--What was the matter with his insulting words, that he could
not forget them?--Had she not her father, who was going to her on the
morrow, when he had matured his plans, and would do whatever she
wished--"in Venice"? Her father "who loved her, as his own soul"--that
was what he had said to Piero, with the memory of all those dear years
when they had been all in all to each other, in this home.
Was it for hours or moments only that he sat in torture--enduring,
reasoning, placing love against pride, Marina against Venice, Venice
against a father's weakness, duty to the Republic before the need of
this only child who was "soul of his soul"?
The last of his race--inheriting the traditions and passionate
attachments of that long line of loyal men who had founded and built up
the stabilimento which was the pride of Murano; of the people, yet
ennobled by the proffer of the Senate, and grandsire to the son of one
of the highest nobles of the Republic--what was there left in life for
him away from Venice? How should he bear to die dishonored and
disinherited by the country which he had deserted in her hour of
struggle? For never any more might one return who should desert Venice
for Rome!
And those panes of brilliant, crystal clarity which he had dreamed of
adding to the honors of the Stabilimento Magagnati--so strong that a
single sheet might be framed in the great spaces of the windows of the
palaces and show neither curve nor flaw--so pure that their only trace
of color should come from a chance reflection which would but lend added
charm--these might not be the discovery of his later days, though the
time was near in which this gift _must_ come to Venice.
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