"DUG DEEP INTO MY HEART--"
The sun was golden upon the paneled walls of Anne's gay little sitting
room. In its uncompromising rays, Torrigiani's face shown drawn.
Anne looked at him remorsefully.
"Poor Vittorio, I'm not worth all this agony. Indeed, I'm not!"
"And I know I should not inflict it upon you." His troubled brown eyes
rested upon her. "But if you knew what a horror I have gone through this
week! Never in all the years that we have known each other have I
doubted you, Anne. In spite of what people said (you yourself know only
too well how you have always been talked about) my mother and I never
have listened. You have always been my Donna Immaculata and always will
remain so. Nobody but yourself could dispel my faith, and even then I
should feel there had been a mistake somewhere. But this talk, this
terrible talk of Ellen, even your letter doesn't explain it away
entirely. I have come to you for the truth. Who is this man with whom
you have been staying, Anne? And what is he to you?"
"He is Alexis Petrovskey, the violinist, and--and he is nothing to
me--at present. He was very ill and I have been taking care of him. That
is all."
She avoided the earnest, seeking eyes. A vivid crimson stained her
cheek. In a tea-gown of peacock blue chiffon with transparent black lace
sleeves, she was infinitely desirable.
Torrigiani drew his chair closer to hers. He searched her face
wistfully.
"What do you mean he is nothing to you at present? Don't try to spare
me, carissima. I want to know the truth."
She averted her head, and played nervously with the ends of her
turquoise girdle.
"I scarcely know what I mean myself, Vittorio. It is impossible to
foresee the future, you know. But--but as I said in my letter, he is
very dependent upon my--my friendship. He says that it is I who have
brought back his music. Did you know about his misfortune, his
breakdown?"
Vittorio nodded.
"Yes, I read about it in the papers. So the music has come back to him,
has it? Well, that is not so extraordinary, is it?" He felt his way.
"Things like that usually do come back to one, after a certain time."
"Are you trying to say that I had nothing to do with it?"
"No, cara, of course not. Only I don't want you to feel too strong a
responsibility for this young man. He is probably very much indebted to
you, and without doubt very much in love. But are you positive that he
needs you as much as he would like you to think?"
Anne's anger melted into unexpected amusement. She gestured with her
cigarette. "How can I tell, Vittorio? But it really looks that way. If I
don't go to see him twice a day, his fever rises and he refuses to eat.
And when I first met him on the mountain, his condition was really
pitiable. I know that I helped him then."
Her look of unconscious triumph wounded him to the marrow.
"Tell me about it, Anne. Is it true that he stayed ten days with you in
the lodge?"
She met his eyes with renewed serenity.
"Yes, why not? He was alone and ill, and Regina and I took care of him.
He didn't want to return to New York, as he was afraid the newspapers
might get hold of it. So I let him stay with me,--tout simplement."
He looked as if a weight had been taken off his heart.
"But why did you not tell me, cara? That night when I teased you about
fallen gods, I little guessed that you were concealing one up in your
sitting room. That at that very moment he was toasting those feet of
clay at your fireplace. If any one had told me so, I would have laughed
in his face. I always thought you scorned underhand methods. It was not
like you at all!"
"Of course it wasn't. But how could I help it? It was his secret, not
mine. As a matter of fact, he didn't arrive until long after our
conversation took place. He didn't want to be seen, so I had to hide
him. I didn't enjoy it. I hate subterfuge, as you know. If I hadn't
always been so aboveboard, there would have been less talk about me. No
one knows it better than I do! And now the first time that I have
stooped to such methods, everybody puts a false construction upon it."
"Except myself, Anne. I know you too well. You would never do anything
beneath you."
She flicked her ashes into the grate rather nervously. "Then you know me
better than I do myself!"
He leaned towards her, deeply troubled.
"What is the matter, Anne? Won't you tell me, dear? You're so different
from your former self, so unapproachable. So almost irritable. Are you
unhappy about this man? Do you care for him, perhaps? Has love finally
come to you after all these years?"
Again she avoided the earnest gaze. "I don't know. I--I'm afraid not."
"You don't know?" he stammered.
"No." The word came draggingly from pale lips.
"But what is it, dear one? Do you intend to marry this boy? Is that why
you say you are afraid?"
"No." Once more the monosyllable was barely audible. Then she turned and
faced the honest eyes squarely.
"I cannot marry Alexis even if I want to. He has a wife already!"
"Ah!" he breathed painfully. "I understand. And yet you love him, my
poor Anne? He--he is your lover?"
She shook her head. The firelight leapt up the ivory column of her
throat, tinting her hair with living gold.
"No--not yet, Vittorio."
He uttered a low cry almost of joy.
"Thank God! Then it's not too late. Ah, Anne, think what it would mean
to you to take a lover, you to whom marriage was a crucifixion! Have you
forgotten our long talks in the garden? How often you have confided to
me your horror of contact? That is why you have always refused to marry
again? Even me, your very oldest friend! How could you bear it, then, to
have a lover?"
Her face cupped within her hands, Anne gazed into the fire.
"Don't make it too hard for me, Vittorio. Let me explain."
He broke in quickly.
"No explanation is necessary. You love at last. And when a woman like
you loves, she surrenders all. But think well. The ignoble does not suit
you. Your love will not survive it. You will lose caste in your own
eyes--you will be talked about--whispered about----"
Anne laughed grimly. "Talked about, whispered about! Am I not accustomed
to that!"
"Ah, that was different, beneath your notice. Only the truth can sting a
woman like you. Anne, believe me, if you take a lover you will be very
unhappy, I--I dread to think of it." He bowed his head upon the mantel.
She rose, and approaching him, laid her hand upon his thick, black hair.
"Poor Vittorio, how good you are to me. Much, much too good!"
"I good to you?" he turned beneath the caressing fingers and looked at
her in surprise. "But I love you. I would do anything to prevent your
suffering. If you will only marry me now, before it is too late, I
promise never to demand anything for myself. We will go first to Mexico
if you like, and then back home to Italy. It will be just the same as
ever between us, only I shall be there to protect you. And with change
of scene and distance you will forget all this madness."
She shook her head dully.
"Oh, no, it is impossible, dear. But why Mexico?" she asked, momentarily
diverted.
"Because I want to explore some of the ruins down there. And it is
another Egypt, you know, as the idyllic guide books put it. It seems to
me that a honeymoon in Mexico, even only a fraternal one," he added
hastily, "would be heavenly."
With a little moan she turned away and sank into a chair.
"But I can't. You don't understand. I'm no longer free. I have promised.
If I break my word now I don't know what will happen to Alexis. He is
still very ill. He might lose his music forever, or even die."
Torrigiani turned about slowly and looked down upon her bowed head. "Do
you love this man, Anne?" he inquired with a commanding note in his
voice.
Her head thrown wearily against the chair-back, she shook it dully.
"I told you before that I didn't know, Vittorio."
He mused down upon her darkly.
"Then it is even worse than I feared. If you had loved him, a certain
rapture might have repaid the sacrifice. But if it is only pity! Why,
Anne, if it is merely pity, why don't you take it out on me? Surely, I
deserve it after all these years. Am I not equally an object for
charity?"
He knelt beside the chair and grasped her hands.
"Ah, but you are a man, Vittorio. Able to stand upon your own feet. He
is only a sick boy, an artist, whose art, his only reason for living,
had deserted him until only the other day. And I--I seem to be able to
help. If I stay by him, it may never leave him again."
He dropped her hands and rose. His face took on a hard expression,
utterly foreign to him. He laughed shortly.
"I see he has appealed to the maternal, the protective instinct. He is
clever, if weak. But is the game worth the candle?"
She sighed, and spread her hands in a weary, undecided gesture.
"Is any game worth the candle, Vittorio, if you weigh the wax? But if I
can help him to get on his feet again, if I can bring his art back
again, I shall feel as if I had been of some use in the world at last."
Vittorio's expression became almost a grimace. The curt laugh rang out
harshly.
"Aha, it is the old music complex, is it? So we have put our finger upon
the little, hungry place that shrieks for fame. Anne, the most exquisite
amateur in the world, prefers vicarious success to none at all!"
Her anger melted as she met his suffering eyes.
"That is rather brutal, Vittorio, but very possibly true. Whatever my
motive is, the fact remains that I am pledged."
Her weary candor disarmed him. He stooped and placed his hand upon hers.
"Carissima, it is not yet too late. No man, especially no genius, is
worth the sacrifice you intend making. Let him go his own way. After
all, one musician more or less will make no great difference to the
world, which is well stocked with such as he. But women like you are
rare."
She looked up at him impatiently. "Oh, Vittorio, why do you insist upon
placing me on a pedestal? If I am chaste, it is not from principle, but
from--repulsion." She shivered a little. "After all, I'm not a virgin
being thrown to the minotaur, you know." Her laugh was unsteady.
She clasped her hands more firmly.
"But what is there about this man which persuades you against your
shrinking flesh? What spell has he cast over you that the rest of us
have neglected?"
Anne removed her hands from his hold and pressed them to her breast, in
a dramatic gesture, unlike herself.
"It is here that he gets me. His pitifulness has dug deep into my heart.
To cast him away would be like refusing to suckle a starving baby when
one's breast was swollen with milk."
She suddenly raised her hands to her face and Torrigiani saw that she
was weeping. He cried out in dismay.
"Anne, Anne, don't cry like that, carissima! Why, I've never seen you
cry before! If I have offended, please forgive me. I will go away. I
will do anything in the world if only you will stop crying!"
Tears trickling through the slim, white fingers, she nodded her head.
"Yes, go, Vittorio, dear Vittorio. You can do nothing to change me now,
and I cannot bear to hurt you so. Perhaps it would be better if we
should never see each other again."
Her voice broke. She turned away her head. He put his arms about her
trembling shoulders and pressed her to his heart.
"No, Anne, that could never be. It is meant that I should love you
forever. I will go away--but I shall return. If everything has become
too much for you, let me know, and I will come. No matter if it is from
Africa. And never forget Anna mia, that my offer holds good forever!"
Her head against his shoulder, she stirred uneasily. "Forever? But you
forget, Vittorio, that--that I--that things will not be the same?"
He trembled as the copper tendrils of her hair swept against his cheek.
"I forget--nothing. In the things of the body, it is only the spirit
which counts."
She raised her head from his shoulder and looked at him from under heavy
lids. "How good you are, Vittorio!" she repeated chokingly. Taking his
head between her hands, she pressed her lips upon his. "And now,
good-by."
He held her away from him, and looked lingeringly into her face. A cry
escaped him.
"Good-by, my Anne, good-by."
He released her, and without turning his head, walked swiftly towards
the door and closed it quietly behind him.
Anne looked after him dully. An odd pain tugged at her heart. The room
became strangely vacant. Deserted by the winter sun, paneled walls
gleamed wanly. Upon the hearth, the fire lay smothered within its own
embers.
What had she done?
A landmark had been reached and passed; a turning taken. The homely, the
familiar highroad lay behind. The perilous forest closed in upon her
darkly.
With a weary movement she raised her bare arms above her head, and let
them fall heavily against her sides.
The ivory clock upon the mantel chanted five mellow notes.
Anne started up from her chair. It was the hour for the daily visit to
Alexis.