MEANWHILE, Gloria had gone out alone, intending to find her husband and
to tell him that the die was cast, that she had left him in haste and
anger, but that she never would return to his house. She felt that she
must live through the chain of emotions to the very last link, as it
were, until she could feel no more. It was like her to go straight to
Reanda and take up the battle where she had interrupted it. Her anger
had been sudden, but it was not brief. She had left weakness, and had
found strength to add to her own, and she wished the man who had hurt
her to feel how strong she was, and how she was able to take her life
out of his hands and to keep it for herself, and live it as she pleased
in spite of him and every one. The wild blood that ran in her veins was
free, now, and she meant that no one but herself should ever again have
the right to thwart it, to tell her heart that it should beat so many
times in each minute and no more. She was perfectly well aware that she
was accepting social ruin with her freedom, but she had long nourished a
rancorous hatred for the society which had seemed to accept her under
protest, for Francesca's sake, and she was ready enough to turn her back
on it before it should finally make up its polite mind to relegate her
to the middle distance of indifferent toleration.
As for Reanda, on that first morning she hated him with all her soul,
for himself, and for what he had done to her. She had words ready for
him, and she turned and fitted them in her heart that they might cut him
and stab him as long as he could feel. The selfishness with a tendency
to cruelty which was a working spring of her father's character was
strong in her, and craved the satisfaction of wounding. A part of the
sudden joy in life which she felt as she walked towards what had been
her home, lay in the certainty of dealing back fourfold hurt for every
real and fancied injury she had ever suffered at Reanda's hands.
She felt quite sure of finding him. She did not imagine it possible that
after what had happened he should go to the Palazzetto Borgia to work as
usual. Besides, he must have discovered her absence by this time, and
would in all probability be searching for her. She smiled at the idea,
and she went swiftly on, keenly ready to give all the pain she could.
At her own door the servant seemed surprised to see her. Every one had
supposed that she was still in her room, for it was not yet midday, and
she sometimes slept very late. She glanced at the hall table and saw
her key lying amongst the cards where she had thrown it when she had
left the house. The servant did not see her take it, for she made a
pretence of turning the cards over to find some particular one. She
asked indifferently about her husband. The man said that Reanda had gone
out as usual. Gloria started a little in surprise, and inquired whether
he had left no message for her. On hearing that he had given none, she
sent the servant away, went to her own room, and locked herself in.
With a curious Scotch caution very much at variance with her conduct,
she reflected that as the servants were evidently not aware of what had
taken place, they might as well be kept in the dark. In a few moments
she gave the room the appearance which it usually had in the morning.
With perfect calmness she dressed for the day, and then rang for her
maid.
She told the woman that she had slept badly, had got up early, and had
gone out for a long walk; that she now intended to leave Rome for a few
days, for a change of air, and must have what she needed packed within
an hour. She gave a few orders, clearly and concisely, and then went out
again, leaving word that if Reanda returned he should be told that she
was coming back very soon.
Clearly, she thought, he must have supposed that she was still sleeping,
and he had gone to his painting without any further thought of her.
Again she smiled, and a line of delicate cruelty was faintly shadowed
about her lips. She left the house and walked in the direction of the
Palazzetto. Reanda always came home to the midday breakfast, and it was
nearly time for him to be on his way. Gloria knew every turning which he
would take, and she hoped to meet him. Her eyes flashed in anticipation
of the contest, and she felt that he would not be able to meet them.
They would be too bright for him. There was a small mark on her cheek
still, where one of the sharp edges of the ivory slats had scratched her
fair skin, and there was a slight redness on that side, but the bright
red bar was gone. She was glad of it, as she nodded to a passing
acquaintance.
She wished to assure herself that her husband was really at the
Palazzetto, and she inquired of the porter at the great gate whether
Reanda had been seen that morning. The man said that he had come at the
usual hour, and stood aside for her to pass, but she turned from him
abruptly and went away without a word.
The blood rose in her cheeks, and her heart beat angrily. He had
attached no more importance than this to what he had done, and had gone
to his painting as though nothing had happened. He had not even tried to
see her in the morning to beg her pardon for having struck her. Strange
to say, in spite of what she herself had done, that was what most roused
her anger. She demanded the satisfaction of his asking her forgiveness,
as though she had no fault to find with herself. In comparison with his
cowardly violence to her, her leaving him for Griggs was as nothing in
her eyes.
She walked more slowly as she went homewards, and the unspoken
bitterness of her heart choked her, and the sharp words she could not
speak cut her cruelly. She compared the hand that had dared to hurt
though it had not strength to kill, with that other, dearer, gentler,
more terrible hand, which could have killed anything, but which would
rather be burned to the wrist than let one of its fingers touch her
roughly. She compared them, and she loved the one and she loathed the
other, with all her heart. And with that same hand Reanda, at that same
moment, was painting some goddess's face, and it had forgotten whose
divinely lovely cheek it had struck. It was painting unless, perhaps, it
lay in Francesca's. But Gloria had not forgotten, and she would repay
before the day darkened.
Her husband, since he was calm enough to go to his work, would come home
for his breakfast when he was hungry. Gloria went back to her room and
superintended the packing of what she needed. But she was not so calm as
she had been half an hour earlier, and she waited impatiently for her
husband's return and for the last scene of the drama. When the things
were packed, she had the box taken out to the hall and sent for a cab.
As she foresaw the situation, she would leave the house forever as soon
as the last word was spoken. Then she went into the drawing-room and
waited, watching the clock.
There, on the mantelpiece, lay the broken fan, where the fragments had
been placed by the servant. Gloria looked at them, handled them
curiously, and felt her cheek softly with her hand. He must have struck
her with all his might, she thought, to have hurt her as he had with so
light a weapon; and the whole quarrel came back to her vividly, in every
detail, and with every spoken word.
She could not regret what she had done. With an attempt at
self-examination, which was only a self-justification, she tried to
recall the early days when she had loved her husband, and to conjure up
the face with the gentle light in it. She failed, of course, and the
picture that came disgusted her and was unutterably contemptible and
weak and full of cowardice. The face of Paul Griggs came in its place a
moment later, and she heard in her ears the deep, stern voice, quavering
with strength rather than with weakness, and she could feel the arms she
loved about her, pressing her almost to pain, able to press her to death
in their love-clasp.
The hands of the clock went on, and Reanda did not come. She was
surprised to find how long she had waited, and with a revulsion of
feeling she rose to her feet. If he would not come, she would not wait
for him. She was hungry, too. It was absurd, perhaps, but she would not
eat his bread nor sit at his table, not even alone. She went to her
writing-table and wrote a note to him, short, cruel, and decisive. She
wrote that if her father had been in Rome she would have gone to him for
protection. As he was absent, she had gone to her father's best friend
and her own--to Paul Griggs. She said nothing more. He might interpret
the statement as he pleased. She sealed the note and addressed it, and
before she went out of the house she gave it to the servant, to be given
to Reanda as soon as he came home. The man-servant went downstairs with
her, and stood looking after the little open cab; he saw Gloria speak to
the coachman, who nodded and changed his direction before they were out
of sight.
At the door in the Via della Frezza the cabman let down Gloria's luggage
and drove away. She stood still a moment and looked at the one-eyed
cobbler.
"You have given the signore a beautiful fright," observed the old man.
"I told him you had gone out. With one jump he was upstairs. By this
time he cries."
Gloria took a silver piece of two pauls from her purse.
"Can you carry up these things for me?" she inquired, concealing her
annoyance at the man's speech.
"I am not a porter," said the cobbler, with his head on one side. "But
one must live. With courage and money one makes war. There are three
pieces. One at a time. But you must watch the door while I carry up the
box. If any one should steal my tools, it would be a beautiful day's
work. Without them I should be in the middle of the street. You will
understand, Signora. It is not to do you a discourtesy, but my tools are
my bread. Without them I cannot eat. There is also the left boot of Sor
Ercole. If any one were to steal it, Sor Ercole would go upon one leg.
Imagine the disgrace!"
"I will stay here," said Gloria. "Do not be afraid."
The cobbler, who was a strong old man, got hold of the trunk and
shouldered it with ease. When he stood up, Gloria saw that he was
bandy-legged and very short.
She turned and stood on the threshold of the street door as she had
stood on the previous night. No one would have believed that a few hours
earlier the rain had fallen in torrents, for the pavement was dry, and
even under the arch there seemed to be no dampness. Looking up the
street towards the Corso, she saw that there was a wine shop, a few
doors higher on the opposite side. Two or three men were standing before
it, under the brown bush which served for a sign, and amongst them she
saw a peasant in blue cloth clothes with silver buttons and clean white
stockings. She recognized him as the man who had held his umbrella over
her in the storm. He also saw her, lifted his felt hat and came
forwards, crossing the street. His look was fixed on her face with a
stare of curiosity as he stood before her.
"I hope you have not caught cold, Signora," he said, with steady,
unwinking eyes. "We passed a beautiful storm. Signora, I sell wine to
that host. If you should need wine, I recommend him to you." He pointed
to the shop.
"You told me to ask for you at the Piazza Montanara," said Gloria,
smiling.
"With that water you could not see the shop," answered Stefanone.
"Signora, you are very beautiful. With permission, I say that you should
not walk alone at night."
"It was the first and last time," said Gloria. "Fortunately, I met a
person of good manners. I thank you again."
"Signora, you are so beautiful that the Madonna and her angels always
accompany you. With permission, I go. Good day."
To the last, until he turned, he kept his eyes steadily fixed on
Gloria's face, as though searching for a resemblance in her features.
She noticed his manner and remembered him very distinctly after the
second meeting.
The cobbler came back again, closely followed by Griggs himself, who
said nothing, but took possession of the small valise and bag which
Gloria had brought in addition to her box. He led the way, and she
followed him swiftly. Inside the door of his lodging he turned and
looked at her.
"Please do not go away suddenly without telling me," he said in a low
voice. "I am easily frightened about you."
"Really?"
Gloria held out her two hands to meet him. He nodded as he took them.
"That is better than anything you have ever said to me." She drew him to
her.
It was natural, for she was thinking how Reanda had calmly gone back to
his work that morning, without so much as asking for her. The contrast
was too great and too strong, between love and indifference.
They went into the work-room together, and Gloria sat down on one of the
rush chairs, and told Griggs what she had done. He walked slowly up and
down while she was speaking, his eyes on the pattern of the old carpet.
"I might have stayed," she said at last. "The servants did not even know
that I had been out of the house."
"You should have stayed," said Griggs. "I ought to say it, at least."
But as he spoke the mask softened and the rare smile beautified for one
instant the still, stern face.