Part 27 (1/2)

Six hours had not pa.s.sed before you had broken your word. That is the sort of faith you keep with me.”

Pietro Ghisleri began to think that his misfortunes would never end. For some time he sat in silence, staring before him. Should he tell her the whole story? Should he go over the abominable scene with Campodonico, and tell her all the atrocious insults he had patiently borne for Bianca Corleone's sake, until Maddalena's own name had seemed to set him free from his obligation to the dead woman? He reflected that it would sound extremely theatrical and perhaps improbable in her ears, for she distrusted him enough already. Besides, if she believed him, to tell her would only be to afford his own vanity a base satisfaction. This last view was perhaps a false one, but with his character it was not unnatural.

”I have kept my word,” he said at last, ”for I have borne all that a man can bear to avoid this quarrel.”

”I am sorry you should be able to bear so little for me,” answered Maddalena, her voice as hard as ever.

”I have done my best. I am only a man after all. If you had heard what pa.s.sed, you would probably now say that I am right.”

”You always take shelter behind a.s.sertions of that kind. I know it is of no use to ask you to tell me the whole story, for if you were willing to tell it, you would have told it to me already. No one can conceal fact as you can and yet never be caught in a downright falsehood. Half an hour ago, when we were sitting in that other room, you knew just as well as you do now that you were to fight to-morrow, and you had not the slightest intention of telling me.”

”Not the slightest. Men do not talk about such things. It is not in good taste, and not particularly honourable, in my opinion.”

”Good taste and honour!” exclaimed the Contessa, scornfully. ”You talk as though we were strangers! Indeed, I think we are coming to that, as fast as we can.”

”I trust not.”

”The phrase, again! What should you say, after all? You must say something when I put the matter plainly. It would not be in good taste, if you did not contradict me when I tell you that you do not love me.

All things considered, perhaps you do not even think it honourable. You are very considerate, and I am immensely grateful. Perhaps you are thinking, too, that it would be more decent, and in better taste on my part, to let you go, now that I have discovered the truth. I am almost inclined to think so. I have seen it long, and I have been foolish to doubt my senses.”

”For Heaven's sake, do not be so bitter and unjust,” said Ghisleri earnestly.

”I am neither. Do you know why I have clung to you? Shall I tell you? It may hurt you, and I am bad enough to wish to hurt you to-night--to wish that you might suffer something of what I feel.”

”I am ready,” answered Pietro.

”Do you know why I have clung to you, I ask? I will tell you the truth.

It was my last chance of respecting myself, my last hold on womanliness, on everything that a woman cares to be. And you have succeeded in taking that from me. You found me a good wife. You know what I am now--what you have made me. Remember that to-morrow morning, when you are risking your life for Lady Herbert Arden. Do you understand me? Have I hurt you?”

”Yes.” Ghisleri bowed his head, and pa.s.sed his hand over his forehead.

What she said was terribly, irrefutably true. The vision of true love, revived within the last few days, and delusive still that very afternoon, had vanished, and only the other, the vision of sin, remained, clear, sharp, and cruelly well-defined. He made no attempt to deny what she said, even in his own heart, for it would not be denied.

”I cannot even ask you to forgive me that,” he said at last in a low tone.

”No. You cannot even ask that, for you knew what you were doing--I scarcely did. Not that I excuse myself. I was willing to risk everything, and I did, blindly, for the sake of a real love. You see what I have got. You cannot love me, but you shall not forget me. Heaven is too just. And so, good-bye!”

”I hope it may be good-bye, indeed,” said Ghisleri.

”Not that--no, not that!” exclaimed Maddalena. ”I wish you no evil--no harm. I had a right to say what I have said. I shall never say it again--for there will be no need. Take me back, please.”

She rose to go, and her finely chiselled face was as hard as steel. In silence they went back to the supper-room, and a few moments later Ghisleri left her with Francesco Savelli and went home. On his table he found a note from his seconds, as had been arranged, naming the place and hour agreed upon for the duel, and stating that they would call for him in good time. He tossed it into the fire which still smouldered on the hearth, as he did with everything in the nature of notes and letters which came to him. He never kept a sc.r.a.p of writing of any sort, except such as chanced to be connected with business matters and the administration of his small estate. He hesitated long as to whether he should write to Maddalena or not, sitting for nearly half an hour at his writing-table with a pen in his fingers and a sheet of paper before him.

After all, what could he write? A justification of himself in the question of fighting with Campodonico? What difference could it make now? All had been said, and the end had come, as he had of late known that it must, though it had been abrupt and unexpected at the last minute. It was all the same now whether he should afterwards be said to have fought for Laura or for Maddalena. Besides, in real truth, if it were known, he was fighting for neither. Gianforte's old hatred had suddenly flamed up again, and if he had spoken Maddalena's name it was only because he found that no other means could prevail upon the man he hated to break his solemn vow, and because he knew that no man would bear tamely an insult of that kind cast upon a woman he was bound in honour to defend. But all that had been only the result of circ.u.mstances. The quarrel was really the old one in which they had fought so desperately, long ago. The dead Bianca's memory still lived, and had power to bring two brave men face to face in a death struggle.

Ghisleri rose from the table and stood before the photograph of the picture which had brought matters to the present pa.s.s. For the thousandth time he gazed at the wonderful likeness of her he had loved, perfect in all points, as chance had made it under the hand of a man who had never seen her.

”I made a promise to you once,” he said, in a low voice, ”and I have kept it as well as I could. I will make another, for your dear sake and memory. I will not again bring unhappiness upon any woman.”