Part 13 (1/2)
”It is not the truth,” answered the nun, slowly. ”You tell me it is, to tempt me. I cannot drive you away by force. Will you not go? I cannot cry out for help--it would ruin me and you. Will you not leave me? But for G.o.d's grace, I am at your mercy, and there is little grace for me, a sinner.”
”No, I will not go away,” said Dalrymple, and it seemed to Maria that his voice was the voice of her fate.
”Then G.o.d have mercy!” she cried, in a low tone, and as her head sank forward, it was her forehead that rested in her right hand, instead of her chin.
”Love is more merciful than G.o.d,” he answered.
There was a sudden softness in his voice which she had never heard, not even yesterday. Rising, he stole near to her, and standing, bent down and leaned upon the table by her side and spoke close to her ear. But he did not touch her. She could feel his breath through her veil when he spoke again. It was vital and fierce, and softly hot, like the breathing of a powerful wild beast.
”You are my G.o.d,” he said. ”I wors.h.i.+p you, and adore you. But I must have you for mine always. I would rather kill you, and have no G.o.d, than lose you alive. Come with me. You are free. You can get through the garden at night--with good horses we can reach the sea to-morrow. There is an English s.h.i.+p of war at anchor in Civita Vecchia. The officers are my friends. Before to-morrow night we can be safe--married--happy. No one will know--no one will follow us. Maria--come--come--come!”
His voice sank to a vibrating whisper as he repeated the word again and again, closer and closer to her ear. Her hands had dropped from her forehead and lay upon the table. With bent head she listened.
”Come, my darling,” he continued, fast and low. ”I have a beautiful home, my father's home, my mother's--your laws and vows are nothing to them. You shall be honoured, loved--ah, dear! adored, wors.h.i.+pped--you do not know what we will do for you, to fill your life with sweet things.
All your life, Maria, from to-morrow. Instead of pain and penance and everlasting suffering and weariness, you shall have all that the world holds of love and peace and flowers. And you shall sing your whole heart out when you will, and have music to play with from year's beginning to year's end and year's end again. Sweet, let me tell you how I love you--how you are alive in every drop of my blood, beating through me like living fire, through heart and soul and head and hand--”
With a quick movement she pressed her palms against her veil upon her ears to shut out the sound of his words. She rocked herself a little, as though the pain were almost greater than she could bear. But his hands moved too, stealthily, strongly, as a tiger's velvet feet, with a vibration all through them, to the very ends of his fingers. For he was in earnest. And the arm went softly round her, and closed gently upon her as her figure swayed in her chair; and the other sought hers, and found it cold as ice and trembling, and not strong to stop her hearing.
And again she listened.
Wild and incoherent words fell from his lips, hot and low, with no reason in them but the overwhelming reason of love itself. For he was not an eloquent man, and now he took no thought of what he said. He was far too natural to be eloquent, and far too deeply stirred to care for the shape his love took in speech. There was in his words the strong rush of out-bursting truth which even the worst pa.s.sion has when it is real to the roots. Words terrible and gentle, blasphemous and devout, wove themselves into a new language such as Maria Addolorata had never heard, nor dared to think of hearing. But he dared everything, to tell her, to hold her, against G.o.d and devil, heaven and earth, and all mankind. And he promised all he had, and all that was not his to promise nor to give, rending her beliefs to shreds, trampling on the broken fragments of all she had wors.h.i.+pped, tearing her chains link from link and scattering them like straw down the storm of pa.s.sionate contempt.
And then, again, pouring out love, and more love, and love again, as a stream of liquid fire let loose to flood all it meets with dazzling destruction and hot death.
It is not every woman that knows what it is to be so loved and to listen to such words, so spoken. Those who have heard and felt can understand, but not the rest. Gradually as he spoke, her veiled face was drawn toward his; gradually her hand raised the thick veil and drew it back; and again a little, and the hand that had struggled long and silently against his, lay still at last, and the face that had appealed in vain to Heaven, hid itself against the heart of the strong man.
”The Lord have mercy upon my sinful soul!” she softly prayed.
”I love you!” whispered Dalrymple, folding her to him with both his arms, and pressing his lips to her head. ”That is all the world holds.
That is all the Heaven there is, and we have it for our own.”
But presently she drew back from him, clinging to him with her hands as though to hold him, and yet separating from him and looking up into his face.
”And to-morrow?” she said, with a despairing question in her tone.
”We will go away to-night,” he answered, ”and to-morrow will be ours, too, and all the to-morrows after that.”
But she shook her head, and her hands loosened their hold upon his arms, still lingering on his sleeves.
”And leave her to die?” she asked, with a quick glance at the abbess's door.
Then she looked at him, with something of sudden fear as she met his eyes again. And almost instantly she turned from him, and threw herself forward upon the table as she sat.
”The sin, the deadly sin!” she moaned. ”Oh, the horror of it all--the sin, the shame, the disgrace! That is the worst to bear--the shame! The undying shame of it!”
Dalrymple's brows bent themselves in a heavy frown, for he was in no temper to be thwarted, desperate as the risk might be. For himself, he knew that he was setting his life on the chances, if she consented, and that life would not be worth having if she refused. He knew well enough that they must almost certainly be pursued, and that there would be little hesitation about shooting him or cutting his throat if they were caught and if he resisted, as he knew that he should. He had been in love with her for days. The last twenty-four hours had made him desperate. And a desperate man is not to be played with, more especially if he chance to have any Highland blood in his veins.
”What do you believe in most?” he asked suddenly and almost brutally.
She turned, startled, and looked him in the face.
”Because, if you believe in G.o.d, as I suppose you do, I take G.o.d to witness that I shall be a dead man this night, unless you promise to go with me.”