CHAPTER VII

COMFORT! COMFORT SCORNED OF DEVILS

"Adrienne, I am the happiest man in the world."

"For how long, sir?"

"Pour la vie," he answered solemnly.

Her hand stole softly into his, and there was a long silence between them. What need had they of words? It is only the lighter form of love, fancy touched by sentiment, which seeks for expressions by such means. Their love was different; a silent consciousness of each other's presence sufficed for them. And so they sat there, side by side, steeped in the deep, subtle joy of that perfect love which upon the nature of both the man and the woman had so chastening and spiritualizing an influence. There was a new music in their lives, a sweeter harmony than either of them had ever been conscious of before. The world had grown more beautiful—and it was for them. The love which widens and deepens also narrows. Humanity was a forgotten factor in their thoughts. All that they saw and dreamed of was theirs to taste, to admire and to enjoy together. It was for them that the silvery moon and the softly burning stars cast upon the sleeping earth a strange new beauty. It was for them the air hung heavy with the faint perfume of spices, and the mingled scents of heliotrope and violets. It was for them that the dark pine trees waved softly backward and forward against the violet sky; for them that the far-away sea made melancholy music against the pebbly beach, and the soft night wind rustled among the tree tops in the orange groves. All nature was fair for their sakes. It is the grand selfishness of love—a noble vice.

"Adrienne!"

They both started and looked round. The voice was harsh and agitated, and it broke in like a jarring note upon their sweet, absorbed silence. It was Leonardo di Marioni who stood before them on the balcony—Leonardo, with white face and darkly-gleaming eyes. To Lord St. Maurice, that stifled cry had sounded like the hiss of the snake in paradise, and when he looked up the simile seemed completed.

"Is it you, Leonardo?" Adrienne said, letting go her lover's hand, and leaning back in her chair. "Your entrance is a little unceremonious, is it not? Were there no servants to announce you, or to bring me word of your presence? I dislike surprises."

"And I, too, Adrienne—I, too, dislike surprises," he answered, his voice quivering with passion. "I find one awaiting me here."

She rose and stood facing him, cold but angry.

"You are forgetting yourself, Count di Marioni, and your speech is a presumption. We have been friends, but, if you wish our friendship to continue, you will alter your tone. You have no right to speak to me in that tone, and I expect an apology."

His lips quivered, and he spoke with a strange bitterness.

"No right! Ay, you say well 'no right,' Adrienne. Will you spare me a few moments alone? I have a thing to say to you."

She frowned and hesitated for a moment. After all, she had a woman's heart, and she could not choose but pity him.

"Will not another time do, Leonardo?" she asked almost gently. "You see I have a visitor."

Yes, he saw it. He had looked up into the handsome, debonair face, with that proud, happy smile upon the parted lips, from the garden path below. How he hated it.

"I may be summoned away from Palermo at any moment," he said. "Cannot you spare me a short five minutes? I will go away then."

She looked down at her lover. He rose to his feet promptly.

"I'll have a cigar among the magnolias," he exclaimed. "Call me when I may come up."

A look passed between them which sent a swift, keen pain through the Sicilian's heart. Then Lord St. Maurice vaulted over the balcony, alighting in the garden below, and they were alone.

"Adrienne!" Leonardo cried, and his voice was low and bitter, "I dare not ask, and yet I must know. Tell me quickly. Don't torture me. You care for this Englishman?"

"Yes."

"You love him?"

"Dearly. With all my heart."

"You are going to marry him?"

"Yes."

And not all her pity could keep the joy from her tone as she uttered the last monosyllable.

"My God! My God!"

The suffering in his white face was awful to see. Her eyes filled with tears. She knew that she had done this man no wrong, that he had never had a single word of definite encouragement from her, that, time after time, she had told him that his love was hopeless. Yet her heart was heavy as she watched his anguish.

"Leonardo!" she said softly, "I am sorry. But surely you do not blame me? Is it my fault that I love him, and not you? Have I not begged you often to accept the only answer I could ever give you? Be generous, Leonardo, and let us be friends."

It was several moments before he spoke, and then it seemed as though there had been a conflict in the man, and the worse half had conquered. The dumb grief in his eyes, which had been so piteous to witness, had changed suddenly into a furious, passionate anger. He shook with the violence of his emotions, and though she was used to his stormy, impetuous nature, she was frightened.

"Friends! A curse upon such folly! Is it for friendship's sake that I have followed you here at the risk of my life, just to breathe the same air, to look but now and then into your face? Ah! Adrienne! Adrienne! listen once more to me. Do you think that he can love as I do? Never! never! I know that sluggish English temperament. Their wives are their servants or their dolls. Their passion is the passion of animals, and they have not even constancy."

She held out her hand. He had destroyed her pity. Henceforth he was obnoxious to her.

"Leave me," she commanded. "You are talking of what you do not understand. You are insulting me. I detest you!"

"Detest me!" he laughed hysterically, and the fire in his eyes grew brighter. "Since when? Since this cursed Englishman whispered his lies into your ears and stole you from me. Nay, do not shake your head. Mine you would have been some day, as surely as now you have made my life a hell. My love would have conquered in the end. It would have worn away your coldness and your resistance drop by drop. Mother of God! it shall conquer! Do I come of a race who are content to stand calmly by and see the woman they love stolen away by strangers? No!"

He stopped short, and there was a strange look in his face. Adrienne saw it, and trembled.

"Leonardo," she said, "I call a man who cannot bear a disappointment a coward. I do not love you; and under no circumstances whatever would it have been possible for me ever to have married you. Never! never!"

He turned on his heel and walked away.

"We shall see!" he said. "Au revoir, my cousin."

The emphasis in his tone, and a certain fixed look in his face chilled her. She held up her hands, and he stayed.

"Listen!" she said, speaking slowly, and with her eyes fixed steadily upon him. "I do not wish to think ill of you; I do not wish to think that you could harm the man I love; but, if you did—if you did, I say—you should taste a woman's vengeance! You think me weak, but there are things which will fire the blood and steel the nerve of a weaker woman than I am. Remember, Leonardo! Lift but your little finger against Lord St. Maurice, and all ties of kindred and country are forgotten. Those means which lie ready to my hand, I will use! I have warned you! Remember!"

Her tone had passed from earnestness to solemnity; her attitude, her final gesture, were full of dramatic grace. Beside her, he appeared mean and insignificant.

"I thank you for your candor, cousin," he said slowly. "If I harm your lover——"

"If you harm him," she interrupted fiercely, "you will win my undying hate, even while you are undergoing my vengeance. You know my power, Leonardo; you know the means which lie ready to my hand. Never doubt but that I shall use them."

He turned round and walked out of the house, passing Lord St. Maurice in the garden without even glancing toward him. In the road he paused for a moment, watching the long shadows pass quivering across the dark hills, and the gleam of the moonlight upon the water far away below.

"She would never dare!" he murmured to himself. "She is a woman, and she would forget."