I paid no heed to his rambling talk, but read the message Nina had sent to me through him.
"I am BROKEN-HEARTED!" so ran the delicately penciled lines. "Will you kindly telegraph my DREADFUL loss to Signor Ferrari? I shall be much obliged to you." I looked up from the perfumed missive and down at the old butler's wrinkled visage; he was a short man and much bent, and something in the downward glance I gave him evidently caught and riveted his attention, for Tie clasped his hands together and muttered something I could not hear.
"Tell your mistress," I said, speaking slowly and harshly, "that I will do as she wishes. That I am entirely at her service. Do you understand?"
"Yes, yes! I understand!" faltered Giacomo, nervously, "My master never thought me foolish--I could always understand him--"
"Do you know, my friend," I observed, in a purposely cold and cutting tone, "that I have heard somewhat too much about your master? The subject is tiresome to me! Were your master alive, he would say you were in your dotage! Take my message to the countess at once."
The old man's face paled and his lips quivered--he made an attempt to draw up his shrunken figure with a sort of dignity as he answered "Eccellenza, my master would never speak to me so--never, never!" Then his countenance fell, and he muttered, softly--"Though it is just--I am a fool--I am mistaken--quite mistaken--there is no resemblance!" After a little pause he added, humbly, "I will take your message, eccellenza." And stooping more than ever, he shambled out of the room. My heart smote me as he disappeared; I had spoken very harshly to the poor old fellow--but I instinctively felt that it was necessary to do so. His close and ceaseless examination of me--his timidity when he approached me--the strange tremors he experienced when I addressed him, were so many warnings to me to be on my guard with this devoted domestic. Were he, by some unforeseen chance, to recognize me, my plans would all be spoiled. I took my hat and left the house. As I crossed the upper terrace, I saw a small round object lying in the grass--it was Stella's ball that she used to throw for Wyvis to catch and bring to her. I picked up the poor plaything tenderly and put it in my pocket--and glancing up once more at the darkened nursery windows, I waved a kiss of farewell to my little one lying there in her last sleep. Then fiercely controlling all the weaker and softer emotions that threatened to overwhelm me, I hurried away. On my road to the hotel I stopped at the telegraph-office and dispatched the news of Stella's death to Guido Ferrari in Rome. He would be surprised, I thought, but certainly not grieved--the poor child had always been in his way. Would he come back to Naples to console the now childless widow? Not he!--he would know well that she stood in very small need of consolation--and that she took Stella's death as she had taken mine--as a blessing, and not a bereavement. On reaching my own rooms, I gave orders to Vincenzo that I was not at home to any one who might call--and I passed the rest of the day in absolute solitude. I had much to think of. The last frail tie between my wife and myself had been snapped asunder--the child, the one innocent link in the long chain of falsehood and deception, no longer existed. Was I glad or sorry for this? I asked myself the question a hundred times, and I admitted the truth, though I trembled to realize it. I was GLAD--yes--GLAD! Glad that my own child was dead! You call this inhuman perhaps? Why? She was bound to have been miserable; she was now happy!