Taquisara | Page 3

when she signed the will, but his
absence did not surprise her, for he had always abstained from any
remarks about her property or his brother's and sister-in-law's
guardianship, in such a marked way as to make her understand that he
really wished to know nothing about the management or disposal of her
fortune.
She liked him for several reasons,--for his non-interference in
discussions about her affairs, for a certain quiet consideration, just a

shade more friendly than deference, which he showed for her slightest
wishes, and chiefly, perhaps, for his conversation and perfectly even
temper.
Her uncle Macomer was not always good-tempered and he was never
considerate. He was a stiff man, of impenetrable face, much older than
his wife, cold when he was pleased, and harsh as rough ice when he
was annoyed; a tall, bony man, with flattened lips, from which the grey
moustaches and the beard were brushed smoothly away in all directions.
He had very small eyes--a witty enemy of his said they were so small
that one could not find them in his face, and those who knew him
laughed at the jest, for they always seemed hard to find when one
wished to meet them. His shoulders were unusually high and narrow,
but he did not stoop. On the contrary, he habitually threw back his head,
with a certain coldly aggressive stiffness, so that he easily looked above
the person with whom he was talking. Though he had never been given
to any sort of bodily exercise, his hands were naturally horny, and they
were almost always cold. For the rest, he was careful of his appearance
and scrupulous in matters of dress, like many of his fellow-countrymen.
In his household he insisted upon a neatness as fastidious as his own,
and nothing could have induced him to employ a Neapolitan servant.
His family colours were green and black, and the green of his servants'
liveries was of the very darkest that could be had.
He imposed his taste upon his household, and gave it a certain marked
respectability which betrayed no information about his fortune. To all
appearances he was not poor; but it would have been impossible to say
with certainty whether he were rich or only in moderate circumstances.
He was undoubtedly more careful than ninety-nine out of a hundred of
his fellow-citizens, in getting the value of what he spent, to the
uttermost splitting of farthings; and when he spoke of money there was
a certain cruel hardening of the hard lines in his face, which Veronica
never failed to notice with dislike. She wondered how her aunt could
have led an apparently tranquil life with such a man during more than
twenty years.
Doubtless, she thought, Bosio's presence acted as a palliative in the

somewhat grim atmosphere of the Palazzo Macomer. He was utterly
different from his brother. In the first place, he was gentle and kind in
speech and manner, though apparently rather sad than gay. He was
different in face, in figure, in voice, in carriage--having quiet brown
eyes, and brown hair only streaked with grey, with a full, silky beard; a
clear pale complexion; in frame shorter than Gregorio, with smaller
bones, slightly inclined to stoutness, but rather graceful than stiff; small
feet and well-shaped hands of pleasant texture; a clear, low voice that
never jarred upon the ear, and a kindly, half-sad laugh in which there
was a singular refinement, of the sort which shows itself more in
laughter than in speech. Laughter is, indeed, a terrible betrayer of the
character, and a surer guide in judgment than most people know. For
men learn to use their voices skilfully and to govern their tones as well
as their words; but, beyond not laughing too loud for ordinary decency
of behaviour, there are few people who care, or realize, how they laugh;
and those who do, and who, being aware that there is room for
improvement, endeavour to improve, very generally produce either a
semi-musical noise, which is false and affected, or a perfectly inane
cachinnation which has nothing human in it at all.
Bosio Macomer was a refined man, not only by education and outward
contact with the refinements he sought in others, but within himself and
by predisposition of nature. He read much, and found beauties in books
which his friends thought dull, but which appealed tenderly to his
innate love of tenderness. He had probably lost many illusions, but the
sweetest of them all was still fresh in him, for he loved nature
unaffectedly. In an unobtrusive way he was something of an artist, and
was fond of going out by himself, when in the country, to sketch and
dream all day. Veronica did not understand how with such tastes he
could bear the