The following day was a busy one for the cardinal. While Pietro was
shaving him he parcelled out the hours.
"What time is it, Pietro?" he asked.
"Three minutes past seven, your eminence."
"Good," said the cardinal; "at half-past I make my mass; at eight, I
take my coffee; from eight to ten, my poor--by the way, Pietro, is there
any money in the house?"
"Yes, your eminence," said Pietro; "there are eight hundred lire in your
desk."
"Take fifty of them to Signor Testolini, in the Piazza, with my thanks,"
said the cardinal, "and put the rest in my purse. Where was I, Pietro?"
"Your eminence had reached ten o'clock," replied Pietro.
"From ten to eleven," continued the cardinal, "audience for the laity;
from eleven to half-past, audience for the clergy; half-past eleven, my
egg and a salad. Keep all who look hungry, Pietro, and ask them to take
_déjeuner_ with me; at twelve, see the architect who is restoring the
altar-rail at St. Margaret's; take time to write to the Superior at St.
Lazzaro in reference to the proof-sheets of the 'Life of Eusebius'; from
one to three, my poor--we must get some more money, Pietro; from three
to four--"
"There, your eminence!" exclaimed Pietro, "I have cut you."
"Yes," said the cardinal; "I was about to mention it. Where was I?"
"Your eminence was at four o'clock," replied Pietro.
"Four o'clock already!" exclaimed the cardinal, "and nothing done; from
four to half-past four, interview with the treasurer of the diocese.
That's a bad half-hour, Pietro. At half-past four I wish the barca to be
at the landing. Have the men wear their least shabby liveries. I am to
visit the English yacht that lies over by St. Giorgio. You must dress me
in my best to-day."
"Alas, your eminence," said Pietro, "your best cassock is two years
old."
"How old is the one I wore yesterday?" asked the cardinal.
"Four years at least," said Pietro. "You have your ceremonial dress, but
nothing better for the street."
"I caught a glimpse of myself in one of Testolini's mirrors yesterday,"
said the cardinal, "and I thought I looked rather well."
"Your eminence," said Pietro, "you saw your face and not your coat."
"Pietro," said the cardinal, rising, "you should have turned your hand
to diplomacy; you would have gone far."
At half-past four o'clock the cardinal's barca drew up to the molo. The
oarsmen were dressed in black, save that their sashes and stockings were
scarlet. The bowman landed. It was as though a footman came off the box
of a brougham and waited on the curb. While the figures on the
clock-tower were still striking the half-hour, the cardinal came limping
across the Piazza. The gondoliers at the molo took off their hats and
drew up in two lines. The cardinal passed between them, looking each man
in the face. He beckoned to one, who left the ranks and came up to him,
awkward and sheepish.
"Emilio," said the cardinal, "I have arranged your matter. You are to
pay four lire a week, and are to keep out of the wine-shops. Mind, now,
no drinking." To another he said, "I have looked into your case, Marco.
You are perfectly right. I have employed counsel for you. Attend to your
business and forget your trouble. It is my trouble, now." To a man to
whom he beckoned next he spoke differently. "How dare you send me such a
petition?" he exclaimed. "It was false from beginning to end. You never
served in the legion. The woman you complain of is your lawful wife. You
married her in Padua ten years ago. You have been imprisoned for petit
theft. You got your gondolier's license by false pretences. Mark you,
friends," he said, turning, "here is one of your mates who will bear
watching. When he slips, come to me," and he stepped into his barca.
"To the English yacht," he said.
When they arrived they found the Tara dressed in flags, from truck to
deck; Lady Nora stood on the platform of the boarding-stairs, and the
crew were mustered amidships.
"Your eminence," cried Lady Nora, "you should have a salute if I knew
the proper number of guns."
"My dear lady," said the cardinal, taking off his hat, "the Church
militant does not burn gunpowder, it fights hand to hand. Come for me at
six," he said to his poppe.
"Surely," said Lady Nora, "you will dine with us. We have ices with the
Papal colors, and we have a little box for Peter's pence, to be passed
with the coffee. I shall be much disappointed if you do not dine with
us."
"Wait!" called the cardinal to his barca. The oarsmen put about. "Tell
Pietro," he said, "to feed the pigeons as usual. Tell him to lay crumbs
on the balcony railing, and if the cock bird is too greedy, to drive him
away and give the hen an opportunity. Come for me at nine."
"Thank you," said Lady Nora; "your poor are now provided for."
"Alas, no," said the cardinal; "my pigeons are my aristocratic
acquaintance. They would leave me if I did not feed them. My real poor
have two legs, like the pigeons, but God gave them no feathers. They are
the misbegotten, the maladroit, the unlucky,--I stand by that word,--
the halt, the blind, those with consciences too tender to make their
way, reduced gentlefolk, those who have given their lives for the public
good and are now forgotten, all these are my poor, and they honor me by
their acquaintance. My pigeons fly to my balcony. My poor never come
near me. I am obliged, humbly, to go to them."
"Will money help?" exclaimed Lady Nora; "I have a balance at my
banker's."
"No, no, my lady," said the cardinal; "money can no more buy off poverty
than it can buy off the bubonic plague. Both are diseases. God sent them
and He alone can abate them. At His next coming there will be strange
sights. Some princes and some poor men will be astonished."
Just then, a woman, short, plump, red-cheeked and smiling, came toward
them. She was no longer young, but she did not know it.
"Your eminence," said Lady Nora, "I present my aunt, Miss O'Kelly."
Miss O'Kelly sank so low that her skirts made what children call "a
cheese" on the white deck.
"Your imminence," she said, slowly rising, "sure this is the proud day
for Nora, the Tara, and meself."
"And for me, also," said the cardinal. "From now until nine o'clock I
shall air my English speech, and I shall have two amiable and friendly
critics to correct my mistakes."
"Ah, your imminence," laughed Miss O'Kelly, "I don't speak English. I
speak County Clare."
"County Clare!" exclaimed the cardinal; "then you know Ennis? Fifty odd
years ago there was a house, just out of the town of Ennis, with iron
gates and a porter's lodge. The Blakes lived there."
"I was born in that house," said Miss O'Kelly. "It was draughty, but it
always held a warm welcome."
"I do not remember the draught," said the cardinal, "but I do remember
the welcome. When I was an undergraduate at Oxford, I made a little tour
of Ireland, during a long vacation. I had letters from Rome. One of them
was to the chapter at Ennis. A young priest took me to that house. I
went back many times. There was a daughter and there were several
strapping sons. The boys did nothing, that I could discover, but hunt
and shoot. They were amiable, however. The daughter hunted, also, but
she did many other things. She kept the house, she visited the poor, she
sang Irish songs to perfection, and she flirted beyond compare. She had
hair so black that I can give you no notion of its sheen; and eyes as
blue as our Venetian skies. Her name was Nora--Nora Blake. She was the
most beautiful woman I had ever seen--until yesterday."
"She was my mother!" exclaimed Miss O'Kelly.
"And my grandmother," said Lady Nora.
The cardinal drew a breath so sharp that it was almost a sob, then he
took Lady Nora's hand.
"My child," he said, "I am an old man. I am threescore years and ten,
and six more, and you bring back to me the happiest days of my youth.
You are the image of Nora Blake, yes, her very image. I kiss the images
of saints every day," he added, "why not this one?" and he bent and
kissed Lady Nora's hand.
There was so much solemnity in the act that an awkward pause might have
followed it had not Miss O'Kelly been Irish.
"Your imminence," she said, "since you've told us your age, I'll tell
you mine. I'm two-and-twenty and I'm mighty tired of standin'. Let's go
aft and have our tay."
They had taken but a few steps when Lady Nora, noticing the cardinal's
limp, drew his arm through her own and supported him.
"I know the whole story," she whispered. "You loved my grandmother."
"Yes," said the cardinal, "but I was unworthy."