The Italians by Frances Elliot
page 43 of 453 (09%)
page 43 of 453 (09%)
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"Why, why?" she asks herself now, as she has asked herself year after
year, each year with a fresh agony. Until she came, a son had never failed under that roof. Why was she condemned to be alone? She had done nothing to deserve it. Had she not been a blameless wife? Why, why was she so punished? Her haughty spirit stirs within her. "God is unjust," she mutters, half aloud. "God is my enemy." As the impious words fall from her lips they ring round the dark bed, and die away among the black draperies. The echo of her own voice fills her with dread. She rushes out. The door closes heavily after her. Once removed from that fatal chamber, with its death-like shadows, she gradually collects herself. She has so long fortified herself against all sign of outward emotion, she has so hardened herself in an inner life of secret remorse, this is easy--at least to outward appearance. The calm, frigid look natural to her face returns. Her eyes have again their dark sparkle. Not a trace remains to tell what her self-imposed penance has cost her. Again she is the proud marchesa, the mistress of the feudal palace and all its glorious memories.--Yes; and she casts her eyes round where she stands, back again in the retiring-room. Yes--all is yet her own. True, she is impoverished--worse, she is laden with debt, harassed by creditors. The lands that are left are heavily mortgaged; the money received from Count Nobili, as the price of the palace, already spent in law. The hoard she has just counted--her savings--destined to dower her niece Enrica, in whose marriage lies the sole remaining hope of the preservation of the name (and that depending on the will of a |
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