Edith Wharton: Complete Works. Edith Wharton

hair brushed his face like a kiss. For a moment she seemed like life’s answer to the dreary riddle of his fate.

      “Ah,” she sighed, leaning on him, “I am glad I found you, cousin; I hardly knew how weary I was;” and she dropped languidly to the door-step.

      Odo’s heart was beating hard. He knew it was only the stir of the spring sap in his veins, but Maria Clementina wore a look of morning brightness that might have made a soberer judgment blink. He turned away to examine her saddle. As he did so, he observed that her girth was not torn, but clean cut, as with sharp scissors. He glanced up in surprise, but she sat with drooping lids, her head thrown back against the lintel; and repressing the question on his lips he busied himself with the adjustment of the saddle. When it was in place he turned to give her a hand; but she only smiled up at him through her lashes.

      “What!” said she with an air of lovely lassitude, “are you so impatient to be rid of me? I should have been so glad to linger here a little.” She put her hand in his and let him lift her to her feet. “How cool and still it is! Look at that little spring bubbling through the moss. Could you not fetch me a drink from it?”

      She tossed aside her riding-hat and pushed back the hair from her warm forehead.

      “Your Highness must not drink of the water here,” said Odo, releasing her hand.

      She gave him a quick derisive glance. “Ah, true,” she cried; “this is the house to which that abandoned wretch used to lure poor Cerveno.” She drew back to look at the lodge. “Were you ever in it?” she asked curiously. “I should like to see how the place looks.”

      She laid her hand on the door-latch, and to Odo’s surprise it yielded to her touch. “We’re in luck, I vow,” she declared with a laugh. “Come, cousin, let us visit the temple of romance together.”

      The allusion to Cerveno jarred on Odo, and he followed her in silence. Within doors, the lodge was seen to consist of a single room, gaily painted with hunting-scenes framed in garlands of stucco. In the dusk they could just discern the outlines of carved and gilded furniture, and a Venice mirror gave back their faces like phantoms in a magic crystal.

      “This is stifling,” said Odo impatiently. “Would your Highness not be better in the open?”

      “No, no,” she persisted. “Unbar the shutters and we shall have air enough. I love a deserted house: I have always fancied that if one came in noiselessly enough one might catch the ghosts of the people who used to live in it.”

      He obeyed in silence, and the green-filtered forest noon filled the room with a quiver of light. A chill stole upon Odo as he looked at the dust-shrouded furniture, the painted harpsichord with green mould creeping over its keyboard, the consoles set with empty wine flagons and goblets of Venice glass. The place was like the abandoned corpse of pleasure.

      But Maria Clementina laughed and clapped her hands. “This is enchanting,” she cried, throwing herself into an arm-chair of threadbare damask, “and I shall rest here while you refresh me with a glass of Lacrima Christi from one of those dusty flagons.—They are empty, you say? Never mind, for I have a flask of cordial in my saddle-bag. Fetch it, cousin, and wash these two glasses in the spring, that we may toast all the dead lovers that have drunk out of them.”

      When Odo returned with the flask and glasses, she had brushed the dust from a slender table of inlaid wood, and drawn a seat near her own. She filled the two goblets with cordial and signed to Odo to seat himself beside her.

      “Why do you pull such a glum face?” she cried, leaning over to touch his glass before she emptied hers. “Is it that you are thinking of poor Cerveno? On my soul, I question if he needs your pity! He had his hour of folly, and was too gallant a gentleman not to pay the shot. For my part I would rather drink a poisoned draught than die of thirst.”

      The wine was rising in waves of color over her throat and brow, and setting her glass down she suddenly laid her ungloved hand on Odo’s.

      “Cousin,” she said in a low voice, “I could help you if you would let me.”

      “Help me?” he said, only half-aware of her words in the warm surprise of her touch.

      She drew back, but with a look that seemed to leave her hand in his.

      “Are you mad,” she murmured, “or do you despise your danger?”

      “Am I in danger?” he echoed smiling. He was thinking how easily a man might go under in that deep blue gaze of hers. She dropped her lids as though aware of his thought.

      “Why do you concern yourself with politics?” she went on with a new note in her voice. “Can you find no diversion more suited to your rank and age? Our court is a dull one, I own—but surely even here a man might find a better use for his time.”

      Odo’s self-possession returned in a flash. “I am not,” cried he gaily, “in a position to dispute it at this moment;” and he leaned over to recapture her hand. To his surprise she freed herself with an affronted air.

      “Ah,” she said, “you think this a device to provoke a gallant conversation.” She faced him nobly now. “Look,” said she, drawing a folded paper from the breast of her riding-coat. “Have you not frequented these houses?”

      Suddenly sobered, he ran his eye over the paper. It contained the dates of the meetings he had attended at the houses of Gamba’s friends, with the designation of each house. He turned pale.

      “I had no notion,” said he, with a smile, “that my movements were of interest in such high places; but why does your Highness speak of danger in this connection?”

      “Because it is rumored that the lodge of the Illuminati, which is known to exist in Pianura, meets secretly at the houses on this list.”

      Odo hesitated a moment. “Of that,” said he, “I have no report. I am acquainted with the houses only as the residence of certain learned and reputable men, who devote their leisure to scientific studies.”

      “Oh,” she interrupted, “call them by what name you please! It is all one to your enemies.”

      “My enemies?” said he lightly. “And who are they?”

      “Who are they?” she repeated impatiently. “Who are they not? Who is there at court that has such cause to love you? The Holy Office? The Duke’s party?”

      Odo smiled. “I am perhaps not in the best odor with the Church party,” said he, “but Count Trescorre has shown himself my friend, and I think my character is safe in his keeping. Nor will it be any news to him that I frequent the company you name.”

      She threw back her head with a laugh. “Boy,” she cried, “you are blinder even than I fancied! Do you know why it was that the Duke summoned you to Pianura? Because he wished his party to mould you to their shape, in case the regency should fall into your hands. And what has Trescorre done? Shown himself your friend, as you say—won your confidence, encouraged you to air your liberal views, allowed you to show yourself continually in the Bishop’s company, and to frequent the secret assemblies of free-thinkers and conspirators—and all that the Duke may turn against you and perhaps name him regent in your stead! Believe me, cousin,” she cried with a mounting urgency, “you never stood in greater need of a friend than now. If you continue on your present course you are undone. The Church party is resolved to hunt down the Illuminati, and both sides would rejoice to see you made the scapegoat of the Holy Office.” She sprang up and laid her hand on his arm. “What can I do to convince you?” she said passionately. “Will you believe me if I ask you to go away—to leave Pianura on the instant?”

      Odo had risen also, and they faced each other in silence. There was an unmistakable meaning in her tone: a self-revelation so simple and ennobling that she seemed to give herself as hostage for her words.

      “Ask me to stay, cousin—not to go,” he whispered, her yielding hand in his.

      “Ah, madman,”