Aurelia as soon as may be. She will be better here than in the tiresome convent. I shall invite her to pay me a visit, which I hope," she added with a smile, "will not deprive us of the society of Don Francis." I warmly thanked my friends and took my leave.
CHAPTER XXIV
VIRGINIA VEXES
On returning to my house I ended a day of agitation by an interview with Virginia. I found her in an abject way, scarcely able to speak, and very unwilling to raise her eyes. She was dressed, and perfectly composed, and said what she had to say in a tone deliberately dry. "I ask your lordship's pardon," she began at once, "for the tempest I raised in your house. I ask it on my knees. I forgot myself; I lost myself. I have not seen your lordship for many months."
I begged her to allude to it no more. I myself had been glad to see her, I said.
She looked up quickly--only for a moment--and showed a hint of her former fire. "I think that you were--I did think so," she said; then checked herself and was silent.
"There is no doubt about it," said I, "therefore let nothing disturb you. Take your time and tell me your news. You have seen--you have heard---"
"Yes, yes," she said, "I have seen your Aurelia. She came to our convent a week ago in a chaise and pair."
This startled me--a week ago!
"I should have told you before if I could," she continued, "but they keep us close, us penitents. I have run away; I could not bear that you should remain ignorant. If they find me they will beat me to death."
I assured her of my protection and returned to the subject of Aurelia. How, I asked, had she come? Had she been ill--in distress?
"Not at all," said Virginia. "She was elegantly dressed. She was protected by an old woman. She wore a mask and a travelling hood, and went into the nuns' parlour. She asked for a cup of chocolate, which was brought her. I saw her in the chapel at the office."
How often had I seen her so--my saint on her knees!
"She was on her knees--yes," said Virginia, "but she yawned very much. She did not rise till noon on the next morning."
I clasped my friend's hand. "Oh, Virginia, you have seen her!" I cried. "You help me to see her. Is she not perfection?"
Virginia was rather cool. "Who knows?" she said, shrugging, "she is like all Sienese women. She is fatter than I am. I allow her shape. But she is not near so tall. She is a little thing. She wears her clothes well. And she is merry enough when she has her tongue." I could afford to smile at this grudging admiration. "My dear girl," I said, "you little know her--but how should you? Tell me more. Did you speak to her?" She nodded her head and told her story. "I waited my time. I was washing the canon's linen in the little cloister. That was my job, week in and week out. She came through. She was scolding her old woman. I followed her round the cloister, and when the coast was clear, said, 'Hist, Madonna.' She turned and looked at me with her eyes wide open. They are handsome eyes for a Sienese woman. That I allow. She said, 'Do you call me?' Says I, 'I do.' She says, 'Well?' I reply, 'He is well if you are.' 'Who, then?' says she. I say, 'Your lover.' This makes her jump like a flea on the bed. But she brazens it out finely, turning to her old crone with a 'What does the girl mean?' Bless you, THEY knew well enough. I folded my arms--so; I said, 'He has walked the stony hills barefoot to find you. He will be out of his skin, standing on his head, to know you are here.' She stamped her foot and flew into a passion. 'How dare you?' she cries out. 'Tell me of whom you are talking this rubbish.' I nodded my head many times--so--and said, 'You are lucky to have him so fast.' She went away. After that she never passed me without tossing her head; and presently I ran away." I was greatly perturbed by this tale of hers, and not unreasonably angry. I said, "Unhappy girl! you little know the harm you have done. Have I instructed you so badly in myself that you can think to serve me by your servant-girl mysteries and your nods and winks? I enjoin you to leave my affairs absolutely alone. You are to tell me no more, speak of me no more, see Donna Aurelia no more. Since you have left the convent and are in danger of punishment, you must, of course, stay here. You must be properly clothed and looked after. I will see to that. Now recover yourself, and remember what I have said." I was almost immediately sorry for my plain speaking; she was in extreme misery, I could see. Tears streamed through her fingers, her body was convulsed with grief. More than once she seemed upon the point of lashing out at me with some furious blast of indignation; but she always checked it, as it seemed, when it was at the edge of her lips. Unthinking fool that I was! I little knew or guessed what she had endured at the convent for my sake; how, treated as a sinful woman, she had been the object of hard judgment and undeserved reproach--preached at, prayed over, lectured, scolded, made a slave of; how she had loved me and believed in me through all; and how, unable to bear her lot, coming to me at last, I had proved the most cruel of her oppressors--and precisely the most cruel because, from me, she deserved the least reproach. However, I must not extenuate myself, nor forestall my history. I begged her pardon for my severity and obtained her ready forgiveness. From that hour forward she kept herself apart from me as my servant, having arranged for her share of his duties with Scipione; and she never by word or look recalled the time when a much closer intimacy had existed between us.
One disturbing incident in my affairs with her must be mentioned in this place, although it did not occur until I had twice waited upon Donna Aurelia. It was indeed upon my return from the second of those visits that Scipione came into the room after me with some secret or another which he itched, evidently, to impart to me. After some hesitation, he asked leave to exhibit Virginia to me, dressed, said he, according to the best of his ability as such a fine girl should be dressed. I nodded my head--having little attention to give him just then--and he presently returned, leading Virginia by the hand.
"There, sir," said the jaunty rogue. "Now perhaps your honour will say that she is worth looking at." I stared at Virginia, who coloured finely, and hung her head.
I must say that, preoccupied as I was, I was astonished at what I saw. He had transformed her by some means out of a sulky and dejected penitent into a young woman of noble appearance and refined beauty. I had seen that transformation once before--at Prato; but here was a more mature and assured fine lady. She wore her hair over a cushion, a handsome dress of yellow and white brocade upon a quilted petticoat, silk stockings, and high-heeled shoes. Not only were the clothes fine of their kind and well fitted to her person, but she wore them surprisingly well; their colour set off her clear, chiselled and dark beauty; and that, as if stung by the rivalry, came fiercely out to meet them. The joy and pride of battle tingled in her cheeks and shone in her eyes. She was of that aquiline, keen type of feature which we are accustomed to call patrician. She looked at once superb and secure, at once eager to contend and sure of the prize. It may have been that, as her name of Strozzi implied, she was a scion of that noble house, sunk by no faults of her own in servitude and obscurity; suffice it to say that she was strikingly handsome and perfectly aware of it. I was too much astonished to be angry with Scipione, as I might reasonably have been. Nor could I have had the heart, I acknowledge, to have dashed her natural pleasure at her success by any abrupt expression of annoyance. I said, "Why, Virginia, you are become a fine lady!" She stepped quickly forward, knelt, and kissed my hand--an act of humility which touched me.
"Sir," said Scipione, "I told you that she had the makings. Your honour can do as you please now, and nobody have a word to say. I can assure you that the count lost his breath and his heart at once when he saw her."
"The count!" I cried; and he told me that Count Giraldi had called for me that afternoon and had entertained himself greatly with Virginia.
I sent Scipione away. It was necessary to know more of this. The moment he was out of the room I asked her what had brought about this masquerade of hers. She said timidly that Scipione had a sister who was woman to a great lady. This person had several times been in to see her brother, and this dress was of her providing. She said that they had teased her about her appearance at Prato, where Scipione's sister had seen her, it appears, and had dared to prove to them that she was indeed that handsome lady with whom I had been observed. She hoped I should not