"Do you think that I would marry any one under pressure?" asked Veronica, with a soft laugh. "I will tell you something that will convince you. It is a secret. You must not tell my aunt that I know. I could have married Don Gianluca della Spina. Perhaps you know that. Did you? I did; but I will not tell you how. Only, you see--I did not care for him."

Bosio had recovered his self-possession, which had been only momentarily shaken. For there had been no surprise--he had known what to expect.

"I only knew lately of the Spina's proposal," he said. "But--shall I thank you, Veronica? Or do you understand without words? We have known each other so long, that perhaps you may."

"I think I understand," she answered.

She put out her hand again and pressed his, and again he kissed her fingers. The action was reverential, and had nothing in it of the man who loves and is accepted. Her gentle hand, maidenly and innocent, was stretched down into the h.e.l.l of word and thought and deed in which his real self had its being, and he touched it with his lips, and in his heart he knelt to kiss it, as something too holy to be in this world--just because it was innocent, and his own was not. For herself he set her on no pedestal, he did not worship her, he did not love her, he admired her with the cold judgment of a man of taste. It is the purity of the unblemished and unspotted victim that makes the outward holiness of the sacrifice. He thought of his own life and of hers, hitherto side by side, and he thought of their joint life in, the future, she taking him for what he was not, and he was ashamed.

In the first moment he had a brave impulse to tell her everything and be a man, even if he ruined the woman he had loved so long, as well as the brother who bore his name. It was only an impulse, and his lips remained sealed and his face calm.

"I do thank you," he said in a low voice, when he had kissed her hand that second time. "I will do what I can to make you happy."

Yet he knew now, from the strength of that pa.s.sing impulse, that if she had not spoken first, he would not have asked her directly to marry him.

Twenty times during that long day, alone in his room, he had sworn that he would not marry her, whatever happened. For it was not enough that Matilde had set him free, and that he had rejoiced for one hour in his liberty. That was not enough. Matilde could not undo the work of many years by a word and a gesture. His h.e.l.l was already a desert without her. But now, there was no drawing back.

Forty-eight hours ago, in that very room, almost at that hour, he had told Matilde that he would never marry Veronica Serra. And now, almost on the same spot, and facing the same way, he was telling Veronica Serra that he would do his best to make her happy.

"I am sure you will," she answered.

"I should deserve evil things if I did not," he said, pa.s.sing his hand over his eyes, to shut out the sight of the innocence that faced him.

Suddenly it came over him that she must expect him to say more, to be pa.s.sionate, to say that he loved her beyond all mortal things, and set her far above immortality itself, and such unproportioned phrases of the love-sick when the instant healing of response touches the fainting heart. All that, she must expect. Why not? Other women expected it, and heard all they desired, well or ill spoken, according to the man's eloquence, but always well according to their own hearts. Surely he must say something also. He must tell her how he had dreamed of this instant, how her white shade had visited and soothed his dismal hours--and the rest. As he thought what he should say, love's phrase-book turned to a grim and fearful blasphemy in his own inner ears. But she expected it, of course, and he must speak, when he would have given the life he had to save her from himself and to save himself from the last fall, below which there could be no falling. It was almost impossible. If he had not loved Matilde Macomer still, he would have turned even then and spoken the truth, come what might. But that remained. He gathered the weakness of his sin into an unreal and evil strength, as best he could, and for Matilde's sake he spoke such words as he could find--lies against himself, against the poor rag of honour in which he still believed, even while he was tearing it from the nakedness of a sin it could not clothe--lies against love, against manhood, against G.o.d.

"I have loved you long, Veronica," he began. "I had not hoped to see this day."

The awful struggle of his own soul against its last destruction sent a strong vibration through his softened voice, and lent the base lie he spoke such deadly beauty as might dwell in the face of Antichrist, to deceive all living things to sin.

He was still standing, and his hand lay out towards Veronica, on the shelf before the clock. Slowly she turned towards him, at the first sound of his words, wondering and thrilled.

"Is it long? I do not know," he continued. "It is more than a year, since I first knew what this love meant. For I have loved little in my life--little, and I am glad, though I have been sorry for it often, for all I ever had, or have, or am to have till I die, is for you, Veronica, all of it--the love of heart and hand and soul, to live for you and die for you, in trust and faith, and love of you. You wonder? Beloved--if you knew yourself, you would not wonder that I love you so! There is no man who could save himself, if he lived by your side, as I have lived.

You smile at that? Well--you are too young to know yourself, but I am not--I know--I know--I thought I knew too well, and must pay dear for knowing how one might love you and live. But it is not too well, now.

It is life, not death. It is hope, not despair--it is all that life and joy can mean, in the highest."

He paused, his eyes in hers, his hand still stretched out and lying on the shelf. Gently hers sought it and lay in it, and there was light in her face, for she believed. And he, in his suffering within, was moved; as a man is, who, being in his life but a poor knave, plays bright truth and splendid pa.s.sion on a stage, and the contrast that is between being and seeming, in his heart, makes him play greatness with a strong will, born of certain despair.

"I am glad," said Veronica, softly, and she looked down, while her hand still lingered in his, and he went on.

"It is not easy for a man like me to believe that he has all the world in his grasp--in the hold of his heart, to be his as long as he lives.

But you are making me believe it now--all that I did not dare to think of as even most dimly possible in my lonely life--that is why I thank you, that is why I bless you, and adore you, and love you as I do, as I can never make you guess, Veronica, as I scarcely hope you dream that a man may love a woman. That is why I would die for you, Veronica, if G.o.d willed that I might!"

The great words lacked no outward sign of living truth. His hand burned hers, and closed upon it, pressure for word, to the end, in the terrible play of acted earnestness. Even his eyes brightened and filled themselves, determined to lie with all of him that lied to her.

Had he hated her, had it been a vengeance to make her love him in payment of a past debt of wrong, it would have seemed less foully base in his own eyes. But he liked her. She had always trusted him and liked him too, and there had been only kindness between them always. That made it worse, and he knew it. But he could do the worst now, he thought, for he had altogether given over his soul, to leave it in h.e.l.l, without hope.

"I pray G.o.d that I may be worthy of your love," said Veronica, gently and earnestly.

He drew her towards him by her little hand, and himself came softly nearer to her, till his other hand was on her shoulder, drawing her still. She yielded, not knowing what she should do. Quite close she was, and he held her, unresisting, and kissed her. She had known, but she had not realized. The scarlet blood leapt up in maiden shame, and she started back a little. But she thought that he had the right to do it.

"Good night," she said, with downcast eyes, for she felt that she could not stay to look at him.

"Good night, love," he whispered.

He let her go, and she slipped from him, leaving him still standing in his place. The door closed behind her, and he was alone, very quiet and pale, thinking of what he had done, and not rejoicing, for he knew the depth of its meaning.

He was glad it was over, for if it had been to do again, he could not have done it. His lips were parched, his throat was dry, his hands were burning; he felt as though his head were shaking on his shoulders, palsied by a blow. But such as the deed was, it had been well done, to the end. The devil, if he cared for his own, would be pleased. He had even kissed her. He knew what Judas had been, now, and what he had felt.

He did not know how long he stood there. It might have been a quarter of an hour or more; but though he watched the clock's face, his eyes saw no movement of the hands upon the dial. It seemed to him that the room was dark.

Then the door opened again, and he started and looked round, fearing lest Veronica might have come back--or her ghost, for he felt as though he had killed her with his hands. But it was Matilde Macomer. She glanced round the room and saw that Veronica was gone.

"Well?" she asked, coming swiftly forward to where Bosio was standing, pale as death under her rouge.

He faced her stupidly, with heavy eyes, like a man drunk.

"It is all over" he said slowly.

She started forward, not understanding him.

"Over? Broken off?" she cried, in horror.

"Oh no!" he answered with a choking laugh, bad to hear. "It is done. It is agreed. She accepts me."

Matilde drew breath, and pressed her hand to her left side for one moment--she, who was so strong.

"You almost killed me!" she said, so low that Bosio hardly caught the words.

Slowly she straightened herself, and the colour came back to her face, blending with the tinge of the paint. He did not move, and she came and stood near him, leaning her elbows upon the mantelpiece and turning to him.

"You have saved me," she said. "I thank you."

Bad natures can be simple, if they are great enough, and Matilde spoke simply, as she looked at him. She had been almost terrible to look at a few moments earlier, with the rouge visible on her ghastly cheeks. No one could have detected it now, and she was still splendid to see, as she stood beside him, just bending her face upon her clasped hands while her deep eyes melted in his.

He knew the difference between her and Veronica, and he straightened himself, till he looked rigid, and an unnatural smile just wreathed his lips, half hidden in his silky beard. He told himself that he had fallen the last fall, to the very depths; yet he knew that there was a depth below them, and he tried to turn his face from her, seeking refuge in the thought of what he had done, from the evil he still might do.

"I have been thinking over all I said to you yesterday afternoon," she said gently. "I meant it, you know--I meant it all."

"I trust to Heaven you did!" answered Bosio.

"Yes, dear, I meant it," she said in a voice of gold and velvet. "I will try to mean it still. But--Bosio--look at me!"

He turned his eyes, but not his face.

"Yes?" His voice was not above his breath.

"Yes--but can you? Can I? Can we live without each other?"

"Yes, we must." He spoke louder, with an effort.