Part 46 (2/2)

She could not regret what she had done. With an attempt at self-examination, which was only a self-justification, she tried to recall the early days when she had loved her husband, and to conjure up the face with the gentle light in it. She failed, of course, and the picture that came disgusted her and was unutterably contemptible and weak and full of cowardice. The face of Paul Griggs came in its place a moment later, and she heard in her ears the deep, stern voice, quavering with strength rather than with weakness, and she could feel the arms she loved about her, pressing her almost to pain, able to press her to death in their love-clasp.

The hands of the clock went on, and Reanda did not come. She was surprised to find how long she had waited, and with a revulsion of feeling she rose to her feet. If he would not come, she would not wait for him. She was hungry, too. It was absurd, perhaps, but she would not eat his bread nor sit at his table, not even alone. She went to her writing-table and wrote a note to him, short, cruel, and decisive. She wrote that if her father had been in Rome she would have gone to him for protection. As he was absent, she had gone to her father's best friend and her own--to Paul Griggs. She said nothing more. He might interpret the statement as he pleased. She sealed the note and addressed it, and before she went out of the house she gave it to the servant, to be given to Reanda as soon as he came home. The man-servant went downstairs with her, and stood looking after the little open cab; he saw Gloria speak to the coachman, who nodded and changed his direction before they were out of sight.

At the door in the Via della Frezza the cabman let down Gloria's luggage and drove away. She stood still a moment and looked at the one-eyed cobbler.

”You have given the signore a beautiful fright,” observed the old man.

”I told him you had gone out. With one jump he was upstairs. By this time he cries.”

Gloria took a silver piece of two pauls from her purse.

”Can you carry up these things for me?” she inquired, concealing her annoyance at the man's speech.

”I am not a porter,” said the cobbler, with his head on one side. ”But one must live. With courage and money one makes war. There are three pieces. One at a time. But you must watch the door while I carry up the box. If any one should steal my tools, it would be a beautiful day's work. Without them I should be in the middle of the street. You will understand, Signora. It is not to do you a discourtesy, but my tools are my bread. Without them I cannot eat. There is also the left boot of Sor Ercole. If any one were to steal it, Sor Ercole would go upon one leg.

Imagine the disgrace!”

”I will stay here,” said Gloria. ”Do not be afraid.”

The cobbler, who was a strong old man, got hold of the trunk and shouldered it with ease. When he stood up, Gloria saw that he was bandy-legged and very short.

She turned and stood on the threshold of the street door as she had stood on the previous night. No one would have believed that a few hours earlier the rain had fallen in torrents, for the pavement was dry, and even under the arch there seemed to be no dampness. Looking up the street towards the Corso, she saw that there was a wine shop, a few doors higher on the opposite side. Two or three men were standing before it, under the brown bush which served for a sign, and amongst them she saw a peasant in blue cloth clothes with silver b.u.t.tons and clean white stockings. She recognized him as the man who had held his umbrella over her in the storm. He also saw her, lifted his felt hat and came forwards, crossing the street. His look was fixed on her face with a stare of curiosity as he stood before her.

”I hope you have not caught cold, Signora,” he said, with steady, unwinking eyes. ”We pa.s.sed a beautiful storm. Signora, I sell wine to that host. If you should need wine, I recommend him to you.” He pointed to the shop.

”You told me to ask for you at the Piazza Montanara,” said Gloria, smiling.

”With that water you could not see the shop,” answered Stefanone.

”Signora, you are very beautiful. With permission, I say that you should not walk alone at night.”

”It was the first and last time,” said Gloria. ”Fortunately, I met a person of good manners. I thank you again.”

”Signora, you are so beautiful that the Madonna and her angels always accompany you. With permission, I go. Good day.”

To the last, until he turned, he kept his eyes steadily fixed on Gloria's face, as though searching for a resemblance in her features.

She noticed his manner and remembered him very distinctly after the second meeting.

The cobbler came back again, closely followed by Griggs himself, who said nothing, but took possession of the small valise and bag which Gloria had brought in addition to her box. He led the way, and she followed him swiftly. Inside the door of his lodging he turned and looked at her.

”Please do not go away suddenly without telling me,” he said in a low voice. ”I am easily frightened about you.”

”Really?”

Gloria held out her two hands to meet him. He nodded as he took them.

”That is better than anything you have ever said to me.” She drew him to her.

It was natural, for she was thinking how Reanda had calmly gone back to his work that morning, without so much as asking for her. The contrast was too great and too strong, between love and indifference.

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