"You said that Guido did not show you my letter!" She was offended as well as distressed now.
"No; he did not. But I will not pretend that I have guessed your secret.
As Guido lay on his bed talking to me, I was staring at a crumpled sheet of a letter that lay on the floor. Before I knew what I was looking at I had read four words: "I love another man." When I realised that I ought not to have seen even that much, I knew, of course, that it was your writing. You see how much I know. All the same, if you were not what I know you are, I would call you a heartless flirt to your face."
Again he looked at her steadily, but she said nothing.
"If you are not that," he continued, "you never loved Guido at all, but really believed you did, because you did not know what love was, and you are sure that you love this other man with all your heart."
Cecilia was still silent, but a delicate colour was rising in her pale face.
"Has the other ever made love to you?" Lamberti asked.
"No, no--never!"
She could not help answering him and forgetting that she might have been offended. She loved him beyond words, he did not know it, and he was unconsciously asking her questions about himself.
"Is he younger than Guido? Handsomer? Has he a great name? A great fortune?"
"Are those reasons for loving a man?"
Cecilia asked the question reproachfully, and as she looked at him and thought of what he was, and how little she cared for the things he had spoken of, but how wholly for the man himself, her love for him rose in her face, against her will.
"There must be something about him which makes you prefer him to Guido,"
he said obstinately.
"Yes. But I do not know what it is. Do not ask me about him."
"Considering that you are endangering the life of my dearest friend for him, I think I have some right to speak of him."
She was silent, and they faced each other for several seconds with very different expressions. She was pale again, now, but her eyes were full of light and softness, and there was a very faint shadow of a smile flickering about her slightly parted lips, as if she saw a wonderful and absorbing sight. Lamberti"s gaze, on the contrary, was cold and hard, for he was jealous of the unknown man and angry at not being able to find out who he was. She did not guess his jealousy, indeed, for she did not suspect what he felt; but she knew that his righteous anger on Guido"s behalf was unconsciously directed against himself.
"You will never know who he is," she said at last, very gently.
"We shall all know, when you marry him," Lamberti answered with unnecessary roughness.
"No, I shall never marry him," she said. "I mean never to see him again.
I would not marry him, even if he should ever love me."
"Why not?"
"For Guido"s sake. I have treated Guido very badly, though I did not mean to do it. If I cannot marry Guido, I will never marry at all."
"That is like you," Lamberti answered, and his voice softened. "I believe you are in earnest."
"With all my heart. But promise me one thing, please, on your word."
"Not till I know whether I may."
"For his sake, not for mine. Stay with him. Do not leave him alone for a moment till you are sure that he is safe and will not try to kill himself. Will you promise?"
"Not unless you will promise something, too."
"Do not ask me to pretend that I love him. I cannot do it."
"Very well. You need not pretend anything. Let me tell him that you will let your engagement continue to all appearance, and that you will see him, but that you put off the wedding for the reasons you gave in your letter. Let me tell him that you hope you may yet care for him enough to marry him. You do, do you not?"
"No!"
"At least let me say that you are willing to wait a few months, in order to be sure of yourself. It is the only thing you can do for him. Perhaps you can accustom him by slow degrees to the idea that you will never marry him."
"Perhaps."
"In any case, you ought to do your best, and that is the best you can do. See him a few times when he is well enough, and then leave Rome.
Tell him that it will be a good thing to be parted for a month or two, and that you will write to him. Do not destroy what hope he may have, but let it die out by degrees, if it will."
Cecilia hesitated. After what had pa.s.sed between them she could hardly refuse to follow such good advice, though it was hard to go back to anything approaching the state of things with which she had broken by her letter. But that was only obstinacy and pride.
"Let it be distinctly understood that I do not take back my letter at all," she said. "If I consent to what you ask, it is only for Guido"s sake, and I will only admit that I may be more sure of myself in a few months than I am now, though I cannot see how that is possible."
"It shall be understood most distinctly," Lamberti answered. "You say, too, that you mean never to see this other man again."
"I cannot help seeing him if I stay longer in Rome," Cecilia said.
Lamberti wondered who he might be, with growing hatred of him.
"If he is an honourable man, and if he had the slightest idea that he had unconsciously come between you and Guido, he would go away at once."
"Perhaps he could not," Cecilia suggested.
"That is absurd."
"No. Take your own case. You told me not long ago that you were unfortunately condemned to stay in Rome, unless you gave up your career.
He might be in a very similar position. In fact, he is."
There was something so unexpected in the bitter little laugh that followed the last words that Lamberti started. She had kept her secret well, so far, but she had now given him the beginning of a clew. He wished, for once, that he possessed the detective instinct, and could follow the scent. There could not be many men in society who were in a position very similar to his own.
"I wish I knew his name," he said, only half aloud.
But she heard him, and again she laughed a little harshly.
"If I told you who he is, what would you do to him? Go and quarrel with him? Call him out and kill him in a duel? I suppose that is what you would do if you could, for Guido"s sake."
"I should like to know his name," Lamberti answered.
"You never shall. You can never find it out, no matter how ingenious you are."
"If I ever see you together, I shall."