CHAPTER V.

ENRICA.

The marchesa was in a very bad humor.  Not only did she stay at home all the day of the festival of the Holy Countenance by reason of the solemn anniversary which occurred at that time, but she shut herself up the following day also.  When the old servant (old inside and out) in his shabby livery, who acted as butler, crept into her room, and asked at what time “the eccellenza would take her airing on the ramparts”—­the usual drive of the Lucchese ladies—­when they not only drive, but draw up under the plane-trees, gossip, and eat sweetmeats and ices—­she had answered, in a tone she would have used to a decrepit dog who troubled her, “Shut the door and begone!”

She had been snappish to Enrica.  She had twitted her with wanting to go to the Orsetti ball, although Enrica had never been to any ball or any assembly whatever in her life, and no word had been spoken about it.  Enrica never did speak; she had been disciplined into silence.

Enrica, as has been said, was the marchesa’s niece, and lived with her.  She was the only child of her sister, who died when she was born.  This sister (herself, as well as the marchesa, born Guinigi Ruscellai) had also married a Guinigi, a distant cousin of the marchesa’s husband, belonging to a third branch of the family, settled at Mantua.  Of this collateral branch, all had died out.  Antonio Guinigi, of Mantua, Enrica’s father, in the prime of life, was killed in a duel, resulting from one of those small social affronts that so frequently do provoke duels in Italy. (I knew a certain T——­ who called out a certain G——­ because G——­ had said T——­’s rooms were not properly carpeted.) Generally these encounters with swords are as trifling in their results as in their origin.  But the duel in question, fought by Antonio Guinigi, was unfortunately not so.  He died on the spot.  Enrica, when two years old, was an orphan.  Thus it came that she had known no home but the home of her aunt.  The marchesa had never shown her any particular kindness.  She had ordered her servants to take care of her.  That was all.  Scarcely ever had she kissed her; never passed her hand among the sunny curls that fell upon the quiet child’s face and neck.  The marchesa, in fact, had not so much as noticed her childish beauty and enticing ways.

Enrica had grown up accustomed to bear with her aunt’s haughty, ungracious manners and capricious temper.  She scarcely knew that there was any thing to bear.  She had been left to herself as long as she could remember any thing.  A peasant—­Teresa, her foster-mother—­had come with her from Mantua, and from Teresa alone she received such affection as she had ever known.  A mere animal affection, however, which lost its value as she grew into womanhood.