauded—that is the word they would use!—for having wilfully defrauded Veronica Serra of a great deal of money, when we were her guardians and responsible for everything she had. My hands are clean of that—your brother did it without my knowledge. But no judge living would believe that I, being a guardian with my husband, could be so wholly ignorant of his affairs. There are severe penalties for such things, Bosio—I believe that we should both be sent to penal servitude; for no power on earth could save us from a conviction, any more than anything but Veronica's money can save us from ruin now. Gregorio has taken much, but it has been, nothing compared with the whole fortune. If you marry her, she will never know—no one will know—no one will ever guess. As her husband you will have control of everything, and no one then will blame you for taking a hundredth part of your wife's money to save your brother. You will have the right to do it. Your hands will be clean, too, as they are to-day. What is the crime? What is the difficulty? What is the objection? And on the other side there is ruin, a public trial, a conviction and penal servitude for your own brother, Gregorio, Count Macomer, and Matilde Serra, his wife."
"My God! What a choice!" exclaimed Bosio, pressing both his cold hands to his wet forehead.
"There is no choice!" answered the woman, with low, quick emphasis. "Your mind is made up, and we will announce the engagement at once. I do not care what objection Veronica makes. She likes you, she is half in love with you—what other man does she know? And if she did—she would not repent of marrying you rather than any one else. You will make her happy—as for me, I shall at least not die a disgraced woman. You talk of choice! Mine would be between a few drops of morphia and the galleys—a thousand times more desperate than yours, it seems to me!"
Her large eyes flashed with the furious determination to make him do what she desired. His hands had fallen from his face, and he was looking at her almost quietly, not yielding so much as she thought, but at least listening gravely instead of telling her that she asked the impossible.
The door opened discreetly, and a servant appeared upon the threshold.
"The Signor Duca della Spina begs your Excellency to receive him for a moment, if it is not too late."
"Certainly," answered the countess, instantly, and with perfect self-control.
The servant closed the door and went back to deliver the short message. Matilde threw the folds of her black gown away from her feet, so that she might rise to meet the visitor, who was an old man and a person of importance. She looked keenly at Bosio.
"Do not go away," she said quickly, in a low voice. "Your forehead is wet—dry it—compose yourself—be natural!"
Before Bosio had returned his handkerchief to his pocket the door opened again, and a tall old man entered with a stooping gait. He had weak and inquiring eyes that looked about the room as he walked. His head was bald, and shone like a skull in the yellow reflexion from the damask hangings. His gait was not firm, and as he passed Bosio in order to reach the countess, he had an uncertain movement of head and hand, as though he were inclined to speak to him first. Matilde had risen, however, and had moved a step forward to meet the visitor, speaking at the same time,
