Part 14 (1/2)

”I cannot do it--oh, I cannot!” she said despairingly. ”The shame of it!

To be the talk of Rome--the scandal of the day--a disgrace to my father and mother!”

Dalrymple frowned, and biting his lip, he struck his clenched fist softly with the palm of his hand, making a few quick steps backward and forward. He stopped suddenly and looked at her with dangerous eyes.

”I have told you,” he said. ”I will not repeat it. You must choose.”

”Oh, you cannot be in earnest--”

”You shall see. It is plain enough,” he added, with an accent of scorn.

”You are more afraid of a little talk and gossip in Rome, than of being told to-morrow morning that I died in the night. That is Italian courage, I suppose.”

She hung her head for a moment. Then, as she heard his footsteps, she threw her veil back and saw that he was going towards the door without a word.

”You are cruel,” she said, half catching her breath. ”You know that you make me suffer--that I cannot live without you.”

”I shall certainly not live without you,” he answered. ”I mean to have you at any price, or I will die in the attempt to get you.”

The words have a melodramatic look on paper. But he spoke them not only with his lips, but with his whole self. They were not out of keeping with his nature. There is no more desperate blood in the world's veins than that of the Celt when he is driven to bay or exasperated by pa.s.sion. In him the reckless fatalism of the Asiatic is blended with the cool daring of the northerner.

Maria Addolorata had little experience of the world or of men, but she had the hereditary instincts of her s.e.x, and as she looked at Dalrymple she recognized in him the man who would do what he said, or forfeit his life in trying to do it. There is no mistaking the truth about such men, at such moments.

”I believe you would,” she said, and she felt pride in saying it.

Her own life was in the balance. She bent her head again. Her temples were throbbing, and it was hard to think at all connectedly.

”I want your answer,” he said, still standing near the door. ”Yes or no--for to-morrow night?”

”I cannot live without you,” she answered slowly, and still looking down. ”I must go.”

But she did not meet his eyes, for she knew that she was wavering still, and almost as uncertain as before. All at once Dalrymple's manner changed. He came quietly to her side and took one of her hands, which hung idly over the back of the chair, in both of his.

”You must be in earnest, as I am, my dear,” he said, very calmly and gently. ”You must not play with a man's life and heart, as though they were worth nothing but play. You called me cruel, dear, a moment ago.

But you are more cruel than I, for I do not hesitate.”

”I must go,” she repeated, still avoiding his look. ”Yes, I must go. I should die without you.”

”But to-morrow when I come, you will hesitate again,” he said, still speaking very quietly. ”I must be sure. You must give me some promise, something more than you have given me yet.”

She looked up with startled eyes.

”You do not believe me?” she asked. ”What shall I do? I--I promise! You yourself have never said that you promised.”

”Does it need that?” He pressed the hand he held, with softly increasing strength, between his palms.

”No,” she answered, looking at him. ”I can see it. You will do what you say. I have promised, too.”

He gazed incredulously into her face.