Part 45 (1/2)

He was loyal to the core of his sound soul. Whatever became of him, Gianluca was to be first in his actions, wherever Veronica might stand in his heart, and he had the strength to do all that he meant to do. He would do it. He knew that he should do it, and he was glad, for his honour, that he could do it.

He had avoided all meetings, as much as possible, from the first, going rarely to Bianca's house, and then not talking with Veronica when he could help it. For each time that he saw her, he felt that soft mystery of attraction in which great pa.s.sion begins; that something which touches and draws gently on, and presses and draws again more gently, yet with stronger power, growing great on nothings by day and night, till it drives the senses slowly mad, and overtops the soul, and p.r.i.c.ks, then goads, then drives--then, at the last, tears men up like straws in its enormous arms, rising on sudden wings to outstrip wind and whirlwind in the wild race that ends in death or blinding joy, or reckless ruin of honour, worse than any death.

He had felt the growing danger at every one of their few meetings, and, being simple, he mistrusted himself to be what other men were. But in that, he was not like the many. He was not of the kind and temper to break down in loyalty, and he could still bear much more. Under strong pressure, he had come with Gianluca to the gates of Muro, and he had done his best to get away at once. Fate had been against him. He was still strong, and could face fate alone. He did not pine, and waste bodily, as Gianluca had done. But he turned his eyes away when he could, and spent his hours out of danger when he might, waiting for the moment when he should be free to go and live his own life alone, husbanding the strength which was not lacking in him, setting his teeth hard to bear the pain,--a simple, brave, and loyal man, caught in fate's grip, but silently unyielding to the last.

It was his nature, to suffer without complaint, when he must suffer at all. No one can tell whether those feel pain most who show least what they feel. The measure of pain is always man, and no man can really be measured except by himself. We often believe that they who utter no cry are the most badly hurt, perhaps because silence has suggestion in it, and noise has none. No one knows the truth. No one has stood in the fire that scorches his brother's soul, to tell us which can suffer the more.

Taquisara lay long awake that night, and every word that had pa.s.sed between Veronica and him came back to his thoughts.

More than once he rose and, crossing the intermediate room, went to Gianluca's side. Once the latter was awake, still half dreaming, and looked up wonderingly into his friend's eyes. He scarcely knew that he spoke, as his lips moved.

”I am going to die,” he said, in a far-off tone.

Taquisara bent over him quickly, trying to smile.

”Nonsense--no--no!” he said cheerfully. ”You have been dreaming--you are better.”

”Yes--I am dreaming--let me sleep,” answered the sick man, hardly articulating the words.

And in a moment, he was asleep again. Taquisara listened to his breathing, bending down a moment longer. Then he went softly away. He himself slept a little, but it seemed long before the morning broke.

When it was broad daylight, Gianluca seemed better, for the deep sleep had refreshed him. It was still very early, when the professor appeared and paid him a long visit, asking a few questions at first and then suddenly, beginning to talk of politics and the public news. Taquisara left the room with him, and they stood together in Gianluca's sitting-room.

”He is better, is he not?” asked the Sicilian, eagerly.

To his surprise the doctor shook his head and was silent a long time.

”I know nothing,” he said, at last. ”n.o.body knows anything. Surgery is a fine art, but medicine is witchcraft, or little better. You see, I speak frankly. I can only give you my experience, and that may be worth something. I have seen two cases of this kind in which, when the change came, the patients partially recovered, and lived for several years, paralyzed downwards from the point in the spine where the disease begins. I have seen several cases where death has resulted rather suddenly.”

”And do you see a change coming?”

”Yes. It has begun already. Is he a devout man?”

”A religious man, at all events,” answered Taquisara, gravely.

”Then, if he wishes to see a priest, it would be as well to send for one this morning. But if he wishes to be moved as usual, and dressed, let him have his way. Do not frighten him, if you can help it. No moral shock can do any good. I leave it to you. It is of no use to tell his father and mother. They are here, and you will see if he is worse. I suppose you know that he suffers great pain when he is moved?”

”No!” said Taquisara, anxiously. ”I did not know it. I sometimes hear him draw his breath sharply once or twice--but he never complains. I thought it hurt him a little.”

”It is agony,” said the doctor. ”He must be a very brave man.”

The professor seemed much impressed by what Taquisara had said.

CHAPTER XXV.

Taquisara went immediately to find Don Teodoro, who was generally at home at that hour, in his little house just opposite the castle gate. He found him with his silver spectacles pushed up to the top of his head, his long nose buried in a musty volume, a cup of untasted coffee at his elbow, absorbed in study. The small room was filled with books, old and new, and smelt of them. As Taquisara entered, the old priest looked up, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g his lids together in the attempt to recognize his visitor without using his spectacles. He took him for the syndic of Muro, a respectable countryman of fifty years, come to consult with him about some public matters.

”Be seated,” he said. ”If you will pardon me, for a moment--I was just--”