It was an illusion fresh
from his youth: his love for the mother had revived in a gentler and
holier form for her child, and now that, too, must perish. He felt as
if punished for a weakness; and all Giulietta's supplications were
rejected: for pride made his anger seem principle. "I have been once
deceived," said he; "it will be my own fault if I am deceived again."
Yet how tenderly was his kindness remembered, how bitterly was his
indignation deplored, by the youthful Countess da Carrara!--for such
she now was--Lorenzo's father having died suddenly, soon after their
union. The period of mourning was a relief; for bridal pomp and gaiety
would have seemed too like a mockery, while thus unforgiven and
unblessed by one who had been as a father in his care. At her earnest
wish they fixed their first residence in the marine villa where her
mother died.
"And shall you not be sad, my Giulietta?" asked her husband. "Methinks
the memory of the dead is but a mournful welcome to our home."
"Tender, not mournful," said she. "I do believe that even now my
mother watches over her child, and every prayer she once breathed,
every precept she once taught, will come more freshly home to my
heart, when each place recalls some word or some look there heard and
there watched. It is for your sake, Lorenzo, I would be like my
mother."
They went to that fair villa by the sea; and pleasantly did many a
morn pass in the large hall, on whose frescoed walls was painted the
story of Oenone, she whom the Trojan prince left, only to return and
die at her feet.
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