For once in his life, Ghisleri was taken by surprise. He had not had any idea that Laura could express herself so strongly on any point, still less that she could talk so plainly about himself. He was far too manly, however, not to be pleased, and his expression changed as he listened to her. She smiled as she finished, and began to make st.i.tches again.

"No one ever gave me so much good advice in so short a time," he said, with a laugh. "You have a wonderful power of condensing your meaning. Do you often talk in that way?"

"Not often. I think I never did before. Do you not think there is some sense in what I say?"

"Indeed, I begin to believe that there is a great deal," Ghisleri answered. "At all events, I shall not forget it. Perhaps you will find me partially reformed when you come back. You must promise to tell me."

"It will take me some time to find out. But if I succeed I will tell you."

His mood had changed for the better, and he talked of Laura's plans during nearly half an hour. At last he rose to go.

"Good-bye," he said, rather abruptly.

She looked up quietly as she took his hand, and pressed it without affectation.

"Good-bye. I wish you a very pleasant summer--and--since we are parting--I thank you with all my heart for the many kind and friendly things you have done for me."

"I have done nothing. Good-bye, again."

He turned and she stood looking at his retreating figure until he had disappeared through the door.

"I believe there is more good in that man than any one knows," she said to herself. Then she also left the room and went to see whether little Herbert were awake, and to busy herself with the last arrangements for his comfort during the journey.

Ghisleri knew that another parting was before him in the near future. As usual, Maddalena dell' Armi was going to spend a considerable part of the summer with her father in Tuscany. He went to see her tolerably often, and their relations had of late been to all appearances friendly and undisturbed. But he doubted whether the final interview before they separated for several months could pa.s.s off without some painful incident. He knew Maddalena's character well, and if he did not know his own, it was not for want of study. He almost wished that he might, on that day, choose to call at a time when some other person was present, for then, of course, there could be no show of emotion on either side, nor any words which could lead to such weakness. He went twice to the house during the week which intervened between Laura Arden's departure and the day fixed for Maddalena's, saying each time that he would come again, a promise to which the Contessa seemed indifferent enough. She would always be glad to see as much of him as possible, she said. The last day came. She was to leave for Florence on the following morning.

Ghisleri rang, was admitted, and found her alone.

"I knew you would come," she said, "though it is so late."

"Of course. Did I not say so? I suppose you are still decided to go to-morrow."

He was conscious that he was saying the very same indifferent words which he had said a few days earlier to Laura, and Maddalena answered him almost as Laura had done.

"Yes. Of course you must not come to the station. That is understood, is it not?"

"Since you wish it, I will certainly not come. So we are saying good-bye until next season," he continued, breaking the ice as it were, since he felt it must be broken. "I will try and not be emotional, and I ask you to believe--this once--that I am in earnest. I have something to say to you. May I? Will you listen to me? You and I cannot part with two words and a nod of the head, like common acquaintances."

"I will hear all you care to say," answered Maddalena, simply. "And I will try to believe you."

He looked at the pale face and the small, perfect features before he spoke, to see if they were as hard as they often were. But for the moment the expression was softened. The evening glow played softly upon the bright hair, and threw a deep, warm light into the violet eyes, as she turned towards him.

"What is it?" she asked, as he seemed to hesitate. "Has anything happened? Are you going to be married?"

The question shocked him in a way he could not explain.

"No. I am not thinking of marrying. We have been a great deal to each other, for a long time. But for my fault--and it is, of course, my fault--we might be as much in one another's lives as ever. We used to meet in the summer, but that will not happen this year. When you come back, we may both be changed more than we think it possible to change at present."

"In what way?"

"I do not know. Perhaps, when we meet again, we shall feel that we are really and truly devoted friends. Perhaps you may hate me altogether--"

"And you me."

"No, that is not possible. I am not very sure of myself as a rule. But that, at least, I know."

"I hope you are right. If you are not my friend, who should be? So you think I hate you. You are very wrong. I am still very fond of you. I told you so the other day. You should believe me. Remember, when it all ended, it was you who had changed--not I. I am not reproaching you. I might say that you should have known yourself better than to think that you could be faithful; but you might tell me--and it would be quite as just--that I, a woman, knew what I was doing and had been taught to look upon my deeds as you never could. But it was you who changed. If you had loved me, I should have loved you still. Little things showed me long ago that your love was waning. It was never what it was in those first days. And now I have changed, too. I love what was once, but if I could have your love now as it was at its strongest and best, I would not ask for it. Why should I? I could never trust it again, and anything is better than that doubt. And I want no consolation."

"Indeed, I should have very little to offer you, worth your accepting,"

said Pietro, in a low voice.

"If I needed any, the best you could give me would be what I ask,--not as consolation at all, but as something I still believe worth having from you,--and that is your honest friendship."

Ghisleri was moved in spite of himself. His face grew paler and the shadows showed beneath his eyes where Maddalena had so often seen them.

"You are too kind--too good," he said, in an unsteady tone.

The last time he had said almost the same words had been when he made his first visit to her after his long illness. Then she had been touched, far more than he. She looked at him for a few moments and saw that he felt very strongly.

"Do not distress yourself," she said gently. "Pray do not--it hurts me, too. I mean what I say. I do not believe you can be faithful in love now--to any one. You gave all you had to give long ago. But I have watched you since we became what we are now, and I will do you justice.

I do not know any man who can be a more true and devoted friend. You see, I meant what I said."

"If it is true--if I can be a friend to any one, I will be one to you.

But that is not what I would have, if I could choose."

"What would you have, then?"

"What is impossible. That is what one would always like. Let us not talk of it. It does no good to wish for what is beyond wishing. I thank you for what you have said--dear. I shall not forget it. Few women could be so good as you are to me. You would have the right to be very different if you chose."

"No, I should not. There are reasons--well, as you say, let us not talk about it. We have made up our minds to meet and part as we should--kindly always, lovingly as friends love, truthfully now, since there is nothing left for us to distrust."

She had never spoken to him in this way in all the meetings that had followed his recovery. He wondered if there had been any real change in her nature, or whether this were not at last the a.s.sertion of her natural self. She spoke so seriously and quietly that he could not doubt her.

"I have seen that you can act in that way," she continued presently.

"You have done more for the sake of the mere memory of your friend than many men would do for love itself."

"Not so much as I would do for the memory of love," said Ghisleri, turning his face away.

"Was it so sweet as that?" she asked.

"Yes."

"And yet you have loved better and longer in other days."

"As I was a better man," he said, finding no other answer, for he knew it was true.

Maddalena sighed. Perhaps she had hoped that this last time he would say what he had never said--that he had loved her better than Bianca Corleone.

"You must have been different then." She spoke a little coldly, in spite of herself. A moment later she smiled. "How foolish it is of me to think of making comparisons, now that it is all over," she said. "So you are not coming to Tuscany this summer, and I shall not see you till next autumn. Why do you not come?"

"I want to be alone a long time," answered Ghisleri. "It is much better.