Part 13 (1/2)

”Yours gratefully, MARGHERITA GININI”

It was certainly unsatisfying, but her letters had all been of this somewhat formal nature. She persisted, too, in referring to that imaginary woman, and Blake regretted ever having mentioned her. If Margherita suspected the truth, she could not help feeling his lack of delicacy, his disloyalty to Martel, in confessing his love while the Count was still alive; if she really believed him to be in love with some other woman, it would necessitate sooner or later an explanation which he dreaded. At all events, he hoped that the surprise of seeing him unexpectedly, the knowledge that he had really crossed the world to help her, would tend to dissipate her melancholy and restore her old responsiveness.

During the months of his absence the girl had never been out of his mind, and he had striven hard to reconcile his unconquerable love for her with the sense of his own unworthiness. His unforgivable cowardice was a haunting shame, and the more he dwelt upon it the more unspeakably vile he appeared in his own sight; for the Blakes were honorable people. The family was old and cherished traditions common to fine Southern houses; the men of his name prided themselves upon an especially nice sense of honor, which had been conspicuous even in a country where bravery and chivalrous regard for women are basic ideals. Having been reared in such an atmosphere, the young man looked upon his own behavior with almost as much surprise as chagrin. He had always taken it for granted that if he should be confronted with peril he would behave himself like a man. It was inexplicable that he had failed so miserably, for he had no reason to suspect a heritage of cowardice, and he was sound in mind and body. He loved Margherita Ginini with all his heart and his resolution to win her was stronger than ever, but he felt that sooner or later he would have to prove himself as manly as Martel had been, and, having lost faith in himself, the prospect frightened him. If she ever discovered the truth--and such things are very hard to conceal--she would spurn him: any self-respecting woman would do the same.

He had forced himself to an unflinching a.n.a.lysis of his case, with the result that a fresh determination came to him. He resolved to reconstruct his whole being. If he were indeed a physical coward he would deliberately uproot the weakness and make himself into a man.

Others had accomplished more difficult tasks, he reasoned; thieves had made themselves into honest men, criminals had become decent. Why, then, could not a coward school himself to become brave? It was merely a question of will power, not so hard, perhaps, as the cure of some drug habit. He made up his mind to attack the problem coldly, systematically, and he swore solemnly by all his love for Margherita that he would make himself over into a person who could not only win but hold her. As yet there had been no opportunity of putting the plan into operation, but he had mapped out a course.

Terranova drowsed among the hills just as he had left it, and high up to the right, among the trees, he saw the white walls of the castello.

As he mounted the road briskly a goat-herd, flat upon his back in the sun, was piping some haunting air; a tinkle of bells came from the hillside, the vines were purple with fruit. Women were busy in the vineyards gathering their burdens and bearing them to the tubs for the white feet of the girls who trod the vintage.

Nearing his goal, he saw that the house had an unoccupied air, and he found the big gates closed. Since no one appeared in answer to his summons, he made his way around to the rear, where he discovered Aliandro sunning himself.

”Well, Aliandro!” he cried. ”This is good weather for rheumatism.”

The old man peered up at him uncertainly, muttering:

”The saints in heaven are smiling to-day.”

”Where are the Contessa Margherita and her aunt?”

”They are where their business takes them, I dare say. Ma che?”

”Gone to Messina, perhaps?”

”Perhaps.”

”Visiting friends?”

”Exactly.” Aliandro nodded. ”They are visiting friends in Messina.”

”I wish I had known; I just came from there. Will they return soon?”

Blake's hopes had been so high, his disappointment was so keen, that he failed to notice the old man's lack of greeting and his crafty leer as he answered:

”Si, veramente! Soon, very soon. Within a year--five years, at the outside.”

”What?”

”Oh, they will return so soon as it pleases them.” He chuckled as if delighted at his own secrecy.

Norvin said sharply: ”Come, come! Don't jest with me. I have traveled a long way to see them. I wish to know their whereabouts.”

”Then ask some one who knows. If ever I was told, I have forgotten, Si'or. My memory goes jumping about like a kid. It is the rheumatism.”

After an instant more, he queried, ”You are perhaps a friend of that thrice-blessed angel, my padrona?”

With an exclamation of relief Norvin laid a hand upon the old fellow's shoulder and shook him gently.

”Have your eyes failed you, my good Aliandro?” he cried. ”Don't you recognize the American?--the Signore Blake, who came here with the Count of Martinello? Look at me and tell me where your mistress has gone.”