As Duchess of Monte Alloro she might have enjoyed the wealth and
independence which her uncle's death had bestowed on her, but in
marrying again she resigned the right to her new possessions, which
became vested in the crown of Pianura. Was it love that had prompted the
sacrifice? As she stood beside him on the altar steps of the Cathedral,
as she rode home beside him between their shouting subjects, Odo asked
himself the question again and again. The years had dealt lightly with
her, and she had crossed the threshold of the thirties with the assured
step of a woman who has no cause to fear what awaits her. But her blood
no longer spoke her thoughts, and the transparence of youth had changed
to a brilliant density. He could not penetrate beneath the surface of
her smile: she seemed to him like a beautiful toy which might conceal a
lacerating weapon.
Meanwhile between himself and any better understanding of her stood the
remembrance of their talk in the hunting-lodge of Pontesordo. What she
had offered then he had refused to take: was she the woman to forget
such a refusal? Was it not rather to keep its memory alive that she had
married him? Or was she but the flighty girl he had once imagined her,
driven hither and thither by spasmodic impulses, and incapable of
consistent action, whether for good or ill? The barrier of their
past--of all that lay unsaid and undone between them--so completely cut
her off from him that he had, in her presence, the strange sensation of
a man who believes himself to be alone yet feels that he is
watched.
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