But sometimes he, too, was alone in his own
room, and even at his window, facing the same broad moon, the same white
mist in the sleeping valley, the same dark, crested hills, but not
hearing the music that the woman heard. He could be calm for a while as
he looked out; but presently, without warning, he swallowed hard, and
again, as on the fatal day, he held her little hand in his, under the
priest's great sign of the cross, and his own blood shrieked in his
ears. In cruel anger against himself, he turned from the window then and
paced the room with short, braced steps, till at last he threw himself
into a deep chair and sullenly took the first book at hand, to read
himself back to the monotony of all he had to bear.
And so those two fearless ones went through the days and weeks in
twofold terror of themselves and each of the other, and the slow,
wordless tragedy was acted before eyes that saw but did not understand.
Still Gianluca refused to go away, and still Veronica refused to send
for the syndic. She would not yield to the Duchessa, who found herself
opposed both by her son and her son's wife.
No one knew how much Veronica herself still hoped, when the bright
autumn days were broken at last by the first winter storm that rose out
of the dark south in monstrous wrath against such perpetual calm. She
herself did not know whether she still hoped for any improvement, or
whether, in her inmost thoughts, she had given up hope and had accepted
the certainty that Gianluca was never to be better than he was now.
Pages:
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504