He went back under the flowering trees to fetch it. “This one hour,” his heart was repeating; “this last hour! Then I will tell her.”
He was gone but a few moments. When he came down the stair she was in the hall. He paused, for a man who had just dismounted at the casa entrance stood before her. Gordon saw Teresa sink to her knees, saw the other make the sign above her head as he handed her a letter, saw him mount and ride away; saw her read and crush it to her breast. What did it mean? The man had worn the uniform of a nuncio of the papal see. Had the Contessa Albrizzi succeeded?
Teresa turned from the entrance and saw him.
“Here is the book,” he said.
She took it blankly. Suddenly she thrust the letter into his hands. “Read it,” she whispered.
It was the pope’s decree. Teresa was free, if not from the priestly bond, at least so far as actions went. Free to leave Casa Guiccioli and to live under her father’s roof—free as the law of Church and land could make her. But that was not all. The decree had its conditions, and one of these contained his own name. She was to see him only once each month, between noon and sunset.
Such was Count Guiccioli’s sop from Rome.
As Gordon read, he felt a dull anger at the assumption that had coupled his name with hers in that document. Yet underneath he was conscious of a painful relief; fate had partially solved the problem for them. He raised his eyes as a sob came from Teresa’s lips.
She had not thought of possible conditions. A month—how swiftly the last had flown!—seemed suddenly an infinity. She had longed for that message, prayed for it; now she hated it.
Another figure entered at that instant from the street. It was Tita, just from her father’s villa. Count Gamba had been less well of late, and now the messenger’s face held an anxiety that struck through her own grief.