Maria did not hesitate, though she felt as if her heart must break with every throbbing beat. Whether Giuliana Parenzo was just or not in telling her that she had not a very delicate conscience, she had at least a strong will and a lasting determination to do what she thought right, which more than made up for the absence of that sensitiveness on which her happier friend laid so much stress.

Until Leone asked her what was the matter, her thoughts whirled in a chaos of pain and darkness, but there was little or no hesitation in her answer to his question. She wished with all her heart that she had put him off until there had been nothing in her face to betray her, and that he might never have connected her too evident distress with the news she had just received. But she had spoken because her mind was made up in that moment, and her determination found words at once; and the child at once hated the man who was coming back.

She was going to accept the proffered reconciliation outright, if it killed her, and she really believed that it might. Her dream of light and peace ended then; she had atoned, perhaps, but that was not enough. Atonement means reconciling, and such a reconciling meant to Maria an expiation more dreadful than she had dreamed of. She remembered only too vividly the material repulsion for Montalto that had grown upon her quickly in the first months of their life together, and she knew that it would be stronger now than it had been then. Yet she must live through it and hide it. To her it seemed inconceivable that he should wish to come back to her at all. The nobler sort of women can never understand that men they dislike can love them, and to be given in marriage to one of them is a torment and feels like an outrage.

Maria meant to bear it all as well as she could. A woman able to dream of such a lofty and spiritual love as had appeared possible to her in a short and unforgettable vision was not one to hesitate at a sacrifice, much less if justice demanded it. In old Jerusalem would she not have been stoned to death? Yet that would have been the quick end of all suffering, whereas Montalto’s return was only the beginning of something much worse.

It is often easier to forgive than to accept forgiveness. After Maria had read her husband’s letter there were times when she wished that all his love for her could be turned into hatred. He might come back then, to show the world a comedy of a reconciliation, though he might frankly detest the sight of her; he might come back and behave to her as he had after she had admitted her guilt, and never speak to her except from necessity, while treating her always with that same formal courtesy he had learned from his Spanish mother. It would have been easy to bear that; it would have been far easier then to live without seeing the man of her heart. But to be taken back to be loved, to be cherished and caressed, to be the instrument of happiness in the life of the husband she had dishonoured, and whose mere presence and slightest touch made her writhe—that was going to be hard indeed. Yet she meant to bear it. In her simple faith she prayed only that it might be counted to her hereafter as a part of her purgatory.

Castiglione received her letter telling him all the truth and bidding him stay where he was, if he could, or at least not try to see her if he were obliged to come to Rome. His first impulse was to ask for leave again, if only for three days, and to go to her at once to implore her to refuse Montalto’s offer, to risk anything rather than let her accept an existence which he knew would be one of misery. He felt and believed that it would kill her.

In some ways the thought of it was even more revolting to him than to her. He had been faithful for years to the memory of the love which he believed he had destroyed in her; but now that all was changed, now that he knew how she loved him, she was his, his very own, far more than she had ever been. He felt, too, that she had really raised him above his old self; that he could really live near her, see her, talk with her, and touch her hand, and love her as he had promised, with no shame, or thought of shame, to her or to himself. Long years of clean living had already made him different from his comrades, and his unchanging will made a law for himself which he had never transgressed. Does the world think that beyond the pale of holy orders, of whatsoever persuasion, there are no men who live as he did, faithful and true to one dear memory to the very end? Sometimes what we call the world seems to know more of its patent evil than of its own hidden good. And where the good is strong and rules a man’s secret life, it may lead him far.

But Castiglione was only human, and his jealousy of Montalto was cruel when it woke again. It had been great in old days, but it was ten times more dangerous now, for it had been long asleep in security and it awoke in anger. Maria had not been his own, but throughout that time no other man had called her his, and now Montalto claimed her, under his right to forgive an injury if he chose, and she was going to submit and surrender herself.

He wrote her a passionate letter, imploring her not to ruin both their lives by giving herself back to her husband, and beseeching her to see him at once that he might tell her all he could not write. If he could not get leave again so soon he would come without, if it cost him a long arrest. Maria was to telegraph her answer, and if no message came within two days he would start, whatever happened. As for declining the exchange he had asked, he could not do that; he would be ordered to join his old regiment in Rome during the next ten days at the latest, and it was impossible that he should not meet her sometimes.

For a moment Maria hesitated, for she felt that he was desperate, and she herself was not far from despair. But something human on which she had never counted helped her a little. If Castiglione came suddenly to Rome, it would be known, and it would surely be said that he had come to see her; if no one else knew it, Teresa Crescenzi surely would, and would tell every one. She thought of Montalto’s letter, telling her that he had known of her quiet life, and that the dignity she had shown had appealed to him. He should not come back now to be told that he had been deceived, and that Castiglione made long journeys expressly to see her. Her pride would not suffer that.

She went out on foot and entered the small telegraph office outside the railway station, for she could not have sent her message by a servant’s hand. She took the ink-crusted pen and a flimsy blank form, and thought of what she should say. The shabby young clerk at the little sliding window would have to read the telegram, and perhaps he knew her by sight. She thought a moment longer, and then wrote a few words:—

‘Impossible. If you really wish to help a person in great distress, be patient. Await letter.’

This looked very cold when it was written, but she thought it would do, and she felt sure that Castiglione would obey her request. At least, he could not leave Milan until he received the letter she was about to write to him.

It reached him on the following evening, and in the tender, beseeching words he read what was worse than a sentence of exile. But he submitted then, for it was as if she spoke to him, and he could hear every tone of her voice in the silence of his room. Since she had taken him back to her heart she dominated him by the nobility of her love, and by her touching trust in his. He read her letter twice, and then burnt it in the empty fireplace, carefully setting a second match to the last white shreds that showed at the edges of the thin black ashes.

‘You are a saint on earth,’ he said to her in his thoughts. ‘You are good enough to make a man believe in God.’

Perhaps he rose one step higher in that moment, for he was in earnest. But it had cost him much. For three days he had kept his valise packed and ready to start at any moment, and he saw it lying in a corner as he turned from the fireplace. Once again the strong temptation came upon him to take it and go downstairs. That would be the irrevocable step, for he knew well enough that if he went so far as that he would not turn back.

His big jaw thrust itself forward rather savagely as he crossed the room, picked up the valise, and set it on a chair to unpack it. When he had put his things away he threw it into a corner, lit a cigar, and sat down by the open window to watch the people in the broad street. He hoped that he might not think for a little while.

There was a knock at the door and his orderly came in with a telegram. He almost started at the sight of the brownish yellowish little square of folded paper in the man’s hand.

‘Join us at once to ride in military races on Thursday. War Office telegraphs order exchange to your colonel to-night. Make haste, in order to rest your horses. Welcome back to the regiment.—Casalmaggiore, Colonel.’

Castiglione’s hand dropped upon his knee, holding the open telegram. The orderly stood motionless, stolidly waiting to be sent away. He would have waited in the same position till he dropped, but it seemed a long time before the officer turned his head.

‘Pack everything to-night,’ he said. ‘Telephone in my name to the station and order a box for the horses as far as Pisa, and be ready to start with them by the first train to-morrow. I am to join the Piedmont Lancers in Rome at once. You will spend the night in Pisa to rest the horses, and come on with them the next day. I will attend to your leave and pass. Take what you need for yourself for four days. You will have a day and a night in Rome.’

The orderly was a good man and could be trusted. Castiglione got into his best tunic, buckled on his sabre, took his cap and gloves, thrust the telegram into his breast pocket, and went to take leave of his colonel and his brother officers, wherever he might find them. He was in no hurry, but it was a relief to get out of doors, and he walked slowly along the broad pavement, returning the salutes of the many soldiers who passed him.

It would be quite out of the question to disobey such a summons as he had just received. Nothing short of a feigned illness could have excused a short delay, and besides, the wording of the telegram showed that he was wanted for the honour of his old regiment in the coming races. He had always been the best rider of them all, and if the Piedmont Lancers did not make a good appearance, owing to his voluntary absence, he would not be easily forgiven; indeed, he would hardly have forgiven himself.

But he would not write or telegraph to Maria that he was coming, and he was sure that she would not write to him again unless he answered her letter. Once in Rome, he meant to send her the telegram he had in his pocket, to prove that he had been ordered back, and that his coming had not been voluntary. She would see him then, for it would be different; she could not refuse, as she might if she thought he had come in spite of her letter. His exchange had been at most but a matter of days; it had become a matter of hours. So much the better, since fate condescended to help him a little.

The vision of hope he had enjoyed so short a time rose before him again. Montalto might not return after all, or he might break his neck on the way, but Castiglione doubted the probability of such a termination to his own troubles.