Part 11 (1/2)

He was annoyed, however, by what she said this evening, though he was also secretly surprised and delighted. The contradiction is a common one. The miser is half mad with joy on discovering that he has much more than he supposed, and bitterly resents, at the same time, any notice which may be taken of the fact by others.

Annetta did not enjoy his discomfiture and evident embarra.s.sment, for she was far more deeply hurt herself than she realized, and every word she had spoken about Maria Addolorata had hurt her, though she had taken a sort of vague delight in teasing Dalrymple. She relapsed into silence now, alternately wis.h.i.+ng that he loved her, and then, that she might kill him. If she could not have his heart, she would be satisfied with his blood. There was a pa.s.sionate animal longing in the instinct to have him for herself, even dead, rather than that any other woman should get his love.

Dalrymple was aware only that the girl's words had annoyed him, while inwardly conscious that if what she said were true, the truth would make a difference in his life. He showed no inclination to talk any more, and finished his supper in a rather morose silence, turning to his book as soon as he had done. Then Gigetto came in with his guitar and sang and talked with the two women.

But he was restless that night, and did not fall asleep until the moon had set and his window grew dark. And even in his dreams he was restless still, so that when he awoke in the morning he said to himself that he had been foolish in his behaviour towards Maria Addolorata on the previous day. He felt tired, too, and his colour was less brilliant than usual. It was Sunday, and he remembered that if he chose he could go in the afternoon to the Benediction in the convent church and hear Maria's voice perhaps. But at the usual hour, just before noon, he went to make his visit to the abbess.

It was his intention to forget his stiff manner, and to behave as he had always behaved until yesterday. Strange to say, however, he felt a constraint coming upon him as soon as he was in the nun's presence. She received him as usual, there was the usual comic scene at the abbess's door, and, as every day, the two were alone together after her door was shut.

”Are you ill?” asked Maria Addolorata, after a moment's silence which, short as it was, both felt to be awkward.

Dalrymple was taken by surprise. The tone in which she had spoken was cold and distant rather than expressive of any concern for his welfare, but he did not think of that. He only realized that his manner must seem to her very unusual, since she asked such a question. An Italian would have observed that his own face was pale, and would have told her that he was dying of love.

”No, I am not ill,” answered the Scotchman, simply, and in his most natural tone of voice.

”Then what is the matter with you since yesterday?” asked Maria Addolorata, less coldly, and as though she were secretly amused.

”There is nothing the matter--at least, nothing that I could explain to you.”

She sat down in the big easy-chair and, as formerly, he took his seat opposite to her.

”There is something,” she insisted, speaking thoughtfully. ”You cannot deceive a woman, Signor Doctor.”

Dalrymple smiled and looked at her veiled head.

”You said the other day that I was not a man, but a doctor,” he answered. ”I suppose I might answer that you are not a woman, but a nun.”

”And is not a nun a woman?” asked Maria Addolorata, and he knew that she was smiling, too.

”You would not forgive me if I answered you,” he said.

”Who knows? I might be obliged to, since I am obliged to meet you every day. It may be a sin, but I am curious.”

”Shall I tell you?”

As though instinctively, Maria was silent for a moment, and turned her veiled face towards the abbess's door. But Dalrymple needed no such warning to lower his voice.

”Tell me,” she said, and under her veil she could feel that her eyes were growing deep and the pupils wide and dark, and she knew that she had done wrong.

”How should I know whether you are a saint or only a woman, since I have never seen your face?” he asked. ”I shall never know--for in a few days Doctor Taddei will be well again, and you will not need my services.”

He saw the quick tightening of one hand upon the other, and the slight start of the head, and in a flash he knew that all Annetta had told him was true. The silence that followed seemed longer than the awkward pause which had preceded the conversation.

”It cannot be so soon,” she said in a very low tone.

”It may be to-morrow,” he answered, and to his own astonishment his voice almost broke in his throat, and he felt that his own hands were twisting each other, as though he were in pain. ”I shall die without seeing you,” he added almost roughly.

Again there was a short silence in the still room.

Suddenly, with quick movements of both hands at once, Maria Addolorata threw back the veil from her face, and drew away the folds that covered her mouth.