Part 12 (2/2)
When she returned, she was surprised to see her husband standing before the window, with his back to the broad suns.h.i.+ne, peacefully smoking a cigarette. The smoke curled lazily about his grey head, in the quiet air, as he allowed it to issue from his parted lips almost without the help of his breath. His face was like stone, but as he opened his mouth to let out the wreathing smoke, his lips smiled in an unnatural way.
Matilde half unconsciously compared him to one of those grimacing Chinese monsters of grey porcelain, made for burning incense and perfumes, from whose stony jaws the thick smoke comes out on the right and left in slowly curling strings. His expression did not change when he saw her, and as he stood with his back to the light, his small eyes were quite invisible in his face.
”What news?” he asked calmly, as he closed the door and came forward into the room. ”Is all going well?”
His breath, as he spoke, blew the clouds of smoke from his face in thin puffs.
”If you wish things to go well,” answered Matilde, ”leave everything to me. Do not interfere. You have an unlucky hand.”
She sat down in the corner of the sofa, taking a book from the table, but not yet opening it. He smoked in silence for a moment.
”Yes,” he said, presently. ”I have been unfortunate. But I have great confidence in you, Matilde--great confidence.”
”That is fortunate,” replied his wife, coldly. ”It would be hard, if there were no confidence on either side.”
”Yes. Of course, you have none in me?”
He laughed suddenly, and the sound was jarring and startling, like the unexpected breaking of plates in a quiet room. Matilde's lips quivered and her brow contracted spasmodically. She hated his voice at all times, as she hated him and all that belonged to him and his being; but during the past twenty-four hours he had developed this strange laugh which set her teeth on edge every time she heard it.
”What is the matter with you?” she asked impatiently. ”Why do you laugh in that way?”
”Did I laugh?” he inquired, by way of answer. ”It was unconscious. But my voice was never musical. However, in the present state of our family affairs, a little laughter might divert our thoughts. Have you seen Bosio to-day? Why did he not come to luncheon? I hope he is not ill, just at this moment.”
Matilda 'placed' her voice carefully, as a singer would do, before she answered.
”He is not ill,” she said. ”He was here an hour ago. I did not ask him why he did not come to luncheon, because it did not concern me.”
”Well? And the rest?”
”The rest? How anxious you are!” she exclaimed scornfully. ”The rest is as well as ill can be. I think he will marry Veronica.”
”I should suppose so, if she will marry him,” observed Macomer. ”It would be as sensible to doubt that a starving man would take bread, as to question whether a poor man will accept a fortune, especially in such an agreeable shape. It is quite another matter, whether the fortune will give itself to the poor man. What does Veronica say? Is she pleased with the idea?”
”Moderately. She has not refused. She wishes to think about it.”
”I hope that she will not think too long. To-day is the tenth of December. There are just three weeks. By the bye, Matilde, I hope you have put the will in a safe place. Where is it?”
Matilde paused two seconds before she answered. Though she could not imagine in what way Gregorio could improve his desperate position by getting the will out of her hands, nor by tampering with it, of which she knew him to be quite capable, yet, on general principles, she distrusted him so wholly and profoundly that she determined to deceive him as to the place in which she kept it. Being clever at concealing things, she began by showing it to him. She rose, took a key from behind a photograph on the mantelpiece, and unlocked the drawer of her writing-table. The will lay there, folded in a big envelope.
”Here it is,” she said. ”Do you wish to look over it again?”
She drew it half out of the cover and held it up before him. He recognized the doc.u.ment and seemed satisfied.
”Oh! no,” he answered. ”I know it by heart. I only wished to know where it was.”
”Very well; it is here,” said Matilde, putting it back and locking the drawer again. ”I generally carry the key about with me,” she added carelessly, ”but I have no pocket in this gown, so I laid it behind that photograph. It is not a very good place for it, is it?”
She hesitated, holding the key in her hand, and looking about the room while he watched her. The woman's enormous power of deception showed itself in the spontaneous facility with which she went through a complicated little scene, quite improvised, in order to mislead her husband. She knew that he himself would suggest some place for the key to lie in.
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