regiment was always an especially delightful sight.
‘Nothing, darling,’ answered Maria.
As she looked at the short and thick brown hair it seemed to draw her to it, and she bent slowly, as if she were going to kiss it. But at that very moment, when her lips were quite near it, her eyes could see through the blinds, and she caught sight of the officer before he disappeared.
She drew back and quickly covered her lips with her hand, as if to put it between her mouth and her child’s head. Castiglione had been in the Piedmont Lancers before he had exchanged, and the uniform was the one he had worn when he had first danced with her at the Villa Montalto, and afterwards, when he had first dined with her and her husband, and later again, and the last time she had seen him before he had gone away. The handsome dress was associated with all her life.
She crossed the room quickly and rang a bell, and waited a moment, listening for the servant. She would say that she did not receive, no matter who came. Then she heard footsteps outside the drawing-room door, and it opened wide and Agostino, the old butler, announced a visitor.
‘Il Signor Conte del Castiglione.’
When Baldassare entered the room a moment later, Leone had left the window and was at his mother’s side, holding her hand and eyeing the man he had never seen, and whose name he had never heard, with a boy’s boldly inquiring stare; and the blue eyes of the man and of the child met for the first time.
‘I came early,’ said Castiglione as he advanced, ‘for I was afraid you might be going to the races.’
‘No,’ Maria answered, steadying herself by the table, ‘I am not going to the races to-day.’
He held out his hand, and she could not well refuse to take it, before Leone; its touch was quiet and respectful, and only lasted an instant, but it was even colder than her own.
‘And this is your son,’ he said, in a rather muffled voice, and he shook hands with the lad. ‘I’m glad to see you,’ he said. ‘I knew your mother long before you were born, and we were good friends. But I have been away all these years. That is the reason why you have never seen me.’
‘I understand,’ Leone answered. ‘Where have you been?’
Castiglione smiled at the direct question and the unhesitating tone.
‘I have been in many cities. I am a soldier, and have to go where I am sent.’
At this intelligence Leone felt sure that he had found a new friend. He looked upon all soldiers as his friends, from the poor little infantryman in his long grey woollen coat to the King when he appeared in uniform. He at once laid his hand on Castiglione’s arm and looked up into his face.
‘Are you a bersagliere?’ the boy asked.
Maria still leant against the table, and as she watched the two, the man and the boy, and saw their bright blue eyes and their short and thick brown hair, the room began to move, as if it were going slowly round her. She had never fainted in her life, but she realised that unless she made a great effort she must certainly faint now. She did not hear Castiglione’s answer to the boy’s last question, but she raised her hand to her mouth, and set her small teeth upon her forefinger and bit it till a tiny drop of blood came, and the pain brought her back.
When she could speak steadily she sat down near the closed fireplace, before which there was a glass screen; she pointed to an arm-chair opposite, and Castiglione took it.
Leone had been taught that when visitors came in the afternoon he was to go away after a few minutes without being told to do so. Accordingly, as soon as he saw that his mother and Baldassare were going to talk, he went up to the latter and held out his hand.
‘Good-bye,’ he said gravely. ‘The next time you come, please wear your uniform.’
‘If I come again, I’ll wear it,’ answered Castiglione, smiling.
But Maria saw how earnestly his eyes studied the boy’s face, and how he held the small hand as if he did not wish to let it go. He watched the sturdy little fellow till the door was shut, and Maria saw that he checked a sigh. For the first time in years the two were alone together within four walls, and at first there was silence between them.
Maria spoke first, very coldly and resentfully, for since Leone had left the room she had no reason for hiding what she felt.
‘Why have you come?’ she asked. ‘I told you clearly that I did not wish to see you. You said, too, that you would come at three, and when you appeared I was just going to tell Agostino that I would see no one. You came earlier than you said you would, and it was a trick to catch me. Such things are unworthy.’
Castiglione had clasped his hands on one knee, and he bent his head while she was speaking. When she had finished he looked up with an expression she had never seen in his face, and he spoke in a gentle and almost pleading tone.
‘Let me tell you what I have come to Rome to say.’
‘I would rather not hear it,’ Maria answered coldly. ‘I would rather that you should say nothing during the few minutes I shall have to let you stay—for I do not wish any one to think that I have turned you out of my house.’
Her face was like a mask, and white, for it cost her much to say the words.
‘I have not come to persecute you, Maria,’ he answered sorrowfully. ‘I have not loved you faithfully all these years to come and pain you now.’
Maria Montalto’s lip curled.
‘Faithfully!’ The contemptuous tone told all her unbelief.
‘Yes, I mean it. I have loved you faithfully since we parted, as I loved you before.’
‘I do not believe you; or I do not understand what you mean by faith.’
‘It is easy to understand. Since you and I parted under the ilex-trees I have not spoken of love to any woman. I have lived a clean life.’
Something clutched at the woman’s heart just then, but the next moment she spoke as coldly as before.
‘It is easy to say such things,’ she answered.
‘What I say is true,’ returned Castiglione quietly. ‘But if I tell you this of myself, it is not because I hope to bring your love to life again. I know how dead that is. I know I killed it—yes, I know!’
He spoke with the tone and accent of a man in great pain, and looked down at his clasped hands; but Maria turned her face from him, for she felt the clutching at her heart again. He must not know that he was wrong, and that she loved him still in spite of everything. She would force herself not to believe him.
‘How well you act!’ she said, with cruel scorn.
He did not resent even that. He had violently broken and ruined her whole life long ago; why should she be kind to him?
‘I am not acting, and I am not lying,’ he answered gravely. ‘I have been faithful to you all these years. It is no credit to me, and I ask none, for I love you truly.’
‘How
