Part 13 (1/2)

”When should they have the pleasure of welcoming the _new_ Lady of the Giustiniani?”

”Was it not true that the Lady Marina--that was to be,” there was always some little stinging emphasis in the gracious speech, ”had given a votive offering to the convent of the Servi? She was a devote then--quite unworldly--this beautiful maiden of Murano?”

”What a joy for the Lady Laura that so soon there would be a bride in the Ca' Giustiniani!”

”The Lady Laura had never been more stately,” they told each other when they entered their gondolas again, ”nor more undisturbed. There were no signs of displeasure; it must be that the lowly maid was very beautiful.”

”Was it a thing to make one sad, to have a son who could twist the rulers round his little finger, and break the very laws of the Republic?

Nay, but cause for much stateliness!” said a matron with two sons in the Consiglio.

”The bridal must be soon,” said the Lady Laura to herself, as she sat alone in her boudoir, ”for the ceasing of this endless gossip.” And, because she could think of nothing else, she was already weary with the planning of a pageant which made her heart sick.

But Giustinian Giustiniani had no words, for the case was hopeless--only a face of gloom, and much that was imperative to keep him in the Council Chamber.

For these few blissful days the lovers had heaven to themselves, floating about at twilight on the sh.o.r.es of the Lido, where there were none to trouble the clear serenity of their joy by the chilling breath of criticism. ”That white rose which I brought thee was in sign of my mother's favor,” Marcantonio reminded Marina more than once; ”and for the rest--all will be well; and for a little, we can wait.”

Ah, yes, they could wait--in such a smiling world, under a sky so exquisite, gliding over the opal of the still lagoons at twilight.

But old Girolamo, sure now of the decree which should number his daughter among the patricians of this Republic where, through long generations, his family had made their boast that they represented the people, was in a feverish mood--grave, elated, sad by turns, unwilling to confess to the loneliness which was beginning to gnaw at his heart, for Marina was his life; he did not think he could live without her; he _knew_ he could not live and see her unhappy beside him; and he was old to learn the new, pathetic part he must play--the waiting for death, quite alone in the old home.

And those others,--in the sumptuous palace on the Ca.n.a.l Grande,--would they prize the treasure which was the very light of his life, that he should break his heart to yield her up?

He could have cried aloud in his anguish, as he sat waiting for the happy plash of the returning gondola, the princely gondola of the Ca'

Giustiniani, bringing those two before whom life was opening in a golden vista; but as the slow ripples breaking over the water brought them nearer, his heart girded itself again with all his chivalrous strength, lest he should dim the glad light in his beloved one's eyes--lest he should seem ungenerous to the brave young knight who had dared the displeasure of his house and of the Republic for the love he bore his daughter.

And the shadows in that other home, the palazzo on the Ca.n.a.l Grande, in these days of waiting, were colder, hasher,--born of selfishness rather than love, of disappointed ambition perhaps,--but they were very real shadows nevertheless, obscuring the clear-cut traditions of centuries, out of which one should struggle through increase of pride, the other through the broadening of a more generous love.

Meanwhile the gondola floated in light--between shadow and shadow--so slight is the realization of the throes by which joy is sometimes born; and the pathos of the change which made their gladness possible was for the two young people still an unrecognized note.

But waiting was now over; more positive steps must be taken. Two Secretaries had been sent from the Senate to bring the news of the filing of the decree.

”Madre mia!” cried Marcantonio eagerly, when they were gone; ”it has come even before our hope!”

”Even sooner than thy hope,” she echoed, feeling dreary, though he was sitting with his arm around her, as if for a confidential talk.

But he was too happy to interpret her tone.

”The token!” he pleaded; ”for Marina--and thou wilt come to see how beautiful she is!”

She looked at him searchingly. He did not mean to urge her; he seemed too happy to understand.

She rose and going slowly to her cabinet brought him her token--a string of great Oriental pearls.

”These,” she said, sitting down beside her son and opening the case, ”have I made ready for thy bride, since thou wert a little lad--at one time one pearl, at another more, as I have found the rarest l.u.s.tre. Some of these, they say, have been hidden in Venice since the time of John of Constantinople, who left them for his ransom; it may be but a tale, yet they are rare in tint; and I have gleaned them, Marco, since thou wert a little lad, not knowing who should wear them--not knowing, Marco----”

She broke off suddenly, touching the gems wistfully, endearingly, with trembling, tapering fingers.

He laid his firm young hand upon hers lovingly. ”How good thou art, my mother; how good to think of thy boy through all these years! But thy pearls are superb--they will almost frighten Marina. Later thou wilt give them to her. Mother, dearest, let me take this rose which thou hast worn, with thy little word of love--sweet mother----”