"So you have said before, but how could he suspect?"
"I don't know, yet judge for yourself. I worm his secrets from him at
the cost of kisses and endearments; I hold him in my arms and with
smiles and caresses I lead him to betray himself. Then, suddenly,
without warning or farewell, he vanishes. I tell you he knows. He has
the cunning of the fiend, and your friend Signore Blake has blundered."
Oliveta's face blanched with terror. She clung to her companion weakly,
repeating over and over: "He will return. God help us, he will return."
"Even though he knows the truth, which is far from likely, he would
scarcely dare to come here," Vittoria said, striving with a show of
confidence which she did not feel to calm her foster sister.
"You do not know him as I do. You do not know the furies which goad him
in his anger."
In spite of herself Vittoria felt choked again by those fears which
during the days since Maruffi's disappearance she had with difficulty
controlled. She knew that the net had been spread for him in all
caution, yet he had slipped through it. Whether he had been warned or
whether mere chance had taken him from the city at the last moment,
neither she, nor Blake, nor the Chief of Police had been able to learn.
All had been done with such secrecy that, except a bare half-dozen
trusted officers, no one knew him to be even suspected of a part in the
Mafia's affairs. Norvin had been quick to sense the possible danger to
the two women, and had urged them to accept his protection; but they
had convinced him that such a course had its own dangers, for in case
the Mafioso was really unsuspicious the slightest indiscretion on their
part might frighten him. Therefore they had insisted upon living as
usual until something more definite was known.
This afternoon Vittoria had received a message from Myra Nell,
requesting, or rather demanding, her immediate attendance. She had gone
gladly, hoping to divert her mind from its present anxieties; but the
girl had talked of little except Norvin Blake and the effect had not
been calming.
Oliveta soon discovered that her sister was in a state to receive
rather than give consolation.
"Carissima, you are ill!" she said with concern.
Vittoria assented. "It is my eyes--my head. The heat is perhaps as much
to blame as our many worries." She removed her hat and pressed slender
fingers to her throbbing temples, while Oliveta drew the curtains
against the fierce rays of a westering sun. Later, clad in a loose
silken robe, Vittoria flung herself upon the low couch and her
companion let down her luxuriant masses of hair until it enveloped her
like a cloud. She lay back upon the cushions in grateful relaxation,
while Oliveta combed and brushed the braids, soothing her with an
occasional touch of cool palms or straying fingers.
"How strange that both our lives should have been blighted by this
man!" the peasant girl said at length.
"'Sh-h! You must not think of him so unceasingly," Vittoria warned her.
"One's thoughts go where they will when one is sick and wearied. I have
grown to hate everything about me--the people, the life, the country."
"Sicily is calling you, perhaps?"
Oliveta answered eagerly, "Yes! You, too, are unhappy, my dearest. Let
us go home. Home!" She let her hands fall idle and stared ahead of her,
seeing the purple hills behind Terranova, the dusty gray-green groves
of olive-trees, the brilliant fields of sumach, the arbors bent beneath
their weight of blushing fruit. "I want to see the village people
again, my father's relatives, old Aliandro, and the Notary's little
boy--"
"He must be a well-grown lad, by now," murmured Vittoria. "Aliandro, I
fear, is dead. But it is a long road to Terranova; we have--changed."
"Yes--everything has changed. My happiness has changed to misery, my
hope to despair, my love to hate."
"Poor sister mine!" Vittoria sympathized. "Be patient. No wound is too
deep for time to heal. The scar will remain, but the pain will
disappear. I should know, for I have suffered."
"And do you suffer no longer? It has been a long time since you
mentioned--Martel."
For a moment Vittoria remained silent, her eyes closed. When she
replied it was not in answer to the question. "I can never return to
Sicily, for it would awaken nothing but distress in me. But there is no
reason why you should not go if you wish. You have the means, while all
that I had has been given to the Sisters."
Oliveta cried out at this passionately. "I have nothing. That which you
gave me I hold only for you. But I would not go alone; I shall never
leave you."
"Some time you must, my dear. Our parting is not far off."
"I am not sure." The peasant girl hesitated. "Deep in your heart, do
you hope to find peace inside the walls of that hospital?"
"Yes--peace, at least; perhaps contentment and happiness also."
"That is impossible," said Oliveta, at which Vittoria's hazel eyes flew
open.
"Eh? Why not?"
"Because you love this Signore Blake!"
"Oliveta! You are losing your wits."
"Perhaps! But I have not lost my eyes. As for him, he loved you even in
Sicily."
"What then?"
"He is a fine man. I think you could hear an echo to the love you
cherished for Martel, if you but listened."
Vittoria gazed at her foster-sister with a look half tender and half
stern. Her voice had lost some of its languid indifference when she
replied:
"Any feeling I might have would indeed be no more than an echo. I--am
not like other women; something in me is dead--it is the power to love
as women love. I am like a person who emerges from a conflagration,
blinded; the eyes are there, but the sight is gone."
"Perhaps you only sleep, like the princess who waited for a kiss--"
Vittoria interrupted impatiently: "No, no! And you mistake his
feelings. I attract him, perhaps, but he loves Miss Warren and has
asked her to marry him. What is more, she adores him and--they were
made for each other."
"She adores him!" echoed the other. "Che Dio! She only plays at love.
Her affections are as shifting as the winds."
"That may be. But he is in earnest. It was he who gave her this social
triumph--he made her Queen of the Carnival. He even bought her dresses.
It was that which caused her to send for me this afternoon. Heaven
knows I was in no mood to listen, but she chattered like a magpie. As
if I could advise her wisely!"
"She is very dear to you," Oliveta ventured.
"Indeed, yes. She shares with you all the love that is left in me."
"I think I understand. You have principles, my sister. You have
purposely barred the way to your fairy prince, and will continue
sleeping."
Vittoria's brow showed faint lines, but whether of pain or annoyance it
was hard to tell.
Oliveta sighed. "What evil fortune overhangs us that we should be
denied love!"
"Please! Let us speak no more of it." She turned her face away and for
a long time her companion soothed her with silent ministrations.
Meanwhile the dusk settled, the golden flames died out of the western
windows, the room darkened. Seeing that her patient slept, Oliveta
arose and with noiseless step went to a little shrine which hung on the
wall. She knelt before the figure of the Virgin, whispering a prayer,
then lit a fresh candle for her sister's pain and left the room, partly
closing the door behind her.
She had allowed the maid-servant to go for the afternoon, and found,
upon examination, that the day's marketing had been neglected. There
was still time, however, in which to secure some delicacies to tempt
Vittoria's taste so she flung a shawl over her dark hair and descended
softly to the street.
A little earlier on this same afternoon, as Norvin Blake sat at work in
his office, the telephone bell roused him from deep thought. He seized
the instrument eagerly, hoping for any news that would relieve the
tension upon his nerves. For uncertainty as to Maruffi's whereabouts
had weighed heavily upon him, especially in view of the possible danger
to the woman he loved and to her devoted companion. The voice of O'Neil
came over the wire, full-toned and distinct:
"Hello! Is this Blake?"--and then, "We've got Maruffi!"
"When? Where?" shouted Norvin.
"Five minutes ago; at his own house. Johnson and Dean have been
watching the place. He went with them like a lamb, too. They've just
'phoned me that they're all on their way here."
"Good! Do you need me?"
"No! See you later. Good-by!"
The Acting Chief slammed up his receiver, leaving his hearer stunned at
the suddenness of this long-awaited denouement.
Maruffi taken! His race run! Then this was the end of the fight! A
ferocious triumph flooded Norvin's brain. With Belisario Cardi in the
hands of the law the spell of the Mafia was broken. Savigno and
Donnelly were as good as avenged. He experienced an odd feeling of
relaxation, as if both his body and brain were cramped and tired with
waiting. Then, realizing that the Countess and Oliveta must have
suffered an even greater strain, he set out at once to give them the
news in person.
As he turned swiftly into Royal Street he encountered O'Connell, who,
noting his haste and something unusual in his bearing, detained him to
ask the cause.
"Haven't you heard?" exclaimed Norvin. "Maruffi's captured at last."
"You don't mean it!"
"Yes. O'Neil told me over the wire not ten minutes ago."
O'Connell fell into step with him, saying, incredulously: "And he came
without a fight? Lord! I can't believe it."
"Nor I. I expected trouble with him."
"Sure! I thought he was a bad one, but that's the way it goes
sometimes. I reckon he saw he had no chance." The officer shook his red
head. "It's just my blamed luck to miss the fun." O'Connell was one of
the few who had been first trusted with the news of Maruffi's identity,
and for the past fortnight he had been casting high and low for the
Sicilian's trail. Ever since that October night when he had supported
Donnelly in his arms as the life ebbed from the Chief, ever since he
had knelt on the soft banquette with the sting of powder smoke in his
nostrils, he had been obsessed by a fanatical desire to be in at the
death of his friend's murderers. He left Blake at his destination and
hurried on toward St. Phillip Street in the vague hope that he might
not be too late to take a hand in some part of the proceedings.
Blake's hand was upon Oliveta's bell when the door opened and she
confronted him. Her start, her frightened cry, gave evidence of the
nervous dread under which she labored.
"Don't be afraid, Oliveta," he said, quickly. "I come with news--good
news."
She swayed and groped blindly for support. He put out his hand to
sustain her, but she shrank away from him, saying, faintly: "Then he is
captured? God be praised!"
In spite of the words, her eyes filmed over with tears, a look of
abject misery bared itself upon her face.
"Where is the Countess?"
"Above--resting. Come; she, too, will rejoice."
"Let me take her the news. You were going out, and--I think the air
will do you good. Be brave, Oliveta; you have done your share, and
there's nothing more to fear."
She acquiesced dully; her olive features were ghastly as she felt her
way past him; she walked like a sick woman.
He watched her pityingly for a moment, then mounted the stairs. As he
laid his hand upon the door it gave to his touch and he stood upon the
threshold of the parlor. Vittoria's name was upon his lips when, by the
dim evening light which came through the drawn curtains and by the
faint illumination from the solitary shrine candle, he saw her
recumbent form upon the couch.
She was lying in an attitude of complete relaxation, her sun-gilded
hair straying in long thick braids below her waist, Those tawny ropes
were of a length and thickness to bind a man about the body. Her lips
were slightly parted; her lashes lay like dark shadows against her
ivory cheeks.
He was swept by a sudden awed abashment. The impulse to retreat came
over him, but he lacked the will. The longing which had remained so
strong in him through years of denial, governing the whole course of
his life, blazed up in him now and increased with every heartbeat. He
found that without willing it he had come close to the couch. The
girl's slim hand lay upon the cushions, limply upturned to him; it was
half open and there sprang through him an ungovernable desire to bury
his lips in its rosy palm. He knelt, then quailed and recovered
himself. At the same instant she stirred and, to his incredulous
delight, whispered his name.
A wild exultation shot through him. Why not yield to this madness, he
asked himself, dizzily. The long struggle was over now. For this
woman's sake he had repeatedly played the part of bravery in a fever of
fear. He had done what he had done to make himself worthy of her, and
now, at the last, he was to have nothing--absolutely nothing, except a
memory. Against these thoughts his notions of honorable conduct hastily
and confusedly arrayed themselves. But he was in no state to reason.
The same enchantment, half psychic, half physical, ethereal yet
strongly human, that had mastered him in the old Sicilian days, was at
work upon him now. Dimly he felt that so mighty and natural a thing
ought not to be resisted. He stood stiffly like a man spellbound.
It may have been Oliveta's accusation that affected the course of the
sleeping woman's thoughts, it may have been that she felt the man's
nearness, or that some influence passed from his mind to hers. However
it was, she spoke his name again, her fingers closed over his, she drew
him toward her.
He yielded; her warm breath beat upon his face; then the last atoms of
self-restraint fled away from him like sparks before a fierce night
wind. A fiery madness coursed through his veins as he caught her to
him. Her lips were fevered with sleep. For a moment the caress seemed
real; it was the climax of his hopes, the attainment of his longings.
He crushed her in his arms; her hair blinded him; he buried his face in
it, kissing her brow, her cheek, the curve where neck and shoulder met,
and all the time he was speaking her name with hoarse tenderness.
So strangely had the fanciful merged into the real that the girl was
slow in waking. Her eyelids fluttered, her breast rose and fell
tumultuously, and even while her wits were struggling back to reality
her arms clung to him. But the transition was brief. Her eyes opened,
and she stiffened as with the shock of an electric current. A cry, a
swift, writhing movement, and she was upon her feet, his incoherent
words beating upon her ears but making no impression upon her brain.
"_You_! God above!" she cried.
She faced him, white, terror-stricken, yet splendid in her anger. She
was still dazed, but horror and dismay leaped quickly into her eyes.
"Margherita! You called me. You drew me to you. It was your real self
that spoke--I know it."
"You--kissed me while--I slept!"
He paled at the look with which she scorched him, then broke out,
doggedly:
"You wanted me; you drew me close. You can't undo that moment--you
can't. My God! Don't tell me it was all a mistake. That would make it
unendurable. I could never forgive myself."