Anna fell on her knees before her, crying, "Forgive me. For pity's sake, Laura, forgive me. Laura, Laura, Laura!"
But the child remained silent, white and cold and virginal, never ceasing to smile scornfully.
Anna lay on the floor, weeping. And the winter dawn found her there, weeping, weeping; while her sister slept peacefully.
II.
The letter ran thus:
"Dearest Love,—I have had my interview with Cesare Dias. What a man! His mere presence seemed to freeze me; it was enough if he looked at me, with his big clear blue eyes, for speech to fail me. There is something in his silence which frightens me; and when he speaks, his sharp voice quells me by its tone as well as by the hard things he says.
"And yet this morning when he came for his usual visit, I was bold enough to speak to him of my marriage. I spoke simply, briefly, without trembling, though I could see that the courtesy with which he listened was ironical. Laura was present, taciturn and absent-minded as usual. She shrugged her shoulders indifferently, disdainfully, and then, getting up, left the room with that light footstep of hers which scarcely seems to touch the earth.
"Cesare Dias smiled without looking at me, and his smile disconcerted me horribly, putting all my thoughts into confusion. But I felt that I ought to make the attempt—I ought. I had promised it to you, my darling, and to myself. My life had become insupportable; the more so because of my sister, who knew my secret, who tortured me with her contempt—the contempt of a person who has never loved for one who does—who might at any moment betray me, and tell the story of that wintry night.
"Cesare Dias smiled, and didn't seem to care in the least to hear what I had to say. However, in spite of my emotion, in spite of the fact that I was talking to a man who cared nothing for me and for whom I cared nothing, in spite of the gulf that divides a character like mine from that of Cesare Dias, I had the courage to tell him that I adored you, that I wished to live and die with you, that my fortune would suffice for our needs, that I would never marry any one but you; and finally, that, humbly, earnestly, I besought him, as my guardian, my nearest relation, my wisest friend, to give his consent to our marriage.
"He had listened, with his eyes cast down, giving no sign of interest. And now at the end he simply uttered a dry little 'No.'
"And then took place a dreadful scene. I implored, I wept, I rebelled, I declared that my heart was free, that my person was free; and always I found that I was addressing a man of stone, hard and dry, with a will of iron, an utterly false point of view, a conventional standard based upon the opinion of the world, and a total lack of good feeling. Cesare Dias denied that I loved you, denied that you loved me, denied that any such thing as real love could exist—real love for which people live and die! He denied that love was a thing not to be forgotten; denied that love is the only thing that makes life worth while. His one word was No—no, no, no, from the beginning to the end of our talk. He made the most specious, extravagant, and cynical arguments to convince me that I was deceiving myself, that we were deceiving ourselves, and that it was his duty to oppose himself to our folly. Oh, how I wept! How I abased my spirit before that man, who reasoned in this cold strain! and how it hurts me now to think of the way I humiliated myself! I remember that while my love for you, dearest, was breaking out in wild utterance, I saw that he was looking admiringly at me, as in a theatre he might admire an actor who was cleverly feigning passion. He did not believe me; and two or three times my anger rose to such a point that I stooped to threaten him; I threatened to make a public scandal.
"'The scandal will fall on the person who makes it,' he said severely, getting up, to cut short the conversation.
"He went away. In the drawing-room I heard him talking quietly with Laura, as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn't left me broken-hearted, as if he didn't know that I was on my knees, in despair, calling upon the names of the Madonna and the Saints for help. But that man has no soul; and I am surrounded by people who think me a mad enthusiast.
"My love, my darling love, my constant thought—it is then decided: we must fly. We must fly. Here, like this, I should die. Anything will be better than this house; it is a prison. Anything is better than the galleys.
"I know that what I propose is very grave. According to the common judgment of mankind a young girl who elopes is everlastingly dishonoured. In spite of the sanctity of marriage, suspicion never leaves her. I know that I am throwing away a great deal for a dream of love. But that is my strange and cruel destiny—the destiny which has given me a fortune and taken away my father; given me a heart eager for affection and cut me off from all affection; given me the dearest and at the same time the least loving sister!
"For whom ought I to sacrifice myself, since those who loved me are dead, and those who live with me do not love me? I need love; I have found it; I will attach myself to it; I will not let it go. Who will weep for me here? No one. Whose hands will be stretched out to call me back? No one's. What memories will I carry away with me? None. I am lonely and misunderstood; I am flying from ice and snow to the warm sunlight of love. You are the sun, you are my love. Don't think ill of me. I am not like other girls, girls who have a home, a family, a nest. I am a poor pilgrim, seeking a home, a family, a nest. I will be your wife, your sweetheart, your servant; I love you. A life passed in the holy atmosphere of your love will be an absolution for this fault that I am committing. I know, the world will not forgive me. But I despise people who can't understand one's sacrificing everything for love. And those who do not understand it will pity me. I shall care for nothing but your love; you will forgive me because you love me.
"So, it is decided. On the third day after you receive this letter—that is, on Friday—leave your house as if you were going for a walk, without luggage, and take a cab to the railway station. Take the train that leaves Naples for Salerno at one o'clock, and arrives at Pompeii at two. I shan't be at the station at Pompeii—that might arouse suspicions; but I shall be in the streets of the dead city, looking at the ruins. Find me there—come as swiftly as you can—to the Street of Tombs, leading to the Villa of Diomedes, near to the grave of Nevoleia Tyche, 'a sweet Pompeiian child,' according to her epitaph. We will meet there, and then we will leave for Metaponto or Brindisi, and sail for the East. I have money. You know, Cesare Dias, to save himself trouble, has allowed me to receive my entire income for the past two years. Afterwards—when this money is spent—well, we will work for our living until I come of age.
"You understand? You needn't worry about me. I shall get out of the house, go to the station, and arrive at Pompeii without being surprised. I have a bold and simple plan, which I can't explain to you. It would not do for us to meet here in town, the risk would be too great. But leaving for Pompeii by separate trains, how can any one suspect us? Does my clearness of mind astonish you? My calmness, my precision? For twenty days I have been thinking of this matter; I have lain awake at night studying it in detail.
"Remember, remember: Friday, at noon, leave your house. At one, leave the station. At half-past two come to me at the grave of Nevoleia Tyche. Don't forget, for mercy's sake. If you shouldn't arrive at the right time, what would become of me, alone, at Pompeii, in anguish, devoured by anxiety?
"My sweetest love, this is the last letter you will receive from me. Why, as I write these words, does a feeling of sorrow come upon me, making me bow my head? The word last is always sad, whenever it is spoken. Will you always love me, even though far from your country, even though poor, even though unhappy? You won't accuse me of having wronged you? You will protect me and sustain me with your love? You will be kind, honest, loyal. You will be all that I care for in the world.
"This is my last letter, it is true, but soon now our wondrous future will begin—our life together. Remember, remember where I shall wait for you.
"Anna."
Alone in his little house, Giustino Morelli read Anna's letter twice through, slowly, slowly. Then his head fell upon his breast. He felt that he was lost, ruined; that Anna was lost and ruined.