"Not you," said Leonora; "I am thinking of my father; and how strange it is that he who loves me well, I know, should show his love so little."
"Can you think of two things at once, Leonora?" asked her cousin, "for I know one thing you are thinking of, and you tell me of another. You are thinking of Lorenzo Visconti; and how strange it is that you, who love him well, have not the heart to own it to yourself."
"Go, go, you are a silly child," answered Leonora, "you cannot know what love is, nor I either, except love for your parents or your kinsfolk. I think not of Lorenzo Visconti; he is a comely youth, and pleasant in his conversation; but he will go hence in a day, forget me in another, and I him before the third evening comes. You want to make me fall in love with him, but I tell you, Blanche, you will tire me of him."
"Faith, I do not want you to love him," replied Bianca, "for I am half in love with him myself, and can't spare him--only, you know, there is one obstacle."
"Well, well, go and sleep over it," replied Leonora, "then rise to-morrow, and whisper gently in his ear that, if he will but wait a year or two--this loving land and warm climate notwithstanding--he can wed the beautiful heiress of the house of Rovera, and--but what obstacle do you talk of, Blanche?"
"The Church! the Church!" replied the other girl; "we are full cousins, you know, Leonora--within the forbidden degrees. My mother's eldest sister was his mother."
"But a poor obstacle," answered Leonora; "one of the two bags of the Church is always open to take in gold, and the other to let out dispensations."
"Yes: but somehow I can never look on him as aught else but a cousin," replied Bianca--"a sort of brother. As such I love him well; but as I said, I am only half in love with him---a fraternal love, which is a half love, I suppose. I do not know much about it; but I do not judge I could let him kiss me so coolly if I loved him any better. Bless my poor heart, Leonora, we were boy and girl together when we were in Florence, and were we to marry, I should always think him playfellow instead of husband. But I'll to bed and sleep; I have nothing to keep me awake. You go to bed and sleep, if you can. I know you, Leonora."
"No, you do not," murmured her cousin; "but I shall sit up and look at the moonlight for a time."
"And wish that the nightingale had not ceased to sing true-love ditties," replied Bianca gaily. "Well, good night. Leave the doors open, that I may hear if you sigh about Lorenzo in your sleep."
Bianca, or, as the French called her, Blanche Marie, then left her gaily, and with a light heart was soon asleep. Leonora d'Orco sat quite still by the window, and gazed forth. All was still and tranquil. The air was clear and soft, and yet there seemed a sort of haze--a haze of brightness over the landscape. Have you never remarked, reader, especially in southern climates, that the moon sometimes pours forth her pale rays in such profusion that it seems as if a mist of light spread over the scene? So was it at that moment; and though the nightingale, as Blanche Marie had said, no longer trilled his summer song, yet every now and then a note or two from his sweet voice burst upon the ear--a song, begun as if in memory, and broken off as if in despair. The time of love was past, and he could sing no more; but the remembrance of happy days woke up under the warm autumn splendour, and a few short plaintive notes came welling from the fountains of regret.
Of what was the young maiden thinking? What feelings woke up in her bosom under that bright moon?
What harmonious chord vibrated in her bosom to the broken tones of the solitary songster of the night?
Gaze down into a deep, deep well, reader, and if you gaze long enough, you will catch an uncertain gleam of light, you know not whence, glistening upon the surface of waters below you; but you cannot fathom those waters with the eye, nor see aught that they cover; and so it is with the heart of woman to those who would scan it from a distance. If you would know what is beneath, plunge down into its depths, torch in hand; you may perish, but you will know all that can be known of that most deep, mysterious thing.
At length there was the sound of a light footstep on the terrace beneath, and Leonora started and listened. The foot that produced the sound was still distant, and she quietly glided through the open door into her cousin's chamber. Blanche Marie was already sleeping peacefully, the light covering hardly veiling the contour of the young beautiful limbs, the hair already escaped from the net intended to restrain it, and the white uncovered arm cast negligently under the warm, rosy cheek. Her breathing was soft, and low, and even, and the half-open lips showed the pearly teeth between.
"How beautiful she is!" murmured Leonora; "and how sweet and gentle she looks! So looked Psyche;" and with a noiseless step she left the room, and closed the door behind her.
She took her seat near the window again, behind the rich deep moulding, as if she would see without being seen; but the lighted taper on the table cast her shadow across without her knowing it; and there she sat, and once more listened. The step was very, very near now, and the next instant it stopped beneath the window. Then came a silent pause for a moment, and Leonora's heart beat.
"Bianca," said the voice of Lorenzo, "is that you, dear cousin?"
Leonora was strongly tempted to say yes, but yet she felt ashamed of the positive falsehood, and, with a sort of compromise with conscience, she answered, almost in a whisper:
"Hush! speak low."
"Which is Leonora's chamber?" asked the voice again.
"Why?" demanded the young girl, in the same low tone, but with strange sensations in her bosom.
"I wish to sing to her," answered the youth, "and to tell her all I dared not tell this evening. I am ordered to Pavia early to-morrow, dear cousin, and must leave you to plead my cause, but I would fain say one word for myself first."
Oh, how Leonora's heart beat.
"Then it is not Bianca," she murmured to herself; "it is not Bianca. The next room on your right," she answered, still speaking low; but suddenly there came upon her a feeling of shame for the deception, and she added, "What is it you would say, Lorenzo? Leonora is here; Bianca has been sleeping for an hour. But don't sing, and speak low. Signor Rovera's apartments are close by."
But Lorenzo would not heed the warning; and though he did not raise his voice to its full power, he sang, in a sweet, low tone, a little canzonetta, which had much currency some few years before in Florence:
"What time the Greek, in days of yore,
Bent down his own, fair work before,
He woke the echoes of the grove
With words like these, 'Oh, could she love!'
"Heaven heard the sculptor's wild desire;
Love warmed the statue with its fire;
But when he saw the marble move,
He asked, still fearful, 'Will she love?'
"She loved--she loved; and wilt thou be
More cold, Madonna, unto me?
Then hear my song, and let me prove
If you can love--if you can love."
"Songs are false--men are falser, Lorenzo," answered Leonora, bending a little from the window: "you will sing that canzonetta to the next pretty eye you see."
"It will be Leonora's then," answered the youth. "Can you not come down, dear Leonora, and let me hear my fate under the olive-trees? I fear to tell you all I feel in this place, lest other ears should be listening. Oh! come down, for I must go hence by daybreak to-morrow."
"Oh! do not go so soon," murmured Leonora; "I will be down and on the terrace by daybreak; but to-night--no, no, Lorenzo, I cannot, for very maiden shame, come down to-night. There, take my glove, Lorenzo, and if I find you still wear it for my sake when next we meet, I shall know--and then, perhaps--perhaps I will tell you more. But there is some one coming--fly! fly!--the other way. He is coming from the east end of the terrace."
"I never turned