But Girolamo could not yet find his voice, and Piero, with his hand on the latch of the great iron gates of the water-story, turned and called back: \"Women are not like men, and Marina is like no other woman that ever was born in Venice. Whether it be the priests that have bewitched her—may the Holy Madonna have mercy, and curse them for it!—or whether she be truly the Blessed Virgin of San Donato come to earth again, one knows not. But, Messer Magagnati,\"—and the voice came solemnly from the dark figure dimly outlined against the gray darkness beyond the iron bars,—\"thy daughter is dying for this curse of the Most Holy Father—''''il mal anno che Dio le dia!'''' (may heaven make him suffer for it!)—and she hath no peace in Venice. She will never forget nor change . If thy love be great, as thou hast said, thou wilt find some way to help her. For in Venice she hath no peace .\"
The old merchant, dazed by Piero''''s hot words, was a pitiful figure, standing, desolate, behind the closed bars of his gate, the night wind lifting his long beard and parting the thin gray locks that flowed from under his cap, while he called and beckoned impotently to Piero to return, repeating meanwhile mechanically, with no perception of their meaning, those strange words of Piero''''s—\" In Venice she hath no peace .\" He stood, peering out into the gray gloom and listening to the lessening plash of the oar, until the gondola of the gastaldo was already far on the way to San Marco, where sat the Ten.
But it was not of Piero''''s mission he was thinking, but of his child—saying over and over again those fateful words, \"In Venice she hath no peace.\" Had Piero said that?
Suddenly the entire speech recurred to him—insistent, tense with meaning. She could not live in Venice. Marina had no peace in Venice. She would never forget nor change. She had need of him—of her father''''s love; and if he loved enough, he would find a way !
Chilled and heart-sick he turned, and with no torch and missing the voice which had guided him through the long, dark passage, he groped his way to his cabinet and sat down to confront a graver problem than any he had ever conquered with Marina''''s aid. He would find a way—but \"it must not be in Venice!\" How could they leave Venice? Were they not Venetians born, and was not Venice in trouble? To leave her now were to deny her. It could not be !
He put the argument many times, feverishly at first, then more calmly—coming always to the same conclusion, \"it could not be.\" It was a comfort to reach so sensible and positive a decision. To-morrow he would go to his daughter, and meanwhile he must continue his work; he needed to reassert his power, for he had been strangely shaken.
He drew the scattered papers together, but the lines, blurred and confused, carried no meaning; the fragments of broken glass in the little trays beside him were a dull, untranslucent gray, and written all over papers and fragments, in vivid letters that burned into his brain, were those other terrible words of Piero''''s which he had tried in vain to forget—\"Thy daughter is dying for this curse.\" Marina—dying !
How should Piero know more about Marina than her own father knew? Did he profess to be a physician that one should credit his every word? What did he mean by his impudent boast of \"dying for her, if need should be!\" Had she not her husband and father to care for her? Her husband \"who was denying her the only thing that could give her life and peace,\" Piero had said.—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. He had not dreamed that he could ever say, while strength yet remained to think and plan, \"The house of Magagnati has touched its height, and others may come forward to do the rest for Venice.\"
And the secret lay so near—scarcely eluding him!
It was no mere empty jealousy, nor trivial wish for fame, nor greed of recompense—of which he had enough—that forced the veins out on the strong forehead of this master-worker, as he struggled with this question of surrendering all for his daughter''''s peace. It was the art in which his ancestors had taken the lead from the earliest industrial triumphs of the Republic—an art in which Venice stood first—and in his simple belief it was not less to their glory than the work of a Titian or a Sansovino. In this field he wrought whole-hearted, with the passion of an artist who has achieved, and his place and part in the Republic, as in life, was bounded for him by his art. \"To stand with folded hands—always, hereafter, to be unnecessary to Venice!\"