Edith Wharton: Complete Works. Edith Wharton

class; and this dress painfully recalled to Odo the day when he had found her standing beside the broken-down chaise on the road to Vercelli.

      The recollection was not calculated to put him at his ease; and indeed it was only now that he began to feel the peculiar constraint of his position. To Andreoni his explanation of Fulvia’s flight had seemed natural enough; but on the subsequent stages of their journey she must pass for his mistress or his wife, and he hardly knew in what spirit she would take the misapprehensions that must inevitably arise.

      At Mestre their carriage waited, and they drove rapidly toward Padua through the waning night. Andreoni, in his concern for Fulvia’s safety, had prepared for her reception a little farm-house of his wife’s, in a vineyard beyond the town; and here at daybreak it was almost a relief to Odo to commit his charge to the Signora Andreoni’s care.

      The day was spent indoors, and Andreoni having thought it more prudent to bring no servant from Padua, his wife prepared the meals for their guests and the bookseller drew a jar of his own wine from the cellar. Fulvia kept to herself during the day; but at dusk she surprised Odo by entering the room with a trayful of plates and glasses, and helping their hostess to set out the supper-table. The few hours of rest had restored to her not only the serenity of the convent, but a lightness of step and glance that Odo had not seen in her since the early days of their friendship. He marvelled to see how the first breath of freedom had set her blood in motion and fanned her languid eye; but he could not suppress the accompanying thought that his own presence had failed to work such miracles.

      They had planned to ride that night to a little village in the hills beyond Vicenza, where Fulvia’s foster-mother, a peasant of the Vicentine, lived with her son, who was a vine-dresser; and supper was hardly over when they were told that their horses waited. Their kind hosts dared not urge them to linger; and after a hurried farewell they rode forth into the fresh darkness of the September night.

      The new moon was down and they had to thread their way slowly through the stony lanes between the vineyards. At length they gained the open country, and growing more accustomed to the darkness put their horses to a trot. The change of pace, and the exhilaration of traversing an unknown country in the hush and mystery of night, combined to free their spirits, and Odo began to be aware that the barrier between them was lifted. To the charm of their intercourse at Santa Chiara was added that closer sympathy produced by the sense of isolation. They were enclosed in their common risk as in some secret meeting-place where no consciousness of the outer world intruded; and though their talk kept the safe level of their immediate concerns he felt the change in every inflection of Fulvia’s voice and in the subtler emphasis of her silences.

      The way was long, and he had feared that she would be taxed beyond her strength; but the miles seemed to fly beneath their horses’ feet, and they could scarcely believe that the dark hills which rose ahead of them against a whitening sky marked the limit of their journey.

      With some difficulty they found their way to the vine-dresser’s house, a mere hut in a remote fold of the hills. From motives of prudence they had not warned the nurse of their coming; but they found the old woman already at work in her melon-patch and learned from her that her son had gone down to his day’s labor in the valley. She received Fulvia with a tender wonder, as at some supernatural presence descending into her life, too much awed, till the first embraces were over, to risk any conjecture as to Odo’s presence. But with the returning sense of familiarity—the fancied recovery of the nursling’s features in the girl’s definite outline—came the inevitable reaction of curiosity, and the fugitives felt themselves coupled in the old woman’s meaning smiles. To Odo’s surprise Fulvia received these innuendoes with baffling composure, parrying the questions she seemed to answer, and finally taking refuge in a plea for rest. But the accord of the previous night was broken; and when the travellers set out again, starting a little before sunset to avoid the vine-dresser’s return, the constraint of the day began to weigh upon them. In Fulvia’s case physical weariness perhaps had a share in the change; but whatever the cause, its effect was to make this stage of the journey strangely tedious to both.

      Their way lay through the country north of Vicenza, whence they hoped by dawn to gain Peschiera on the lake of Garda, and hire a chaise which should take them across the border. For the first hour or two they had the new moon to light them; but as it set the sky clouded and drops of rain began to fall. Fulvia had hitherto shown a gay indifference to the discomforts of the journey; but she presently began to complain of the cold and to question Odo anxiously as to the length of the way. The hilliness of the country forced them to travel slowly, and it seemed to Odo that hours had elapsed before they saw lights in the valley below them. Their plan had been to avoid the towns on their way, and Fulvia, the night before, had contented herself with a half-hour’s rest by the roadside; but a heavy rain was now falling, and she at once assented to Odo’s tentative proposal that they should take shelter till the storm was over.

      They dismounted at an inn on the outskirts of the village. The sleepy landlord stared as he unbarred the door and led them into the kitchen; but he offered no comment beyond remarking that it was a good night to be under cover.

      Fulvia sank down on the wooden settle near the chimney, where a fire had been hastily kindled. She took no notice of Odo when he removed the dripping cloak from her shoulders, but sat gazing before her in a kind of apathy.

      “I cannot eat,” she said, as Odo pressed her to take her place at the table.

      The innkeeper turned to him with a confidential nod. “Your lady looks fairly beaten,” he said. “I’ve a notion that one of my good beds would be more to her taste than the best supper in the land. Shall I have a room made ready for your excellencies?”

      “No, no,” said Fulvia, starting up. “We must set out again as soon as we have supped.”

      She approached the table and hastily emptied the glass of country wine that Odo had poured out for her.

      The innkeeper seemed a simple unsuspicious fellow, but at this he put down the plate of cheese he was carrying and looked at her curiously.

      “Start out again at this hour of the night?” he exclaimed. “By the saints, your excellencies must be running a race with the sun! Or do you doubt my being able to provide you with decent lodgings, that you prefer mud and rain to my good sheets and pillows?”

      “Indeed, no,” Odo amicably interposed; “but we are hurrying to meet a friend who is to rejoin us to-morrow at Peschiera.”

      “Ah—at Peschiera,” said the other, as though the name had struck him. He took a dish of eggs from the fire and set it before Fulvia. “Well,” he went on with a shrug, “it is written that none of my beds shall be slept in to-night. Not two hours since I had a gentleman here that gave the very same excuse for hurrying forward; though his horses were so spent that I had to provide him with another pair before he could continue his journey.” He laughed and uncorked a second bottle.

      “That reminds me,” he went on, pausing suddenly before Fulvia, “that the other gentleman was travelling to meet a friend too; a lady, he said—a young lady. He fancied she might have passed this way and questioned me closely; but as it happened there had been no petticoat under my roof for three days.—I wonder, now, if he could have been looking for your excellencies?”

      Fulvia flushed high at this, but a sign from Odo checked the denial on her lips.

      “Why,” said he, “it is not unlikely, though I had fancied our friend would come from another direction. What was this gentleman like?”

      The landlord hesitated, evidently not so much from any reluctance to impart what he knew as from the inability to express it. “Well,” said he, trying to supplement his words by a vaguely descriptive gesture, “he was a handsome personable-looking man—smallish built, but with a fine manner, and dressed not unlike your excellency.”

      “Ah,” said Odo carelessly, “our friend is an ecclesiastic.—And which way did this gentleman travel?” he went on, pouring himself another glass.

      The landlord assumed an air of country cunning. “There’s the