The sun was sinking when Maria descended the long flight of steps from the door of the Capuchin church to the level of the street, and under the grey veil she wore her cheeks were wet with undried tears. But she held her head up proudly, and her small feet stepped firmly and lightly on the stones.
She was not in a state of grace by any means, and the tears had not been shed in repentance for her sins. She hardly ever cried, and when she did it was generally from anger and bitter disappointment. The moisture that had risen in her eyes that morning when Castiglione had offered to go away for her sake had not overflowed; but now, when she had left the confessional without the expected absolution, and had seen the hard-faced old monk in brown come out of his box and stalk stiffly away to the sacristy as if he had done something very virtuous, she had sat down in a chair in a corner of the empty church and the burning drops had streamed over her cheeks like fire till they reached the small handkerchief she held to her mouth under her veil; and she had bitten hard at the hem, and it was salt with her tears.
She had been misunderstood, she had been misjudged, she had been rebuked. She had been told that she wasa very great sinner; that so long as she was willing to love a man who was not her husband, and who had been her lover, God would not forgive her; that absolution came from God and not from priests, and that it was out of any priest’s power to pronounce it while she was in her present state of mind; that she might come again when she was sure that she wished never to think of that evil man; that if she felt that she owed him reparation for having been unjust to him she should write to him to say so, asking him to destroy the letter, and bidding him never to come near her again; and that to see him again, even once, since she still loved him, would be not only a deadly risk but actually a mortal sin. After this she had been sternly told to go away, to pray for grace, and to be particularly careful to observe days of abstinence and fasting, as the devil was everywhere and never slept.
Now the monk who had heard her confession was a good man and meant well, and believed that he was speaking for the good of her soul. He knew well enough from the penitent’s language and manner of speaking about her life that she was a lady of Rome, and perhaps one of the great ones who sometimes came to him because they did not like to go to their regular confessors. But this, in his estimation, was the best of reasons why Maria should be treated with the same severity as the poorest and most ignorant woman of the people. If she had come to him with a religious doubt or a scruple concerning dogma he would have treated her very differently, for he was something of a theologian andhad a monk’s love of controversy. But she came to him simply as a woman, with a perfectly evident mortal sin on her conscience, and what he considered a perfectly evident desire to compromise things by pretending that her lover could be her friend. In such matters he was a ruthless democrat, as many confessors are. She might be a great lady, she might have been royal, for all he cared; what was just to one woman’s soul and conscience was just to another woman’s, all the world over, and where the deadly sins were concerned there was not to be any distinction between the poor and the rich, the educated and the ignorant. On the contrary, educated people should get less mercy, because they ought to know better than their inferiors, and because they had been brought up in surroundings where the baser sins of humanity are supposed to be less common; and finally and generally, because we are told that the salvation of the rich is to be regarded as a much more difficult matter than that of the poor. It was certainly not the business of a Capuchin monk to reverse matters and make it easier.
But the delicately nurtured, sorely tried woman who had come to unburden her conscience of a sin she had only fully understood within the last few days, felt as if the well-meaning monk had thrust out his bony hand from the shadow of the confessional and had deliberately slapped her cheek.
Therefore Maria Montalto was not in a state of grace, and in her mortification she called the austere and democratic Capuchin several hard names; she said toherself that he was ignorant, that he was a common person, and that it was a scandal that such a prejudiced man should be a licensed confessor. She bit her handkerchief hard, tasting the salt of her tears in the hem of it, because she knew in her heart that there was a little truth in some of the hard things she had been told.
Her pride and nervous energy came to the rescue after a while, and she left the church to walk home through quiet streets where no one was likely to meet her. The evening breeze would dry her face under her veil, and her anger would help the drying process too, for it kept her cheeks hot. That morning she had felt very ill and tired and had vaguely expected to break down, but the afternoon in the Campagna had done her good, and her temper did the rest. Castiglione would find her looking wonderfully well when he came the next day at half-past two.
The sun had set, but it was still broad daylight when she reached the top of the Via San Basilio. She turned to the right presently, and almost ran into Teresa Crescenzi, who was walking very fast and also wore a veil, but was always an unmistakable figure anywhere.
‘Maria!’ cried the lively lady at once. ‘Where in the world are you going alone on foot at this hour?’
‘I have been to confession and I’m going home,’ answered Maria without hesitation, and smiling at the other’s quickness in asking a question which might certainly have been asked of her with equal reason.
‘So have I,’ answered Teresa with alacrity.‘What a coincidence!’
But she had not been to confession.
‘Good-bye, dear!’ she added almost at once, and with a quick and friendly nod she went on down the hill.
Teresa had not gone far when she turned into a deserted side street and saw Baldassare del Castiglione walking at a leisurely pace a little way in front of her. A much less ready gossip than she might well have thought it probable that he and Maria Montalto had just parted, after taking a harmless little walk together in a very quiet part of the town.
It was certainly Castiglione whom she saw. There was no mistaking his square shoulders and back of his strong neck, where the closely cropped brown hair had an incorrigible tendency to be curly. Teresa had often noticed that, for she admired him and wished that he were a more eligible husband; but she was not very rich, and he was distinctly poor. She often saw him in the summer, and it had not occurred to her till his return to Rome that he would refuse her if she suggested that he might marry her. That was the way she put it, for a lack of practical directness was not among her defects. She had supposed that he had really quite forgotten Maria by this time, although her pretty tale about them was founded on the undying and perfectly innocent affection of both.
Now before she overtook Castiglione, as she inevitably must if he did not mend his pace, she hesitated whether she should turn back quietly and take another street. For she had not been to confession. Then it seemed to her that it would be dangerous to avoid him, for hewas walking slowly, as if he himself were only keeping out of the way in the side street for a while, and might turn back at any moment; and if he did, he would recognise her. So she decided to overtake him and ask him to walk with her till they could find a closed cab, which was what she wanted.
Having reached this decision a further consideration presented itself to her mind. He would hardly believe that she could be coming up behind him without having met Maria, who had certainly been with him and whom she had just left. He would not like to feel that this had happened, and that she might even have seen them together. It would be more tactful to be frank.
She spoke as soon as she was close to him.
‘Good evening, Balduccio,’ she said pleasantly. ‘Will you help me to find a closed cab?’
He took off his hat without showing any surprise, and smiled as if not at all disturbed by the meeting. But then, thought Teresa, he always had good nerves and was a man of the world.
‘We can get one at the Piazza Barberini,’ he said, lengthening his stride to keep up with her, for he saw that she was in a hurry.
‘Can we? I feel one of my chills coming on, and I must either run to keep warm or get a closed carriage somewhere. Do you mind walking fast?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Because you were walking very slowly when I saw you.’
‘Was I?’ He seemed very vague about it.
‘Yes!’ she laughed. ‘Dear old Balduccio! You are just the same reserved, formal silly old thing you were when we went to the dancing-class at Campodonico’s, ever so long ago!’
‘Am I?’
‘Yes. But as I just happened to meet Maria, you need not pretend to be vague. You know how frank I am, so I’m sure you would rather be sure at once that I know, and that I will not tell any one!’
’Dear friend,’ returned Castiglione blandly, ‘what in the world are you talking about?’
Again Teresa laughed gaily.
‘Always the same! But as I met Maria Montalto only a moment ago, it’s not of the slightest use to tell me that you two have not been for a little walk together! Do you think I blame you? Haven’t you behaved like a couple of saints for more years than I like to remember? No one can find any fault with you, of course, but for Heaven’s sake walk in the Corso, or in the Via Nazionale, where every one can see you, instead of in such a place as this!’
‘But I have not met the Countess at all,’ answered Castiglione with some annoyance, when she paused at last to take breath.
‘Oh! Oh! Oh!’ she cried, shaking her finger at him. ‘It’s very wrong to tell fibs to an old friend who only wishes to help you!’
‘You may think what you please,’ he answered bluntly.‘I have not met the Countess this afternoon. I have been to see a sculptor who has his studio in this street.’
‘Oh, yes!’ cried Teresa incredulously. ‘And Maria told me she had been to confession.’
‘If she said so, it is true. If we had met we should have stopped to speak. We might have walked a little way together. But we have not met.’
Teresa Crescenzi did not believe him. She had managed to get rid of her veil while walking, and without being noticed by him. Women can do such things easily when a man is very much preoccupied about other matters.
‘As you like,’ she answered, and her tone was anything but complimentary to his truthfulness.
But he did not take up the question after having once told her the truth, and when he opened the door of the cab they found in the Piazza Barberini there was a distinct coolness in their leave-taking. He gave the cabman her address and went away on foot down the crowded Tritone towards the city. When he had walked a quarter of an hour he looked at his watch, stopped a policeman, and asked for the nearest public telephone office.
He called for Maria Montalto’s number and was answered by Agostino, the butler. He inquired whether the Countess would speak with him herself, and presently he heard her voice.
‘I am Castiglione,’ he said. ‘Is it true that Teresa Crescenzi met you in the Via di San Basilio when you were walking home from confession half an hour ago?’
‘Yes—but how——’
He interrupted her at once.
‘I am in a public office, shut up in the box, but be careful what you say unless you are alone. I met Teresa a moment after she had spoken to you, and she pretended to know that we had been together in one of those quiet streets.’
‘How abominable!’
‘I had been to see Farini, the sculptor, close by San Nicolo. It was natural that Teresa should suppose we had met, but I was angry, and so was she because I denied what she said. I’m afraid she will repeat the story.’
‘Why should I care?’ Maria’s voice was rather sharp.
‘I care, on your account, so I have warned you.’
‘Thank you. You will come to-morrow?’
‘To-morrow, at half-past two, if you will receive me. Good-bye.’
‘You shall have the answer then. Good-bye.’
Maria went back to Leone, who was having his supper. The child was unusually silent, and ate with the steady, solemn appetite of strong boys. When he had finished he got up and gravely examined his armoury before going to bed, to see that his weapons were all clean and neatly hung in their places. There were two toy guns, with a tin revolver, a sword-bayonet, and a sabre. He went through this inspection every evening, and Maria sat by the table watching him while Agostino took away the things.
When the servant was gone the boy came and stood beside his mother’s knee and looked up into her face earnestly.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, after a long time.
‘For what, dear?’
‘You’ve been crying because I asked questions about papa. I’m sorry.’
She leant forward and took him in her arms quietly, and made him sit astride of her knees and look into her eyes while she held him by the wrists.
‘Little man,’ she said gently, ‘if you ever say anything that hurts me I promise to tell you just what it is, because I know you will never mean to hurt me, even when you are grown up. It was nothing you said that made me cry this afternoon, so there’s nothing for you to be sorry for—’ she smiled and shook her head—‘nothing, darling, nothing, nothing!’
Leone smiled too.
‘I’m glad,’ he said, and then his face grew grave and thoughtful again.
Maria wondered what was going on in his small head during the next few seconds. When he spoke at last she started.
‘Then it was the priest?’ he said with conviction. ‘I hate him.’
‘What do you mean, child?’
‘After we came home you put on the grey veil and went out alone. That is always confession, isn’t it? When you came home you put up the veil and kissed me. Your cheeks were just a little wet still. So it was the priest, wasn’t it, who made you cry?’
Maria would not deny the truth.
‘It was something the confessor said to me,’ she answered.
‘I told you so!’ returned the small boy. ‘I hate him!’
He was well aware that if he stayed another moment where he was his mother would tell him that it was very wrong to hate anybody, so he struggled out of her hold, slipped from her knees to the floor, knelt down and began to say his small evening prayer with such amazing alacrity that Maria’s breath was taken away and she could not get in a word of rebuke; in spite of herself she smiled over his bent head and felt very irreverently inclined to laugh at his manœuvre. But before he had finished her face was very grave, and when he got up from his knees she spoke to him before she kissed his forehead.
‘Listen to me, my boy,’ she said. ‘You know that I always tell you the truth, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ answered Leone. ‘So do I. It’s cowardly to tell lies. Mario Campodonico is a coward, and he lies like anything.’
‘Never mind Mario. I don’t want you to say that you hate priests.’
‘It’s the truth,’ retorted the terrible child. ‘Shall I say I love them?’
‘No. Listen to me. There are good people and bad people all over the world. So there are good and bad priests, but I think there are many more good ones than bad ones. You would not hate a good priest, would you?’
‘N—no,’ answered Leone, rather doubtfully.
‘Then leave the bad ones to take care of themselves, and don’t think about them. Do you suppose I hate you when you are naughty and break things in a rage and try to beat the servants? It’s the naughtiness I hate. It’s not you.’
‘It feels just the same,’ observed the small boy, with great logic.
‘But it’s not,’ answered his mother, trying to keep from laughing. ‘And when you are bigger you will understand that one should not hate bad men, but the badness in them.’
‘Well, that’s better than nothing! Then I hate the badness in your priest, who made you cry, and I’d like to hammer it out of him!’
Maria was at the end of her arguments.
‘He meant well,’ she said weakly. ‘I’m sure he meant well.’
‘When he made you cry?’ retorted Leone indignantly. ‘You might just as well say I mean well when——’
But at this point Maria closed the discussion abruptly by picking him up with a laugh and a kiss and carrying him off to bed. It was as much as she could do now, for he was very sturdy and heavy for his age.
When Castiglione came on the following afternoon Maria was looking wonderfully well, and so like herself, as she had been within the first year of her marriage, that he could not help looking at her very hard. There was only the small patch of white in her dark hair near the left temple, which Castiglione could not remember; and there was the black frock. She always wore black or grey now, but when she was very young she had liked pretty colours.
Castiglione himself was in uniform, for he thought it possible that he might see Leone, and he would not have broken his promise to the boy for anything. He was not the man to put on his uniform with the idea of looking better in it than in a civilian’s clothes, still less had he any thought of recalling old memories to Maria by such theatrical means. Men who are hard hitters are rarely theatrical in small things, though some famous generals, like Napoleon, have been great dramatic artists.
In Italy the uniforms of the cavalry regiments do not differ as much as in some other countries, and but for the colour of the facings and a few smaller details Castiglione’s dress was enough like the uniform of the Piedmont Lancers to produce a much deeper impressionon Maria than he could have easily understood. The man himself had changed little. He was a little broader perhaps, his strong features were a little more marked, his military moustache was heavier, but that was all. At thirty, or nearly that, he was much the same active, energetic, good-looking young officer he had been at two and twenty.
They instinctively took the places they had sat in during his first visit. The hour was the same, the light in the room was the same, too; but other things were not the same. Castiglione felt it as soon as he saw Maria’s face, and she knew it when she heard the sound of his voice. The ice-wall that had stood between them so long had melted away; the chasm that separated Maria even from that barrier was bridged. It would not be easy now to touch hands and part again for years.
The stern old monk’s words echoed faintly in Maria’s heart: to meet thus was a deadly risk, perhaps a mortal sin. But the voice was far away, and Maria was very happy and hopeful, and the old Capuchin had been a common and ignorant man who could not understand the pride and self-respect of a Roman lady, nor the generous honour of such a man as Baldassare del Castiglione.
‘I was right to telephone last night, was I not?’ he asked when they were seated.
‘Yes, quite right. But Teresa has always seemed to be a good friend. She may have been annoyed because she had made such a stupid mistake, but I really don’t think she will gossip about us.’
‘I hope not, though I don’t trust her.’
After this there was a little silence, for he would not make conversation; and while he waited for Maria to speak, his eyes were satisfied, and his heart beat quietly and happily because he was near her. He did not feel the heavy, passionate pulse that used to throb in his neck when he came near her, nor the dryness in his throat, with the strange, cool quivering of his own lips. He was simply and quietly happy, and he trusted himself and her.
‘You have come for your answer,’ she said, after a long time. ‘It’s of no use to pretend that we have anything else to talk of. We will be honest with each other. There is no one to hear what we say, and we have nothing to say now of which we need be ashamed before God.’
Castiglione silently bent his head in assent and waited.
‘The forgiveness you asked of me yesterday, I should have asked of you, too,’ Maria went on, but her eyes looked down. ‘I ask it now, before I say anything more.’
‘I don’t understand,’ answered the man. ‘How can I have anything to forgive?’
‘Balduccio, do you remember the hard words I said to you under the ilex-trees when we parted?’
‘A condemned man does not forget the words of his sentence.’ His voice was dull.
‘I called you a coward and a brute, Balduccio, and I called you the basest of mankind.’
‘It was your right.’
‘No. It was not. I take back those words. I ask your pardon for them.’
‘What?’ His voice rang in the room, hoarse and strong.
‘I take back every word. I was the coward. I made myself believe what I said, and I know you would believe it too. I have been a very wicked woman all these years, Balduccio. I have been wickedly unjust to you. You must try to forgive me.’
Her voice had sunk very low, for it had been hard to say; but his almost broke in his throat.
‘Try? Ah, Maria——’
He moved quickly to come near her, and she was aware of it. Still looking down, she stretched out her hand against him.
‘Sit still!’ she said. ‘Say that you forgive me, if you can.’
‘With all my soul,’ he answered, drawing back into his chair, obedient to her gesture.
‘Thank you,’ she said, so low that he could hardly hear her.
With that she leaned far back in her low chair and pressed her fingers upon her eyes without covering her face, and he saw the warmth come and go in her soft pale cheeks, and then come back again. Indeed, it had not been easy for her. Presently she opened her eyes, and folded her hands on her lap, and gazed happily into his face.
‘I can look at you now,’ she said simply, ‘and it is not wrong.’
‘No, indeed!’
But he did not know what he was saying, nor whathe should say, for in a moment she had changed all the greater thoughts of his life. She had taken from him the burden of the old accusation which she had made him believe was just in spite of himself; but it was like lifting heavy weights from a balance very suddenly; the whole mechanism of his mind and conscience quivered and trembled when the strain was gone, and swung violently this way and that.
Presently she was speaking again, and he began to hear and understand.
‘I am not going to pretend anything,’ she was saying. ‘But I will not hide anything either. No, I will not! There is nothing to be ashamed of now, because we have made up our minds that there never shall be again. We promise each other that, don’t we, Balduccio?’
‘I promise you that, come what may,’ he answered, well knowing what he said now.
‘And I promise the same, come what may,’ she said. ‘I give you my word of honour.’
‘You have mine, Maria.’
‘That is enough, and God believes us,’ she said gravely. ‘But now the truth, and nothing else. We are not going to pretend that we are like brother and sister. We love each other dearly, and we love as man and woman, and I am sure we always shall, now and for ever, in life, and beyond death, and in the life to come. I am very sure of that.’
He bent his head and nodded slowly, but that was not enough for her.
‘Are you not sure, Balduccio?’ she asked after a moment.
He looked up suddenly with blazing eyes.
‘I love you now,’ he said. ‘I have loved you all my life. That is what I know. If there is a God, He knows it, for He made it so, and it will be so for ever. If not, it will end when we are both dead, but not before.’
‘It will never end,’ Maria answered. ‘But it must not be a weight to drag us down, it must be a strength to lift us. It shall be! Say that it shall be!’
‘I will do what I can.’
‘Balduccio,’ she went on earnestly, ‘it has lifted us already. It has made you live a better life than other men, though you do not believe in God. And though it made me a coward for a long time, it has given me strength to be brave at last, now that we have met again, strength to tell you the truth, strength to ask your forgiveness! If it has done all that already, what will it not do hereafter, if we keep our promise?’
The deep and fearless light was in her dark eyes now, and she spoke in a heavenly inspiration of purity and peace. Castiglione watched her with a sort of awe which he had never felt in his life. That was a brave, high instinct in him that answered her call; it was the instinct that would have responded if he had been chosen to lead the forlorn hope in a fight all but lost.
‘You are a saint,’ he said. ‘I am not. But I will try to follow if you will only lead the way.’
‘No, dear, I am no saint,’ she answered.
He started at the loving word she had scarcely ever used with him, and she saw his movement and understood.
‘Why not?’ she asked. ‘It is the truth, and we are not the less safe for saying that we love, now that we have promised. No, I am not a saint. You have been better than I in all these years, for I have been unjust to you, but you have borne it patiently and you have loved me still. That is what I mean when I say that our love can lift us up. Do you see? Only—we must not forget the others——’
She paused.
‘Montalto,’ said Castiglione gravely. ‘I understand.’
‘My husband and my son,’ Maria said. ‘We owe them a terrible debt.’
Castiglione’s eyes softened.
‘It is for their sakes that we have promised,’ she went on. ‘For their sakes there must never again be any earthly taint upon our love, dear.’
Once more the tender word touched him. He passed his hand over his eyes as if to hide something.
‘If you were only free!’ he sighed.
Maria made a little movement.
‘The very thought of that is wrong,’ she answered bravely. ‘You must not think of it, you must never say it.’
‘I wish your husband no ill,’ Castiglione answered, in a sterner tone than she had heard yet.‘I did him a great injury. I would make reparation if I knew how. But I am a man, Maria, a man like any other, and I love you in a man’s way, and if Montalto died I should want you for my wife, as you should be. We have promised that between us there shall be no word or thought of which we need be ashamed, even before your husband, if he were here; but more than that I will not promise, and that is already as much as any man could keep.’
Maria shook her head gravely and waited a moment before she answered.
‘I should owe myself to his memory if he were dead,’ she said at last. ‘A lifetime of faithfulness, cost what it may, is not enough to expiate what I did.’
Castiglione judged her as men judge the women they love, and he knew that for the present it was useless to oppose her. He folded his hands and listened, and she did not see that his fingers strained upon each other; nor could she guess that his heart was not beating as quietly now as when he had sat down opposite her a little while ago.
‘That is the one condition on which we can see each other,’ she went on.‘There must be no thought of any earthly union—ever! If you feel that you are strong enough for that, Balduccio, then come back to Rome as soon as you can. If you can exchange into your old regiment again, do so. If not, come now and then, when you can get leave. We may see each other once a week, at least once a week! The world cannot blame us for that, after all these years. It will be little enough, once a week! And sometimes, perhaps, we might meet in some gallery, in some quiet museum where only the foreigners go, and we could walk about and talk, and the world will never know it.’
Castiglione smiled at her innocent ignorance of lovers’ tricks, for he was quieter now, and very happy at the thought of seeing her often. It would never have occurred to him to do the foolish thing of which Teresa Crescenzi had suspected him on the previous afternoon.
‘The great matter is that I am to see you,’ he said; ‘that the separation is over, and that we love each other!’
‘That—yes! Oh, that above and beyond all things, and for ever and ever.’
The lovelight was in her eyes as she gazed at him, and her parted lips were delicately beautiful. Again his hands pressed one another very hard, and he felt that he set his teeth. He suddenly wondered how long he could keep his promise, and by what manner of death he would choose to end his life when he felt that he was going to break it. She was putting upon him a heavier trial and a far harder expiation than she knew. Her eyes were so dark and tender, her parted lips were so sweet to see! In her reliance on herself and him she had already loosened the great restraint that had bound her since the evil hour; she cared not to hide the outward looks of love. She even longed to see in his eyes what she felt in her own.
‘You love me less than I love you, dear,’ she said softly. ‘You are less happy than I am, because we are to meet often!’
Without a word Castiglione rose from his seat andwent to the window at the further end of the room, and stood there, looking down through the slits of the blinds. Maria half understood, and sighed.
‘Forgive me,’ she said, rather sorrowfully.
‘I’m only a man, Maria,’ he answered, turning his head. ‘You must not make it too hard for me. I love you in a man’s way, and you have made me promise to love you in yours. I must learn, before I can be sure of myself.’
Maria reflected a moment. Her thoughts were full of an ideal sacrifice.
‘Balduccio!’ She called to him gently, for he was looking down at the street again. ‘Shall I give you back your word and tell you to go away for a long time, if it’s going to be so hard for you?’
‘No!’
The single syllable was rough and strong, for he resented what she had said. She rose too and went to him at the window.
‘Are you angry with me?’ she asked humbly.
His hand grasped her bare wrist and tightened upon it almost as if he meant to hurt her, and he spoke in short, harsh sentences.
‘No, I am not angry. I love you too much. You don’t understand what I feel. How should you? I’ve been as faithful to you as you’ve been to your husband all these years. And now I’m with you, and we are alone, and we love each other, and I’m nothing but a man after all—and if you look at me in the old way I shall go mad or kill you.’
He drew her wrist roughly to him and kissed herhand once, roughly, and dropped it. He had done that in the old days too, and Maria saw it all again in a violent flash, as men see danger ahead in a storm at night, lit up by quivering lightning.
She drew breath sharply and turned away from him. She leaned upon the mantelpiece and rested her throbbing forehead upon her hands.
‘Oh, why have we these earthly bodies of ours?’ she moaned. ‘Why? why? Why could not God have made us like the angels?’
‘Why not, indeed!’ echoed Castiglione, in bitter unbelief.
‘Even like the fallen angels!’ she cried desperately. ‘They fell by pride, but not by this! Are there not temptations for heart and soul and mind enough to try us, to raise us up if we overcome, to damn us if we yield? Enough to send us to hell or heaven—without this? O God, that what Thou hast made in Thine own image should be so vile, so vile, so vile!’
Her despair was real; her cry came from an almost breaking heart. Castiglione came to her now and laid his hand gently upon her shoulder.
‘Maria! Look at me, dear! Don’t be afraid!’
She raised her head timidly from her hands and turned her eyes slowly to him, more than half afraid. But when she saw that his own were calm and grave again, she gave one little cry of relief and buried her face upon his shoulder, clinging to him with both hands; and her touch did not stir his pulse now.
‘No, I’m not afraid of you!’ she softly cried.‘It was only a moment, dear, only one dreadful moment, for I trust you with myself as I would trust you with my soul! Sometimes—’ she looked up lovingly to his face—‘sometimes each of us must be brave for both, you know. As we are now, you might even kiss me once and I should fear nothing!’
He smiled and bent down and kissed her cheek; and there was no thought in him that he would not have told her. But then he gently took her hands from his shoulder and made her sit down as they had sat before.
‘That was not wrong, was it?’ she asked, with a happy smile.
‘No,’ he answered quietly, ‘there was no wrong in that, neither to you nor to the others.’
‘I’m glad,’ she answered, ‘so glad! But it would not be right to do it often.’
‘No, not often. Not for a long time again.’
They were both silent in the ebbing of the tide which at the full had nearly swept them from their feet. At heart, in spite of all, there was something strangely innocent in them both. Castiglione’s friends would have wondered much if they could have understood him, as some of the graver sort might. Few men of his age, beyond the cloister, knew less of women’s ways and women’s love than he; few soldiers, indeed, and surely not one of his brother officers. To wear the King’s uniform ten years in the gayest and smartest cavalry regiment of the service is not a school for austere virtue or innocence of heart. All that Castiglione’s comrades noticed was that he talked but little of women, whowere often the chief subject of the others’ conversation, and that he was very reticent about the ones he knew. They respected him for that, on the whole, though they sometimes chaffed him a little in a friendly way. They all agreed among themselves that he had some secret and lasting attachment for a woman of their own class whose name he succeeded in keeping from them in spite of their repeated attempts to find it out. He was such a manly man that they liked him the better for it; the more, because great reticence was not their own chief quality. For the rest, though, he was poorer than most of them, he was always ready to join in anything except a general raid on womankind. He played cards with them, and when he could lose no more, he said so; he was honest in matters of horseflesh and gave sound advice; he never shirked his duty and left it for another to do; he was good-natured in doing a comrade’s work when he was asked to do it for any good reason; he was the best rider in the regiment, and he never talked about what he had done, or could do, with a horse; he was not over clever, but he was good company and told a story with a touch of humour; and he never borrowed from a brother officer, nor refused to lend, if he had any money. Altogether, he was the best comrade in the world and everybody liked and respected him, from the rather supercilious colonel, who was an authentic duke, and the crabbed old major, who had been wounded at Dogali, to the rawest recruit that was drafted in from a Sardinian village or a shepherd’s hut in the Apennines.
But none of all those who liked and respected him guessed that in the arts of love he was considerably behind the youngest subaltern in the regiment, at least, so far as his own experience was concerned, for he could have written volumes about that of the rest as described by themselves. As a cadet, indeed, he had not been a model of austerity; but he had fallen in love with Maria a few days after he had received his commission, and such as he had been then he had remained ever since, except for her. If his colonel had known this, he would have smiled sarcastically and would have said that Castiglione was a case of arrested development, the old major would have stared at him stupidly without in the least comprehending that such a man could exist, and the rest of the mess would have roared with laughter and called him a crazy sentimentalist. But none of them knew the truth, and he had lived his life in his own way. There are not many men in the great world like Baldassare del Castiglione, but there are a few; and in the little world, in simple countries, there are more of them than the great world ever dreams of.
This long digression, if it be one, is to explain why Castiglione accepted Maria’s strangely exalted plan for the future of both, instead of telling her quite frankly that the chances in favour of its success were too small for poor humanity to count upon, and that the best way was to part again and to meet very rarely or not at all, until the fire of life should be extinguished in the grey years, and they could look at each other without seeing so much as a spark of it left in each other’s tiredeyes. That is what he would have done, as a man of honour, if he had known as many other women of his own class intimately as some of his comrades did. Or, if he had been like them in other things too, and had loved Maria less truly, he would have sat down to besiege the fortress he had once stormed, and would have gone to work scientifically to demolish its defences, making pretence of accepting the trusting woman’s generous offer in order to outwit and conquer her by slow degrees. And if he had done either the one or the other, that is to say, if he had understood women’s ways, this would either have been the story of a vulgar fault, or it would have ended abruptly with Castiglione’s departure.
It is neither. Baldassare was innocent enough as well as honourable enough to believe that he and Maria could keep the promise they had made; and he loved her so dearly that the prospect of seeing her often was like a vision of heaven already half realised.
So on that day they began the new life together, trusting that they could live it faithfully to the end, but truly resolved to part again for ever if real danger came near them.
They believed in themselves and in each other. Maria had faith in a higher power from which she was to receive strength; Castiglione had little or nothing of this, but he said to himself plainly that if he broke his word he would die for it on the same day, and he loved mere life enough to think the forfeit a heavy one.
They counted upon themselves and upon each other.There was nothing to suggest that quite external circumstances might influence their lives to make the task easier or more difficult than they anticipated. Most certainly neither believed that there could be moments ahead which would be harder to bear than those through which they had already lived.
When Castiglione went away that afternoon they had agreed that he should come again on the next day but one, and once again before he went back to Milan, and that he should at once take steps to exchange into the Piedmont Lancers, if possible, as his old regiment was likely to remain in Rome fully eighteen months longer.
If Giuliana Parenzo had been one of those nervous, sensitive women who are always thinking about themselves and fancying that their friends are on the point of betraying them, she would have noticed a little change in Maria’s manner after Castiglione’s visit to Rome. It was not that Maria was at all less fond of her than before, or less affectionate, or apparently less glad to see her. It was much more subtle than that. There is a great difference between a hungry man and a man who merely has an appetite. The one must have food, the other is only pleased to have it. Giuliana’s friendship had long been a necessity to Maria, but it now sank to the condition of being merely an added satisfaction in her life. Formerly she would not have given it up for anything else; but now, if she could have been forced to choose between Castiglione and Giuliana, she would have given up her friend.
The Marchesa, however, was not a sensitive or nervous woman, and she noticed nothing of the change that had taken place. She was therefore very much surprised when her husband spoke to her about Maria. It was late in the afternoon, some days after Castiglione had gone back to Milan, and Parenzo had come home tired from the Foreign Office and was smoking in hiswife’s dressing-room, which was his favourite resort at that hour. Like many busy women, Giuliana had her writing-table there, in order to be safe from interruption, and she was occupied with some notes which had to be finished before dinner, while her husband sat in a low straw chair watching her, and devising a new costume for their approaching trip to England. He had always considered it his especial mission to superintend his wife’s dress, and his taste was admirable. He was a small wiry man with a neat reddish beard, not much hair on the top of his head, and a single eyeglass. But he had an energetic nose and forehead, and a singularly pleasant smile.
Giuliana finished one of her notes and looked up, and instantly the smile came into his face, for he was quite as much in love with her as when he had married her. She looked pleased, and nodded to him before taking another sheet of paper.
‘I wanted to ask you about Maria Montalto,’ he said suddenly, arresting her attention.
Giuliana looked a little surprised, and laid down her pen.
‘Yes, dear. What do you wish to know about her?’
‘You are just as intimate with her as ever, are you not?’ he inquired.
‘Oh, yes! What could come between us? Why do you ask?’
‘Because if you are as good friends as you always used to be, I think you had better tell her that people are talking about her. I like her, too, and it is a greatpity that anything disagreeable should be said, especially if there is no ground for it.’
‘I’m sure there is none,’ said Giuliana promptly. ‘What is the gossip about her?’
‘That she is seeing too much of Baldassare del Castiglione.’
‘He is in Milan, my dear. How can she see much of him? What nonsense! Really, Mondo, you should not repeat such stuff to me! It’s too absurd!’
Parenzo’s first name was Sigismondo, of which Mondo is the diminutive. He shook his head quietly at his wife’s rebuke.
‘I know he is in Milan,’ he answered. ‘But he was here for a fortnight a while ago, and people are saying that they met every day. When he did not go to see her early in the afternoon, they met in quiet corners and walked together.’
‘I suppose that by “people” you mean Teresa Crescenzi,’ laughed Giuliana. ‘She is the mother of all gossip, you know.’
‘It was de Maurienne who told me,’ rejoined Sigismondo.
‘That’s the same thing!’ Giuliana laughed again.
‘Oh, is it? I did not know. You don’t say so!’
Parenzo seemed amused and interested. Monsieur de Maurienne was a second secretary of the French Embassy, a rich man with artistic tastes, who gave out that if he were ordered to any other post he would leave the service and continue to live in Rome.
‘Teresa means to marry him,’ Giuliana explained.‘I daresay she will. Of course, the story about Maria comes from her. There is not a word of truth in it. Castiglione is gone to Milan and may not come back for years.’
‘My dear, I’m always ready to take your opinion in such matters. But this afternoon Casalmaggiore—you know who I mean?’
‘The Colonel of Piedmont Lancers?’
‘Yes. He dropped in to see me at the Foreign Office about a special passport for a friend of his, and he happened to say that Castiglione had asked to exchange back into his old regiment, and that the matter would certainly be arranged, as every one liked him so much. The Colonel was very curious to find out whether there was a lady in the case, and what her name might be. He seems to have plenty of curiosity, Casalmaggiore! I said I knew nothing about Castiglione’s love affairs, and I did not refer him to Teresa Crescenzi, for he was the last man she tried to marry before de Maurienne! That was all.’
Giuliana looked at her husband gravely.
‘I did not know that Castiglione wished to come to Rome,’ she said. ‘I doubt if Maria knows it, and I’m almost sure she will not be pleased.’
‘I should not think she would,’ answered Sigismondo Parenzo. ‘And I’m quite sure that she won’t like to have her name coupled with his. Go on with your notes, my darling. If you think it best to speak to her, do so. Whatever you do will be right.’
‘I hope so, dear,’ answered Giuliana rather vaguely.
Then she smiled at her husband again and went on writing.
Maria was very far from guessing that she was already so much talked of. She had lived so long in the pleasant security of a half-retirement from the world, and in the halo of semi-martyrdom created by Teresa Crescenzi’s original story, that she fancied herself unwatched and her behaviour uncriticised. She would certainly never have thought of connecting any change in Teresa’s disposition towards her with the fact that they had met in a lonely street after sunset, both wearing veils and telling each other that they had been to confession. She had not even taken the trouble to suspect that Teresa had not told the truth; still less had she guessed that Teresa was just then at a critical moment of her existence and was playing a very dangerous game in the hope of marrying Monsieur de Maurienne. Maria did not even know where he lived; and if she had ever bestowed a thought upon that, she would have supposed that he had rooms in the Embassy at the Palazzo Farnese.
She was too happy now to think about indifferent people. She had seen Baldassare twice again before he had left, and each time it had seemed easier and more delightful to be with him. He had behaved perfectly, and had shown that he was in earnest and meant to lead the ideal life of innocent and loving intercourse which she had planned for herself and him. Between their meetings she had written him long and eloquent letters, breathing peace, and hope, and an undyinglove in a sphere far beyond this daily, earthly life. He had answered those letters by shorter ones that echoed them and promised all they asked. When he had come again he had stayed over an hour; when he came the last time he stayed almost all the afternoon, and Maria had boldly told Agostino that she was not at home for any one except the Marchesa di Parenzo. There was surely no harm in saying this, she thought, although she knew quite well that Giuliana and her husband were gone to Viterbo in a motor-car and would not return till late in the evening. She told herself that by some unforeseen accident they might come back sooner, and that Giuliana might appear about tea-time; and that it was therefore quite honest and truthful to tell Agostino that the Marchesa was to be admitted, if she came, well knowing that the chances were about ten thousand to one against anything so disagreeable. The improbable had happened twice lately—Maria had chanced to meet Castiglione at Saint Peter’s, and Teresa had chanced to meet him just after meeting her. Those were two coincidences, both of which had produced more important results than might have been anticipated; but it was not likely that there should be any more for a long time.
Giuliana did not come back unexpectedly, and Maria and Castiglione were alone together from half-past two till nearly six; and during all that time there was no approach to anything which might have disturbed her certainty that they were both sure to keep the promise they had made. When they parted she laid both herhands on his and looked up into his face a little expectantly. He might have given her one harmless kiss when he went away. But he did not. He shook his head and smiled, and he went away.
She was proud of him then; she was also a very little disappointed, though she would not have acknowledged it for worlds. He was right, of course.
When he had left Rome she made an examination of her conscience, for somehow she found it very hard to do so when she was expecting to see him soon. She was alone with herself now, and she felt strong and satisfied in every way, except that she longed to see him again. She smiled when she remembered the grim old Capuchin’s words. A deadly risk? A mortal sin? What risk had she run with such a man as Castiglione? What mortal sin had she committed? She thought of her life during the past years with amazement now. Why had she suffered so much and so uselessly? Why had she never told herself the truth, faced it, humbled herself to tell it to him, and found peace in all those years? There had been a few hard moments when she had done it at last, it was true; but they were forgotten now.
Yet there was one thing she must do, and she must do it at once. She would not go back to the Capuchin, but she would certainly go to some other confessor, not her own, and make sure that she had found absolution, not for what she had done lately, since she was absolutely sure that she had done right, but for that long unacknowledged moment of weakness years ago.No priest in his senses could refuse her absolution for that.
She meant to be as careful and scrupulous as she had ever been in the hardest days; but it was not easy to feel very humble and repentant just when she was so very happy, just when she felt that the new life was lifting her up, together with the man she loved so well.
It did not seem wrong either to go to a confessor whose name she knew, and who had the reputation of being a very mild man, who always took the most gentle and charitable point of view. She had once heard Giuliana say with a laugh that he must have listened to some astounding confessions in his day, stories that would make one’s hair stand on end, because he was such a mild man, and so charitable; but even Giuliana admitted that he was as good as he was kind. There was no reason why Maria should not go to him.
She made an appointment with him in a quiet and remote church; she put on the grey veil and went in a cab in the afternoon, and she got what she hoped for. She came home, and Leone was waiting for her; and when she turned up the veil and kissed him there was a bright smile in her face.
He looked at her critically for a moment.
‘To-day it was a good priest,’ he said, in a satisfied tone. ‘I don’t hate this priest. You should always go to this one!’
‘Perhaps I shall,’ Maria answered, still smiling.
Early next morning she went out again, and kneltat the altar rail of the little new oratory that stands in a side street not far from where she lived, and a young priest with a martyr’s face came and gave her the Sacrament; and all was still and peaceful and happy; and she came home after her meditation, feeling that everything was right in heaven and earth, and that there could be no more sin in the world, and she would not even think of that bitter moment a week ago when she had bowed her head upon her hands and had cried out bitterly against the miserable weakness of this dying body.
She had her tea and toast in her dressing-room, and Leone sat at the same little table and had his breakfast with her. She did not quite dare to look at him just then, but his presence somehow made her almost mad with happiness. She felt that God had taken away the reproach at last, and that she had a right to her son.
So they laughed and talked, and she made beautiful plans for days in the country together, and for a month at Anzio in the hot weather, or even two, and Leone was to learn to swim and was to go out sailing with her, and they were to be just ‘we two.’ But were there soldiers at Anzio? Not only there were soldiers, but there was a firing ground for big guns, with butts, and sometimes one heard the cannon booming all the morning, and one could see the smoke come out and curl up after each shot. This was almost too much for the small boy, and he too went almost mad with joy and broke out with the brazen voice of healthy small-boyhood, yelling the tune of the royal march and brandishinghis spoon over his head as if it were a sabre and he were leading a charge of cavalry.
Then Destiny knocked at the door.
‘Come in,’ said Maria Montalto cheerfully.
Agostino brought a telegram, and she took it eagerly from the salver and tore it open. It could only be from Castiglione—the news that he had got his exchange into his old regiment. There was no one else in the world who would be likely to telegraph to her. Then she read the printed words.
‘My mother died peacefully last night. A letter follows to-day.—Diego.’
Maria’s face changed suddenly, and grew grave and thoughtful. Leone, who had stopped singing, laid down his spoon and watched her. He did not think she looked as if anything had hurt her very much, but he saw that something serious had happened.
She read the telegram over again, and folded it before she looked up at him.
‘Your grandmama is dead, my dear,’ she said gently. ‘She died last night. You never saw her, but you will have to wear black for a little while.’
‘Was it papa’s mother?’ asked Leone.
‘Yes, dear. He telegraphs that he will write to-day.’ She looked out at some green trees which she could just see through the open window. Leone was reflecting on the news.
‘Was she good or bad?’ he asked presently.
Maria looked round and smiled faintly at the abrupt childish question.
‘She was a good woman, darling.’
‘Is papa like her?’ asked the boy.
‘Yes,’ Maria replied, after a moment’s thought. ‘Yes, he is like his mother, I think. She was a very grand old lady with dark eyes and iron-grey hair.’
‘Am I like papa?’ inquired Leone.
‘No, dear. You are not like him.’ Maria rose from the table rather quickly.
‘Why not, mama?’
‘I cannot tell,’ answered Maria from the window, and not looking round.
‘Because most of the boys are, you know,’ continued Leone. ‘There’s Mondo Parenzo, and Mario Campodonico, and——’
She could have screamed.
Happily Leone remembered no more striking family likenesses just then, and presently she heard him get down from his chair and go off, as he had a way of doing when no one paid attention to what he said. It was also time for the morning inspection of his weapons, and he had lately noticed a slight tendency to rust about the breech of his newest tin gun, which worked just like a real one, and made nearly as much noise.
When Maria was alone she recovered herself almost instantly, and when her maid came to her she was quite calm. She began to give orders about mourning, for in Rome that matter is regulated by custom with the most absolute precision, to the very day, and not to conform to the rules is regarded as little less than an insult offered to the family of the relative who has died.Montalto had a good many more or less distant relations in Rome, but it was not only out of consideration for them that Maria went into mourning on that very day and dressed Leone in black and white; if there was one being in the world whose sorrow she was bound to respect outwardly as well as in every other way, that man was her husband.
The death of the Dowager Countess of Montalto was in itself a matter of indifference to her; she was much more affected by the announcement that a letter from Montalto himself would soon be on its way to her, and by the fact that she would have to answer it. Years had elapsed since the two had written to each other, and the moment of her final reconciliation with Castiglione and with her conscience was not the one she would have chosen for renewing her correspondence with the husband she had injured.
Meanwhile she telegraphed a short and formal message expressing her profound sympathy for his bereavement. More than this she could not do.
She wrote to Castiglione later in the morning, for they had agreed that they would write very often, and she interpreted this to mean every day. But writing was very unsatisfactory now, and she felt a mad desire to see him and hear his voice. It was not that she had any great trouble to tell him, and when she had written down the news of the Countess’s death it seemed a very small matter compared with what filled her heart to overflowing. She poured out her love in words she would hardly have spoken if he hadbeen beside her, lest the great promise should be endangered. She told him truly that he was the light of her life and the glory of her heart, and that no woman had ever loved him as she loved him; and this indeed was true, and she knew it. She called him heart of her heart and soul of her soul, she blessed him, she prayed for him, she bade him believe as she believed, lest death should part for ever what Heaven had at last made one. She wrote long and eloquently, she pressed innocently passionate kisses upon the last words, and she sent the letter on its way without reading it over.
She busied herself in all sorts of ways that day; she could not find enough to do, enough to plan, enough to occupy her thoughts; and though she did all cheerfully, telling herself that she was as happy as she had been in the early morning, there was something that hurt her, somewhere in her heart.
Giuliana came to dine alone with her that evening. Afterwards they sat together a long time, talking of many things not especially important. Then Maria spoke at last.
‘Giuliana, tell me something. Do you think Leone is like his father?’
Her friend looked at her steadily for three or four seconds before she answered.
‘Yes, dear. He is very like him already.’
Maria bent her head and looked at her hands before she answered.
‘I think so, too,’ she said.‘Thank you for telling me frankly.’
Giuliana saw that the moment was favourable for saying more, and after a little pause she leant forward in her chair, with her elbows on her knees and her chin resting on her joined fingers. Maria knew that something important was coming.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘Teresa has been talking about you again, dear,’ said Giuliana.
‘Has she invented a new story?’
‘Yes. She is telling every one that you have been seeing a great deal of Balduccio.’
Maria bent her smooth brows a little, and asked to be told more precisely what Teresa had said. Giuliana repeated to her what Parenzo had told her, and Maria listened in silence. The Marchesa concluded by saying that whether it were true or not that Castiglione was coming back to Rome, Maria ought to know what the Colonel had said about it. Maria nodded thoughtfully and still looked down.
‘That much is true,’ she said at last. ‘He is coming back, if he can exchange. But the rest, about our meeting in quiet streets—that is pure invention.’
Giuliana looked grave. She had known something of the truth during all these years, and she had understood her friend, as she thought, and had silently sympathised with her steady effort to atone for her fault. Very good women generally draw a sharp dividing line in such cases. Giuliana had always been sorry for Maria and had helped her in many ways, without asking any confidences, to recover her self-respect and therelative esteem of the people amongst whom she lived. But the idea that Maria should ever again, under any imaginable circumstances, meet and talk with Castiglione, even in the most innocent way, was revolting to Giuliana, and it was long since she had received such a shock as disturbed her equanimity when Maria admitted the truth of what the Duca di Casalmaggiore had told Parenzo. Her face changed instantly, she leaned back again in her chair, folded her arms, and looked at the mantelpiece. Altogether she assumed an attitude of resistance, and Maria understood that she was displeased.
‘You think I am wrong to let him come back, don’t you?’ Maria asked, rather timidly.
‘Yes,’ Giuliana answered without the least hesitation, ‘I do.’
‘I will try and tell you what I feel and what I hope,’ Maria said. ‘You will understand me then, I’m sure. You will think I may be right.’
‘I doubt it,’ replied the Marchesa, but her crossed arms relaxed a little, and she settled herself to listen to her friend’s story.
Maria spoke quietly at first. She did not mean to tell all when she began, but by degrees she felt that nothing less than the whole truth could justify her in her friend’s eyes. She talked on nervously then, sometimes in a tone of passionate regret, sometimes in a strain of exaltation; she spoke very truthfully of facts, she even told of her interview with Monsignor Saracinesca and of her confession to Padre Bonaventura,the Capuchin monk, and all this was clear enough. It was when she gave the rein to her imagination and described the ideal life of innocent love and trustfulness which she hoped to lead with Baldassare that Giuliana stopped her abruptly.
‘It is not possible,’ said the Marchesa. ‘You should not think of such things. One can forgive a single fault in those one is very fond of, but to forgive another is quite a different matter!’
‘There is no danger,’ Maria answered confidently. ‘But as for forgiving, the Bible says something about seventy times seven!’ she smiled.
‘My dear,’ rejoined Giuliana, with the unconscious humour of a virtue beyond all attack, ‘seventy times seven would be a great many, in practice. Besides, there is danger, I am sure. A woman capable of rising to the moral height you talk of must certainly feel an insurmountable horror of seeing the other man as long as her husband is alive. If she can forgive herself and him, she has not a very delicate conscience, it seems to me! She might possibly see him once, but after that she would beg him to stay away, out of respect for her absent husband, against whom any more meetings would be an offence. And besides, every one knows that there is nothing more absolutely false, and ridiculous, and impossible than a friendship based on love! I’m sorry if you do not like what I say, Maria, but I tell you just what I think!’
‘You do, indeed!’ answered the younger woman, in a hurt tone.
‘I cannot help it,’ said Giuliana. ‘You have told me some things about yourself this evening which I never dreamt of, but nothing you have told me has had any effect on what I thought from the first. You are doing very wrong in letting Castiglione come back. You ought never to see him while your husband is alive. That is what I think, and I shall never say it again, for it is of no use to give the same advice more than once.’
Giuliana rose to go home, for it was half-past ten. Her face was grave and calm, and a little severe. Maria rose too, feeling as if a conflict had begun which must in the end force her to give up either Giuliana or Castiglione.
‘Giuliana,’ she said sadly, ‘you will not throw over our friendship because you do not approve of everything I do, will you?’
Giuliana faced her and held out her hand frankly.
‘No,’ she answered. ‘I’m not that sort of friend. But if I see you are going wrong I shall try to save you in spite of yourself.’
‘Thank you, dear,’ said Maria, trying to feel grateful; ‘but I shall not go wrong. You don’t quite understand me—that’s all.’
‘I hope you are right,’ replied Giuliana, ‘but I believe you are quite mistaken.’
They did not part very cordially, and when Giuliana was alone in her carriage she almost made up her mind to save her friend by force. She thought of writing to Castiglione himself, to tell him frankly that it was his duty as a man of honour to stay away. He mightpossibly have accepted the warning if she had carried out her intention, but she soon saw many reasons for not interfering so directly.