Chapter 22

"Tell it plainly!" commanded Girolamo, hastening after the retreating figure and violently grasping his arm to detain him. "Have I failed to her in aught? She is soul of my soul! Maledetto! why dost thou break my heart?"

"Look to thine other son-in-law!" Piero retorted wrathfully; "him of the crimson robe who sits in the Councils of Venice, and findeth no cure for thy daughter--dying of terror beside him."

"It is a base slander!" cried old Girolamo, trembling with anger and fear. "Never was wife more beloved and petted! Marcantonio hath no thought, save for Marina and Venice!"

"Ay, 'for Marina and Venice,'" was the scornful answer, "_but Venice first_. Splendor and gifts and the pleasing of every whim, if he could but guess it--gold for her asking, and her palace no better than a cross for her dwelling; for the one thing she needeth for her peace and life he giveth not!"

"What meanest thou?" cried Girolamo, furiously. "Hath he not spent a fortune on physicians--sparing nothing, save to torment her no more, since their skill is but weariness to her! She is eating her heart out for this quarrel with Rome--which no man may help, and it is but foolishness for women to meddle with; and she hath ever been too much under priestly sway. Why earnest thou hither this night?"

"For this cause and for no other," said Piero solemnly, "that thou mightest find me, if need should be for any service to her. And to swear to thee, by the Madonna and every saint of Venice, that I would give my life for her!"

But old Girolamo grew the angrier for Piero's professions of loyalty. "Shall her father do less than thou?" he questioned, wrathfully. "On the morrow will I go to her, and leave her no more until she forgets."

"By all the saints in heaven, and every Madonna in Venice, and our Lady of every traghetto!" Piero exclaimed, as he wrenched himself away from Girolamo's angry grasp, while the old man staggered against the wall, still holding a bit of cloth from the gondolier's cloak in his closed hand, "I am vowed to my mission before this dawn! What I have spoken is for duty to thine house, and not in anger--though I could color my stiletto in good patrician blood and die for it gaily, if that would help her!"

But Girolamo could not yet find his voice, and Piero, with his hand on the latch of the great iron gates of the water-story, turned and called back: "Women are not like men, and Marina is like no other woman that ever was born in Venice. Whether it be the priests that have bewitched her--may the Holy Madonna have mercy, and curse them for it!--or whether she be truly the Blessed Virgin of San Donato come to earth again, one knows not. But, Messer Magagnati,"--and the voice came solemnly from the dark figure dimly outlined against the gray darkness beyond the iron bars,--"thy daughter is dying for this curse of the Most Holy Father--'il mal anno che Dio le dia!' (may heaven make him suffer for it!)--and she hath no peace in Venice. _She will never forget nor change_. If thy love be great, as thou hast said, thou wilt find some way to help her. _For in Venice she hath no peace_."

The old merchant, dazed by Piero's hot words, was a pitiful figure, standing, desolate, behind the closed bars of his gate, the night wind lifting his long beard and parting the thin gray locks that flowed from under his cap, while he called and beckoned impotently to Piero to return, repeating meanwhile mechanically, with no perception of their meaning, those strange words of Piero's--"_In Venice she hath no peace_." He stood, peering out into the gray gloom and listening to the lessening plash of the oar, until the gondola of the gastaldo was already far on the way to San Marco, where sat the Ten.

But it was not of Piero's mission he was thinking, but of his child--saying over and over again those fateful words, "In Venice she hath no peace." Had Piero said that?

Suddenly the entire speech recurred to him--insistent, tense with meaning. She could not live in Venice. Marina had no peace in Venice. She would never forget nor change. She had need of him--of her father's love; and if he loved enough, _he would find a way_!

Chilled and heart-sick he turned, and with no torch and missing the voice which had guided him through the long, dark passage, he groped his way to his cabinet and sat down to confront a graver problem than any he had ever conquered with Marina's aid. He _would_ find a way--but "it must not be in Venice!" How could they leave Venice? Were they not Venetians born, and was not Venice in trouble? To leave her now were to deny her. _It could not be_!

He put the argument many times, feverishly at first, then more calmly--coming always to the same conclusion, "it could not be." It was a comfort to reach so sensible and positive a decision. To-morrow he would go to his daughter, and meanwhile he must continue his work; he needed to reassert his power, for he had been strangely shaken.

He drew the scattered papers together, but the lines, blurred and confused, carried no meaning; the fragments of broken glass in the little trays beside him were a dull, untranslucent gray, and written all over papers and fragments, in vivid letters that burned into his brain, were those other terrible words of Piero's which he had tried in vain to forget--"Thy daughter is dying for this curse." _Marina--dying_!

How should Piero know more about Marina than her own father knew? Did he profess to be a physician that one should credit his every word? What did he mean by his impudent boast of "dying for her, if need should be!" Had she not her husband and father to care for her? Her husband "who was denying her the only thing that could give her life and peace," Piero had said.--What was the matter with his insulting words, that he could not forget them?--Had she not her father, who was going to her on the morrow, when he had matured his plans, and would do whatever she wished--"in Venice"? Her father "who loved her, as his own soul"--that was what he had said to Piero, with the memory of all those dear years when they had been all in all to each other, in this home.

Was it for hours or moments only that he sat in torture--enduring, reasoning, placing love against pride, Marina against Venice, Venice against a father's weakness, duty to the Republic before the need of this only child who was "soul of his soul"?

The last of his race--inheriting the traditions and passionate attachments of that long line of loyal men who had founded and built up the stabilimento which was the pride of Murano; of the people, yet ennobled by the proffer of the Senate, and grandsire to the son of one of the highest nobles of the Republic--what was there left in life for him away from Venice? How should he bear to die dishonored and disinherited by the country which he had deserted in her hour of struggle? For never any more might one return who should desert Venice for Rome!

And those panes of brilliant, crystal clarity which he had dreamed of adding to the honors of the Stabilimento Magagnati--so strong that a single sheet might be framed in the great spaces of the windows of the palaces and show neither curve nor flaw--so pure that their only trace of color should come from a chance reflection which would but lend added charm--these might not be the discovery of his later days, though the time was near in which this gift _must_ come to Venice. He had not dreamed that he could ever say, while strength yet remained to think and plan, "The house of Magagnati has touched its height, and others may come forward to do the rest for Venice."

And the secret lay so near--scarcely eluding him!

It was no mere empty jealousy, nor trivial wish for fame, nor greed of recompense--of which he had enough--that forced the veins out on the strong forehead of this master-worker, as he struggled with this question of surrendering all for his daughter's peace. It was the art in which his ancestors had taken the lead from the earliest industrial triumphs of the Republic--an art in which Venice stood first--and in his simple belief it was not less to their glory than the work of a Titian or a Sansovino. In this field he wrought whole-hearted, with the passion of an artist who has achieved, and his place and part in the Republic, as in life, was bounded for him by his art. "To stand with folded hands--always, hereafter, to be unnecessary to Venice!"

How should one who had not been born in Venice ever guess the strange fascination of that magic city for her sons, or dream with what a passion the blood of generations of Venetian ancestry surged in one's veins, compelling patriotism, so that it was not possible to do aught with one's gifts and life that did not enhance the greatness of so fair a kingdom! It was the wonderful secret of the empire of Venice that here the pride of self was counted only as a factor in the superior pride of her dominion.

Marina had been proud of his cabinet, and he took the little antique lamp she used to hold for him and unlocked the door with a tremulous hand, standing unsteadily before it and trying to hearten himself, as he ruthlessly flashed the light so that each fantastic bit came out in perfect beauty, glowing with the wonderful coloring of transparent gems.

But suddenly those fearful words of Piero's played riot among them, obliterating every trace of beauty, every claim of Venice, every question as to his own judgment or Marina's reasoning--even the ignominy of the secret flight. "_Thy daughter dying_!"

The letters blazed like stars, gleaming among his papers--glittering around the chair where Marina used to sit, climbing up into the air, closing nearer to him--wavering, writhing lines of living fire, tracing those awful words he could not forget----

"My God!" he cried, "is not Marina more than all!" There was no longer anything in life that he willed to do but to win peace for her, according to her whim.

"Stino!" he shrieked, with a voice louder than the clang of the rude iron bell whose rope had broken in his impetuous hand.

"Light me a fire in the brazier, and burn me this rubbish!" he commanded of the foreman who entered, aghast at the imperious summons, and yet more amazed at the destruction of those precious pages over which his master had spent days of brooding; but he ventured no protest.

"And here," said Girolamo, with a look of relief, as the last paper shrivelled and curled into smoke, "are the keys of these cabinets--thou knowest their contents, and that they are precious. And here shalt thou remain, as master, until my return--keeping all in order, as thou knowest how, and loyally serving the interest of the stabilimento. All moneys which I may send for thou shalt instantly remit by trusty messenger."

"How long doth the Master remain away?"

"So long as it may please the Lady Marina, who hath need of change. And if I return not," Girolamo resumed, after a moment's pause which gave solemnity to his words, "my will shall be found filed with the Avvogadori del Commun; and thou, Stino, shalt answer to the summons they will send thee--if I come no more."

"Master!" cried the faithful Stino, greatly troubled, for these preparations filled him with dread, and were strange indeed for so old a man who had never yet left Venice for a night. "Life is other than we know it away from Venice; and the heart of us goes mourning for the sight and sound of the sea and the color of our skies!"

"Nay, Stino, I have said it," his master answered, unmoved by his imploring eyes.

"When goest thou--that all may be ready?"

"Now; ere the dawn!" Girolamo cried with sudden resolution. "I would say my Ave Maria in the chapel of the Lady Marina. Rouse the gondolier, and lift the curtain that I may see how soon the day cometh."

"Master, dear Master," said Stino tenderly, as he drew the heavy draperies aside. "Already the sun is high, and the household hath been, these many hours, awake."

"So!" Girolamo answered with deep gravity, for the battle had been longer than he had dreamed, yet with his habitual control. "I knew not the time--my thoughts held me. Stino, if I return not, may the saints bless thee for all thou hast been to me since the Lady Marina hath dwelt in the palazzo Giustiniani. And in my will thou art not forgotten."

As Girolamo issued from his own portal, closely followed by Stino and the other superintendents of the great stabilimento who were filled with foreboding at this sudden and surprising decision of their good master, several gondolas wearing the colors of the Giustiniani floated into the waterway from the broad lagoon; and with them, like a flock of sea-birds in their habits of gray and their cowls of white, came the sisters of San Donato, returning from that early chanted Mass at the palazzo Giustiniani which had been a dream of the Lady Marina's happier days.

The young Senator had urged his boatmen to feverish speed, and his own gondola was far in advance of the train. He bounded from his bark the moment it neared the steps, and, rushing blindly toward the dwelling, encountered his father-in-law on the threshold.

"She is here--Marina?" he questioned, half crazed with grief; and, forgetful of the usual courtesies, would have pushed him aside to enter. "I have come with her maidens and her child to take her home. Let me go to her!"

And, as Girolamo stood, dumb and dazed, "I beseech thee--conceal her not!"

Looking into each other's faces for one anguished moment, they knew, without need of further speech, that she had gone from them both.

Girolamo gave a great and bitter cry, "My son!" folding his arms about the younger man in measureless grief and compassion.

And when they could trust their footsteps they went desolately into the house together.

* * * * *

"Nay," Girolamo had answered to every argument. "It is for thee to remain in Venice with her child, that the Signoria be not wroth with the Ca' Giustiniani, and for me to seek and care for her--mayhap, if heaven be merciful, to bring her to thee again! She cannot be far to seek."

"In Padua!" cried Marcantonio, with sudden conviction. "They will sleep in Padua to-night. It _was_ the voice of the Lady Beata!"

XXX

"Art thou sure, Marina?"

"Ay, Piero, though it were death to me; and death were sweeter----"

Her hair lay like a wreath of snow across her forehead, from stress of the night's vigil, her lip trembled like a grieved child's, but in her exquisite face there was the grace of a spirit strong and tender.

He helped her silently into the gondola and steered it carefully between the pali which rose like a scattered sheaf, glowing with the colors of the Giustiniani, in the water before her palace. And thus, in the early dawn--unattended, with the sadness of death in her pallid face--the lady of the Giustiniani floated away from her beautiful home--away from happiness and love--into a future cheerless and dim as the dawn lights that were faintly tinging the sea. For the day was breaking, full of gloom, under a sky of clouds, and the wind blew chill from across the Lido.

She sat with her gray mantle shrouding her face, and neither of them spoke, while the gondola, under Piero's deft guidance, quickly gained the steps of the Piazzetta and passed on to San Giorgio. Then she touched his arm entreatingly.

"Oh, let us wait one moment before we lose sight of the palazzo! Madre Beatissima, have them in thy keeping!"

She stretched out her hands unconsciously, with a gesture of petition, and her mantle slipped back, exposing her pallid, pain-stricken face and her whitened tresses.

Piero was startled at the havoc the night had made, for he had seen her only the day before, in answer to her summons, when she had been far more like herself.

"Santa Maria!" he exclaimed, crossing himself, and awkward under the unaccustomed sense of an overwhelming compassion. "The Holy Mother must shrive me for breaking my vow, for if San Marco and San Teodoro would give me a place between them before the matins ring again--mistaking me for a traitor--I cannot take thee from Venice. We will return," and already the gondola was yielding to his stroke. "Let Marcantonio bring thee himself to Rome."

"Piero, thou hast sworn to me! Thou shalt abide by thy promise!" she cried, seizing the oar in her trembling hand.

"Ay, Marina, I have sworn to thee," he answered, with slow pauses, "and by our Holy Mother of San Giorgio, I will serve thee like a saint in heaven. Yet I would thou wert in thy home again--already thou hast broken thy heart for love of it."

The gondolas of the people were gathering about the steps of the palaces, bringing their burdens for the day's ongoings in those luxurious homes; the bells were calling to early Mass; the stir of life was beginning in the city; soon, in her own palace, her little one would wake, and Marco--She stood with straining eyes, yearning for the chance of a face in her palace window--the bare last chance of another sight of his dear face. She did not know that Piero was watching her--compassionate and comprehending--while she was struggling to outlive the agony for the very love's sake which made it so keen.

It was the only sweetness left in life for her, that this cruel parting was yet for Marco's sake; that she might still plead with the Holy Father for this desperate need of which Marco seemed unconscious--since, in a vision never to be forgotten, the blessed Madre of San Donato had confided this mission to her. She could bear everything to win such a blessing for her beloved ones, only she must reach Rome--surely the Madre Beatissima would let her live to reach the Holy City!

The tide was brimming the canals, rising over the water steps; the growing light gleamed coldly on the polished marbles of her palace, burnishing the rich gold fretwork of frieze and tracery--but not any face of any dear one responded to her hungry longing, watching for her in the deep spaces of the windows, in token of the love from which she was fleeing.

This also--this last longing--she must surrender!

Her white face grew brave again; she sat down and drew her veil--the ample _fazzuolo_ of the Muranese--more closely about her. "I am ready," she said, and turned her face resolutely forward.

As they rounded San Giorgio, turning into the broad Giudecca, a shoal of little boats came over the water from Murano.

"They are the nuns of San Donato!" she said in amazement, and drawing her veil closer. "Piero, canst thou not ask their whither?"

It was so strange, on this morning of all others, to see them turn in the direction of Ca' Giustiniani; there came a vision of her chapel, which her maidens were decking--of the dear altar, at which she should kneel no more--and she held her breath to hear the answer.

"Will the most Reverend Mother bless the boat of a gondolier of the people; and his sister, who hath been ill and craveth the morning air?" Piero, who had discarded every emblem of his office, and wore only the simple dress of the Nicolotti, put the question easily, without fear of recognition. "And there is no great trouble in the city which calleth these illustrious ladies so early from Murano?"

"Nay; but the Senator Giustiniani hath prayed us for a grace to his sweet lady, for the chapel hath been closed while she hath been too ill for service; and to-day it will be opened, dressed with flowers, and we--because she loveth greatly our Madonna of San Donato and hath shown bounty, with munificent gifts, to all the parish--will chant the matins in her oratory."

They gave the benediction and passed.

While Marcantonio, with his tender thought for Marina fresh in his heart, was waking to find only her note of farewell.

"Only because I love thee, Marco mio, I have the strength to leave thee. And it is the Madonna who hath called me. Forgive, and forget not thy sad Marina."

"Marina--" Piero began awkwardly, for argument was not his forte, and Marina had always conquered him. "'Chi troppo abbraccia nulla stringe,' one gains nothing who grasps too much. Thou wast ever one for duty, and if the Senator Marcantonio will not take thee to Rome----"

"No, Piero, he cannot; he is one of the rulers of Venice."

"Thou, then--his wife----"

How could he venture to counsel her, of whose will and wisdom he had always stood in awe? It seemed to Piero that he had already delivered an oration; yet he felt that there was more to say, but his thoughts grew confused in seeking for expression, and it was a relief to him to communicate his uncertainty to the motion of his gondola.

The unsteady movement said more to her than words, for Piero was an unfailing stroke.

"It is the men only of whom the Republic hath need," she explained, unflinchingly; "but for the women there is no conflict of duty--the Holy Church is first. 'Prayers for the women and deeds for the men'--thou hast seen it written."

"And thy father?" Piero questioned, unconvinced, recalling the interview of a few hours before.

A quick, tender light flashed and passed in her eyes; a ray of color trembled on her cheek. "I shall grieve him," she said, "but he will forgive, for ever hath he bidden me choose the right." Her voice broke and she was silent, while she sought for some token in the folds of her robe. "Thou wilt take him this when thou returnest, that he may know I hold him dear."

"Marina!" he pleaded, growing eloquent, with a last desperate effort, "thou wast ever an angel to the Zuanino--thou canst not leave thine own bimbo!"

She did not answer immediately, but she clasped and unclasped her hands passionately. "He is safe," she said at last, very low and struggling for control. "He hath the blessing of the Holy Father, given when it might avail; and the little ones are ever in the care of the Blessed Mother. It is not for my baby that I needs must go--but for Marco and my father, and for Venice. Santissima Maria, because thou sendest me, shalt thou not grant the strength!"

There was a silence between them while they floated on, for Piero had many things to think of. He was accustomed to accomplish whatever he undertook, for he was not a man to fail from lack of resource, nor to be overcome by fears and scruples. By means of his passes and his favor with the government he could reach the borders of the Venetian dominions without suspicion, from whence he would escort Marina to the nearest convent and place her in safety with the Mother Superior, to whom he would confide the story of her distinguished guest and secure for her the treatment due to a Venetian princess; which, under the circumstances, would be an easy matter, as no member of a noble Venetian house espousing the side of Rome would be met with any but the most flattering reception. To provide Marina with companionship, Piero had confided her intended flight to the Lady Beata Tagliapietra, being sure of her devotion; and she would be waiting for them at Padua with two trusted gondoliers and whatever might be needful from the wardrobe of the Lady of the Giustiniani. The fact that he had broken his promise of secrecy did not trouble him, since it was in Marina's service, which made the action honorable; and were it not so, the little perjury was well atoned for by a keg of oil anonymously sent to the traghetto of San Nicolò è San Raffaele, "pel luminar al Madonna";[8] and Piero had much faith in anonymous gifts, for confessions were not always convenient for an officer of his dignity. But it was perhaps too much to expect that these poor little traghetto lamps should be more than dimly luminous, since the oil was so largely provided by fines for delinquencies!

[8] To light the Madonna.