At last Mary had time to think, and to write to Vanno.
In her dressing-bag, which the caretaker had carried up to her room,
were writing materials. On a table in the middle of the room was the
best lamp in the house. Apollonia had brought it to the beloved
Signorina, as her ancestresses in the wild mountain village might have
laid offerings on Baal's shrine. The new mistress was to have all the
most beautiful and desirable things that the house could provide--was to
have them in spite of herself; for Apollonia's heart held no warmth for
those friends whom the Signorina had placed in the best rooms.
Mary was not conscious of fatigue, yet she sat with her elbows resting
heavily on the table, her chin in her hands. The lamp stood at the left
side; and in front was the great uncurtained window. As her eyes looked
to the stars, it was as if their eyes flashed brightly back, through
rents in the black veil of cloud.
"What am I to say to Vanno?" she asked herself.
The first hopefulness grasped as a crutch for failing courage had broken
down hours ago. At best it had been something unseen to which she might
cling in the dark. She had said: "By and by I shall know what to do. I
won't give him up. I shall tell him I'm innocent. He'll believe in me
without any proof." But now she was face to face with the great
question, and must meet point after point as it was presented to her
mind.
She had promised Marie to keep the secret. She had sworn by her love for
Vanno and Vanno's love for her that she would not tell him nor any one;
that she would not even speak out in confession to a priest. Yes! But
when she promised she did not dream that her whole future happiness and
perhaps Vanno's would depend upon the issue. Surely she could not be
expected to sacrifice everything for Marie, who had betrayed her, who
had made the cruellest use of a friend's loyalty. The most severe judge
would grant the right to tell Vanno the history of this day: what Marie
had done; and how in spite of all, even when Angelo insulted her, she,
Mary, had kept silence for the sake of the family honour and peace.
The girl told herself this; but deep down, under the repeated assurances
which she forced upon her conscience, a whisper made itself clearly
heard. "Even if you have this right," the voice said, "will it bring you
happiness to use it? Think what it means. You tell Vanno that his
brother's wife is a woman who sinned before her marriage and deceived
her husband. That she lied and let you suffer for her sake, rather than
Angelo should find out what she was; that Angelo insulted you, saying
you were no fit companion for his wife, whom you had saved; that
because of his insults you had to leave his house. When Vanno hears
these things from you he will believe them, and, besides, they can very
well be proved. But can you make up to him by your love for all he will
have to lose? He will not consent to let you suffer for Marie. He will
insist on proving to Angelo which of the two is guilty. The brothers
will hate each other. Marie perhaps may kill herself. The Duke will know
that Vanno and Angelo have quarrelled hopelessly, even if he learns no
more than that. The family life which has been happy will be
embittered--through you. On the other hand, Vanno will have nothing but
your love."
All this the voice said, and Mary had no argument with which to talk it
down.
There was one alternative, and she turned to it desperately: She could
write, or even telegraph Vanno, saying, "Come to me before you see
Angelo. I have something to tell you." He would come, and she could say,
"Your Cousin Idina Bland tried to ruin Marie with her husband. There was
a story about a girl who had been at the convent where I was brought up.
Marie said it must be true not of her but of me, if it were true at all.
The only part really true is that I was at the Convent of St.
Ursula-of-the-Lake. I did none of the things Angelo may tell you I did.
Do you love me enough and want me enough to take me without proof of
what I say? Because I have a good reason for not even trying to give any
proof."
This would seem very strange to Vanno--that she should have a good
reason for not trying to prove her truth; but Mary thought, now that he
knew her well and loved her well, he would take her in spite of all,
rather than give her up. But--could she let him take her in that way?
No matter how great his love, the question must creep into his mind
sometimes: "What if she is the woman Angelo thinks her? What if she has
made a fool of me?" Such thoughts, even though thrust out by him with
violence, must mingle poison with his happiness, and at last cloud the
brightness of his love. Besides, they two would have to live apart from
his people. If she were Vanno's wife, he and Angelo could not be
friends.
It began to seem, after all, as if there were no way out. Whether she
kept her word to Marie or broke it, as Marie deserved, never, it seemed,
could she and Vanno know untroubled happiness together. The music of
their love must at best be jarred by discords: and looking to the stars
behind the drifting clouds, Mary told herself with a bursting heart that
it would be kinder to break with Vanno now.
For a long time she sat at the table without moving, her chin in her
hands, her eyes always on the window. The fire of wood which Apollonia
had lighted died down to a heap of red-jewelled ashes. The room, long
unused and but superficially heated, became cold with the harsh,
relentless cold of a vault. Mary's body lost its warmth, and grew chill
as marble. When she was ready to write she could scarcely move her
hands, but she warmed her fingers by breathing upon them, and at last
began her letter to Vanno.
Dearest of all you will be to me forever [she wrote], but something
has happened which must part us. Your brother will explain, in his
way. It is not my way; but there are reasons why I must not explain
at all, except to say to you, dearest, that I am the Mary of your
love, not the Mary your brother thinks me. None of those things
which he will tell you, have I done. But I have thought a great
deal, and I have prayed to be wise for you, even more than for
myself. At first I felt I could not give you up; but now I see that
it will be better for us to part, rather than for me to take you
selfishly away from your family. You love me, I know, and this will
hurt you. I think you will say that I am wrong; but by and by you
will realize that what I do is for the best.
My only love, I want you to be happy, and so I ask you to forget
me. Not quite, perhaps! I couldn't bear that; but all I will let
myself wish for is a sweet memory without pain. Don't try to find
me. I must not change my mind, and it would be agony to part from
you if I saw your face and your dear eyes. It is easier and better
this way. And I am going to a place where I shall be as happy as I
can ever be without you.
I shall not send back your ring, for I know you would like me to
keep it; and please keep the few little things I have given you,
unless you would rather not be reminded of me by them.
I cannot send you my heart, because it is with you already and will
be always.