But Enrica shrank from compliance, with a secret sense that she had no right to do what he asked; no right to marry without her aunt’s consent.  Her love was her own to give.  She had thought it all out for herself, pacing up and down under the cool marble arcades of the Moorish garden, the splash of the fountain in her ears—­Teresa had told her the same—­her love was her own to give.  What had her aunt done for her, her sister’s child, but feed and clothe her?  Indeed, as Teresa said, the marchesa had done but little else.  Enrica was as unconscious as Teresa of those marriage schemes of her aunt which centred in herself.  Had she known what was reserved for her, she would better have understood the marchesa’s nature; then she might have acted differently.  But heretofore there had been no question of her marriage.  Although she was seventeen, she had always been treated as a mere child.  She scarcely dared to speak in her aunt’s presence, or to address a question to her.  Her love, then, she thought, was her own to bestow; but more?—­No, no even to Nobili.  He urged, he entreated, he reproached her, but in vain.  He implored her to inform the marchesa of their engagement. (Nobili could not offer to do this himself; the marchesa would have refused to admit him within her door.) But Enrica would not consent to do even this.  She knew her aunt too well to trust her with her secret.  She knew that she was both subtle, and, where her own plans were concerned, or her will thwarted, treacherous also.

Enrica had been taught not only to obey the marchesa implicitly, but never to dispute her will.  Hitherto she had had no will but hers.  How, then, could she all at once shake off the feeling of awe, almost terror, with which her aunt inspired her?  Besides, was not the very sound of Nobili’s name abhorrent to her?  Why the marchesa should abhor him or his name, Enrica could not tell.  It was a mystery to her altogether beyond her small experience of life.  But it was so.  No, she would say nothing; that was safest.  The marchesa, if displeased, was quite capable of carrying her away from Lucca to Corellia—­perhaps leaving her there alone in the mountains.  She might even shut her up in a convent for life!—­Then she should die!

No, she would say nothing.

CHAPTER VI.

MARCHESA GUINIGI AT HOME.

The marchesa was, as I have said, in a very bad humor.  She had by no means recovered from what she conceived to be the affront put upon her by the brilliant display made by Count Nobili, at the festival of the Holy Countenance, nor, indeed, from the festival itself.

She had had the satisfaction of shutting up her palace, it is true; but she was not quite sure if this had impressed the public mind of Lucca as she had intended.  She felt painful doubts as to whether the splendors opposite had not so entirely engrossed public attention that no eye was left to observe any thing else—­at least, in that street.  It was possible, she thought, that another year it might be wiser not to shut up her palace at all, but so far to overcome her feelings as to exhibit the superb hangings, the banners, the damask, and cloth of gold, used in the mediaeval festivals and processions, and thus outdo the modern tinsel of Count Nobili.