Part 53 (1/2)

CHAPTER XXIX.

Don Teodoro wrote a few words to Taquisara, embodying what Don. Matteo had advised him to say. He added also that matters had not turned out as he had expected and that he should return to Muro as usual on the twentieth of the month. The Sicilian, read the letter twice and then burned it carefully. He was neither surprised nor disappointed by its contents, though he had expected that there would be much more difficulty in undoing what had been done. There was clearly nothing more to be said, as there was most certainly nothing more to hope. Don Teodoro had undoubtedly consulted the archbishop of Naples, thought Taquisara, and such a decision was final and authoritative.

He had succeeded in forcing himself into a sort of mechanical regularity of life which helped him through the day. Gianluca needed him still, though less than formerly, and as long as he could be of use, and could control his face and voice, he would stay in Muro. Since Veronica had fixed the first of January as a limit, he could hardly find an excuse for going away during the last three weeks of the time, when he could still be of infinite service to his friend on the journey to Naples.

On the whole, he considered himself very little. It was easier to do his utmost, and to invent more than his utmost to be done, than it would be to live an idle life anywhere else.

Again, as in the early days, he avoided Veronica when he could do so, without attracting Gianluca's attention, and Veronica herself kept out of his way as much as she could. Without words they had a tacit understanding that they would never be left alone together, even for an instant.

One day, by chance, going in opposite directions through the house, they opened opposite doors of the same room and faced each other unexpectedly. For a single instant both paused, and then came forward to pa.s.s each other. Veronica held her head high and looked straight before her, for they had met already on that day, and there was no reason why she should speak to him. But Taquisara could not help looking into her face, and he saw how hard it tried to be and yet how, in spite of herself, it softened almost before she had pa.s.sed him. He turned and glanced at her retreating figure, and her head was bent low, and her right hand, hanging by her side, opened and shut twice convulsively, in his sight.

He had not dared to suggest to himself until then that she might possibly love him, but in the flash of that quick pa.s.sing he almost knew it. Then, before he had closed the door behind him and entered the next room, the knowledge was gone, and he cursed himself for the thought, as though it had been an insult to her. If he should have to pa.s.s her alone again, he would rather cut off his right hand than turn and look at her.

But that one moment, past and gone, had life in it to torment him night and day.

Gianluca was no better, and no worse. He wheeled himself about the great rooms, and on fine mornings Veronica took him to drive. She read to him, played besique with him, fenced with Taquisara to amuse him; she devoted herself to him in every way; but as day followed day, she invented all sorts of occupations and games which should take the place of conversation. Anything was better than talking with him, now; anything was better than to hear him say that he loved her, expecting her to p.r.o.nounce the words.

He himself lost heart suddenly.

”I shall never walk again,” he said, one afternoon, as they sat together in the big room.

The days were very short, for it was mid-December, and the lamps had been brought. They had been out in the carriage, and when Taquisara had lifted him from his seat, he had made a desperate attempt to move his legs, a sudden effort into which he had thrown all the concentrated hope and will that were still in him. But there had been neither motion nor sensation, and all at once he had felt that it was all over, forever.

Veronica looked at him quickly, and he was watching her face. He saw no contradiction there of what he had said, but only a little surprise that he should have said it.

”You may not be able to walk as soon as we thought,” she answered gently. ”But that is no reason why you should never walk at all.”

”I am afraid it is,” he said.

She stroked his hand, as she often did, and her eyes wandered from his face to the other side of the room, and back again.

”I have been trying very hard to get well,” he continued presently.

”Harder than any one knows.”

”I know,” Veronica answered. ”You are so brave!”

”Brave? No. I am desperate. Do you think I do not know what it must be to you, to be tied to a hopeless cripple like me?”

”Tied? I?” She spoke bravely, for it would have been a deadly cruelty not to contradict him. ”It is for you,” she went on. ”You must not think of me as tied to you, dear, as you call it! I did it gladly, of my own free will, and I knew what I was doing.”

”Ah no!” he answered sadly. ”You could not have known what you were doing, then. Your whole life has only saved half of mine.”

A chill of fear shot through Veronica's heart.

”Dear,” she said anxiously and nervously. ”Have I done anything to make you talk like this?”

”Yes, love, you have done much,” he answered, with a tender, regretful look. ”No--do not start! I am sorry that you did not understand. It is because you do so much, because you give your whole life for my wretched existence, because I know what my hours of happiness cost you now and will cost you hereafter. That is why I say these things. It would have been so much easier and simpler if I had died with my hand in yours, that day, when Don Teodoro married us. Veronica--tell me--did he say all the words? I fainted, I think.”

”Yes,” answered Veronica, still pale. ”He said all the words.”