The same night which saw the red glare of the burning monastery
reflected from end to end of the Campagna, like the glow of some
gigantic pagan funeral pyre, saw also the quiet departure of Cardinal
Bonpre and his "foundling" Manuel from Rome. Innocent of all evil,
their escape was after the manner of the guilty; for the spies of the
Vatican were on guard outside the Sovrani Palace, and one priest after
another "relieved the watch" in the fashion of military sentries. But
like all too cunning schemers, these pious detectives overreached the
goal of their intention, and bearing in mind the fact of the Cardinal's
unsuspecting simplicity, it never occurred to them to think he had been
put on his guard so soon, or that he would take advantage of any secret
way of flight. But the private door of Angela's studio through which
Florian Varillo had fled, and the key of which he had thrown into the
Tiber, had been forced open, and set in use again, and through this the
harmless prelate, with his young companion, passed without notice or
hindrance, and under the escort of Aubrey Leigh and Cyrillon Vergniaud,
reached the railway station unintercepted by any message or messenger
from the Papal court, and started for Paris and London. When the train,
moving slowly at first from the platform, began to rush, and finally
darted swiftly out of sight, Aubrey breathed more easily.
"Thank God!" he said. "They are safe for the present! England is a free
country!"
"Is it?" And Vergniaud smiled a little. "Are you sure? England cannot
dispute the authority of the Vatican over its own sworn servants. Are
you not yourself contending against the power of Rome in Great Britain?"
"Not only against Rome do I contend," replied Aubrey. "My battle is
against all who seek to destroy the true meaning and intention of
Christianity. But so far as Romanism is concerned,--we have a monarch
whose proudest title is Defender of the Faith--that is Defender of the
Faith against Papal interference."
"Yes? And yet her bishops pander to Rome? Ah, my dear friend!--your
monarch is kept in ignorance of the mischief being worked in her realm
by the Papal secret service! Cardinal Bonpre in London is as much under
the jurisdiction of the Pope as if he still remained in Rome, and
though he may be able to delay the separation between himself and the
boy he cherishes, he will scarcely avert it!"
"Why should they wish to part that child from him I wonder!" said
Aubrey musingly.
Cyrillon shrugged his shoulders.
"Who can tell! They have their reasons, no doubt. Why should they wish
to excommunicate Tolstoi? But they do! Believe me, there is a time of
terror coming for the religious world--especially in your great English
Empire. And when your good Queen dies, the trouble will begin!"
Aubrey was silent for some minutes.
"We must work, Cyrillon!" he said at last, laying a hand on his
friend's shoulder. "We must work and we must never leave off working!
One man may do much,--all history proves the conquering force of one
determined will. You, young as you are, have persuaded France to listen
to you,--I am doing my best to persuade England to hear me. We are only
two--but others will follow. I know it is difficult!--it is harassing
and often heartbreaking to insist on Truth when the whole world's press
is at work bolstering up false gods, false ideals, false art, false
sentiment,--but if we are firm--if we hold an unflinching faith, we
shall conquer!"
"You are brave!" said Cyrillon with a glance of mingled trust and
admiration. "But you are an exception to the majority of men. The
majority are cruel and treacherous, and stupid as well. Dense stupidity
is hard to fight against! Who for example, do you suppose, will
understand the lesson of Donna Sovrani's great picture?"
"All the New World!" said Aubrey, with enthusiasm,--"It is for the New
World--not the Old. And that reminds me to-day the picture is on view
to the art-critics and experts for the first time. I prophesy it will
be sold at once!"
"That would make her father happy," said Cyrillon slowly. "But she--she
will not care!"
Aubrey looked at him attentively.
"Have you seen her?"
"Yes. For a moment only. I called at the Sovrani Palace and her father
received me. We talked for some time together. I think he knows who
dealt the murderous blow at his daughter, but he says nothing positive.
He showed me the picture. It is great--sublime! I could have knelt
before it! Then he took me to see Her--and I would have knelt still
more readily! But--she is changed!"
"And--are you?" asked Aubrey with a slight smile.
"Changed? I? No--I shall never change. I loved her at first sight--I
love her still more now. Yet I see the truth--she is broken-hearted!"
"Time and great tenderness will heal the wound," said Aubrey gently.
"Meanwhile have patience!"
Cyrillon gave him a look more eloquent than speech, and by mutual
consent they said no more on the subject of Angela just then.
Next morning at the American Consulate, Sylvie, Comtesse Hermenstein,
was quietly married by civil law to Aubrey Leigh. The ceremony took
place in the presence of the Princesse D'Agramont, Madame Bozier, and
Cyrillon Vergniaud. When it was over the wedded lovers and their
friends returned to the Sovrani Palace, there to join Angela who had
come down from her sick room to grace the occasion. She looked as fair
and fragile as the delicate "Killmeny" of the poet's legend, just
returned from wondrous regions of "faery," though the land poor Angela
had wandered away from was the Land of Sweet Delusion, which enchanted
garden she would never enter again. Pale and thin, with her beautiful
eyes drooping wearily under their dreamy tired lids, she was the very
ghost of her former self;--and the child-like way in which she clung to
her father, and kept near her father always, was pathetic in the
extreme. When Sylvie and Aubrey entered, with their three companions,
she advanced to greet them, smiling bravely, though her lips quivered.
"All happiness be with you, dear!" she said softly, and she slipped a
chain of fine pearls round Sylvie's neck. "These were my mother's
pearls,--wear them for my sake!"
Sylvie kissed her in silence,--she could not say anything, even by the
way of thanks,--her heart was too full.
"We shall be very lonely without you, darling," went on Angela. "Shall
we not, father?" Prince Pietro came to her side, and taking her hand
patted it consolingly--"But we shall know you are happy in England--and
we shall try and come and see you as soon as I get strong,--I want to
join my uncle and Manuel. I miss Manuel very much,--he and my father
are everything to me now!"
She stretched out her hand to Aubrey, who bent over it and kissed it
tenderly.
"You are happy now, Mr. Leigh?" she said smiling.
"Very happy!" said Aubrey. "May you be as happy soon!"
She shook her head, and the smile passed from her eyes and lips,
leaving her face very sorrowful.
"I must work," she said. "Work brings content--if it does not insure
joy." Her gaze involuntarily wandered to her great picture, "The Coming
of Christ," which now, unveiled in all its splendour, occupied one end
of her studio, filling it with a marvellous colour and glow of light.
"Yes, I must work! That big canvas of mine will not sell I fear! My
father was right. It was a mistake"--and she sighed--"a mistake
altogether,--in more ways than one! And what is the use of painting a
picture for the world if there is no chance to let the world see it?"
Prince Pietro looked at her benevolently.
"Your father was right, you think? Well, Angela mia, I think I had
better be the first to own that your father was wrong! The picture is
already sold;--that is if you consent to sell it!"