Cecilia Part 37

"How can you be so sure of that?"

"You forget something," Lamberti said. "You forget the odd coincidences of our dreams, and that I have seen you in them when you were in earnest--not as you have been with Guido, but as you seem to be about this other man. I know every look in your eyes, every movement of your lips, every tone of your voice. Do you think I should not recognise anything of all that in real life?"

"These were only dreams," Cecilia tried to say, avoiding his look. "I asked you not to speak of them."

"Do you dream of him now?" Lamberti asked the question suddenly.

"Not now--no--that is--please do not ask me such questions. You have no right to."

"I beg your pardon. Perhaps I have not."

He was not in the least sorry for having spoken, but his anger increased against the unknown man. She had evidently dreamt of him at one time or another, as she used to dream of himself.

"You have such an extraordinary talent for dreaming," he said, "that the question seemed quite natural. I daresay you have seen Guido in your visions, too, when you believed that you cared for him!"

"Never!" Cecilia could hardly speak just then.

"Poor Guido! that was a natural question too. Since you used to see a mere acquaintance, like myself, and fancy that you were----"

"Stop!"

"----that you were talking familiarly with him," continued Lamberti unmoved, "it would hardly be strange that you should often have seen Guido d'Este in the same way, while you thought you loved him, and it is stranger that you should not now dream about a man you really love--if you do!"

"I say that you have no right to talk in this way," said Cecilia.

"I have the right to say a great many things," Lamberti answered. "I have the right to reproach you----"

"You said that you believed me honest and true."

The words checked his angry mood suddenly. He pa.s.sed his hand over his eyes and changed his position.

"I do," he said. "There is no woman alive of whom I believe more good than I do of you."

"Then trust me a little, and believe, too, that I am suffering quite as much as Guido. I have agreed to take your advice, to obey you, since it is that and nothing else----"

"I have no power to give you orders. I wish I had!"

"You have right on your side. That is power, and I obey you. You have told me what to do, and I shall do it, and be glad to do it. But even after what I have done, I have some privileges left. I have a secret, and I am ashamed of it, and it can do no good to Guido to know it, much less to you. Please let me keep it in my own way."

"Yes. But if you are afraid that I should hurt the man, if I knew his name, you are mistaken."

"I am not in the least afraid of that," Cecilia answered, and the light filled her eyes again as she looked at him. "You are too just to hate an innocent man. It is not his fault that I love him, and he will never know it. He will never guess that I think him the best, and truest, and bravest man alive, and that he is all this world to me, now and for ever!"

She spoke quietly enough, but there was a radiant joy in her face which Lamberti never forgot. While keeping her secret, she was telling him at last to his face that she loved him, and it was the first time she had ever spoken such words out of her dreams. In them indeed they had been familiar to her lips, as words like them had been to his.

He leaned forward, resting one elbow on his knee, and his chin upon his closed hand, and he looked at her long in silence. He envied her for having been able to say aloud what she felt, under cover of her secret, and he longed to answer her, to tell her that he loved her even better than she loved that unknown man, to hear himself say it to her only once, come what might. But for Guido he would have spoken, for as he gazed at her the instinctive masculine conviction returned stronger than ever, that if he chose he could make her love him. For a moment he was absolutely sure of it, but he only sat still, looking at her.

"You believe me now," she said at last, leaning back and turning her eyes away.

"Poor Guido!" he exclaimed.

He knew indeed that there was no longer any hope for his friend.

"Yes," he added thoughtfully. "It was in your eyes just then, when you were speaking, just as if that man had been there before you. I shall know who he is if I ever see you together. It is understood, then," he went on, changing his tone, "I am to tell him that you wish to put off the marriage till you are more sure of yourself--that you wrote that letter under an impulse."

"Yes, that is true. And you wish me to try to make him understand by degrees that it is all over, and to go away from Rome in a few days, asking him not to follow me at once."

"I think that is the kindest thing you can do. On my part I will give him what hope I can that you may change your mind again."

"You know that I never shall."

"I may hope what I please. There is always a possibility. We are human, after all. One may hope against conviction. May I see you again to-morrow to tell you how he takes your message?"

To his surprise Cecilia hesitated several seconds before she answered.

"Of course," she said at last. "Or you can write to me or to my mother, which will save you the trouble of coming here."

"It is no trouble," Lamberti answered mechanically. "But of course it is painful for you to talk about it all, so unless something unexpected happens I will write a line to your mother to say that Guido accepts your decision, and to let you know how he is. If there is anything wrong, I will come in the evening."

"Thank you. That is the best way."

"Good night." He rose as he spoke.

"Good night. Thank you." She held out her hand rather timidly.

He took it, and she withdrew it precipitately, after the merest touch.

She rose quickly and went towards the door of the boudoir, calling to her mother as she walked.

"Signor Lamberti is going," she said.

There was a little rustle of thin silk in the distance, and the Countess appeared at the door and came forward.

"Well?" she asked, as she met Lamberti in the middle of the room.

"Your daughter has decided to do what seems best for everybody,"

Lamberti said. "She will tell you all about it. Let me thank you for having allowed me to talk it over with her. Good night."

"Do stay and have some tea!" urged the Countess, and she wondered why Cecilia, standing behind Lamberti, frowned and shook her head. "Of course, if you will not stay," she added hastily, "I will not try to keep you. Pray give my best messages to Signor d'Este, and tell him how distressed I am, and say--but you will know just what to say, I am sure.

Good night."

Lamberti bowed and shook hands. As he turned, he met Cecilia face to face and bade her good night again. She nodded rather coldly, and then went quickly to ring the bell for the footman.

CHAPTER XXI

Princess Anatolie was very angry when she learned that Cecilia was breaking her engagement, and she said things to the poor Countess which she did not regret, and which hurt very much, because they were said with such perfect skill and knowledge of the world that it was impossible to answer them and it did not even seem proper to show any outward resentment, considering that Cecilia's conduct was apparently indefensible. As it is needless to say, the Princess appeared to regret the circ.u.mstance much more for Cecilia's sake than for Guido's. She said that Guido, of course, would soon get over it, for all men were perfectly heartless in reality, and could turn from one woman to another as carelessly as if women were pictures in a gallery. She really did not think that Guido had much more heart than the rest of his kind, and he would soon be consoled. After all, he could marry whom he pleased, and Cecilia's fortune had never been any object to him. She, his thoughtful and affectionate aunt, would naturally leave him her property, or a large part of it. Guido was not at all to be pitied.