Then he went on through the years, through the hopefulness of it all, and the disappointments, through the troubled waters with their sun-kissed moments, to the dull tinged sea of matrimonial failure. He could not really blame Charlotte; her lot had been perhaps a harder one than his, after all.
Even the journey to and from the City, the noisy companionship of the second-class smoker, the life of the gloomy counting-house, the snack of lunch followed by the grateful pipe smoked on the sunny side of Gracechurch Street--these had all been his, and he knew now how they had all helped him to endure those years in the little villa at Brixton.
He wondered idly why God had not sent them any children. Little ones were so necessary to life. Charlotte and he would never have drifted apart if the wondering eyes of a child had been there to see--if there had been tiny roseleaf hands to hold them to each other. It would all have been so different then.
The blind at one of the windows had become disarranged, and through the aperture Edward saw the first sweet flush of the dawning. It was only a little glimpse, but he could see an inch or two of the horizon. Above the silver edge of a bank of stormy clouds that lay low over the sea, the coming day had barred the sky with green and gold and shell pink and glory. Gradually the light in the room increased, and the candles grew ghostlike, and the shadows lifted unexpectedly from the corners.
The two nuns had re-entered the room, and one of them crept softly over to his couch and gazed down at the white face. Then she tiptoed back and touched her companion on the arm.
"We will whisper our prayers, sister; our little friend is in a delicious sleep. He'll do now. We must think of the living before the dead."
In dynasties, as in politics, the pendulum pursues its immutable law. Those who, or whose immediate ancestors, had applauded the tragedy of fifteen years ago, were now to be seen in the very forefront of the rejoicings at the fair Estrato who had come out of the blue to rule over them.
The editor of the _Imparcial_ had at last had his great chance, and the Marinoni he had purchased second-hand from a Madrid printing office was working overtime. For edition after edition he drove home the praises of the rising stars of San Pietro. With the true journalistic spirit he had seized on the high lights of the romance, points which he knew would delight the gossip-loving patrons of his sheet, and the café loungers on the promenade of Corbo were regaled with stories of the love of Galva and Armand, which, if not strictly true, were at least richly garnished with the roses of romance and were well worth the reading.