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CHAPTER XXII It was a little less than three weeks
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after the meeting in the House of Silence, but to
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Vera the interval seemed an endless procession of slow, grey
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days and fevered nights, nights of intolerable length, in which
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she listened to the beating of the blood against her skull,
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now slow and rhythmical, now tempestuous and irregular. Endless nights
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in which sleep seemed the most unlikely thing that could happen,
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a miracle for which she had left off hoping. In
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all that time she had heard no more of Mrs. Rutherford,
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though the daily chronicle that kept note of every stranger
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in Rome still printed her name among the inmates of
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Hotel Margarita. She was angry and unforgiving. Unhappy mother, unhappy son.
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Two pairs of horses had to be exercised daily, but
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Vera had no orders for the stables. The monotonous parade
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in the Pincio which every other woman of means in
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Rome made a part of her daily life, had no
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attraction for Signor Provena's wife. The villa gardens, funeral in
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their winter foliage of ilex and arbutus, suffice for relief
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from their long hours within four walls. Wrapped in her
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sable coat, with the wind blowing upon her uncovered head,
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She paced the long terraces for hours on end, or
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sat like a statue on the marble bench that had
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been dug out of the ruins of Imperial Baths. But
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though she spent half her days in the gardens, she
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took no interest in them. She never stopped to watch
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the gardeners at work upon the flower beds, never questioned
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them about their preparations for the spring. Thousands of bulbs
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were planted daily, but she never wanted to learn what
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resurrection of vivid colors would come from those brown balls
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which the men were dropping into the earth. She walked
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about like a corpse alive. The men almost shrank from
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her as she passed them, as if they had seen
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a ghost. She knew She could never forget that last
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meeting with her lover, the last, the very last. She
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sat with her arms folded on the marble balustrade, and
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her head resting on the folded arms, with her face
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hidden from the clear, cold light of a December afternoon.
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Her gaze was turned inward, and it was only with
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that inward gaze that she saw things distinctly. The outside
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world was blurred and dim, but the pictures memory made
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were vivid. She saw Claude's agonized look, saw the melancholy
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eyes gazing at her, the yearning love, the despairing renunciation. Mrs.
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Rutherford had called her cruel, but was not the cruelty
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far greater than submitted her to that heart-rending ordeal to
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sit brooding thus with her arms upon the cold marble
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had been so much a habit with her of late
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that in these melancholy reveries she had often lost count
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of time till the sound of some convent bell startled
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her as it told the lateness of the hour or
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till the creeping cold of sundown awoke her with a shiver.
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In that city of the church there were many bells,
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all with their particular call to prayer, and she could
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have told the progress of the day and night without
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the help of a clock. Now it was the bell
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of the Trinita de Mont for the office of benediction,
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distant and silvery sweet, in the clear air it was
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warning to go back to the house yet she did
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not stir solitude here with the cold wind blowing up
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upon her and the twitter of birds among the branches
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was better than the atmosphere of those silent rooms she
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raised her head at the sound of a footstep not
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the leisurely tread of one of the gardeners heavy and
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slow This step was light and rapid, so rapid that
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before she had time to wonder, it had stopped close
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beside her, and two strong arms were holding her, and quick,
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sobbing breath was fluttering in her hair. Don't be frightened, Vera,
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my angel, my beloved. She tried to release herself, tried
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to stand upright, but the passionate arms
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held her to
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the passionate heart. Clawed, Are you mad? No, madness is over.
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Sanity has come back. I am yours, my beloved, yours
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as I was that night, before a great horror parted us.
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I am all your own, your lover, your husband, whatever
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you will. The miserable slave you saw in the monastery
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is dead. I am yours, and only yours. I have
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no separate existence. I want no other heaven. Heaven is
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here in your arms. Nothing else matters. My God, have
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you left the monastery? Forever. I bore it till last night.
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But that was a night of hell. I told the
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superior this morning that I was not of the stuff
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that makes a martyr a monk. He was horrified. To
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him I seemed a son of the devil. Well, I
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will worship Satan sooner than lose you. I am your lover, Vera.
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Nothing else in this sublurny world will jump the life
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to come. She clung to him in the ecstasy of reunion,
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and their lips met in a kiss more tragic. than
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Francisca's and Paolo's, for their guilt was yet to come,
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while with Vera and her lover guilt had been consummated. Presently,
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with a sudden revulsion, she snatched herself from his arms
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and stood looking at him reproachfully.' Oh, my dearest, why
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did you not stand firm?' Think how little this poor
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life of ours means compared with that which some comes after.
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Think how much this poor life of ours means compared
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with that which comes after. I leave the afterlife to
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the illuminated, to Simon and his following. I want nothing
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but the woman I love, here or hereafter. For me
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there is nothing else. Vera, forget that I ever tried
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to forsake you, that I ever set my soul's ransom
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above my thoughts of you. It was a short madness,
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a cowardly endeavor. Forget it all, as I shall from
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this hour. Here you are and I, in the little
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world which is the only one we know. just with
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just a few more years of youth and love let
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us make the most of them and when the fire
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of life dies down when these fierce heart-throbs are over
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we will give our fading years to penance and prayer
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we will give our fading years to penance and prayer
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this is what happens when a man of Claude Rutherford's
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temperament puts his hand to the plough. End of chapter 20.
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Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen. Vancouver, B.C.