THE FOOL ERRANT - World eBook Library - World Public Library

She stretched out her arms. "How do I know? Hear him! How do I know that my mother is a woman and my father a man?
Dio buono! Have I lived in my sty with my eyes shut? And herded with thieves, and taken them for marchesi? But you shall be
fed, Don Francis. Leave that to me. Do you stay here quietly, I will get you some food."
I said that I must come with her, whereupon she began to cry bitterly, to call me heartless and cruel, to pity herself in the most
deplorable terms. She nursed and fondled herself by name. "Povera Virginia! Poor little Virginia, that works so hard for her
tyrant and gives herself no rest. But he is cruel—more cruel than if he beat her—stabs her heart with cold words, rends it with
sharp fingers. Poor little Virginia, poor little outcast from the Madonna!"
I have not a heart of stone: I confess that her distress made me dreadfully ashamed. This good soul, whose only happiness lay in
mine, who had trusted her all in all to me without flinching, whose life was now at my disposal as her honour had been for so
long. Unworthy of the name of man had I been if I could wound her so lightly. I put my arm round her waist and drew her
towards me with tenderness. I took her hands from her face and implored her forgiveness. I promised to offend her no more, to
stay in the cloister until she came, to sleep in the Sagrestia, to do all her behests. In answer, the sun came out in her face. She
listened to me with soft rapture, beautiful to see, and before I had done, the dear, generous creature snatched at my hand, and,
kneeling, kissed it with a frenzy of devotion which brought the tears to my eyes. Immediately afterwards she was gone on her
errand of mercy, leaving me in a glow of truly honest gratitude, which was to have its speedy fruit in an act which, though it fell
short of my intention, was to prove for my ultimate content.
CHAPTER XXIX. I TAKE SANCTUARY
Past fatigues and present danger did not disturb my happy meditations. I paced the cloister of San Lorenzo without regard for
them, absorbed in considering my future conduct, and the relationship in which I stood to my little world of circumstance. It was
necessary that I should make plans for myself and for Virginia, and I made and rejected many without modifying them one and
all, as well I might have done, by allowing for the part which the gallows, the gaol or the hulks might play in them. As my habit
has always been, I endeavoured to judge the case upon its merits, and to adjust myself to it, not so much according to my
desires as to my duties towards it. Here—to remind the reader—are the three factors of my problem.
1. I had, of my own act, withdrawn myself from Aurelia's society, having done her all the reparation I could, and obtained her
forgiveness.
2. I had constituted myself Virginia's champion against the Marchese Semifonte.
3. I had killed Fra Palamone.
Now, to take these in order, it was plainly my duty to quit the side of the fair Aurelia. Even though she were and were to remain
for me the shining orb of my firmament, in whose beam I must for ever walk—I must not see her again. I had obtained from her
all that I could hope for, and given her quite as much as, if not more than, she desired. To stay by her now would be to
compromise her; I could not be blind to the conviction of all my acquaintance, which saw in me that horrible spectacle, the lover
of a married woman, accepted as such by her lawful master. Robbery! of which I could never be capable. No more of Aurelia,
then, no more. She must depart like a dream before the stern face of the morrow—or I must depart. Happy, perhaps, for her,
whatever it may have been for me, that she herself had taken the first step when she turned her back upon me in pique.
I disregarded Palamone's bloody end. I had executed a criminal, a procurer for hire, a vile thing unworthy to live; but what was
I to do with Virginia? There was a young woman of capacity, merit and beauty, whose honour I had taken in charge. So far I
had maintained it, and there were two ways in which I could continue so to do. In return, she had given me devotion of the most
singular kind—for it is extreme devotion that a girl should bear obloquy and humiliation for the sake of a man who has defended
her. There was no doubt also but that I was master of her heart; no doubt at all but that she would give herself to me without
thought if I lifted a finger. The conviction of such a truth is a dangerous possession for a man, and I don't pretend that I was
insensible to it, any more than I was to her definite and personal charm. He is divine, not human, who remains cold and
unbiased with the knowledge that here, at his disposal, is a lovely and ardent female, longing to be in his arms. Now, I had
withdrawn her from her home, defied a claimant to her, and killed a man who sought her ruin, and what was I going to do? I
saw that there were two courses open; but that unless it were possible to do as the rest of her acquaintance had tried to do,
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