In vain he protested. His things were all carried into her little chamber and Anania took possession. He felt shy, intruding thus into the long narrow room which seemed like a nun's cell. The little white bed smelt of lavender and reminded him of the simple pallet beds of the patriarchal Sardinian homes. Again, Sardinian fashion, Maria Obinu had decorated the grey walls with a row of little pictures, with sacred images, three wax candles, and three crucifixes, a branch of olive, and an immense crown made of sugar. At the head of the bed hung two bunches of medals which had been blessed by the Pope. In one corner a lamp burned before a representation of blue-pencil souls in Purgatory praying before three red-pencil ensanguined flames. What a difference between the Englishwoman's room and that of Maria Obinu! They were divided by at least five centuries.
Anania was again in doubt. Why did she give him her room? Ah! she was too anxious—too affectionate! He was unpacking when she knocked and asked, without entering, whether he wished the lamp extinguished before the Holy Souls.
"No!" he shouted, "but please come in. I have something to show you."
In his hand was a quaint little object, a small case of greasy material hung on a thin chain blackened by time. He put the amulet round his neck and said:
"I am pious myself. This is the Ricetta of San Giovanni, which wards off temptation."
The woman looked. Her smile faded and Anania's heart beat. "You don't believe in it?" she said severely; "well, whether you believe or not, don't jest at it. It's holy."
Stretched on the lavender-scented bed, Anania pondered. If this Maria Obinu were Olì? If it were She? So near and yet so far! What mysterious thread had led him to her, to the very pillow where she must have wept for her deserted child? How strange is life!—a thread upon which men dance like rags moved by the wind; was it really she? Then he had arrived at his goal insensibly, almost unintentionally, by force of his subconscious will which had given him suggestion. Suggestion of what? But surely this was folly! Childishness! It couldn't be she! But if it were? Did she already know she was with her son while he was racked by doubt? Then why didn't she reveal herself? What was she afraid of? Had she recognised the amulet.
No, it could not be she. A mother must betray herself; could not help crying out on meeting her child. The idea was absurd. No, it was not absurd. A woman can control herself under the most violent emotions. Olì would be afraid—after deserting her son—throwing him away. Well, so much the more she ought to betray herself. A mother is always a mother—not a mere woman. And how could Olì, a wild creature, a child of nature, have so assimilated the hypocrisy of cities, as to be able to feign like an actress? Impossible! Maria Obinu was Maria Obinu, a nice kind woman, mild and unconscious, who had reformed by luck rather than by strength of character, who eked out her penitence—perhaps scarcely felt—by the ostentation of very questionable religious sentiment. It could not be She.
"I'll press for information. She must tell me her history," he thought. "However I'm satisfied it's not she. I tell you it's not she! you imbecile, you idiot, you fool!"
Then he remembered his first night at Nuoro and the secret kiss his father had pressed upon his forehead. He half expected that now his door would open and a furtive shadow would come in the trembling light of the little lamp and imitate that shamefaced kiss.