CHAPTER VII.
He walked beside her through two or three streets, holding her hand in his. But neither looked at the other, nor did a word pass between them, till suddenly he released her hand, and asked, "Whither shall I take you, Caterina?"
"I know not," she answered.
"To the Via Margatta?"
"No!" and she shrank together: "the old woman would find me there--or he."
"Who?"
"I may not name him--least of all to you--he has forbidden me."
"Then it is Bianchi." said Theodore, in a hollow voice. She did not deny it.
As they passed along, the misgiving which had arisen in his breast became stronger. The strange silence of the artist, while he described to him the scene at the Circus, and his meeting with the girl, were now explained and obvious for the first time. "Had we but confided to each other what was nearest to our hearts!" he sighed of himself and his friend. He knew not all as yet.
When they reached the house where Theodore lodged, he produced a key, and opened the door. Caterina stepped back. "I do not enter with you," she said. "No! rather would I sleep on the steps of Santo Maria Maggiore, than there within"--
"Child," he said, "I am no longer now what I might have seemed but a few hours ago! Thou art as safe with me as with a brother."
She looked at him in the darkness, as keenly as she could, and it seemed as if some strange light struck her. "I know," she said, remaining still some steps from the door; "he has arranged it all with you. He came and tried to persuade me that he had sold me to you, or given me to you. I was to love you as I had loved him. 'I cannot,' I told him, and I swore it in my soul, and he saw clearly enough that it was true. Then he wished to entrap me, and brought me down to the boat, and ran to tell you that I was below, and that you might go and take me.--But I will never be yours--no, though you were a thousand times his friend, and though he should murder me a thousand times when I did not do his will! Go! I can find my way back to my mountains again, and you can tell him--what you will, and--farewell!"
She turned away. Hardly had Theodore time to arouse himself from his astonishment, and to overtake her. He seized her by the hand. "Caterina," he said, "when I swear that you shall be to me as a sister, and that I will take you back to your Carlo again as you left him--you cannot hesitate to enter my house!"
"You could do that? you would do that?" she asked, stopping hesitatingly. "It is impossible; you do not know him; no one can alter him!"
"Trust!" he said. The hope that spoke so sweetly to her, came to his assistance. She forced herself gently from him, and followed him into the house. As soon as she reached his chamber, still in darkness, she seated herself on a stool close by the door, her bundle, which she had carried with her, resting on her lap. He struck a light, and spoke not again, but turned over his papers mechanically, purposeless. His forehead glowed when he thought of Bianchi's deed. The exquisite consciousness of his utter devotion, which the past hour had taught him, supported him, when the feeling that Mary was lost to him for ever would have crushed him.
Whilst he was thus dreaming about the future and nerving himself to bear his fate, he heard a light breathing from the door. He looked up and saw that Caterina had wept herself into a heavy sleep. Gently he stepped to her side--her head had sunk upon her shoulder, her arms hung down, her breast heaved with sorrow-laden dreams. He raised her gently and cautiously, and bore her in his arms to a sofa which stood near the wall. As he laid her down his face approached her cheek, he felt the warm breath from her lips, the scent from her hair swept around him, the beauty of her limbs rested blooming before him; but all ill passion had gone from him--he raised himself, spread out his cloak over the sleeping girl, and went to his room. Not until the lesser stars were dwindling into darkness did he snatch a short and restless sleep; but no thought of Caterina disturbed it.