Taquisara | Page 9

Matilde. "But, in the first place, you
do not know her. Secondly, you forget Cardinal Campodonico."

"Since he has left the management of her fortune in Gregorio's hands,
he will not begin to ask questions at this point. Besides, the
guardianship is at an end--"
"The estate has not been made over. He will insist upon seeing the
accounts--that is no matter, for they will bear his inspection well
enough. Squarci is clever! But Veronica sees him. She would tell him
of our trouble, if we went to her. If not, she would certainly tell Bianca
Corleone, who is his niece. If he suspected anything, let alone knowing
the truth, that would be the end of everything. It would be better for us
to escape before the crash--if we could. It comes to that--unless you
will help us."
"By marrying Veronica?" asked Bosio, with a bitterness not natural to
him.
"I see no other way. The cardinal could see the accounts. You could be
married, and the fortune could be made over to you. She would never
know, nor ask questions. You could set our affairs straight, and still be
the richest man in Naples or Sicily. It would all be over. It would be
peace--at last, at last!" she repeated, with a sudden change of tone that
ended in a deep-drawn sigh of anticipated relief. "You do not know half
there is to tell," she continued, speaking rapidly after a moment's pause.
"We are ruined, and worse than ruined. We have been, for years.
Gregorio got himself into that horrible speculation years and years ago,
though I knew nothing about it. While Veronica was a minor, he helped
himself, as he could--with her money. It was easy, for he controlled
everything. But now he can do nothing without her signature. Squarci
said so last week. He cannot sell a bit of land, a stick of timber,
anything, without her name. And we are ruined, Bosio. This house is
mortgaged, and the mortgage expires on the first of January, in three
weeks. We have nothing left--nothing but the hope of Veronica's
charity--or the hope that you will marry her and save us from starvation
and disgrace. I got her to sign the will. There was--"
The countess checked herself and stopped short, turning an emerald
ring which she wore. She was pale.

"There was what?" asked Bosio, in an unsteady tone.
"There was just the bare possibility that she might die before January,"
said Matilde, almost in a whisper. "People die young sometimes, you
know--very young. It pleases Providence to do strange things. Of
course it would be most dreadful, if she were to die, would it not? It
would be lonely in the house, without her. It seems to me that I should
see her at night, in the dark corners, when I should be alone. Ugh!"
Matilde Macomer shivered suddenly, and then stared at Bosio with
frightened eyes. He glanced at her nervously.
"I am afraid of you," he said.
"Of 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!"