XXIV.

The next morning dawned with all the strange half mystical glow of

light and colour common to the Italian sky,--flushes of pink warmed the

gray clouds, and dazzling, opalescent lines of blue suggested the sun

without declaring it,--and Sylvie Hermenstein, who had passed a

restless and wakeful night, rose early to go on one of what her society

friends called her "eccentric" walks abroad, before the full life of

the city was up and stirring. She, who seemed by her graceful mignonne

fascinations and elegant toilettes, just a butterfly of fashion and no

more, was truly of a dreamy and poetic nature,--she had read very

deeply, and the griefs and joys of humanity presented an ever-varying

problem to her refined and penetrative mind. She was just now

interesting herself in subjects which she had never studied so closely

before,--and she was gradually arriving at the real secret of the

highest duty of life,--that of serving and working for others without

consideration for oneself. A great love was teaching her as only a

great love can;--a love which she scarcely dared to admit to herself,

but which nevertheless was beginning to lead her step by step, into

that mysterious land, half light, half shadow, which is the nearest

road to Heaven,--a land where we suffer gladly for another's sorrow,

and are joyous in our own griefs, because another is happy! To love ONE

greatly, means to love ALL more purely,--and to find heart-room and

sympathy for the many sorrows and perplexities of those who are not as

uplifted as ourselves. For the true mission of the divine passion in

its divinest form, is that it should elevate and inspire the soul,

bringing it to the noblest issues, and for this it must be associated

with respect, as well as passion. No true soul can love what it does

not sincerely feel to be worthy of love. And Sylvie--the brilliant

little caressable Sylvie, whose warm heart had been so long

unsatisfied, was, if not yet crowned by the full benediction of love,

still gratefully aware of the wonderful colour and interest which had

suddenly come into her life with the friendship of Aubrey Leigh. His

conversation, so different to the "small talk" of the ordinary man, not

only charmed her mind, but strengthened and tempered it,--his

thoughtful and tender personal courtesy filled her with that serenity

which is always the result of perfect manner,--his high and pure ideas

of life moved her to admiration and homage,--and when she managed to

possess herself of every book he had written, and had read page after

page, sentence after sentence, of the glowing, fervent, passionate

language, in which he denounced shams and glorified truth,--the

firmness and fearlessness with which he condemned religious hypocrisy,

and lifted pure Christianity to the topmost pinnacle of any faith ever

known or accepted in the world, her feelings for him, while gaining

fresh warmth, grew deeper and more serious, merging into reverence as

well as submission. She had a book of his with her as a companion to

her walk this very morning, and as she entered the Pamphili woods,

where she had a special "permesso" to go whenever she chose, and trod

the mossy paths, where the morning sun struck golden shafts between the

dark ilex-boughs, as though pointing to the thousands of violets that

blossomed in the grass beneath, she opened it at a page containing

these lines:--

"Who is it that dares assert that his life or his thoughts are his own?

No man's life is his own! It is given to him in charge to use for the

benefit of others,--and if he does not so use it, it is often taken

from him when he least expects it. 'THOU FOOL, THIS NIGHT THY LIFE

SHALL BE REQUIRED OF THEE!' No man's thoughts even, are his own. They

are the radiations of the Infinite Mind of God which pass through every

living atom. The beggar may have the same thought as the Prime

Minister,--he only lacks the power of expression. The more helpless and

inept the beggar, the greater the responsibility of the Premier. For

the Premier has received education, culture, training, and the choice

of the people, and to him is given the privilege of voicing the

beggar's thought. And not only the beggar's thought, but the thoughts

of all in the nation who have neither the skill nor the force to speak.

If he does not do what he is thus elected to do, he is but an

inefficient master of affairs. And what shall we say of the ministers

of Religion who are 'ordained' to voice the Message of Christ? To echo

the Divine!--to repeat the grand Ethics of Life,--the Law of Love and

Charity and Forbearance and Pity and Forgiveness! When one of these

highly destined servants of the Great King fails in his duty,--when he

cannot pardon the sinner,--when he looks churlishly upon a child, or

condemns the innocent amusements of the young and happy,--when he makes

the sweet Sabbath a day of penance instead of praise--of tyranny

instead of rest,--when he has no charity for backsliders, no sympathy

for the sorrowful, no toleration for the contradictors of his own

particular theory--do we not feel that his very existence is a

blasphemy, and his preaching a presumption!"

Here Sylvie raised her eyes from the book. She was near an ancient

cedar-tree whose dark spreading boughs, glistening with the early

morning dew, sparkled like a jewelled canopy in the sun,--at her feet

the turf was brown and bare, but a little beyond at the turn of the

pathway, a cluster of white narcissi waved their graceful stems to the

light wind. There was a rustic bench close by, and she sat down to rest

and think. Very sweet thoughts were hers,--such thoughts as sweet women

cherish when they dream of Love. Often the dream vanishes before

realisation, but this does not make the time of dreaming less precious

or less fair. Lost in a reverie which in its pleasantness brought a

smile to her lips, she did not hear a stealthy footstep on the grass

behind her, or feel a pair of dark eyes watching her furtively from

between the cedar-boughs,--and she started with surprise, and something

of offence also, as Monsigner Gherardi suddenly appeared and addressed

her,--

"Buon giorno, Contessa!"

She rose from her seat and saluted him in silence, instinctively

grasping the book she held a little closer. But Gherardi's quick glance

had already perceived the title and the name of its author.

"You improve the time!" he said, sarcastically, pacing slowly beside

her. "To one of your faith and devotion that book should be accursed!"

She raised her clear eyes and looked at him straightly,

"Is the sunlight accursed?" she said, "The grass or the flowers? The

thoughts in this book are as pure and beautiful as they!"

Gherardi smiled. The enthusiasm of a woman's unspoilt nature was always

a source of amusement to him.

"Your sentiments are very pretty and poetic!" he said, "But they are

exaggerated. That book is on the 'Index'!"

"Yes, of course it would be!" answered Sylvie quietly, "I have often

wondered why so much fine literature is condemned by the Church,--and

do you know, it occurred to me the other day that if our Lord had

WRITTEN what He said in the form of a book, it might be placed on the

'Index' also?"

Gherardi lifted his eyes from their scrutiny of the ground, and fixed

them upon her with a look of amazement that was almost a menace. But

she was not in the least intimidated,--and her face, though pale as the

narcissi she had just seen in blossom, was very tranquil.

"Are you the Comtesse Hermenstein?" said Gherardi then, after an

impressive pause, "The faithful, gentle daughter of Holy Church? or are

you some perverted spirit wearing her semblance?"

Sylvie laughed.

"If I am a perverted spirit you ought to be able to exorcise me,

Monsignor!" she said,--"With the incense of early Mass clinging to you,

and the holy water still fresh on your hands, you have only to say,

'Retro me Sathanas!' and if I am NOT Sylvie Hermenstein I shall melt

into thin air, leaving nothing but the odour of sulphur behind me! But

if I AM Sylvie Hermenstein, I shall remain invincible and

immovable,--both in myself and in my opinions!"

Gherardi controlled his rising irritation, and was silent for some

minutes, reflecting within himself that if the fair Countess had

suddenly turned restive and wayward, it was probably because she was

falling in love with the author whose works she defended, and taking

this into consideration, he judged it would be wisest to temporise.

"Invincible you always are!" he said in softer tones, "As many unhappy

men in Europe can testify!"

"Are you among them?" queried Sylvie mischievously, the light of

laughter beginning to twinkle and flash in her pretty eyes.

"Of course!" answered Gherardi suavely, though his heart beat thickly,

and the secret admiration he had always felt for the delicate beauty of

this woman who was so utterly out of his reach, made his blood burn

with mingled rage and passion. "Even a poor priest is not exempt from

temptation!"

Sylvie hummed a little tune under her breath, and looked up at the sky.

"It will be a lovely day!" she said--"There will be no rain!"

"Is that the most interesting thing you can say to me?" queried

Gherardi.

"The weather is always interesting," she replied, "And it is such a

safe subject of conversation!"

"Then you are afraid of dangerous subjects?"

"Oh no, not at all! But I dislike quarrelling,--and I am afraid I

should get very angry if you were to say anything more against the book

I am reading"--here she paused a moment, and then added steadily, "or

its author!"

"I am aware that he is a great friend of yours," said Gherardi gently,

"And I assure you, Contessa--seriously I assure you, I should be the

last person in the world to say anything against him. Indeed, there is

nothing to say, beyond the fact that he is, according to our religion,

a heretic--but he is a brilliant and intellectual heretic,--WELL WORTH

REDEEMING!" He emphasised the words, and shot a meaning glance at her;

but she did not appear to take his hint or fathom his intention. She

walked on steadily, her eyes downcast,--her tiny feet, shod in charming

little French walking shoes, peeping in and out with a flash of steel

on their embroidered points, from under the mysterious gleam of silk

flounces that gave a soft "swish," as she moved,--her golden hair

escaping in one or two silky waves from under a picturesque black hat,

fastened on by velvet ribbons, which were tied in a captivating knot

under the sweetest of little white chins, a chin whose firm contour

almost contradicted the sensitive lines of the kissable mouth above it.

A curious, dull sense of anger teased the astute brain of Domenico

Gherardi, as with all the dignified deportment of the stately

churchman, he walked on by her side. What was all his scheming worth,

he began to think, if this slight feminine creature proved herself more

than a match for him? The utmost he could do with his life and

ambitions was to sway the ignorant, cram his coffers with gold, and

purchase a change of mistresses for his villa at Frascati. But

love,--real love, from any human creature alive he never had won, and

knew he never should win. Sylvie Hermenstein was richer far than

he,--she had not only wealth and a great position, but the joys of a

natural existence, and of a perfect home-life were not denied to her.

Presently, seeing that they were approaching the gates of exit from the

Pamphili, he said,--

"Contessa, will you give me the favour of an hour's conversation with

you one afternoon this week? I have something of the very greatest

importance to say to you."

"Can you not say it now?" asked Sylvie.

"No, it would take too long,--besides, if walls have ears, it is

possible that gardens have tongues! I should not presume to trouble

you, were it not for the fact that my business concerns the welfare of

your friend, Mr. Aubrey Leigh, in whose career I think you are

interested,--and not only Mr. Leigh, but also Cardinal Bonpre. You will

be wise to give me the interview I seek,--unwise if you refuse it!"

"Monsignor, you have already been well received at my house, and will

be well received again,"--said Sylvie with a pretty dignity, "Provided

you do not abuse my hospitality by calumniating my FRIENDS, whatever

you may think of myself,--you will be welcome! What day, and at what

hour shall I expect you?"

Gherardi considered a moment.

"I will write," he said at last, "I cannot at this moment fix the time,

but I will not fail to give you notice. A riverderci! Benedicite!"

And he left her abruptly at the gates, walking rapidly in the direction

of the Vatican. Full of vague perplexities to which she could give no

name, Sylvie went homewards slowly, and as she entered her rooms, and

responded to the affectionate morning greetings of Madame Bozier, she

was conscious of a sudden depression that stole over her bright soul

like a dark cloud on a sunny day, and made her feel chilled and sad.

Turning over the numerous letters that waited her perusal, she

recognised the handwriting of the Marquis Fontenelle on one, and took

it up with a strange uneasy dread and beating of the heart. She read it

twice through, before entirely grasping its meaning, and then--as she

realised that the man who had caused her so much pain and shame by his

lawless and reckless pursuit of her in the character of a libertine,

was now, with a frank confession of his total unworthiness, asking her

to be his wife,--the tears rushed to her eyes, and a faint cry broke

from her lips.

"Oh, I cannot . . . I cannot!" she murmured, "Not now--not now!"

Madame Bozier looked at her in distress and amazement.

"What is the matter, dear?" she asked, "Some bad news?"

Silently Sylvie handed her Fontenelle's letter.

"Dear me! He is actually in Rome!" said the old lady, "And he asks you

to be his wife! Well, dear child, is not that what you had a right to

expect from him?"

"Yes--perhaps--but I cannot--not now!--Oh no, not now!" murmured

Sylvie, and her eyes, wet with tears, were full of an infinite pain.

"But--pardon me dear--do you not love him?"

Sylvie stood silent--gazing blankly before her, with such perplexity

and sorrow in her face that her faithful gouvernante grew anxious and

troubled.

"Child, do not look like that!" she exclaimed, "It cuts me to the

heart! You were not made for sorrow!"

"Dear Katrine,--we were all made for sorrow," said Sylvie slowly,

"Sorrow is good for us. And perhaps I have not had sufficient of it to

make me strong. And this is real sorrow to me,--to refuse Fontenelle!"

"But why refuse him if you love him?" asked Madame Bozier bewildered.

Sylvie sat down beside her, and put one soft arm caressingly round her

neck.

"Ah, Katrine,--that is just my trouble," she said, "I do not love him

now! When I first met him he attracted me greatly, I confess,--he

seemed so gentle, so courteous, and above all, so true! But it was

'seeming' only, Katrine!--and he was not anything of what he seemed.

His courtesy and gentleness were but a mask for licentiousness,--his

apparent truth was but a disguise for mere reckless and inconstant

passion. I had to find this bit by bit,--and oh, how cruel was the

disillusion! How I prayed for him, wept for him, tried to think that if

he loved me he might yet endeavour to be nobler and truer for my sake.

But his love was not great enough for that. What he wanted was the body

of me, not the soul. What _I_ wanted of him was the soul, not the body!

So we played at cross purposes,--each with a different motive,--and

gradually, as I came to recognise how much baseness and brutality there

is in mere libertinism,--how poor and paltry an animal man becomes when

he serves himself and his passions only, my attraction for him

diminished,--I grew to realise that I could never raise him out of the

mud, because he had lived by choice too long in it,--I could never

persuade him to be true, even to himself, because he found the ways of

falsehood and deceit more amusing. He did unworthy things, which I

could not, with all my admiration for him, gloze over or excuse;--in

fact, I found that in his private life and code of honour he was very

little better than Miraudin,--and Miraudin, as you know, one CANNOT

receive!"

"He is in Rome also," said Madame Bozier, "I saw his name placarded in

the streets only yesterday, and also outside one of the leading

theatres. He has brought all his Parisian company here to act their

repertoire for a few nights before proceeding to Naples."

"How strange he should be here!" said Sylvie, "How very strange! He is

so like the Marquis Fontenelle, Katrine! So very like! I used to go to

the theatre and frighten myself with studying the different points of

resemblance! be the rough copy of Fontenelle's,--and I always saw in

the actor what the gentleman would be if he continued to live as he was

doing. Miraudin, whose amours are a disgrace, EVEN to the

stage!--Miraudin, who in his position of actor-manager, takes

despicable advantage of all the poor ignorant, struggling creatures who

try to get into his company, and whose vain little heads are turned by

a stray compliment,--and to think that the Marquis Fontenelle should be

merely the better-born copy of so mean a villain! Ah, what useless

tears I have shed about it,--how I have grieved and worried myself all

in vain!--and now . . ."

"Now he asks you to marry him," said Madame Bozier gently, "And you

think it would be no use? You could not perhaps make him a better man?"

"Neither I nor any woman could!" said Sylvie, "I do not believe very

much in 'reforming' men, Katrine. If they need to reform, they must

reform themselves. We make our own lives what they are."

"Dear little philosopher!" said Madame Bozier tenderly, taking Sylvie's

small white hand as it hung down from her shoulder and kissing it, "You

are very depressed to-day! You must not take things so seriously! If

you do not love the Marquis as you once did--"

"As I once did--ah, yes!" said Sylvie, "I did love him. I thought he

could not be otherwise than great and true and noble-hearted--but--"

She broke off with a sigh.

"Well, and now that you know he is not the hero you imagined him, all

you have to do is to tell him so," said the practical Bozier

cheerfully, "Or if you do not want to pain him by such absolute

candour, give him his refusal as gently and kindly as you can."

Sylvie sighed again.

"I am very sorry," she said, "If I could have foreseen this--perhaps--"

"But did you not foresee it?" asked Madame Bozier persistently, "Did

you not realize that men always want what they cannot have--and that

the very fact of your leaving Paris increased his ardour and sent him

on here in pursuit?"

Sylvie Hermenstein was of a very truthful nature, and she had not

attempted to deny this suggestion.

"Yes--I confess I did think that if I separated myself altogether from

him it might induce him to put himself in a more honourable position

with me--but I did not know then--" she paused, and a deep flush

crimsoned her cheeks.

"Did not know what?" queried Madame Bozier softly.

Sylvie hesitated a moment, then spoke out bravely.

"I did not know then that I should meet another man whose existence

would become ten times more interesting and valuable to me than his!

Yes, Katrine, I confess it! There is no shame in honesty! And so, to be

true to myself, however much the Marquis might love me now, I could

never be his wife."

Madame Bozier was silent. She guessed her beloved pupil's heart's

secret,--but she was too tactful to dwell upon the subject, and before

the brief, half-embarrassed pause between them had ended, a servant

entered, asking,

"Will the Signora Contessa receive the Capitano Ruspardi?"

Sylvie rose from her seat with a look of surprise.

"Ruspardi?--I do not know the name."

"The business is urgent;--the Capitano is the bearer of a letter to the

Signora Contessa."

"Remain with me, Katrine," said Sylvie after a pause,--then to the

servant--"Show Captain Ruspardi in here."

Another moment, and a young officer in the Italian uniform entered

hurriedly,--his face was very pale,--and as the Comtesse Hermenstein

received him in her own serene sweet manner which, for all its

high-bred air had something wonderfully winning and childlike about it,

his self-control gave way, and when after a profound salute he raised

his eyes, she saw they were full of tears. Her heart began to beat

violently.

"You bring some bad news?" she asked faintly.

"Madama, I beg you not to distress yourself--this letter--" and he held

out a sealed envelope,--"was given to me specially marked, among

others, by my friend, the Marquis Fontenelle--last right before--before

he went to his death!"

"His death!" echoed Sylvie, her eyes dilating with horror--"His death!

What do you mean?"

Madame Bozier came quickly to her side, and put a hand gently on her

arm. But she did not seem to feel the sympathetic touch.

"His death!" she murmured. And with trembling fingers she opened and

read the last lines ever penned by her too passionate admirer.

"SWEETEST SYLVIE! Dearest and purest of women! If you ever receive this

letter I shall be gone beyond the reach of your praise or your blame.

For it will not be given to you at all unless I am dead. Dead, dear

Sylvie! That will be strange, will it not? To be lying quite still,

cold and stiff, out of the reach of your pretty warm white

arms,--deprived for ever and ever of any kiss from your rose-red

lips,--ah, Sylvie, it will be very cold and lonely! But perhaps better

so! To-night I saw you, up in your balcony, with someone who is a brave

and famous man, and who no doubt loves you. For he cannot fail to love

you, if he knows you. God grant you may be happy when I am gone! But I

want you to feel that to-night--to-night _I_ love you!--love you as I

have never loved you or any woman before--without an evil

thought,--without a selfish wish!--to the very height and breadth of

love, I love you, my queen, my rose, my saving grace of

sweetness!--whose name I shall say to God as my best prayer for pardon,

if I die to-night!