Part 23 (1/2)
Gregory did not sleep, and he did not find peace in the prayers he put up for guidance. He tried to think of some one with whom he might take counsel; but he knew no one in Florence except the parents of his pupil, and they were impossible. He felt himself abandoned to the impulse which he dreaded, in going to Clementina, and he went without hope, willing to suffer whatever penalty she should visit upon him, after he had disavowed Belsky's action, and claimed the responsibility for it.
He was prepared for her refusal to see him; he had imagined her wounded and pathetic; he had fancied her insulted and indignant; but she met him eagerly and with a mystifying appeal in her welcome. He began at once, without attempting to bridge the time since they had met with any formalities.
”I have come to speak to you about--that--Russian, about Baron Belsky--”
”Yes, yes!” she returned, anxiously. ”Then you have hea'd”
”He came to me last night, and--I want to say that I feel myself to blame for what he has done.”
”You?”
”Yes; I. I never spoke of you by name to him; I didn't dream of his ever seeing you, or that he would dare to speak to you of what I told him.
But I believe he meant no wrong; and it was I who did the harm, whether I authorized it or not.”
”Yes, yes!” she returned, with the effect of putting his words aside as something of no moment. ”Have they head anything more?”
”How, anything more?” he returned, in a daze.
”Then, don't you know? About his falling into the river? I know he didn't drown himself.”
Gregory shook his head. ”When--what makes them think”--He stopped and stared at her.
”Why, they know that he went down to the Ponte Trinity last night; somebody saw him going: And then that peasant found his hat with his name in it in the drift-wood below the Cascine--”
”Yes,” said Gregory, lifelessly. He let his arms drop forward, and his helpless hands hang over his knees; his gaze fell from her face to the floor.
Neither spoke for a time that seemed long, and then it was Clementina who spoke. ”But it isn't true!”
”Oh, yes, it is,” said Gregory, as before.
”Mr. Hinkle doesn't believe it is,” she urged.
”Mr. Hinkle?”
”He's an American who's staying in Florence. He came this mo'ning to tell me about it. Even if he's drowned Mr. Hinkle believes he didn't mean to; he must have just fallen in.”
”What does it matter?” demanded Gregory, lifting his heavy eyes.
”Whether he meant it or not, I caused it. I drove him to it.”
”You drove him?”
”Yes. He told me what he had said to you, and I--said that he had spoiled my life--I don't know!”
”Well, he had no right to do it; but I didn't blame you,” Clementina began, compa.s.sionately.
”It's too late. It can't be helped now.” Gregory turned from the mercy that could no longer save him. He rose dizzily, and tried to get himself away.
”You mustn't go!” she interposed. ”I don't believe you made him do it.
Mr. Hinkle will be back soon, and he will--”