Marietta: A Maid of Venice by F. Marion Crawford (top ten ebook reader TXT) 📖

A distant knocking was heard at the outer door, Pasquale shuffled off to see who was there.

"I will wager that it is the surgeon!" he grumbled. "Evil befall his soul! We do not want him."

"What were you going to say?" asked Marietta, bending down. "There is only Nella here now."

"Nella should not have let you come," said Zorzi. "If it is known, your father will be very angry."

"Ah, do you see?" cried Nella, rising, for she had finished. "Did I not tell you so, my pretty lady? And if your brother finds out that you have been here he will go into a fury like a wild beast! I told you so! And as for your help, indeed, I could have brought another woman, and there was Pasquale, too. I suppose he has hands. Oh, there will be a beautiful revolution in the house when this is known!"

But Marietta did not mean to acknowledge that she had done anything but what was perfectly right and natural under the circumstances; to admit that would have been to confess that she had not come merely out of pity and human kindness.

"It is absurd," she said with a little indignation. "I shall tell my brother myself that Zorzi was hurt, and that I helped you to dress his wound. And what is more, Nella, you will have to come; again, and I shall come with you as often as I please. All Murano may know it for anything I care."

"And Venice too?" asked Nella, shaking her head in disapproval. "What will they say in Casa Contarini when they hear that you have actually gone out of the house to help a wounded young man in your father's glass-house?"

"If they are human, they will say that I was quite right," answered Marietta promptly. "If they are not, why should I care what they say?"

Zorzi smiled. At that moment Pasquale passed the window, and then came in by the open door, growling. His ugly face was transfigured by rage, until it had a sort of grotesque grandeur, and he clenched his fist as he began to speak.

"Animals! Beasts! Brutes! Worse than savages! He was almost incoherent.

"Well? What has happened now?" asked. Nella. "You talk like a mad dog. Remember the young lady!"

"It would make a leaden statue speak!" answered Pasquale. "The Signor Giovanni sends a boy to say that the Surgeon was not at home, because he had gone to shave the arch-priest of San Piero!"

In spite of the great pain he still suffered, Zorzi laughed, a little.

"You said that you would throw, him into the canal if he came at all," he said.

"Yes, and so I meant to do!" cried Pasquale. "But that is no reason why the inhuman monster should be shaving the arch-priest when a man might be dying for need of him! Oh, let him come here! Oh, I advise him to come! The miserable, cowardly, bloodletting, soap-sudding, shaving little beast of a barber!"

Pasquale drew a long breath after this, and unclenched his fist, but his lips still moved, as he said things to himself which would have shocked Marietta if she could have had the least idea of what they meant.

"You cannot stay here," she said, turning to Zorzi again. "You cannot lie on this bench all day."

"I shall soon be able to stand," answered Zorzi confidently. "I am much better."

"You will not stand on that foot for many a day," said Nella, shaking her head.

"Then Pasquale must get me a pair of crutches," replied Zorzi. "I cannot lie on my back because I have hurt one foot. I must tend the furnace, I must go on with my work, I must make the tests, I must—"

He stopped short and bit his lip, turning white again as a spasm of excruciating pain shot along his right side, from his foot upwards. Marietta bent over him, full of anxiety.

"You are suffering!" she said tenderly. "You must not try to move."

"It is nothing," he answered through his closed teeth. "It will pass, I daresay."

"It will not pass to-day," said Nella. "But I will bring you some syrup of poppies. That will make you sleep."

Marietta seemed to feel the pain herself. She smoothed the leathern cushion under his head as well as she could, and softly touched his forehead. It was hot and dry now.

"He is feverish," she said to Nella anxiously.

"I will bring him barley water with the syrup of poppies. What do you expect? Do you think that such a wound and such a burn are cooling to the blood, and refreshing to the brain? The man is badly hurt. Of course he is feverish. He ought to be in his bed, like a decent Christian."

"Some one must help me with the work," said Zorzi faintly.

"There is no one but me," answered Marietta after a moment's pause.

"You?" cried Nella, greatly scandalised.

Even Pasquale stared at Marietta in silent astonishment.

"Yes," she said quietly. "There is no one else who knows enough about my father's work."

"That is true," said Zorzi. "But you cannot come here and work with me."

Marietta turned away and walked to the window. In her thin dress she stood there a few minutes, like a slender lily, all white and gold in the summer light.

"It is out of the question!" protested Nella. "Her brother will never allow her to come. He will lock her up in her own room for safety, till the master comes home."

"I think I shall always do just what I think right," said Marietta quietly, as if to herself.

"Lord!" cried Nella. "The young lady is going mad!"

Nella was gathering together the remains of the things she had brought. Exhausted by the pain he had suffered, and by the efforts he had made to hide it, Zorzi lay on his back, looking with half-closed eyes at the graceful outline of the girl's figure, and vaguely wishing that she would never move, and that he might be allowed to die while quietly gazing at her.

"Lady," said Pasquale at last, and rather timidly, "I will take good care of him. I will get him crutches to-morrow. I will come in the daytime and keep the fire burning for him."

"It would be far better to let it go out," observed Nella, with much sense.

"But the experiments!" cried Zorzi, suddenly coming back from his dream. "I have promised the master to carry them out."

"You see what comes of your glass-working," retorted Nella, pointing to his bandaged foot.

"How did it happen?" asked Marietta suddenly. "How did you do it?"

"It was done for him," said Pasquale, "and may the Last Judgment come a hundred times over for him who did it!"

His intention was clearer than his words.

"Do you mean that it was done on purpose, out of spite?" asked Marietta, looking from Pasquale to Zorzi.

"It was an accident," said the latter. "I was in the main furnace room with your brother. The blow-pipe with the hot glass slipped from a man's hand. Your brother saw it—he will tell you."

"I have been porter here for five-and-twenty years," retorted Pasquale, "and there have been several accidents in that time. But I never heard of one like that."

"It was nothing else," said Zorzi.

His voice was weak. Nella had finished collecting her belongings. Marietta saw that she could not stay any longer at present, and she went once more to Zorzi's side.

"Let Pasquale take care of you to-day," she said. "I will come and see how you are to-morrow morning."

"I thank you," he answered. "I thank you with all my heart. I have no words to tell you how much."

"You need none," said she quietly. "I have done nothing. It is Nella who has helped you."

"Nella knows that I am very grateful."

"Of course, of course!" answered the woman kindly. "You have made him talk too much," she added, speaking to Marietta. "Let us go away. I must prepare the barley water. It takes a long time."

"Is he to have nothing but barley water?" asked Pasquale.

"I will send him what he is to have," answered Nella, with an air of superiority.

Marietta looked back at Zorzi from the door, and his eyes were following her. She bent her head gravely and went out, followed by the others, and he was alone again. But it was very different now. The spasms of pain came back now and then, but there was rest between them, for there was a potent anodyne in the balsam with which Nella had soaked the first dressing. Of all possible hurts, the pain from burning is the most acute and lasting, and the wise little woman, who sometimes seemed so foolish, had done all that science could have done for Zorzi, even at a much later day. He could think connectedly now, he had been able to talk; had it been possible for him to stand, he might even have gone on for a time with the preparations for the next experiment. Yet he felt an instinctive certainty that he was to be lame for life.

He was not thinking of the experiments just then; he could think of nothing but Marietta. Four or five days had passed since he had talked with her in the garden, and she was now formally promised to Jacopo Contarini. He wondered why she had come with Nella, and he remembered her earnest offer of friendship. She meant to show him that she was still in earnest, he supposed. It had been perfect happiness to feel her cool young hand on his forehead, to press it in his own. No one could take that from him, as long as he lived. He remembered it through the horrible pain it had soothed, and it was better than the touch of an angel, for it was the touch of a loving woman. But he did not know that, and be fancied that if she had ever guessed that he loved her, she would not have come to him now. She would feel that the mere thought in his heart was an offence. And besides, she was to marry Contarini, and she was not of the kind that would promise to marry one man and yet encourage love in another. It was well, thought Zorzi, that she had never suspected the truth.

When Marietta reached her room again she listened patiently to Nella's scolding and warning, for she did not hear a word the good woman said to her. Nella brushed the dust from the silk mantle and from Marietta's white skirt very industriously, lest it should betray the secret to Giovanni or any other member of the household. For they had escaped being seen, even when they came back.

Nella scolded on in a little sing-song voice, with many rising inflections. In her whole life, she said, she had never connived at anything more utterly shameless than this! She was humble, indeed, and of no account in the world, but if she had run out in the middle of the day to visit a young man when she was betrothed to her poor Vito, blessed soul, and the Lord remember him, her poor Vito would have gone to her father, might the Lord refresh his soul, and would have said, "What ways are these? Do you think I will marry a girl who runs about in this fashion?" That was what Vito would have said. And he would have said, "Give me back the gold things I gave your daughter, and let me go and find a wife who does not run about the city." And it would have been well said. Did Marietta suppose that an educated person like the lord Jacopo Contarini would be less particular about his bride's manners than that good soul Vito? Not that Vito had been ignorant. Nella should have liked any one to dare to say that she had married an ignorant man! And so forth. And so on.

Marietta heard the voice without listening to the words, and the gentle, half-complaining, half-reproving tone was rather soothing than otherwise. She sat by the half-closed window with her bead work, while Nella talked, and brushed, and moved about the room, making imaginary small tasks in order to talk the more. But Marietta threaded the red and blue beads and fastened them in patterns upon the piece of stuff she was ornamenting, and when Nella looked at her every now and then, she seemed quite calm and indifferent. There had always been something inscrutable about her.

She was wondering why she had submitted to be betrothed to Contarini, when she loved Zorzi; and the answer did not come. She could not understand why it was that although she loved Zorzi with all her heart she had been convinced that she hated him, during four long, miserable days. Then, too, it was very strange that she should