Chapter 18

Next morning I kept my appointment and met Ferrari at the railway station. He looked pale and haggard, though he brightened a little on seeing me. He was curiously irritable and fussy with the porters concerning his luggage, and argued with them about some petty trifles as obstinately and pertinaciously as a deaf old woman. His nerves were evidently jarred and unstrung, and it was a relief when he at last got into his coupe. He carried a yellow paper-covered volume in his hand. I asked him if it contained any amusing reading.

“I really do not know,” he answered, indifferently, “I have only just bought it. It is by Victor Hugo.”

And he held up the title-page for me to see.

“_Le Dernier Jour d’un Condamne_,” I read aloud with careful slowness. “Ah, indeed! You do well to read that. It is a very fine study!”

The train was on the point of starting, when he leaned out of the carriage window and beckoned me to approach more closely.

“Remember!” he whispered, “I trust you to take care of her!”

“Never fear!” I answered, “I will do my best to replace _you_!”

He smiled a pale uneasy smile, and pressed my hand. These were our last words, for with a warning shriek the train moved off, and in another minute had rushed out of sight. I was alone—alone with perfect freedom of action—I could do as I pleased with my wife now! I could even kill her if I chose—no one would interfere. I could visit her that evening and declare myself to her—could accuse her of her infidelity and stab her to the heart! Any Italian jury would find “extenuating circumstances” for me. But why? Why should I lay myself open to a charge of murder, even for a just cause? No! my original design was perfect, and I must keep to it and work it out with patience, though patience was difficult. While I thus meditated, walking from the station homeward, I was startled by the unexpected appearance of my valet, who came upon me quite suddenly. He was out of breath with running, and he carried a note for me marked “Immediate.” It was from my wife, and ran briefly thus:

“Please come at once. Stella is very ill, and asks for you.”

“Who brought this?” I demanded, quickening my pace, and signing to Vincenzo to keep beside me.

“The old man, _eccellenza_—Giacomo. He was weeping and in great trouble—he said the little _donzella_ had the fever in her throat—it is the diphtheria he means, I think. She was taken ill in the middle of the night, but the nurse thought it was nothing serious. This morning she has been getting worse, and is in danger.”

“A doctor has been sent for, of course?”

“Yes, _eccellenza_. So Giacomo said. But—”

“But _what_?” I asked, quickly.

“Nothing, _eccellenza_! Only the old man said the doctor had come too late.”

My heart sunk heavily, and a sob rose in my throat. I stopped in my rapid walk and bade Vincenzo call a carriage, one of the ordinary vehicles that are everywhere standing about for hire in the principal thoroughfares of Naples. I sprung into this and told the driver to take me as quickly as possible to the Villa Romani, and adding to Vincenzo that I should not return to the hotel all day, I was soon rattling along the uphill road. On my arrival at the villa I found the gates open, as though in expectation of my visit, and as I approached the entrance door of the house, Giacomo himself met me.

“How is the child?” I asked him eagerly.

He made no reply, but shook his head gravely, and pointed to a kindly looking man who was at that moment descending the stairs—a man whom I instantly recognized as a celebrated English doctor resident in the neighborhood. To him I repeated my inquiry—he beckoned me into a side room and closed the door.

“The fact is,” he said, simply, “it is a case of gross neglect. The child has evidently been in a weakly condition for some time past, and therefore is an easy prey to any disease that may be lurking about. She was naturally strong—I can see that—and had I been called in when the symptoms first developed themselves, I could have cured her. The nurse tells me she dared not enter the mother’s room to disturb her after midnight, otherwise she would have called her to see the child—it is unfortunate, for now I can do nothing.”

I listened like one in a dream. Not even old Assunta dared to enter her mistress’s room after midnight—no! not though the child might be seriously ill and suffering. I knew the reason well—too well! And so while Ferrari had taken his fill of rapturous embraces and lingering farewells, my little one had been allowed to struggle in pain and fever without her mother’s care or comfort. Not that such consolation would have been much at its best, but I was fool enough to wish there had been this one faint spark of womanhood left in her upon whom I had wasted all the first and only love of my life. The doctor watched me as I remained silent, and after a pause he spoke again.

“The child has earnestly asked to see you,” he said, “and I persuaded the countess to send for you, though she was very reluctant to do so, as she said you might catch the disease. Of course there is always a risk—”

“I am no coward, monsieur,” I interrupted him, “though many of us Italians prove but miserable panic-stricken wretches in time of plague—the more especially when compared with the intrepidity and pluck of Englishmen. Still there are exceptions—”

The doctor smiled courteously and bowed. “Then I have no more to say, except that it would be well for you to see my little patient at once. I am compelled to be absent for half an hour, but at the expiration of that time I will return.”

“Stay!” I said, laying a detaining hand on his arm. “Is there any hope?”

He eyed me gravely. “I fear not.”

“Can nothing be done?”

“Nothing—except to keep her as quiet and warm as possible. I have left some medicine with the nurse which will alleviate the pain. I shall be able to judge of her better when I return; the illness will have then reached its crisis.” In a couple of minutes more he had left the house, and a young maid-servant showed me to the nursery.

“Where is the _contessa_?” I asked in a whisper, as I trod softly up the stairs.

“The _contessa_?” said the girl, opening her eyes in astonishment. “In her own bedroom, _eccellenza_—_madama_ would not think of leaving it; because of the danger of infection.” I smothered a rough oath that rose involuntarily to my lips. Another proof of the woman’s utter heartlessness, I thought!

“Has she not seen her child?”

“Since the illness? Oh, no, _eccellenza_!”

Very gently and on tiptoe I entered the nursery. The blinds were partially drawn as the strong light worried the child, and by the little white bed sat Assunta, her brown face pale and almost rigid with anxiety. At my approach she raised her eyes to mine, muttering softly:

“It is always so. Our Lady will have the best of all, first the father, then the child; it is right and just—only the bad are left.”

“Papa!” moaned a little voice feebly, and Stella sat up among her tumbled pillows, with wide-opened wild eyes, feverish cheeks, and parted lips through which the breath came in quick, uneasy gasps. Shocked at the marks of intense suffering in her face, I put my arms tenderly round her—she smiled faintly and tried to kiss me. I pressed the poor parched little mouth and murmured, soothingly:

“Stella must be patient and quiet—Stella must lie down, the pain will be better so; there! that is right!” as the child sunk back on her bed obediently, still keeping her gaze fixed upon me. I knelt at the bedside, and watched her yearningly—while Assunta moistened her lips, and did all she could to ease the pain endured so meekly by the poor little thing whose breathing grew quicker and fainter with every tick of the clock. “You are my papa, are you not?” she asked, a deeper flush crossing her forehead and cheeks. I made no answer—I only kissed the small hot hand I held. Assunta shook her head.

“Ah, _poverinetta_! The time is near—she sees her father. And why not? He loved her well—he would come to fetch her for certain if the saints would let him.”

And she fell on her knees and began to tell over her rosary with great devotion. Meanwhile Stella threw one little arm round my neck—her eyes were half shut—she spoke and breathed with increasing difficulty.

“My throat aches so, papa!” she said, pitifully. “Can you not make it better?”

“I wish I could, my darling!” I murmured. “I would bear all the pain for you if it were possible!”

She was silent a minute. Then she said:

“What a long time you have been away! And now I am too ill to play with you!” Then a faint smile crossed her features. “See poor To-to!” she exclaimed, feebly, as her eyes fell on a battered old doll in the spangled dress of a carnival clown that lay at the foot of her bed. “Poor dear old To-to! He will think I do not love him any more, because my throat hurts me. Give him to me, papa!”

And as I obeyed her request she encircled the doll with one arm, while she still clung to me with the other, and added:

“To-to remembers you, papa; you know you brought him from Rome, and he is fond of you, too—but not as fond as I am!” And her dark eyes glittered feverishly. Suddenly her glance fell on Assunta, whose gray head was buried in her hands as she knelt.

“Assunta!”

The old woman looked up.

“_Bambinetta_!” she answered, and her aged voice trembled.

“Why are you crying?” inquired Stella with an air of plaintive surprise. “Are you not glad to see papa?”

Her words were interrupted by a sharp spasm of pain which convulsed her whole body—she gasped for breath—she was nearly suffocated. Assunta and I raised her up gently and supported her against her pillows; the agony passed slowly, but left her little face white and rigid, while large drops of sweat gathered on her brow. I endeavored to soothe her.

“Darling, you must not talk,” I whispered, imploringly; “try to be very still—then the poor throat will not ache so much.”

She looked at me wistfully. After a minute or two she said, gently:

“Kiss me, then, and I will be quite good.”

I kissed her fondly, and she closed her eyes. Ten, twenty, thirty minutes passed and she did not stir. At the end of that time the doctor entered. He glanced at her, gave me a warning look, and remained standing quietly at the foot of the bed. Suddenly the child woke, and smiled divinely on all three of us.

“Are you in pain, my dear?” I softly asked.

“No!” she answered in a tiny voice, so faint and far away that we held our breath to listen to it; “I am quite well now. Assunta must dress me in my white frock again now papa is here. I knew he would come back!”

And she turned her eyes upon me with a look of bright intelligence.

“Her brain wanders,” said the doctor, in a low, pitying voice; “it will soon be over.”

Stella did not hear him; she turned and nestled in my arms, asking in a sort of babbling whisper:

“You did not go away because I was naughty, did you, papa?”

“No darling!” I answered, hiding my face in her curls.

“Why do you have those ugly black things on?” she asked, in the feeblest and most plaintive tone imaginable, so weak that I myself could scarcely hear it; “has somebody hurt your eyes? Let me see your eyes!” I hesitated. Dare I humor her in her fancy? I glanced up. The doctor’s head again was turned away, Assunta was on her knees, her face buried in the bed-clothes, praying to her saints; quick as thought I slipped my spectacles slightly down, and looked over them full at my little one. She uttered a soft cry of delight—“Papa! papa!” and stretched out her arms, then a strong and terrible shudder shook her little frame. The doctor came closer—I replaced my glasses without my action being noticed, and we both bent anxiously over the suffering child. Her face paled and grew livid—she made another effort to speak—her beautiful eyes rolled upward and became fixed—she sighed—and sunk back on my shoulder—dying—dead! My poor little one! A hard sob stifled itself in my throat—I clasped the small lifeless body close in my embrace, and my tears fell hot and fast. There was a long silence in the room—a deep, an awe-struck, reverent silence, while the Angel of Death, noiselessly entering and departing, gathered my little white rose for his Immortal garden of flowers.