Peter was walking in the high-road, on the other side of the river--the
great high-road that leads from Bergamo to Milan.
It was late in the afternoon, and already, in the west, the sky was
beginning to put on some of its sunset splendours. In the east, framed
to Peter's vision by parallel lines of poplars, it hung like a curtain
of dark-blue velvet.
Peter sat on the grass, by the roadside, in the shadow of a hedge--a
rose-bush hedge, of course--and lighted a cigarette.
Far down the long white road, against the blue velvet sky, between the
poplars, two little spots of black, two small human figures, were moving
towards him.
Half absently, he let his eyes accompany them.
As they came nearer, they defined themselves as a boy and a girl.
Nearer still, he saw that they were ragged and dusty and barefoot.
The boy had three or four gaudy-hued wicker baskets slung over his
shoulder.
Vaguely, tacitly, Peter supposed that they would be the children of some
of the peasants of the countryside, on their way home from the village.
As they arrived abreast of him, they paid him the usual peasants'
salute. The boy lifted a tattered felt hat from his head, the girl
bobbed a courtesy, and “Buona sera, Eccellenza,” they said in concert,
without, however, pausing in their march.
Peter put his hand in his pocket.
“Here, little girl,” he called.
The little girl glanced at him, doubting.
“Come here,” he said.
Her face a question, she came up to him; and he gave her a few coppers.
“To buy sweetmeats,” he said.
“A thousand thanks; Excellency,” said she, bobbing another courtesy.
“A thousand thanks, Excellency,” said the boy, from his distance, again
lifting his rag of a hat.
And they trudged on.
But Peter looked after them--and his heart smote him. They were clearly
of the poorest of the poor. He thought of Hansel and Gretel. Why had he
given them so little? He called to them to stop.
The little girl came running back.
Peter rose to meet her.
“You may as well buy some ribbons too,” he said, and gave her a couple
of lire.
She looked at the money with surprise--even with an appearance of
hesitation. Plainly, it was a sum, in her eyes.
“It's all right. Now run along,” said Peter.
“A thousand thanks, Excellency,” said she, with a third courtesy, and
rejoined her brother....
“Where are they going?” asked a voice.
Peter faced about.
There stood the Duchessa, in a bicycling costume, her bicycle beside
her. Her bicycling costume was of blue serge, and she wore a jaunty
sailor-hat with a blue ribbon. Peter (in spite of the commotion in his
breast) was able to remember that this was the first time he had seen
her in anything but white.
Her attention was all upon the children, whom he, perhaps, had more or
less banished to Cracklimbo.
“Where are they going?” she repeated, trouble in her voice and in her
eyes.
Peter collected himself.
“The children? I don't know--I didn't ask. Home, aren't they?”
“Home? Oh, no. They don't live hereabouts,” she said. “I know all the
poor of this neighbourhood.--Ohe there! Children! Children!” she cried.
But they were quite a hundred yards away, and did not hear.
“Do you wish them to come back?” asked Peter.
“Yes--of course,” she answered, with a shade of impatience.
He put his fingers to his lips (you know the schoolboy accomplishment),
and gave a long whistle.
That the children did hear.
They halted, and turned round, looking, enquiring.
“Come back--come back!” called the Duchessa, raising her hand, and
beckoning.
They came back.
“The pathetic little imps,” she murmured while they were on the way.
The boy was a sturdy, square-built fellow, of twelve, thirteen, with
a shock of brown hair, brown cheeks, and sunny brown eyes; with
a precocious air of doggedness, of responsibility. He wore an old
tail-coat, the tail-coat of a man, ragged, discoloured, falling to his
ankles.
The girl was ten or eleven, pale, pinched; hungry, weary, and sorry
looking. Her hair too had been brown, upon a time; but now it was faded
to something near the tint of ashes, and had almost the effect of being
grey. Her pale little forehead was crossed by thin wrinkles, lines of
pain, of worry, like an old woman's.
The Duchessa, pushing her bicycle, and followed by Peter, moved down
the road, to meet them. Peter had never been so near to her before--at
moments her arm all but brushed his sleeve. I think he blessed the
children.
“Where are you going?” the Duchessa asked, softly, smiling into the
girl's sad little face.
The girl had shown no fear of Peter; but apparently she was somewhat
frightened by this grand lady. The toes of her bare feet worked
nervously in the dust. She hung her head shyly, and eyed her brother.
But the brother, removing his hat, with the bow of an Italian
peasant--and that is to say, the bow of a courtier--spoke up bravely.
“To Turin, Nobility.”
He said it in a perfectly matter-of-fact way, quite as he might have
said, “To the next farm-house.”
The Duchessa, however, had not bargained for an answer of this measure.
Startled, doubting her ears perhaps, “To--Turin--!” she exclaimed.
“Yes, Excellency,” said the boy.
“But--but Turin--Turin is hundreds of kilometres from here,” she said,
in a kind of gasp.
“Yes, Excellency,” said the boy.
“You are going to Turin--you two children--walking--like that!” she
persisted.
“Yes, Excellency.”
“But--but it will take you a month.”
“Pardon, noble lady,” said the boy. “With your Excellency's permission,
we were told it should take fifteen days.”
“Where do you come from?” she asked.
“From Bergamo, Excellency.”
“When did you leave Bergamo?”
“Yesterday morning, Excellency.”
“The little girl is your sister?”
“Yes, Excellency.”
“Have you a mother and father?”
“A father, Excellency. The mother is dead.” Each of the children made
the Sign of the Cross; and Peter was somewhat surprised, no doubt, to
see the Duchessa do likewise. He had yet to learn the beautiful custom
of that pious Lombard land, whereby, when the Dead are mentioned, you
make the Sign of the Cross, and, pausing reverently for a moment, say in
silence the traditional prayer of the Church:
“May their souls and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the
Mercy of God, rest in peace.”
“And where is your father?” the Duchessa asked.
“In Turin, Excellency,” answered the boy. “He is a glass-blower. After
the strike at Bergamo, he went to Turin to seek work. Now he has found
it. So he has sent for us to come to him.”
“And you two children--alone--are going to walk all the way to Turin!”
She could not get over the pitiful wonder of it.
“Yes, Excellency.”
“The heart-rending little waifs,” she said, in English, with something
like a sob. Then, in Italian, “But--but how do you live by the way?”
The boy touched his shoulder-load of baskets.
“We sell these, Excellency.”
“What is their price?” she asked.
“Thirty soldi, Excellency.”
“Have you sold many since you started?”
The boy looked away; and now it was his turn to hang his head, and to
let his toes work nervously in the dust.
“Haven't you sold any?” she exclaimed, drawing her conclusions.
“No, Excellency. The people would not buy,” he owned, in a dull voice,
keeping his eyes down.
“Poverino,” she murmured. “Where are you going to sleep to-night?”
“In a house, Excellency,” said he.
But that seemed to strike the Duchessa as somewhat vague.
“In what house?” she asked.
“I do not know, Excellency,” he confessed. “We will find a house.”
“Would you like to come back with me, and sleep at my house?”
The boy and girl looked at each other, taking mute counsel.
Then, “Pardon, noble lady--with your Excellency's permission, is it
far?” the boy questioned.
“I am afraid it is not very near--three or four kilometres.”
Again the children looked at each other, conferring. Afterwards, the boy
shook his head.
“A thousand thanks, Excellency. With your permission, we must not turn
back. We must walk on till later. At night we will find a house.”
“They are too proud to own that their house will be a hedge,” she said
to Peter, again in English. “Aren't you hungry?” she asked the children.
“No, Excellency. We had bread in the village, below there,” answered the
boy.
“You will not come home with me, and have a good dinner, and a good
night's sleep?”
“Pardon, Excellency. With your favour, the father would not wish us to
turn back.”
The Duchessa looked at the little girl.
The little girl wore a medal of the Immaculate Conception on a ribbon
round her neck--a forlorn blue ribbon, soiled and frayed.
“Oh, you have a holy medal,” said the Duchessa.
“Yes, noble lady,” said the girl, dropping a courtesy, and lifting up
her sad little weazened face.
“She has been saying her prayers all along the road,” the boy
volunteered.
“That is right,” approved the Duchessa. “You have not made your First
Communion yet, have you?”
“No, Excellency,” said the girl. “I shall make it next year.”
“And you?” the Duchessa asked the boy.
“I made mine at Corpus Christi,” said the boy, with a touch of pride.
The Duchessa turned to Peter.
“Do you know, I haven't a penny in my pocket. I have come out without my
purse.”
“How much ought one to give them?” Peter asked.
“Of course, there is the fear that they might be robbed,” she reflected.
“If one should give them a note of any value, they would have to change
it; and they would probably be robbed. What to do?”
“I will speak to the boy,” said Peter. “Would you like to go to Turin by
train?” he asked.
The boy and girl looked at each other. “Yes, Excellency,” said the boy.
“But if I give you money for your fare, will you know how to take care
of it--how to prevent people from robbing you?”
“Oh, yes, Excellency.”
“You could take the train this evening, at Venzona, about two kilometres
from here, in the direction you are walking. In an hour or two you would
arrive at Milan; there you would change into the train for Turin. You
would be at Turin to-morrow morning.”
“Yes, Excellency.”
“But if I give you money, you will not let people rob you? If I give you
a hundred lire?”
The boy drew back, stared, as if frightened.
“A hundred lire--?” he said.
“Yes,” said Peter.
The boy looked at his sister.
“Pardon, Nobility,” he said. “With your condescension, does it cost a
hundred lire to go to Turin by train?”
“Oh, no. I think it costs eight or ten.”
Again the boy looked at his sister.
“Pardon, Nobility. With your Excellency's permission, we should not
desire a hundred lire then,” he said.
Peter and the Duchessa were not altogether to be blamed, I hope, if they
exchanged the merest hint of a smile.
“Well, if I should give you fifty?” Peter asked.
“Fifty lire, Excellency?”
Peter nodded.
Still again the boy sought counsel of his sister, with his eyes.
“Yes, Excellency,” he said.
“You are sure you will be able to take care of it--you will not let
people rob you,” the Duchessa put in, anxious. “They will wish to
rob you. If you go to sleep in the train, they will try to pick your
pocket.”
“I will hide it, noble lady. No one shall rob me. If I go to sleep in
the train, I will sit on it, and my sister will watch. If she goes to
sleep, I will watch,” the boy promised confidently.
“You must give it to him in the smallest change you can possibly scrape
together,” she advised Peter.
And with one-lira, two-lira, ten-lira notes, and with a little silver
and copper, he made up the amount.
“A thousand thanks, Excellency,” said the boy, with a bow that was
magnificent; and he proceeded to distribute the money between various
obscure pockets.
“A thousand thanks, Excellency,” said the girl, with a courtesy.
“Addio, a buon' viaggio,” said Peter.
“Addio, Eccellenze,” said the boy.
“Addio, Eccellenze,” said the girl.
But the Duchessa impulsively stooped down, and kissed the girl on her
poor little wrinkled brow. And when she stood up, Peter saw that her
eyes were wet.
The children moved off. They moved off, whispering together, and
gesticulating, after the manner of their race: discussing something.
Presently they stopped; and the boy came running back, while his sister
waited.
He doffed his hat, and said, “A thousand pardons, Excellency-”
“Yes? What is it?” Peter asked.
“With your Excellency's favour--is it obligatory that we should take the
train?”
“Obligatory?” puzzled Peter. “How do you mean?”
“If it is not obligatory, we would prefer, with the permission of your
Excellency, to save the money.”
“But--but then you will have to walk!” cried Peter.
“But if it is not obligatory to take the train, we would pray your
Excellency's permission to save the money. We should like to save the
money, to give it to the father. The father is very poor. Fifty lire is
so much.”
This time it was Peter who looked for counsel to the Duchessa.
Her eyes, still bright with tears, responded, “Let them do as they
will.”
“No, it is not obligatory--it is only recommended,” he said to the boy,
with a smile that he could n't help. “Do as you will. But if I were you,
I should spare my poor little feet.”
“Mille grazie, Eccellenze,” the boy said, with a final sweep of his
tattered hat. He ran back to his sister; and next moment they were
walking resolutely on, westward, “into the great red light.”
The Duchessa and Peter were silent for a while, looking after them.
They dwindled to dots in the distance, and then, where the road turned,
disappeared.
At last the Duchessa spoke--but almost as if speaking to herself.
“There, Felix Wildmay, you writer of tales, is a subject made to your
hand,” she said.
We may guess whether Peter was startled. Was it possible that she had
found him out? A sound, confused, embarrassed, something composite,
between an oh and ayes, seemed to expire in his throat.
But the Duchessa did n't appear to heed it.
“Don't you think it would be a touching episode for your friend to write
a story round?” she asked.
We may guess whether he was relieved.
“Oh--oh, yes,” he agreed, with the precipitancy of a man who, in his
relief, would agree to anything.
“Have you ever seen such courage?” she went on. “The wonderful babies!
Fancy fifteen days, fifteen days and nights, alone, unprotected, on the
highway, those poor little atoms! Down in their hearts they are really
filled with terror. Who would n't be, with such a journey before him?
But how finely they concealed it, mastered it! Oh, I hope they won't be
robbed. God help them--God help them!”
“God help them, indeed,” said Peter.
“And the little girl, with her medal of the Immaculate Conception. The
father, after all, can hardly be the brute one might suspect, since he
has given them a religious education. Oh, I am sure, I am sure, it was
the Blessed Virgin herself who sent us across their path, in answer to
that poor little creature's prayers.”
“Yes,” said Peter, ambiguously perhaps. But he liked the way in which
she united him to herself in the pronoun.
“Which, of course,” she added, smiling gravely into his eyes, “seems the
height of absurdity to you?”
“Why should it seem the height of absurdity to me?” he asked.
“You are a Protestant, I suppose?”
“I suppose so. But what of that? At all events, I believe there are
more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in the usual
philosophies. And I see no reason why it should not have been the
Blessed Virgin who sent us across their path.”
“What would your Protestant pastors and masters do, if they heard you?
Isn't that what they call Popish superstition?”
“I daresay. But I'm not sure that there's any such thing as
superstition. Superstition, in its essence, is merely a recognition of
the truth that in a universe of mysteries and contradictions, like ours,
nothing conceivable or inconceivable is impossible.”
“Oh, no, no,” she objected. “Superstition is the belief in something
that is ugly and bad and unmeaning. That is the difference between
superstition and religion. Religion is the belief in something that is
beautiful and good and significant--something that throws light into the
dark places of life--that helps us to see and to live.”
“Yes,” said Peter, “I admit the distinction.” After a little suspension,
“I thought,” he questioned, “that all Catholics were required to go to
Mass on Sunday?”
“Of course--so they are,” said she.
“But--but you--” he began.
“I hear Mass not on Sunday only--I hear it every morning of my life.”
“Oh? Indeed? I beg your pardon,” he stumbled. “I--one--one never sees
you at the village church.”
“No. We have a chapel and a chaplain at the castle.”
She mounted her bicycle.
“Good-bye,” she said, and lightly rode away.
“So-ho! Her bigotry is not such a negligible quantity, after all,” Peter
concluded.
“But what,” he demanded of Marietta, as she ministered to his wants
at dinner, “what does one barrier more or less matter, when people are
already divided by a gulf that never can be traversed? You see that
river?” He pointed through his open window to the Aco. “It is a symbol.
She stands on one side of it, I stand on the other, and we exchange
little jokes. But the river is always there, flowing between us,
separating us. She is the daughter of a lord, and the widow of a duke,
and the fairest of her sex, and a millionaire, and a Roman Catholic.
What am I? Oh, I don't deny I 'm clever. But for the rest? ... My
dear Marietta, I am simply, in one word, the victim of a misplaced
attachment.”
“Non capisco Francese,” said Marietta.