no right to do what he asked; no right to marry without her aunt's
consent. Her love was her own to give. She had thought it all out
for herself, pacing up and down under the cool marble arcades of the
Moorish garden, the splash of the fountain in her ears--Teresa had
told her the same--her love was her own to give. What had her aunt
done for her, her sister's child, but feed and clothe her? Indeed,
as Teresa said, the marchesa had done but little else. Enrica was
as unconscious as Teresa of those marriage schemes of her aunt which
centred in herself. Had she known what was reserved for her, she would
better have understood the marchesa's nature; then she might have
acted differently. But heretofore there had been no question of her
marriage. Although she was seventeen, she had always been treated as a
mere child. She scarcely dared to speak in her aunt's presence, or to
address a question to her. Her love, then, she thought, was her own to
bestow; but more?--No, no even to Nobili. He urged, he entreated, he
reproached her, but in vain. He implored her to inform the marchesa
of their engagement. (Nobili could not offer to do this himself; the
marchesa would have refused to admit him within her door.) But Enrica
would not consent to do even this. She knew her aunt too well to trust
her with her secret. She knew that she was both subtle, and, where her
own plans were concerned, or her will thwarted, treacherous also.

Enrica had been taught not only to obey the marchesa implicitly, but
never to dispute her will. Hitherto she had had no will but hers.
How, then, could she all at once shake off the feeling of awe, almost
terror, with which her aunt inspired her? Besides, was not the very
sound of Nobili's name abhorrent to her? Why the marchesa should
abhor him or his name, Enrica could not tell. It was a mystery to her
altogether beyond her small experience of life. But it was so. No, she
would say nothing; that was safest. The marchesa, if displeased, was