He turned on his heel and went away. For ten days he did not reappear in the Acquaviva household. He had never before let so long an interval pass without calling, unless he was out of town. Stella Martini, not seeing him, ingenuously sent to ask how he was. He replied, through his servant, that his health was perfect and that he thanked her for her concern.
In reality, he was furious because in his first skirmish with Anna on the subject of Luigi Caracciolo she had beaten him; furious, not only because of the wounds his amour-propre had received, but because his schemes for the girl's marriage were delayed. His anger was mixed with certain very lively suspicions, lively, though as yet not altogether clear in substance. It was impossible that Anna's conduct should not be due to some secret motive. He began at last to wonder whether she was still in love with Giustino Morelli.
Meanwhile, he refrained from calling upon her, well aware that in dealing with women no method is more efficacious than to let them alone. And, indeed, Anna was already sorry for what she had said, not because it wasn't true, but because she felt that she had thereby offended Cesare Dias, perhaps very deeply. But what could she do, what could she do? That Cesare Dias should plead with her for another man! It was too much. She felt that she must no longer trust to time; she must take decisive action at once.
Cesare's absence caused her great bitterness. Her regret for what she had said was exceedingly sharp during the first few days. She realised that she had been wrong, at least in manner. She ought to have held her tongue when she saw his face darken, and heard his voice tremble with scorn. Instead, in her foolish pride, she had held up her head, and spoken, and offended him. For two days, and during the long watches of two nights, stifling her sobs so that Laura should not hear them, she had longed to write him a little note to ask his pardon; but then she had feared that that might increase his irritation. Mentally, she was constantly on her knees before him, begging to be forgiven, as a child begs, weeping. She believed, she hoped he would come back; on his entrance she would press his hand and whisper a submissive word of excuse. She had not yet understood what a serious thing his silent vengeance could be.
He did not call. And now a dumb grief began to take the place of Anna's contrition, a dumb, aching grief that nothing could assuage, because everything reminded her of its cause, his absence. Whenever she heard a door opened, or the sound of a carriage stopping in the street before the house, she trembled. She had no peace. She accused him of injustice. Why was he so unjust towards her, towards her who ever since that fatal day at Pompeii had only lived to obey him? Why did he punish her like this, when her only fault had been that she saw the insignificance, the nullity, of Luigi Caracciolo? Every hour that passed intensified her pain. In her reserve she never spoke of him. Stella Martini said now and again, "Signor Dias hasn't called for a long time. He must be busy."
"No doubt," replied Laura, absently.
"No doubt," assented Anna, in a weak voice.
She was burning up with anxiety, with heartache, with suspicion, and with jealousy. Yes, with jealousy. It had never occurred to her that Cesare might have some secret love in his life, as other men have their secret loves, and as he would be especially likely to have his, for he was rich and idle. In her ingenuousness and ignorance, it had never occurred to her. It was as if other women didn't exist, or as if, existing, they were quite unworthy of his interest. But now it did occur to her. In the darkness of his absence the thought came to her, and took possession of her; and sometimes it seemed so infinitely likely, that she could scarcely endure it.
It was more than probable that amongst all the beautiful women of his acquaintance there was one whom he loved. It was with her that he passed his hours—his entire days, perhaps. That was why Anna never saw him! At the end of a week her distress had become so turbulent, that her head reeled, as it used to reel when she thought of flying with Giustino Morelli. As it used to reel then? Nay, more, worse than then.
In those days she had not felt the consuming fires of jealousy, fires that destroy for ever the purest joys of love. In those days the man she cared for was so absolute in his devotion to her, she had not tasted the bitterness of jealousy, a bitterness beyond the bitterness of gall and wormwood, a poison from whose effects those who truly love never recover.