Jacopo had demanded it, and his father was
so anxious for the marriage that he had communicated the request to
Beroviero. The latter, always for his dignity's sake, had pretended to
refuse, and had then secretly arranged the matter for Jacopo, as has
been seen, without old Contarini's knowledge.
Marietta leaned back under the cool, dark 'felse,' and her hands lay
idly in her lap. She felt that she was helpless, because she was
indifferent, and that she could even now have changed the course of her
destiny if she had cared to make the effort. There was no reason for
making any. She did not believe that she had really loved Zorzi after
all, and if she had, it seemed to-day quite impossible that she should
ever have married him. He was nothing but a waif, a half-nameless
servant, a stranger predestined to a poor and obscure life. As she
inwardly repeated some of these considerations, she felt a little thrust
of remorse for trying to look down on him as impossibly far below her
own station, and a small voice told her that he was an artist, and that
if he had chanced to be born in Venice he would have been as good as her
brothers.
The future stretched out before her in a sort of dull magnificence that
did not in the least appeal to her simple nature.
Pages:
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148