distant corner of the hall; “it would be impossible to desire better accommodation for the purpose.”
“Don’t be a fool, Signor Caporale,” said Giulia, as gravely as she could, but darting a laughing glance out of the corner of her eye at the corporal, as she spoke, which Beppo caught in transitu, and which formed perhaps the heaviest item in all the long bill against her, scored up in his much-lacerated heart. “If you choose to walk in, Signor Beppo,” she continued, in a milder tone, though still very haughty—for she had been grievously offended by that ill-judged slip of the tongue which poor Beppo had been guilty of in the excess of his embarrassment and ill-humour in speaking to the corporal, and which the latter had so remorselessly turned to the utmost account—“if you choose to walk in I shall be happy to present you to la Signora Dossi, as soon as she wakes.”
She spoke coldly and haughtily; but there was a feeling at her heart, due perhaps in some degree to the intensity of the misery which was legible in Beppo’s handsome face, which prompted her to accompany her words with a look—not precisely of tenderness, and still less of pleading; but certainly of reconciliation and invitation. It was but momentary, however, and Beppo was either too slow to see it or too angry to heed it.
“I do not see that I could be of any use in coming in,” said he, gloomily; “I should only interfere with the pleasant party assembled here. Besides I must be starting for Bella Luce, and I can easily understand that you are in no hurry for la Signora Dossi to wake!”
The last words were accompanied by a look of indignant and bitter reproach at Giulia.
“As you please, Signor Beppo!” said she, at once turning on her heel, and going towards the door of the inner rooms; “Signor Caporale,” she added, as she crossed the hall, “will you kindly open the door for my cousin. I wish you a pleasant ride home, Signor Beppo!”
And with those words she vanished; and instantly an immense and poignant repentance of his refusal of her invitation fell upon Beppo. He felt as if he would have given worlds to recall it, if only for the gratification of his burning curiosity to know what would pass between her and the corporal during the remainder of la Dossi’s siesta,—if only to protect her, ungrateful as she was, against that base and unprincipled wretch. Protect her! How could he protect her? He away at Bella Luce, and she with evidently all sorts of opportunities of meeting him as often as she pleased. And was he not already on terms of intimacy with her such as Beppo had never been able to attain, and that in a few weeks? and he had worshipped her, and lived under the same roof with her for years.
He turned slowly towards the door, with a hell of contending passions seething in his heart,—rage, bitter self-contempt, indignation, hatred, horrible jealousy, and desperate and unquenchable love.
Yes, love, after all, through all, and above all. He told his heart that he despised her, and cast her off, and hated her: and his heart knew that he lied, and loved her at the very moment as desperately as ever.
“Well, don’t look so black about it, friend Beppo,” said the corporal as he opened the door for him. “It seems that the young lady does not value the paternal blessing so much as I had supposed. Try her another way, next time.”
“I want no next time,” said Beppo. “It is not likely that I shall trouble your fun here another time.”
“Well, we must try not to break our hearts. I won’t answer for mine, for it’s a very tender one,” said the corporal, placing his hand on the organ in question, and bowing low as Beppo passed the door. “I dare say we shall meet again though, for all that,” he added, looking with a soldier’s eye after Beppo as he went slowly down the great staircase; “meantime, buon viaggio, à rivederlo.”
And Corporal Tenda shut the door after him with undiminished good humour.
It is so easy for a man to keep his good temper under such circumstances.
Beppo walked away through the streets, now filling with people in their holiday trim, for it was just the hour of the passeggiata, feeling as if he had been stunned and was reeling. He never thought of returning to Signor Sandro’s house for the letter the attorney had asked him to carry to his father; but found his way somehow or other unconsciously to the osteria at which he had left his horse, and ordered it to be brought out to him with a manner and voice that made the lame ostler, whose lameness had recently become so valuable a possession, say to a bystander, as he rode off: “There’s another that’s been baulked in his hopes of getting a substitute. Wait awhile, and you’ll see plenty more faces like that in Fano!”
Beppo let his nag choose his own pace, and find his own way back to Bella Luce. The old horse had no doubt on either point. He quietly sauntered along the well-known road, and never disturbed his master’s deep reverie till he came to a full stop at his own stable-door.
The lights seemed to be all out in the farm-house; for it was much beyond the usual bed-time of the inmates. Beppo, still moving as if in a dream, put his horse into the stable, took off his saddle; and then, after standing awhile gazing sadly into the distant moonlight far down the valley, heaved a deep sobbing sigh, and turning away from the house towards the path leading to the village, walked straight to the great half-way cypress in the middle of the path.
There he flung himself on the turf at his length, and burst, great strong man as he was, into a passionate fit of tears.
When these had in some degree calmed the storm that was raging in his heart and brain, he set himself to think over every word, every accent, every gesture of the last meeting on that spot between him and Giulia. He would fain have found some motive of excuse, some possibility of explanation, from the comparison of her words, and conduct then with what he had seen and heard that day. But each well-remembered look and phrase seemed to him only to make her present conduct appear the more odious, the more