THE FOOL ERRANT - World eBook Library - World Public Library

lended their forces within me; their issue in one turbulent flood, which I should have thought to see heading to Aurelia at the
convent, instead of that poured themselves upon the bosom of Virginia. I raised her from my knees where, upon her own, she
was clinging, and clasped her in my arms. I was, indeed, happy to see her again, and so much so that I forgot entirely that I had
only myself to blame for our long separation. For the first time in our lives our lips met.
But if I was moved, what is to be said of her? I can hardly express the painful scene which followed. She lost all control of her
senses; she clung to me as if I had been a spar in some stormy sea wherein she drowned; she uttered incoherent cries, she
gasped, sobbed, was clean distraught. When I held her, when I kissed her, she struggled like a caught bird, fought furiously,
used her teeth, her nails. And yet all the time she was caressing me with every diminutive, every sweet term of love which the
most passionate people in the world can find as expression of their love-thoughts. She stroked my cheeks, hair and shoulders,
crooned over me like a brooding dove, held me so straitly that I was near choking; or with tragic mouth and eyes of sombre fire
she adjured me to kill her there and then, lest any subsequent moment of her life might be less full of bliss than the present. I
know that my fancy was inflamed, and suspect that my senses—from whose occasional dominion I was no more free than most
men—must have sprung into flame from this dangerous contact, had it not been that her excessive joy induced an attack of
hysterics. For a time she was like a madwoman, beyond all human power; and she ended by fainting in my arms, and had to be
carried by myself and Scipione, my servant, to a bed. There she lay moaning and muttering to herself for an hour or more. It
may be imagined whether all this tended to calm my own agitation or to turn my thoughts towards that road whereby alone
honour and salvation could be reached. I could not go out to see Aurelia; I could hardly even think of Aurelia while Virginia lay
in my house with closed eyes, clenched hands and shuddering breath. I left Scipione in charge of her, and returned to my
saloon, to pace the floor until he brought me word that she could be spoken with. This he did not do for some hours.
He came in at last, shaking his head. "That is a bad case, sir—porca miseria!" says he.
I hoped that she was better.
"She's ashamed of herself, sir," he said, "as well she may be. What a scandal, my word! But these baggages have no modesty."
The term offended me. I told him he was talking nonsense. "She is a true friend," I said, "whose sympathy may be excessive; but
to take joy in my joy is the act of a friend."
Scipione saluted me. "Sir, if her joy is your honour's, I have no more to say. A gentleman is entitled to his pleasures, I hope.
And she is a handsome girl, though she is thin."
"That will do, my man," said I. "You say that she is better."
"She is as well, sir, as she deserves," replied this assured fellow, "but she is mad."
"Mad!" I cried.
"Why, yes, sir," says he. "Judge for yourself. Here is a girl frying in love, wanting to tell your honour that another is yours for the
asking." He angered me by this freedom—which I can assure the reader is not uncommon in this country—and I dismissed him
with a few directions. I said that I must go out at once and was uncertain when I should return. Meantime Virginia was to have
every care, and was to be provided with— among other things—suitable clothes for one in the position of a house- servant.
Those in which she had made her sudden appearance before me were obviously peculiar to the convent in which she worked,
and to her standing there. I left some money with Scipione and went out.
Perhaps it had been better to have interrogated Virginia before taking the step I now took, and so I should have done had I not
been rather disturbed in my mind, first, by my own pleasure at seeing her again— which I now considered to have been disloyal
to Aurelia—and next, by Scipione's account of her state of heart. Virginia in love with me! This was not the first time I had
suspected it; but, reflecting upon our meeting, I was not able to deny that she had been very much moved. Now, should it be
true, I thought to myself, what on earth was I to do? What, indeed, were the MERITS of the case? Was the fault mine—and
how could I best repair it? These questions were beyond my then powers of resolution while I was uncertain of Aurelia's fate
and prospects, and I deliberately put them aside. I turned all my powers of mind and heart to consider her injuries, probable
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