“That was when you found me on the convent hill, when we read from the Bible—the day I first knew of Allegra.”
His face was averted, but she could see his shoulders lift and fall in a deep silent suspiration.
“Your forgiveness then was divine!” he said. Not such had been the forgiveness of the world! He clasped her in his arms. “You are all things to me!”
“Oh,” she cried with a broken breath, “can I be all to you?”
“Wife and home and happiness—all!”
“—And child?” She was sobbing now.
He started, feeling her arms straining him, seeing her blinded with tears. There suddenly seemed a woeful significance in what she had said—in her question. He felt the surging of some unexpected wave of dread which broke over his heart and washed it up in his throat.
“Dearest! Two days ago I heard there was fever in the Bagnacavallo valley. I sent a courier at once. He has just returned. Gordon—how can I tell you?”
For an instant she was frightened at his stony stillness. In the dusk a mortal grayness spread itself over his features. He pushed back his chair as if to rise, but could not for her arms. It was not Allegra’s illness—it was more, it was the worst! His arms dropped to his sides. A shudder ran through him.
“I understand,” he said at length. “I understand. Say no more.”