Thus nearly two years passed, and a lovely child appeared to bind the lovers with closer ties, and to fill their humble roof with smiles and joy.
Ludovico seldom went to Mondolfo; and his father, continuing his ancient policy, and glad that in his attachment to a peasant-girl he had relieved his mind from the fear of brilliant connections and able friends, even dispensed with his attendance when he visited Naples. Fernando did not suspect that his son had married his lowborn favorite; if he had, his aversion for him would not have withheld him from resisting so degrading an alliance; and, while his blood flowed in Ludovico’s veins, he would never have avowed offspring who were contaminated by a peasant’s less highly-sprung tide.
Ludovico had nearly completely his twentieth year when his elder brother died. Prince Mondolfo at that time spent four months at Naples, endeavoring to bring to a conclusion a treaty of marriage he had entered into between his heir and the daughter of a noble Neapolitan house, when this death overthrew his hopes, and he retired in grief and mourning to his castle. A few weeks of sorrow and reason restored him to himself. He had loved even this favored eldest son more as the heir of his name and fortune than as his child; and the web destroyed that he had woven for him, he quickly began another.
Ludovico was summoned to his father’s presence. Old habit yet rendered such a summons momentous; but the youth, with a proud smile, threw off these boyish cares, and stood with a gentle dignity before his altered parent.
“Ludovico,” said the Prince, “four years ago you refused to take a priest’s vows, and then you excited my utmost resentment; now I thank you for that resistance.”
A slight feeling of suspicion crossed Ludovico’s mind that his father was about to cajole him for some evil purpose. Two years before he would have acted on such a thought, but the habit of happiness made him unsuspicious. He bent his head gently.
“Ludovico,” continued his father, while pride and a wish to conciliate disturbed his mind and even his countenance, “my son, I have used you hardly; but that time is now past.”
Ludovico gently replied:
“My father, I did not deserve your ill-treatment; I hope I shall merit your kindness when I know—”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted Fernando, uneasily, “you do not understand—you desire to know why—in short, you, Ludovico, are now all my hope—Olympio is dead—the house of Mondolfo has no support but you—”
“Pardon me,” replied the youth. “Mondolfo is in no danger; you, my lord, are fully able to support and even to augment its present dignity.”
“You do not understand. Mondolfo has no support but you. I am old, I feel my age, and these gray hairs announce it to me too glaringly. There is no collateral branch, and my hope must rest in your children—”
“My children, my lord!” replied Ludovico. “I have only one; and if the poor little boy—”
“What folly is this?” cried Fernando, impatiently. “I speak of your marriage and not—”
“My lord, my wife is ever ready to pay her duteous respects to you—”
“Your wife, Ludovico! But you speak without thought. How? Who?”
“The violet-girl, my lord.”
A tempest had crossed the countenance of Fernando. That his son, unknown to him, should have made an unworthy alliance, convulsed every fiber of his frame, and the lowering of his brows and his impatient gesture told the intolerable anguish of such a thought. The last words of Ludovico restored him. It was not his wife that he thus named—he felt assured that it was not. He smiled somewhat gloomily, still it was a smile of satisfaction.
“Yes,” he replied, “I understand; but you task my patience—you should not trifle with such a subject or with me. I talk of your marriage. Now that Olympio is dead, and you are, in his place, heir of Mondolfo, you may, in his stead, conclude the advantageous, nay, even princely, alliance I was forming for him.”
Ludovico replied with earnestness:
“You are pleased to misunderstand me. I am already married. Two years ago, while I was still the despised, insulted Ludovico, I formed this connection, and it will be my pride to show the world how, in all but birth, my peasant-wife is able to follow the duties of her distinguished situation.”
Fernando was accustomed to command himself. He felt as if stabbed by a poniard; but he paused till calm and voice returned, and then he said:
“You have a child?”
“An heir, my lord,” replied Ludovico, smiling—for his father’s mildness deceived him—“a lovely, healthy boy.”
“They live near here?”
“I can bring them to Mondolfo in an hour’s space. Their cottage is in the forest, about a quarter of a mile east of the convent of Santa Chiara.”
“Enough, Ludovico; you have communicated strange tidings, and I must consider of them. I will see you again this evening.”
Ludovico bowed and disappeared. He hastened to his cottage, and related all that he remembered or understood of this scene, and bade Viola prepare to come to the castle at an instant’s notice. Viola trembled; it struck her that all was not so fair as Ludovico represented; but she hid her fears, and even smiled as her husband with a kiss hailed his boy as heir of Mondolfo.
Fernando had commanded both look and voice while his son was within hearing. He had gone to the window of his chamber, and stood steadily gazing on the drawbridge until Ludovico crossed it and disappeared. Then, unrestrained, he strode up and down the apartment, while the roof rang with his impetuous tread. He uttered cries and curses, and struck his head with his clenched fist. It was long ere he could think—he felt only, and feeling was torture. The tempest at length subsided, and he threw himself in his chair. His contracted brows and frequently-convulsed lips showed how entirely he
