CHAPTER II

DISTAFFS AND THREADS

I

The next morning Massimo came down to the drawing-room at

half-past six, to the dismay of the footman Giovanni, who left the

floor-polishing in which he had been engaged amidst great disorder of

furniture, and rushed off for the coffee.

Gentle breezes blew fresh from all sides through the large, open

windows, through which could be seen, on the south, the emerald of

chestnut-crowned slopes, on the north, the bare and mighty crags of

Barco, and on the west, the deep declivities of the garden beneath the

Lago road. There could be seen, too, the tremulous glistening of the

clumps of birch and poplar that border the garden fence, the Posina

ravine, and beyond the little town of Arsiero, whose houses cluster

amid the green at the foot of the church which seems to guard them, the

gloomy depths of the sharp-cut gorge, and then mountain upon mountain

rising under changing lights and shadows towards imperial Torraro.

"Buona mattina," said the footman, returning with the coffee.

Massimo meanwhile had been paying more attention to the music that

littered the piano than to the vision of hills and valleys, sunshine

and verdure. A thick volume of Clementi and a thin one of Corelli bore

the name "Leila," written in a large hand.

While he was drinking his coffee he learned from the footman that

Signor Marcello had gone out some time before, but whether he was in

the garden or had gone to church, whether he had taken the Velo road

or that to Arsiero, Giovanni could not say. Massimo went out also,

intending to look up Don Aurelio. The caretaker opened the gate for

him, and Massimo was questioning him as to the road to Lago, when he

saw the man look beyond him and salute some one who was passing, with

marked respect. He turned round. A woman stood behind him, no longer

young, but tall and slim; her head was bare, and in her hand she

carried a closed sunshade, although the sun was already hot upon the

rocky path. To the young man's intense surprise, she stood still and

smiled.

"Signor Alberti, I believe?" she said.

The soft voice struck Massimo as being the same he had heard in

the night, alternating with Don Aurelio's. He bowed with some

embarrassment, looking at the lady as if apologising for failing to

recognise her. Before him stood a noble figure, that of a woman between

fifty and fifty-five years of age, pale, with a suggestion of olive in

her pallor, her face showing traces of bodily suffering, her hair quite

white, her large and luminous eyes still youthful, and her manner,

voice, and slow utterance conveying an expression of sweetness and of

the dignity of gentle breeding.

"I am a friend of Don Aurelio's," she said, still smiling. "We passed

this way last night, hoping to see you, but you were already asleep."

Massimo confessed that from his window he had seen a dark figure and a

white one.

"Yes, I was wearing a white shawl," she answered. "Are you on your way

to Don Aurelio's? I am going there too."

Massimo bowed, and questioned with his eyes rather than with his lips:

"Then you are Signora----?"

"Vayla di Brea," was her answer, with a pleasant smile. "Has Don

Aurelio been writing to you about me? And was my name quite unfamiliar

to you?"

Massimo was obliged humbly to admit that it had been.

"You see," she went on, "I have rather a grandmotherly feeling towards

you! Was not your mother a Vittuoni, and was not her name Rachele? I

was at Madame Bianchi Morand's school with her, in Milan. Your mother

was one of the little girls when I was one of the elder ones. I was

very fond of her and used to amuse myself sometimes by playing at being

her mother."

They started together along the narrow road that, just beyond the gate,

enters the cool shade of great chestnuts that fringe the crest of the

sharp slope to the ravine, whence rises the deep, rhythmical booming of

the whirlpools of Perale.

His companion spoke at once of Don Aurelio's great disappointment at

being unable to receive Massimo as his guest nor even to meet him at

the station. She told him that two days before the priest had taken in

a sick man, a wretched pedlar of Protestant Bibles, who had fallen a

victim to the people's fury at Posina, and to whom no one else would

offer shelter.

"Poor creature!" the lady exclaimed. "He is an oddity, an oddity

indeed!" And she gave a short laugh, which she quickly checked,

however, pity overcoming her sense of the comic and her desire to

indulge it.

"He is a certain Pestagran, but about here they have taken to calling

him 'Carnesecca,' because in his sermons, which are always poetical,

he often introduces Carnesecchi. But he gets even with them. He used

to call his fellow-citizens of Lago fishes, sprats, eels, pike, and

sometimes crabs. Now he calls them all sharks!"

She talked on pleasantly of the despised Carnesecca, with a gentle

humour that amused Massimo, and without revealing to him that she

was an attentive visitor to the sick man. Their conversation was

interrupted three times; first at the end of the chestnut-grove, then

in that green, flowery spot, shaded by nut and apple trees, where the

women of Lago have their washhouse, amid idyllic surroundings. First a

poor old woman, then a lame beggar, stopped the Signorina and poured

their woes into her ears. Then she herself stopped a small, barefooted,

and dirty maiden, carrying a basket. To each she spoke gently and

kindly by name, inquiring for some invalid or absent relation. For the

girl she had a word of reproof--a little bird having told her certain

things! When she had gently dismissed these poor people she fell once

more to describing Carnesecca and his partly comic, partly heroic ways,

punctuating her description with the often-repeated word "Poveretto!"

as a salve to a conscience that was reproaching her for her slightly

uncharitable mirth.

Passing the first cottages and low sheds of Lago, guarded by

walnut-trees and grape-vines throwing their cool shade across narrow,

sweet-smelling lanes, Massimo and his companion reached the small

square, where a few neat houses listen respectfully to the sermon on

cleanliness that the fountain preaches to them, who do not need it,

while the rabble of filthy hovels keeps at a distance, as the human

rabble avoids the priest's sermons. If a peasant woman who was drawing

water were to be believed, Carnesecca had died in the night. A man in

his shirt-sleeves, with wooden shoes, who was clattering off to his

work, his scythe upon his shoulder, burst out contemptuously as he

passed, without deigning to look in the woman's direction:

"What does a foresta like you know about it?"

The woman protested loudly, not because the information of a _foresta_

might, nevertheless, be correct, but because she happened to be a

native of Maso, a group of houses not more than a quarter of a mile

away. The sound of the man's heavy tread grew fainter, down among the

dirty cottages, but his insolent voice could still be heard repeating:

"A foresta! Foresta! Foresta!"

Then a girl, who was watering some carnations, leaned out of the

window, and greeting the Signora, told her that she had carried the

milk to Don Aurelio's house an hour ago, and that Carnesecca was

feeling much better. The other woman excused her mistake by stating

that she had hoped the horrid creature might really be dead! And when

the Signora reproached her for her cruel thought, she turned the tables

upon her, saying:

"You cannot understand, Ela! You are a foresta! And the priest too....

It seems to me that, though he is indeed a holy man----"

"He is, nevertheless, a foreigner," said the Signora, and, turning to

Massimo, she added, with a smile, "He is a Samaritan."

"So he is!" said the "foreigner" from Maso sagaciously. "He comes from

that very place!"

Massimo and the Signora laughed and started to climb the steep path

leading to the little church of Sant' Ubaldo. The church door stood

open, and hearing Don Aurelio's voice, they entered. He was saying Mass

and had reached the _Pater Noster_. There were only two worshippers--a

little old woman, seated on the last bench, and Signor Marcello, who

was sitting in the row of benches directly in front of the altar,

his shaggy head bent low, his whole being rapt in ardent prayer. The

new-comers knelt down beside the little old woman.

When Signor Marcello rose, somewhat feebly, and went to kneel at the

altar-rail, Donna Fedele Vayla di Brea fixed eyes brimming with grave

tenderness upon that venerable head, reverently lowering them again

when the priest advanced towards him with the consecrated host and the

words of eternal life.

She had known Marcello since her early childhood, when, soon after the

liberation of Venice, Colonel Vayla di Brea purchased the Villino delle

Rose, near Arsiero. Marcello was then past his thirtieth year. His

parents were still alive, and a warm friendship soon sprang up between

the two families, who spent the summer holidays in Val d'Astico. Little

Fedele showed a strong liking for Marcello, and he, touched by this

childish affection, would often amuse himself by playing duets with

her. When he became engaged, the girl, who was now nearly fifteen and

was growing very tall, altered her manner towards him, avoiding rather

than seeking his society. He alone guessed that this change concealed

those ardent, immature feelings which young girls sometimes have for

men older than themselves, and under these circumstances consideration

for Fedele urged him for a time to break off all familiar intercourse

with her. With Marcello's wife the girl became, as she grew up, on

most affectionate terms. Only, being unmusical, Signora Trento could

not share the love of music which still remained a bond between her

husband and Fedele. Gradually these two began to seek each other's

company again, and their eyes would meet more often than was necessary.

One day, during an excursion, the two found themselves separated

from the rest of the party, and lost in a pine forest. Perhaps, at

first, passionate dreams overwhelmed the emotional girl, but as they

wandered, trembling indeed and silent, neither sought the other's eyes.

As they came out of the woods Marcello picked a cyclamen and offered

it silently. Fedele took it and pressed it to her lips, her eyes

glistening with tears.

Henceforth they played no more together, as if by an unspoken

agreement; but Fedele could not forget. She persuaded her father to

leave Arsiero, and they spent their summers at Santhià, where they had

relatives. In winter they lived in Turin, where she was much courted,

and where at times she seemed not indifferent to the admiration she

excited. There was talk even of a real passion--of a rejected suitor,

who took his life for love of her. But she never married, and at

eight-and-forty she found herself alone. Her parents were dead, and,

tired of city life, she remembered Arsiero, and went back to the

Villino delle Rose. Poor Andrea Trento was already ill, and during the

short time that elapsed between his death and that of his mother, Donna

Fedele was often at the Montanina. Her former attachment to Marcello

had grown into a regard that, with pity for his great misfortunes,

became almost veneration.

But after Signora Trento's death and a first exchange of visits

Marcello ceased to come to the Villino, and Donna Fedele no longer

went to the Montanina. Leila was the cause of this estrangement. She

had, at first, been quite captivated by Donna Fedele, who, however,

had unintentionally treated her with icy indifference, arising perhaps

from absent-mindedness or from some passing mood. Inexplicable attacks

of iciness had more than once bewildered those around her. She had

smiled at the girl, had bestowed a careless greeting upon her, and

throughout the rest of the visit had not once addressed a word to her.

Leila set her down as haughty, and concluded she had taken a dislike

to her. Her future attitude towards Donna Fedele was the more proud

and cold because her longing to be friends was so strong. On her side,

Donna Fedele, who had no suspicion of the truth, was sure that Leila

disliked her; and deeply though she regretted this, her reserved nature

stood in the way of her taking steps to win the young girl's heart,

and, believing that her presence was unwelcome to the person most

dear and sacred to Signor Marcello, she discontinued her visits to the

Montanina. She met Marcello not infrequently on the road from Velo to

Arsiero, which passes below the villa. On such occasions they would

walk and talk together, but they never spoke of Leila. Marcello himself

shrank from any reference to her. Knowing how peculiarly susceptible

Donna Fedele was to impressions, he had concluded that Leila was

uncongenial to her, and he felt that his son's memory was thereby

affronted. As through narrow mountain clefts a cold air can sometimes

be detected rising, even through hot summer grass, from the heart of

the mountain, so Donna Fedele felt, and endured in silence, a coolness

invading Signor Marcello's friendship for her, for she understood

whence it came.

She raised her eyes to the old man's face as he rose from the

altar-rail and returned to his seat, while Don Aurelio turned to

pronounce the _Dominus vobiscum_. Massimo looked at his friend,

thinking he had noticed him, but he was mistaken. The priest's eyes

were blind to the things of this world. The young man saw that he had

aged and had grown thinner since their last meeting, and that his face

seemed more spiritual than ever.

When Mass was over, Donna Fedele whispered to Massimo:

"Of course, you will wait for Don Aurelio. I am going to see my friend.

Will you come there too, later on?"

Just for the moment Massimo did not realise that the friend to whom she

referred was Carnesecca. However, he nodded assent, and sat down to

wait for the priest.

He was kept waiting for some time. The lad who had served the Mass put

out the candles and departed about his own business. Signor Marcello,

after remaining long absorbed in prayer, rose from his seat and entered

the sacristy. Massimo heard a few whispered words, and then all was

silence. The minutes passed, and neither Signor Marcello nor Don

Aurelio reappeared. But Massimo was not impatient. He was enjoying the

sense of peace that dwelt within these poor walls, in these poor and

well-worn fittings and ornaments, that called up pictures of still

poorer homes, simple beings, and of the festivals of an unsophisticated

faith. Meanwhile through the open door a light breeze was wafting to

him fresh scents of woods and meadows and voices from the distant

fields. Once more he was rejoicing in his release from the noise and

dust of scorching Milan, as he had done last night on his way up to the

Montanina, along the side of the dark gorge where the water sings.

How sweet it was to be overcome by sensation alone! The music of the

night sounded in his memory like a distant song. A gentle drowsiness,

that was full of vague imaginings, crept gradually over him. The voices

of an invisible choir filled the church with sweet sounds, while a

young girl, with disordered hair and eyes downcast, came slowly towards

him from the sacristy, and, stooping, touched his shoulder. His heart

gave a bound; he opened his eyes and saw Don Aurelio, who had touched

his shoulder and now stood smiling beside him.

* * * * *

Don Aurelio, a Roman by birth, had studied in the Propaganda College

with the intention of becoming a missionary. A long illness, however,

and the wishes of his superiors, who doubted his physical powers,

had obliged him to relinquish this purpose. An intimate friend of

the Benedictine Dom Clemente of Santa Scolastica, at Subiaco, he had

met Benedetto there, had seen him again in Rome, at Dom Clemente's

desire, and had become deeply attached both to him and to Massimo.

During convalescence, following a relapse of his illness, mountain air

had been prescribed, and a Vincentine priest, who had been with him

at the Propaganda, persuaded the Bishop of Vicenza to appoint him to

the cure of Lago di Velo. Gentle Don Aurelio had gladly accepted this

dispensation of Providence, rejoicing at the prospect of preaching

Christ to simple souls in the poverty to which he had been born. And

thus he had come to Lago, knowing nothing of it beyond the fact that

it was very poor. He did not forget Massimo. He wrote to him often

and watched over him, not like a father, ready to help the struggle

of a fervent disciple of him who lay buried at Campo Verano, but like

a mother, who trembles for the welfare of her son's soul. He knew

how sorely he must be tempted to wrath and hatred by the unjust war

that was being waged against him by opposite parties; he knew that he

was sometimes tempted to swerve from the doctrines of true religion,

as not a few of his friends, some moved by natural pride, others by

rebellious impulses, had swerved; and, finally, he knew that worldly

pleasures were also a source of temptation to him. He was aware, from

what Massimo himself had told him, that women, lovely and brilliant

women, had been attracted by him; and he knew that the young man's deep

and poetic feeling for woman was perhaps more dangerous to him than

mere physical temptations. He felt there would be grave danger for

Massimo until such a time as he should meet and love a woman worthy

to be his wife, who would weave about him a net of affections and of

personal interests, strong enough also to hold him back from the field

of religious strife. Don Aurelio, either from the natural gentleness

of his character, or from his conception of the special duties which

the ecclesiastical habit imposed, was not a man of strife. In religious

matters he opened his heart to God alone, praying and looking to Him

only for the triumph of truth and of the Church. A lecture Massimo had

recently delivered in Milan on the Italian heretics of the sixteenth

century had brought such a hailstorm of insults, both black and red,[1]

had excited such a pandemonium of universal comment, that Don Aurelio

had advised him to withdraw for a time from this confusion, offering

him hospitality which, if devoid of comforts, was rich in peace.

When he had locked the church door, Don Aurelio put his arm

affectionately through Massimo's.

"You were good to come!" he exclaimed, pressing the arm he held still

closer to his side. In this pressure Massimo felt something that

troubled him. His heart misgave him lest this silent demonstration of

affection should mean that his friend shrank from expressing certain

criticisms, or was but preparing him for them. These criticisms, he

felt sure, could not fail to contain disapproval.

"You also disapprove of me," he said sadly.

"Dear friend, you may not have had my approval in everything, but at

this moment I remember only that you have suffered."

"_You may not have had my approval in everything._" These words

overwhelmed Massimo with sorrow and oppression. At the moment he

made no answer, but when Don Aurelio, going in front of him, led the

way through the yard surrounding the priest's poor little house, and

was telling him how disappointed he was at being unable to receive

him there, the young man interrupted and asked, with almost painful

anxiety, of what he had disapproved. At that very moment Donna Fedele

came towards them, and Don Aurelio was first astonished and then

pleased to see the two whom he thought strangers to one another smile

at their introduction. Carnesecca was doing very well, but he was

restless, and kept asking for Don Aurelio. The priest objected to his

being called Carnesecca, but Donna Fedele, raising her eyebrows and

speaking with unwonted rapidity, protested warmly that she was one of

the people, and must express herself as they did.

"Would you have me give him the name by which the archpriest calls

him?" she inquired. This dignitary, juggling with the stranger's

name, Pestagran, had dubbed him Gran Peste. Don Aurelio's face

flushed. He disliked the archpriest's nickname for the miserable but

well-intentioned wanderer, but still more he disliked hearing the

priest himself alluded to in sarcastic and ironical terms.

"Here I am!" he cried, as he and Massimo passed from the fresh air

and coolness of the stairway into the heavy, drug-laden atmosphere of

the invalid's room. A little old woman who was seated beside the bed,

whence Carnesecca's yellow and wrinkled old face peered forth, like a

handful of clay, from between his nightcap and the folded sheet, rose

to her feet, clasping her hands and crying delightedly:

"Thank Heaven, you have come!"

The invalid raised his head and shoulders a little, propping himself

upon one elbow, while he brought the other hand to his nightcap in a

military salute. Then, turning to the old woman, he pronounced her name

solemnly:

"Lúzia!"

He stretched out his arm, turning his wrist slowly and majestically

until the palm of his hand faced the door.

"You are at liberty to devote yourself to the performance of your

mysterious rites!"

The old woman hurried away, exclaiming: "I am going! I am going!" And

the upraised palm fell back upon the coverlet with a dull thud.

"The good woman was troubled by my very natural impatience."

Thus saying, Signor Ismaele Pestagran blew a noisy breath through

his nostrils and screwed up his small eyes into two glittering, black

points. Noticing Massimo, who had entered behind Don Aurelio, he once

more brought his hand to his nightcap.

"And this gentleman?..."

"This gentleman's" presence did not seem entirely welcome to him.

Massimo saw this and made haste to withdraw. Whereupon Carnesecca said

calmly, "Your pardon." Donna Fedele, who was waiting for Massimo on the

landing, asked him to go downstairs with her. Something was going on

that Massimo should know of. While Don Aurelio had been saying Mass,

the sacristan of Velo had arrived with a letter from the archpriest. He

had left the letter with Lúzia, who had afterwards expressed herself to

Ismaele as follows: "Those accursed books of yours will bring you to

perdition and me to beggary!" She had refused to explain her outburst;

but Ismaele was convinced that the priests of Velo intended to drive

Don Aurelio away from Lago on his, Ismaele's, account. Massimo asked

if there were really any danger of this. How could Donna Fedele tell?

Lúzia had taken the archpriest's note to her master's study, and

Don Aurelio had not been in there yet. But what was Donna Fedele's

opinion? Donna Fedele was much alarmed. On account of something Don

Aurelio had told her? Certainly not. He never spoke of his superiors

except to sing their praises. It was her opinion that there was more

to be feared from the chaplain than from the archpriest, and more to

be feared from him than from the bishop. The bishop, indeed, appeared

most benevolently inclined towards Don Aurelio. What sort of men

were this archpriest and this chaplain? Donna Fedele would tell him

nothing concerning the chaplain, and said it was a difficult matter to

understand the archpriest. At times he seemed good-natured, at times

harsh; he was sometimes jovial, sometimes sarcastic; liberal on some

occasions, conservative on others. As a priest he was above censure.

And here Donna Fedele felt it her duty to add that, as far as morals

were concerned, the chaplain was above censure also. Don Aurelio had

pronounced the archpriest a good theologian and Latin scholar, and had

indeed endowed him with all those merits of which she was incapable

of judging. Between him and the bishop, a warm-hearted man, full of

charity for friends and enemies alike, there was some friction. She

was willing to wager that the archpriest had accepted Don Aurelio most

unwillingly at Lago, and only because he had been obliged to do so.

She believed that Don Aurelio had been under suspicion for some time

on account of his sermons, which were carefully watched, and of which

the chaplain was known to have hinted that they contained overmuch

of purely moral teaching and mystical sentiment, and overlittle of

theology and asceticism.

While Donna Fedele and Massimo were holding this conversation in the

doorway, Lúzia passed on her way to the kitchen-garden to gather some

peas. Donna Fedele stopped her. Well, what had the sacristan really

said? He had said: "Take good care of your Gran Peste! Take good care

of him! This time your priest will have to go!"

Donna Fedele's face flushed angrily, while in Massimo's breast a

flame of bitterness burned hot. The grass in the field, the leaves of

the mulberry-tree, quivering and glistening in the breeze, the calm

hills flooded with sunshine, the clear sky, even the little garden

itself, everything was brimming with kindness, was a hymn to kindness

encompassing the humble home of this servant of God whose soul was full

of Christ. And now everything seemed meaningless, frozen by a sudden

icy breath. Neither Massimo nor Donna Fedele dared to utter their

indignation here in the near neighbourhood of Don Aurelio, any more

than if they had been in church. They heard the priest's step on the

stairs, and Carnesecca's voice crying, "I wish it, Signore! I wish it!"

to Don Aurelio's "No, no!" And then there was silence.

"He probably wished to go away on account of the letter," Donna Fedele

whispered. "But there is no danger of Don Aurelio's allowing him to

leave in the state he is in."

The priest did not come to them, and Donna Fedele, leaving Massimo,

went upstairs and entered Carnesecca's room without knocking. Massimo

was greatly astonished to see her come down again almost immediately,

laughing heartily, her face hidden in her hands. She had found

Carnesecca with his bare legs out of bed, and they were such black, dry

stilts of legs, and the poor man had been so dismayed, and had shouted

so vigorously, "Go away! Go away!" dragging at the clothes the while,

that, with her sense of humour, Donna Fedele would have had to laugh

even if her father and mother had both died but that morning.

She went out to Lúzia and advised her to go and attend to her invalid.

But Lúzia would not. The man was always doing that. He was always

trying to get out of bed without help, and even she herself was sent

out of the room on these occasions. But--what if he should become

giddy? What if he should fall? What if he should break his arm--break

his leg?

"Blessed Lady! What a lot of accidents!" cried Lúzia, unmoved.

"What a lot indeed!" Donna Fedele retorted, laughing. "One would be

enough, I should think!"

Lúzia laughed too, and then went on gathering her peas. Massimo came

up and offered to go to the invalid. Lúzia grasped at this proposal,

saying, "Yes, yes; you go!" But Donna Fedele said, "H'm!" and smiled in

a way that excited Massimo's curiosity. She then explained to him, with

other smiles and some reticence, that he was not in Carnesecca's good

books. Carnesecca read the newspapers, and had come to the conclusion

that Massimo was a Modernist, one of those people who study the Bible

to discover falsehoods in it, to find errors, contradictions, and

interpolations; while to him, Carnesecca, every word it contained had

been written by the hand of the Almighty Himself. He rejoiced in Don

Aurelio's disapproval of Bible criticism, and he had been heard to say

that, on this point, he was more in sympathy with the Jews than with

certain Catholics. In fact, one of his best friends was a rabbi in

London. Massimo, who had never given any thought to Bible criticism,

was greatly amused by the horror he had inspired and much interested

concerning this friendship with the English rabbi. Donna Fedele

informed him that Carnesecca had spent several years in England, where

he had become a Protestant and had made the acquaintance of a rabbi,

a man of science, who had taught him that there were three hundred

and sixty-five bones in the human body. Allowing her own humorous

imagination to colour her story somewhat, perhaps, she went on to

say that, after the tortures he had endured from Catholic sticks and

stones, Ismaele declared he could locate pains in no less than three

hundred and fifty-nine separate bones. The two were still talking

quietly among the peas when they were roused by the priest's voice. Don

Aurelio was standing at his study window.

"Massimo! Will you come in now?"

Massimo hastened indoors, and Donna Fedele, who was very tired, begged

Lúzia to bring her out a chair, and, settling herself comfortably,

waited for news concerning the archpriest's message.

* * * * *

Don Aurelio came out to meet Massimo on the landing, and grasping his

hands, held them in his own for a space, gazing smilingly into his

friend's eyes. Presently he drew him into a little study flooded with

light, with a whitewashed ceiling and brick floor, and barely furnished

with a bookshelf, a deal table, a few rickety, straw-bottomed chairs,

a dilapidated leather easy-chair, from whose rents hung ragged ends

of lining, and, hanging above the easy-chair, a wooden crucifix. The

bookshelf was opposite the fireplace, and it was crowded with books, as

were the table, the mantelshelf, and all the chairs save one. Yet there

was no disorder or dust; the books were arranged in tidy piles, and

everything was as neat as Don Aurelio's cassock and his delicate hands.

Above the mantelshelf, between the two windows, hung two photographs,

one of the Sacro Speco at Subiaco, the other of the Cosmati Cloister

at Santa Scolastica. The books were chiefly religious works. Don

Aurelio set especial store by his collection of the writings of the

great mystics and of his complete sets of the works of Antonio Rosmini

and of Father Gratry. These and the collection of the sacred orators

of Nôtre Dame, together with many books by modern French Catholics,

were the gift of Donna Fedele, and had belonged to her father. Don

Aurelio showed his treasures to his friend with such untroubled

satisfaction, and stood so quietly beside him at the window, pointing

out the different peaks, the villages, and the more distant paths, that

Massimo was forced to conclude either that nothing was wrong or that

Don Aurelio did not yet know. But he was conscious, to the point of

embarrassment, of his own air of distraction and of his visible lack of

interest in the things of which Don Aurelio was talking.

Don Aurelio mentioned Val d'Astico, and Massimo seized the opportunity

to inquire how he got on with the archpriest there.

"He is an excellent man," his friend answered; but he added, smiling,

"I fear, however, he has no great liking for me."

There was no reason for that smile. Massimo saw that Don Aurelio knew.

"Why do you smile?" he asked.

The priest did not answer.

At this point they heard the voice of Lúzia, who was coming upstairs,

crying:

"Smèle! Smèle!" (Ismaele! Ismaele!). "Are you there, Smèle?"

She burst into the room, glanced wildly round, and, wringing her hands

as if beside herself, cried:

"Gèsumarite! He is not here!"

Who was not here? Why, Smèle, of course! And who was Smèle? Carnesecca,

to be sure!

Don Aurelio realised at once what had happened. He gave a start and

dashed downstairs, followed by Massimo and Lúzia. It was as she had

said--the room was empty. And his clothes? They were gone too.

"Gèsumarite! The poor soul!" moaned Lúzia. "And he has even left me a

franc!"

A silver coin was glittering on the straw bottom of a chair, beside a

ball of wool and a set of knitting-needles.

"He has forgotten his watch," she added.

"Massimo!" Don Aurelio called; "follow me!"

At the front door they met Donna Fedele; she had heard Lúzia's cries

and the excited voices of the two men, and was on her way to inquire

what had happened. They told her quickly. The colour left her face. It

was true, then? The letter the sacristan had brought?... Carnesecca had

gone because of that?

"It is true," said Don Aurelio quietly; "but that poor creature has

nothing to do with it. And now he will make himself worse again, for

this morning he was still feverish. You did not see him go out?"

Donna Fedele, who had been watching Lúzia gathering her peas, had

neither seen nor heard anything. Neither had Lúzia seen nor heard him

go.

Don Aurelio set about arranging a plan of pursuit. Something must be

done at once. "I can't run!" observed Donna Fedele with a smile. She

was so far from being able to run that, having pressed the priest's

hand in silence, she dropped wearily into her chair once more. Later

she had to ask the milk-girl from Lago to lend her an arm as far as the

chestnut-tree, where a small hired carriage awaited her.

Don Aurelio started running towards Lago, believing that Ismaele had

gone to the Montanina. Massimo went up towards Maso. The priest reached

the chestnuts on the hillside, from which point one can see the white

Trento villa, without having met a soul. Could Ismaele have passed

already? A man of sixty, with fever upon him, and practically fasting?

Impossible! Don Aurelio stopped abruptly, seized by a sudden thought.

What if the tiresome fellow, believing all he did believe, had gone

to confront the archpriest? The longer Don Aurelio thought about it

the more he thought it probable, and, turning, he hastily retraced his

steps. Instead, however, of going straight up by the short cut that

leads from Lago to Sant' Ubaldo, he took the road that, a few yards

from the church, joins the one descending from Velo. And here he found

Massimo, who had met several people on the Maso road, but no one of

them had seen Carnesecca. This convinced Don Aurelio.

"I will go to Velo," he declared, "but I must go alone. You had better

go back to the Montanina, where they will be waiting for you."

Massimo asked if, in case Pestagran would not come back and his room

being then unoccupied....

Don Aurelio interrupted him.

"No, dear friend, it is impossible. I will explain...."

And reading further questions and suspicions in Massimo's expression of

sorrowful indignation, he urged him away.

"Go to Signor Marcello, who is expecting you. We will talk later on. I

must first find this unhappy, man and prevent his committing further

follies. Leave me now! Signor Marcello has asked me to luncheon, and I

will come if possible."

* * * * *

The archpriest's letter had contained an enclosure from the episcopal

_curia_ of Vicenza that was nothing more nor less than Don Aurelio's

dismissal within a fortnight from the benefice of Lago di Velo. The

archpriest himself, in a few appropriate lines, expressed his regret at

this unexpected communication, and begged Don Aurelio to see that all

persons and furniture were removed from the house within the appointed

time, as his successor would then be arriving with his mother and

sister.

It was a bitter thing to be driven from that peaceful retreat, from his

small, much-loved flock, not to know where to find shelter or food.

_All persons and furniture to be removed._ It was impossible that he

could be dismissed on Ismaele's account, but, under the circumstances,

that word "persons" was not without import.

After the first moments of grief and bewilderment Don Aurelio's soul

was filled with a sense of sweetest peace, as if Christ Himself

had laid loving hands upon his head. His own sad plight no longer

troubled him; he was thinking now of two things only--of finding the

Bible-seller, and of a certain important communication, of a most

delicate nature, which Signor Marcello had made to him in the sacristy

after Mass.

Walking quickly, he soon reached a wayside inn. The innkeeper, a

bearded Lombard, who had once been gardener at the Villino delle Rose,

stood smoking in his shirt-sleeves in the doorway. As Don Aurelio came

up he turned his back upon him and entered the tavern, saying in a

tone easily heard outside:

"Hogs of priests! First they kick a dying man out, and then run to see

if he is dead!"

And he spat contemptuously. Don Aurelio went straight to the man, and

confronted him.

"My good fellow----" he began.

The man was ashamed, and hastened to take his pipe out of his mouth.

"Will you have half a measure, Reverendo?" he stammered.

"Where is he?" Don Aurelio demanded resolutely. "Where is the dying man

I kicked out?"

"Ah! I suppose you mean the Bible-seller. I'm sorry for what I said. It

wasn't meant for you. For my part I prefer the priests to this Bible

chap. Yes, he is here; my wife found him on the road, half dead. But he

is not going to stay here, I can tell you! If that is what is worrying

you, put your mind at rest. I'm going to tell him that if his own feet

don't move him, mine will. Will that suit you? I spoke wrong at first;

I'm speaking right enough now, ain't I? Good-morning!" He greeted a

band of soldiers belonging to a regiment of mountain chasseurs, who

were entering the tavern.

Meanwhile Don Aurelio went to the courtyard at the side of the house,

drawn by the sound of an agitated woman's voice. Upon a broken chair

planted unsteadily in the black ooze, within a yard of the manure-heap,

sat the wretched Carnesecca, grudgingly held up by the innkeeper's

wife, who was calling: "Checca! Checca! Quick! Quick!" with all the

strength of her lungs. Don Aurelio rushed forward to support the

tottering man, who was the colour of a badly-washed rag, and scolded

the woman for not having taken him into the house. The woman, one

moment calling "Checca" and the next making her excuses to the priest,

said it had been her man, Gèsummaria! who had not been willing. And

besides, Carnesecca himself--Blessed Lady!--had not wanted it. He had

seemed much stronger when they brought him in from the road; not as he

was now. He had even said: "Fling me on the dung-heap, for I am Jopha!"

At this point Carnesecca half opened his eyes and mumbled, his chin

still resting upon his breast:

"Jonah! Not Jopha!"

"Yes, yes, Jopha!" the woman comforted. "Be quiet and you shall have

some coffee."

Here was Checca at last, a great, stolid-looking country girl of about

sixteen, bringing the coffee--not, indeed, the coffee of the padrone

and his customers, but that of the padrone's wife and her servant, a

semblance of coffee on terms of intimacy with roasted wheat.

Just at this moment a hen that had been calmly disporting herself on

the manure-heap, frightened by the house-dog, flapped down into the

yard, and disappeared through a near hedge.

"Gèsu! Mistress! The hen!" screamed Checca, stopping short. "Catch her,

catch her!" shouted her mistress, remembering a certain hole in the

hedge and the ferocious threats of one of her neighbours.

Don Aurelio snatched the coffee-pot from Checca's hands, and the two

women, the mistress in front, Checca close behind, were off like the

wind, splashing through the black ooze. A sip of coffee revived the

Bible-merchant, who fixed upon Don Aurelio a look that was half dazed,

half mirthful.

"What have you done, you wretched fellow? What have you done? What has

come over you?"

Carnesecca smiled, and answered in his Val d'Astico Italian:

"I got round you, you see! I told you I would. I got round you!"

Another sip of coffee.

"You think you have got round me, do you? And where do you intend to

go?"

Another sip, after which Carnesecca cast a look of deep inquiry at the

liquid, with a most expressive pout of his lips.

"Where do I intend to go?" he said, still gazing into the wheat coffee.

"First to the High Priest of Velo!"

"I forbid your doing that!"

"I shall go to the High Priest of Velo in a spirit of respect and of

meekness," said Carnesecca serenely, "and I shall say to him: 'Vent thy

wrath upon me, cause me to be crucified, for this is Jerusalem, thou

art Caiaphas, and I am the son of the Lamb.'"

Don Aurelio was beside himself.

"Don't talk rubbish! What you suppose is all nonsense. There is not a

word of truth in it. You are coming home with me immediately!"

The "son of the Lamb" was visibly impressed by Don Aurelio's flushed

countenance and angry voice, and sat gazing fixedly at him.

"Well, well, well!" said he at last, letting the words off like pistol

shots. "If it is not true, I need not go. But I had sooner die on that

dung-heap than go back with you. I will ask shelter of the White Lady

of the Roses, who----"

"Calàpo!" shouted the innkeeper's wife, who was bringing the hen back

in her arms. "Calàpo, Calàpo! What are you about?"

Calàpo, a stumpy little man, barefooted and coatless, who was dragging

a cart out of the stable, shouted, in his turn, that he was going to

harness the donkey to drive to Piovene.

"You will do nothing of the sort! The donkey has the colic, you fool!"

Carnesecca, interrupted in an intended panegyric upon the White Lady

of the Roses, as he called Donna Fedele, made an effort to rise and

go on his way. Don Aurelio detained him. It had struck him that it

would be better, for many reasons, to allow the old man to go to the

Villino, but he could not let him go on foot. He begged the woman, if

she would not keep him, at least to allow Calàpo to take him to the

villa in the donkey-cart. But the woman refused, on the plea of the

animal's indisposition. Calàpo pushed the cart back into the shed,

and Carnesecca declared that he was able to walk. Don Aurelio had

started to interview the innkeeper, and beg him at least to keep the

"Bible-man" till the evening, when Calàpo came up and offered to drag

the cart as far as the villa. Meanwhile one of the soldiers had called

Checca out into the street, whither others had followed, and formed a

circle around the flushed and laughing girl. The mistress shouted to

her and she came in, followed by the soldiers, one of whom, hearing

Calàpo renew his offer, over which Don Aurelio was hesitating, cried

out:

"Do you want help? I will help you!"

Scenting fun, his companions quickly volunteered to help also, and it

was arranged that together they should draw the cart as far as Velo,

where a donkey free from colic might be found. Calàpo took his place

between the shafts, and a couple of soldiers lifted Carnesecca and

placed him in the cart. Then there was a merry proposal to put Checca

in too, but the girl ran off, while Carnesecca threatened indignantly

to throw himself from the cart if his dignity were thus compromised.

The innkeeper's wife settled the matter.

"You want more weight, do you, boys? You shall have it," she said, and

sent Calàpo to fetch two bags of corn to take to the miller.

But Carnesecca called Calàpo to his side and inquired if he really felt

able to drag the cart alone as far as Velo.

"As far as Velo? As far as Piovene, if you like!" was the fellow's

reply.

Thereupon Carnesecca, who shrank from the soldiers' noisy escort,

turned towards them, giving them to understand that he could dispense

with their services. Then he bowed his thanks to right and left, his

head bobbing between upraised hands, that waved on either side like a

pair of great ears. He looked like a pope imparting his blessing from

the chair of state.

"Let us be off, Calàpo," said Carnesecca gently. "I give you my

blessing," he said, turning to Don Aurelio, "for your hospitality." And

addressing the woman, he added: "I bless you also for this cart, for

the chair, and ... yes, let us be charitable ... for the coffee also!"

At this moment the innkeeper made an appearance at the side door, and

blustered: "What is all this farce about?" Carnesecca scrutinised him

with the utmost composure. "I bless you also," he said, "you also, my

good man--because you have a Christian wife, and a Christian wife may

save a heathen husband. Let us be off, Calàpo."

The innkeeper was speechless with amazement. Calàpo, bending beneath

the load, turned out at the gateway into the road, the soldiers

following and jeering at him, "Gee up, Calàpo, gee up!" Don Aurelio

stood for a few seconds watching this strange procession move towards

Velo, and then started in the direction of Sant' Ubaldo.

II

Don Aurelio's mind was now wholly engrossed in what Signor Marcello

had confided to him in the sacristy after Mass. Without explaining his

reasons for thinking so, further than by alluding to his seventy-two

years, Signor Marcello had spoken as one who believed he had not

long to live. An unusual gentleness in his bearing confirmed the

priest's suspicion that some physical warning must have come to him.

The substance of his unexpected communication was as follows. Uneasy

concerning the future of Leila, whom he looked upon as his daughter,

and anxious lest she should refuse the benefits his will might offer,

lest she should fall once more into the hands of one or other of her

parents, he had thought that if a union were possible between her and

Massimo Alberti, his poor boy's friend, the second and more serious of

these dangers might be averted. Probably thereby the other difficulty

would be avoided as well, at least to a certain extent, for he would

then comply in part with Leila's wish, and leave her the villa only. It

was to be hoped that neither she nor her husband would wish to offend

his memory by refusing this legacy.

It was unreasonable to expect a girl of two-and-twenty to mourn for

ever, and she must know that another future was expected and desired

for her. Perhaps as long as he, Marcello, lived she would hesitate to

commit what might seem an outrage against poor Andrea's memory, but

if she were encouraged and persuaded that Andrea in heaven would not

disapprove of this marriage, she would surely give way. Signor Marcello

was convinced of this. The unknown quantity in the problem was Massimo

Alberti.

Signor Marcello had heard much that was good of him from Don Aurelio,

but he did not know whether he had other ties and affections, whether

or no he intended to marry. This was why he had confided in Don Aurelio

and asked for his advice and the help that the priest's friendship with

Massimo could give him, first by information and then, if possible, by

influencing the young man in the matter.

During this conversation the priest's face had flushed with trouble

and embarrassment. Massimo had no ties of a shameful nature, of this

he felt sure, nor, to his knowledge, was he in love. He knew him to be

of a susceptible nature, and in writing to him the young man had never

tried to hide the fact. As to marriage, he was certainly not opposed

to it, but he was firmly determined never to bind himself without love,

or to tolerate suggestions concerning his choice. Advice of this kind

had once turned him against a certain alliance which otherwise very

probably would have been made. In matters like these special tact was

required which Don Aurelio felt that he did not possess; he wished he

did possess it, for he would have been heartily glad to urge Massimo to

marry, believing him capable of realising the highest ideals of married

life.

All this he told Signor Marcello, but he said nothing of what to him

presented the thorniest aspect of the problem. Signorina Leila was a

riddle to him, a closed casket that might contain either rich jewels

or false ones. Signor Marcello persisted, however, in his request, and

showed some impatience. In the short time he had known him Don Aurelio

had grown to respect this old man, with his warm heart, his honest and

humble soul, with such pure faith in and love of the Divine Word. He

could not refuse the favour he was now being asked, and promised to do

his best.

* * * * *

He would do his best, but how was he to set to work, he wondered as he

walked slowly along the parched road to Sant' Ubaldo. The first step

must be to discover whether Massimo's heart was free. This was not

difficult. And if it were free, by what means was he to influence his

friend in the right direction without revealing his purpose? Besides,

was there time enough? When he had talked with Signor Marcello he had

not known he must leave in a fortnight. Would not Massimo also want

to leave? And could a matter of this sort be arranged in a fortnight?

He must take Donna Fedele into his confidence. She had experience of

these things, and would advise him. Although she went very rarely to

the Montanina, she would surely know more about Signorina Leila than

he could possibly discover. He looked at his watch. It was half-past

ten. There was time for him to go to the Villino and get back to the

Montanina for luncheon. Opportunities of studying the girl and of

seeing the two young people together were precious. He hurried along,

taking the road that leads down to Lago without touching Sant' Ubaldo.

While crossing the glade between the slope of Lago and that on which

the Montanina stands he tried to recollect his few distinct impressions

of Signorina Leila. He had heard her play with great feeling. He had

occasionally seen her coming down the road from Sant' Ubaldo to the

Battery, carrying great bunches of wild flowers. He could not remember

any but insignificant remarks of hers. Whenever he said Mass at Santa

Maria ad Montes she was present, seated beside Signor Marcello. Once

when he and Signor Marcello had had a discussion in her presence

concerning the reading of the Gospels she had shown not the slightest

interest. He recollected, indeed, that he had come away wondering

whether she had ever read them. She was not unattractive-looking,

but she did not seem to him beautiful enough to captivate Massimo at

first sight. His impression of her face was that it revealed great

intelligence and a character containing much of reserve and caprice.

Absorbed in these thoughts, he would probably have passed Donna Fedele

without seeing her had she not called out, "Don Aurelio!" She and the

girl from Lago were seated upon the fallen trunk of a great tree, a

little above the turn that leads towards the Montanina.

"Well? Did you find him?"

Hearing that Carnesecca was on his way to Villino delle Rose, she rose

to her feet, astonished, but glad to have him, and anxious to get

home. Although she was still very tired, she dismissed the girl, that

she might be free to discuss Don Aurelio's dismissal from his benefice.

There was little to tell, and the priest cut short her conjectures,

perhaps because another matter was then uppermost in his mind, or

that he feared an indignant outburst against the priests of Velo. He

made haste to tell her that he wanted her advice on a very important

question. "More so than this?" Donna Fedele asked. Yes. This matter was

simple enough, but the other was most complex. Talking thus they had

almost reached the little hired carriage that had come up as far as the

entrance to the Montanina. The priest stopped, intending to explain the

matter shortly.

"Don Aurelio," said his companion, "if you do not mind giving me your

arm, I will stop, otherwise I must go and sit in the carriage." She was

very pale, but her sweet eyes were smiling.

As it was not yet eleven, Donna Fedele decided that there was time

for Don Aurelio to accompany her home and then be driven back to the

Montanina by twelve o'clock, and although the driver's presence would

prevent their talking on the way, they would, nevertheless, have a

quiet quarter of an hour at the Villino.

* * * * *

At five minutes to twelve Don Aurelio pushed open the covered gate that

leads into the Montanina grounds, beside Santa Maria ad Montes, feeling

much lighter-hearted than he had felt earlier in the day. Donna Fedele

had promised her aid with such enthusiastic goodwill that he, ignorant

as he was of the depths of her good nature, was touched and filled with

gratitude, as if that goodwill had been all on his behalf.

III

Massimo came down from Sant' Ubaldo with his heart full of bitterness,

believing firmly, with Carnesecca, that Don Aurelio's dismissal had

been brought about by his championship of the Lutheran missioner. He

wondered anxiously what would happen to his poor friend. Even if the

unfortunate priest should wander far in search of another diocese,

would not these calumnies follow him? Would he not be met on all sides

with reluctance, diffidence, and timidity?

Hardly had his hand touched the Montanina gate than another anxiety

beset him, overruling the first. He thought of his approaching meeting

with the Signorina, which he desired and yet at the same time dreaded.

The green, flowery loveliness of the villa's setting seemed to him

to distil a subtle sense of awe-inspiring mystery. Instead of going

straight to the house he turned to the left, past the clump of poplars

and the bridge, overgrown with roses, and walked along the bank of

the Riderella to where a tiny waterfall sings, almost in the shade of

the walnut-trees. Presently he asked himself impatiently what was the

meaning of this agitation on account of one whom he had never seen.

For answer the two photographs rose to his mind, and he shrank from

the thought of being confronted by that pale face and the downcast

eyes. He started towards the villa, trying to steel himself into

indifference. In the distance, by the stables, he saw Teresina talking

to a gentleman, whom he learned from her later was the village doctor,

who had not deemed it prudent to intrude upon Signor Marcello without

a plausible excuse. Massimo went up to his room and stood gazing for

some time at Andrea's picture. Then he carefully and almost reverently

changed the water in the glass that held the rose, the rose that had

drooped a little lower and become more languid, its outside petals

already touched by the first pallor of death. Again he re-read his

letters to his lost friend, letters whose pages were still more faded

than the rose. He was standing at the window in passive enjoyment of

this feast of sunshine, wind, and living things that exhorted to life,

when he heard a heavy step in the corridor, and, turning, saw the door

slowly pushed open. It was Signor Marcello, who, on perceiving him,

uttered an exclamation of apology.

"I did not know you had returned," said he.

In his hand he carried a fresh rose, a magnificent white one, like the

other. They stood gazing at each other for a while in silent sympathy;

then Massimo, deeply moved, took the rose, and Signor Marcello withdrew.

Towards half-past eleven, while Massimo was writing letters, Giovanni

brought a message from his master, asking the young man to come down.

"He is in the drawing-room with the Signorina."

"Which shall I see?" was the thought that sprang to Massimo's mind as

he went down the wooden staircase.

Leila was seated with her back to the stairs at the writing-table

placed crosswise between the spacious window and the fireplace. She was

annoyed with herself because her heart was beating so violently; she

would not admit, even to herself, her burning curiosity to see this man

who was descending the stairs; she would not have turned her head to

look at him, either then or later, if she could have avoided doing so

without being set down as hopelessly discourteous.

"Leila!" said Signor Marcello gently.

She laid down her pen, opened the drawer to place something in it,

seemed to be searching in it for an instant, and finally rose and faced

about.

Signor Marcello introduced her: "My daughter."

She barely inclined her head. Massimo bowed low, murmuring something

incoherent of which the only word distinguishable was "pleasure."

Yes, pleasure! Here was neither the one face nor the other. Here was

the serious face of a girl who receives for the first time a friend of

her dead lover. It was the face of one who had once given everything

to love, and had now consecrated her life to the memory of that love.

Massimo might have been more critical of the irregularities of this

face had its expression been different. But the irregularities seemed

to him too insignificant to dwell upon, and he thought her almost

beautiful. He could not but admire her figure, which, though not tall,

was perfect in all its lines, revealed by her simple grey gown, trimmed

with black, and cut slightly low at the neck. He noticed the splendid,

fair hair that crowned her small head, and the grace of her neck,

which was the colour of old ivory. His bearing immediately became less

constrained.

But Leila became even more rigid. Signor Marcello saw, by a slight

movement on her part, that she was about to flee, like a child whose

feet fidget to be off. He tried to detain her by making her the subject

of conversation.

"She has sacrificed herself for my poor wife and myself," he began, but

obtained the opposite result to that at which he aimed. Leila cried

reproachfully, "Papa!" and darted off. Signor Marcello was hurt, and

called after her:

"Leila!"

She paused on the threshold of the dining-room, turned towards them,

and stood resting her hands against the door-jambs. Massimo shuddered.

It was the face he had dreaded--the marble sphinx, with downcast eyes.

The vision lasted but an instant. Then Leila looked up with a forced

smile.

"I must go, Papa," she said--"that is, if you want any luncheon!"

"Oh, very well ..." sighed Signor Marcello, more displeased than

submissive.

Hardly had she left the room than he began to sing her praises. She was

kind, intelligent, a musician, a skilful housewife. Massimo listened in

silence. As soon as possible he brought the conversation round to Don

Aurelio's dismissal, of which, of course, Signor Marcello had not yet

heard. Massimo was as yet unacquainted with the particulars, but the

fact itself was certain.

Signor Marcello was more disappointed and grieved than indignant.

Four-and-twenty hours before he would have felt differently. Of

Carnesecca, Massimo only knew that he had fled, and he greatly doubted

whether Don Aurelio would be able to keep his engagement to luncheon.

He also spoke of Donna Fedele, although he was unaware on what terms

she stood at the Montanina. Signor Marcello expressed his pleasure at

discovering that there was a link between them, repeating several times

how glad he was, without giving any reason why, and without any special

praise for any of the persons concerned, and going on to tell how the

Vayla di Breas had come to settle in Arsiero. At this point Don Aurelio

arrived.

He came in with a bright manner, and answered Signor Marcello's and

Massimo's questions briefly. Yes, it was quite true that he must leave

his benefice within a fortnight. But it was no one's fault. Ismaele was

only a poor visionary. The rough time he had had at Posina had made

him fancy there was persecution everywhere. A priest, with his mother

and sister, were coming to Lago. Probably it was to assist them, poor

things--while he, without any such claims upon him----And he shrugged

his shoulders, as if it would be the easiest thing in the world for

him to earn a livelihood. Changing the subject, he became eloquent in

his account of Carnesecca's wanderings, saying that, at the present

moment, he was in bed in a comfortable little room at the Villino, in a

state of beatitude. Well, perhaps not precisely of beatitude, because

the three hundred and fifty-nine bones had begun to ache again, but,

nevertheless----! The footman here announced that luncheon was served.

Leila was waiting in the dining-room.

* * * * *

The four seated themselves at the square table, one on each side.

Leila sat facing the glass door opening into the garden and commanding

a view of the crags of Barco; Massimo was on her left. On her right

sat Don Aurelio, who began talking to her at once, telling her he had

often seen her coming down the road from the Battery, carrying wild

flowers. He referred to the rhododendrons that grew luxuriantly where

landslides have torn the slopes of Priaforà. She knew these well, and

admitted that those wild spots were favourites of hers. Her voice was

deeper and not so sweet as Donna Fedele's, but rich, sympathetic,

and soft, nevertheless, suggesting as far as a woman's voice can the

notes of a violoncello, and rich with potential feeling. Her answer

to Don Aurelio's question, whether she was fond of solitudes, came

unhesitatingly and in the affirmative, but she added quickly, fearing

she had not understood aright:

"Solitude, you say?"

"I really said 'solitudes.'"

Without looking at Massimo she felt he was about to speak, and hastened

to renew the conversation with Don Aurelio, asking him if he had

seen the rhododendrons of Priaforà in blossom. Alas! no, that was

impossible! The Signorina forgot that he had only come to Sant' Ubaldo

in October.

"You will see them in July," she said.

Don Aurelio smiled.

"I am sorry to say that Don Aurelio is leaving us," Signor Marcello

announced sadly.

"As a matter of fact it is not he who----" Massimo began.

"He is leaving us?" Leila broke in, more astonished than grieved.

"They are driving him away," said Massimo, with some irritation, and

determined to conquer the girl's assumption of indifference towards

himself. She flung him a glance that seemed to say, "What have you to

do with it?" and once more repeated, "He is giving us up?"

But when Alberti was determined it was no easy matter to silence him.

"Yes, indeed, they are driving him away," he reiterated, speaking

rather to Don Aurelio himself than to Leila. "The archpriest has

dismissed him. He is sending him away because he has housed a

Protestant! Or it may be perhaps because he believes him to be a

Modernist."

To Massimo, Don Aurelio's humble meekness towards his enemies seemed

excessive, and sometimes irritated him, as it had a moment since when

he had alluded to his needy successor. He was burning to tell him so

openly, to make him see the truth clearly. During his outburst Don

Aurelio could only protest in monosyllables, but when his friend had

finished he expressed the pain such violent language and these unproved

accusations caused him.

"He is capable of it," murmured Signor Marcello with bowed head,

alluding to the archpriest. "Quite capable of it--quite!"

"The archpriest knows perfectly well I am not a Modernist," Don Aurelio

went on with a last protesting gesture. His superior had, indeed,

assured him of his most complete satisfaction on that point.

"Nonsense!" said Signor Marcello. "You a Modernist indeed!"

"He certainly is not," Massimo interposed. "At the most he may be a

Modernist only in the way Antonio Rosmini was. They say I am one also,"

he added candidly.

Don Aurelio laughed heartily.

"You ... you...!" he cried, with a blankness that was eloquent.

Massimo understood, and looking round, met a glance from Leila's eyes

that pierced him like a shaft of fire. For an instant he felt blinded,

and it was only by an effort that he brought himself to answer Don

Aurelio.

"Yes," he said, "I may be more of a Modernist than you are, but I am

not one, after all."

What a significant glance from the marble sphinx that had been!

Signor Marcello stretched out his hand, and laid it upon Massimo's,

that rested on the table.

"My dear young friend," said he, "remember an old man's words: 'There

is but one true form of Modernism, and that is the Modernism of

Dante! Therein is the whole Catholic creed to the last iota, inspired

by ardent faith, bringing the Gospel in simple language to all men,

regardless of the shades of their opinions. Dante, dear friend, Dante!

And now talk about the rhododendrons again.'"

But instead Massimo spoke of the room Carnesecca had left unoccupied at

Sant' Ubaldo, saying there was no longer any excuse for his intruding

upon Signor Marcello. The old man, astonished and somewhat hurt by this

display of formality, protested that he could not hear of Massimo's

leaving. His friend's speech seemed to upset Don Aurelio also, who

generally found it easier to express his feelings by certain restless

physical movements than by words. But Massimo persisted. Like Don

Aurelio, he also accompanied broken sentences with various gestures,

that were the visible signs of unspoken arguments.

"I assure you," cried his friend, half in jest, half in earnest, "by

your presence in my house you would injure me more than poor Carnesecca

did, and I can't have you! You will have to listen to Signor Marcello."

A conviction that he was being encompassed by some irresistible

influence suddenly overwhelmed Massimo. His brain struggled feebly to

send forth the words "Then I will return to Milan," but they remained

unsaid, and he kept silence.

Leila had not spoken since meeting the glance which had said, "Are you

interested in me?" She could not forgive herself her own glance. She

perfectly understood Signor Marcello's displeasure, but she could not

see why Don Aurelio did not wish to have his friend at Sant' Ubaldo.

She encouraged her forced contempt for Massimo by telling herself he

did not really wish to leave, that if he had wished it, instead of

bringing the matter up at the luncheon-table, he would have come down

later with his luggage ready strapped, and said to Signor Marcello:

"There is no longer any excuse for my remaining here, and I am going."

But, of course, Signor Alberti preferred a comfortable room, a nice

house, and a good table to the priest's poor home and meagre fare.

* * * * *

So he was a Modernist as well! Of Modernism Leila knew less than

nothing. She disliked the name, and she disliked her own ignorant

interpretation of it. She had never thought about her own attitude

towards religious observance. A creature of instinct and of passions

rather than of reason, the vagaries of her fancy and ideas were

in no wise checked by the regular, if mechanical, performance of

religious duties. She looked upon Modernism, not as an effort to adapt

traditional Catholicism to modern conditions, but rather as a doctrine

that sought to substitute for the ancient religious obligations of

Catholic tradition new obligations that were more extensive, less

clearly defined, and heavier.

At times she prayed devoutly, but always with the traditional forms

and never spontaneously. Her prayers were for definite and immediate

objects, and not for Divine love and for spiritual blessing. Her

impulse, nevertheless, was sincere, and she found a help in prayer of

this kind.

She imagined, and the thought was odious to her, that Modernism was

incompatible with traditional prayer. The only aspect of Modernism that

could appeal to her was its element of rebellion, but she judged it an

abortive, half-hearted rebellion at best. And so Signor Alberti was a

Modernist! This helped her in her determination to despise him.

The fruit had been placed on the table and Leila rose.

* * * * *

Her obstinate silence after that fiery glance, from which Massimo still

smarted, was, to his mind, the necessary complement of that glance,

and was characteristic of his conception of her as a marble sphinx. In

rising with the others when Leila rose, the young man recalled certain

teasing words a friend had once spoken, the recollection of which

often galled him: "You have not yet experienced it, but when you do

fall in love, it will be sudden and overwhelming." As he passed into

the drawing-room behind Leila he noticed certain tiny red spots upon

her white neck. He was glad to see these, for they seemed to diminish

somewhat the power of physical attraction which this strange creature

possessed. Taking Don Aurelio's arm, he scolded him gently for not

wishing to have him at Sant' Ubaldo. But Don Aurelio had found a useful

excuse. "You would compromise me!" said he, laughing his hearty laugh

that shook his whole frame. "Is it not true, Signorina?"

"It seems to me," she said, without looking at either of them, "that

compromise cannot matter now." And she busied herself in pouring out

the coffee.

Don Aurelio, always slow to recognise a thrust, failed absolutely to

recognise this one, which wounded Massimo more deeply than himself.

He murmured humbly: "I am only in jest, only in jest, you know!" and

added, in his simplicity and inexperience of _double entente_:

"Poor Massimo cannot compromise any one."

Massimo was somewhat embarrassed, but said nothing. Leila, however,

smiled slightly, thus making Don Aurelio aware of his blunder.

"Ah, well ... yes ... of course ... what nonsense!" he stammered,

answering her with a laugh almost of regret for unspoken words. "I

speak simply, and must be taken simply."

Signor Marcello called them out to the terrace to see a fine effect

of gathering storm-clouds. On the north the sun was beating upon the

heights of Rotzo in Val d'Astico, that stood out, brightly gilded,

against the clear blue, while the brow of the same uplands was lit

up towards the east by continuous summer lightning, flashing out of

a sky of turquoise. Leila hastened to obey the summons, pretending

to have forgotten that she had not given Signor Alberti his coffee.

When, a moment later, he appeared on the terrace with Don Aurelio, she

withdrew, and slipping into the dining-room, crossed to the threshold

of the garden door. A thunderstorm always made her nerves tingle with a

mad delight, and she liked to enjoy it alone, drawn to it like a small

cloud saturated with electricity. If there had been wind, she would

have rushed out as she did sometimes at night, letting her hair blow

wild. But as no leaf stirred, and as she heard Signor Marcello's voice

asking for her, she returned to the terrace.

"The coffee, dear," said the old man. "Neither Alberti nor I have had

ours."

She murmured some excuse. In helping Massimo her manner was not

precisely rude, but there was something ungracious both in her face

and bearing. Don Aurelio, who noted everything, with meekness indeed,

but with keenness as well, reflected in his artless optimism that the

memory of her lover could no longer be very vivid in her heart, if she

could treat his dearest friend thus coldly.

"Where was it," said Signor Marcello suddenly to Massimo, "that you met

that Benedetto from Subiaco?"

"At Jenne."

"And what was he like?"

"Well, I will not say that I adored him, for I object to the word, but

I loved him better than I have ever loved any one in this world, except

my mother."

Massimo had no idea the sphinx would speak.

"Was he indeed a saint, then?" said she.

"I beg your pardon, Signorina," he retorted, "but I have never felt the

necessity for saintliness in those I love."

"But is it true he performed miracles?"

"No, he performed no miracles."

"Did he really die in a woman's arms?"

Don Aurelio, amazed that a young girl should ask such a question, could

not suppress an exclamation of protest.

"Leila!" Signor Marcello ejaculated severely.

With flaming face Massimo exclaimed:

"It is a vile calumny! I never heard it before!"

"I read it somewhere," said Leila calmly.

Don Aurelio intervened.

"I would have you know, Signorina, that the man of whom you speak may

have erred in matters of doctrine; on that point I can express no

opinion. But, had the Church pointed out his errors to him, he would

have been the first to recognise them. As to his private life, after

his conversion it was one of perfect purity. I can answer for that, at

least."

Signor Marcello, who was following the discussion with a nervous

twitching of every line of his expressive face, now cut it short in a

voice of authority. Saying that he wanted to speak privately with Don

Aurelio, he proposed that Leila should take Alberti for a walk in the

garden. Leila cast him a half-dazed glance, and then looked towards

Massimo as if beseeching his support.

"It is too hot," she objected.

The young man protested that he was quite ready to go alone, but Signor

Marcello would listen to no excuses. A heavy bank of clouds was rapidly

darkening the villa's green surroundings, and the rain was more to be

feared than the heat.

* * * * *

"You know the Montanina well?" said Leila, as she passed out by the

south door that opens upon the green slope, studded with pines and

mountain-oaks, and crowned, far above, with chestnuts. "You have seen

the sun-dial, and Blessed Alberto Magno, and the goat's head, through

whose mouth flow the waters of the Riderella?" All this she delivered

like a tiresome and oft-repeated lesson, and, walking in front of him,

did not appear to notice that he made no answer. She took the path

leading upwards, on one side of the villa. "Do you know the Fonte

Modesta also?" she inquired, as they passed near the small cave, filled

with the spring's soft murmuring. On she went, pointing out this

feature and that, regardless of Alberti's silence, and with all the

perfunctoriness of a professional guide.

While she was speaking the words "the source of the Riderella" he

interrupted her. He had been waiting to speak only until they should

have reached a sufficient distance from the house.

"Signorina," said he, "I did not insist with Signor Marcello because I

saw that I should cause him pain, but I wish you to understand that you

need not put yourself out for me. If you will allow me, I will finish

the walk alone."

Leila answered coldly: "As you like."

The path being narrow, she stepped aside to let him pass, standing with

downcast eyes, like a statue of marble.

"Thank you," said the young man, quivering with indignation, and he

passed her without a look. Why had this girl taken it into her head

to treat him thus? Did she think he was going to make love to her?

He could not fancy any other reason. And those foolish questions

concerning Benedetto had simply been a piece of pointed impudence. Make

love to her indeed!

But that fiery glance! In thinking of it Massimo recalled the music

he had heard in the night. What lay concealed in the soul of this

mysterious creature? Her stiffness and indifference, her silent

discourtesy, and her insolent words were not only intentional but

incomprehensible as well. What reason had she to suppose he intended

making love to her? What sign had he given? A suspicion flashed upon

him. Don Aurelio had taken it into his head that his friend should

marry young. Was it possible he had chosen this girl for him, that

some inkling of his plan had reached her? No, it was impossible, and

that for a hundred reasons, and if on account of nothing else, at

least for the friendship between Don Aurelio and Signor Marcello. The

conclusion, then? The conclusion was that one thing only was clear--the

girl's pointed hostility. This he might have regarded as armour against

budding affection had affection had time to bud. But as it was...?

He sat down to rest upon a rustic bench beneath the chestnut-tree.

The great clouds were veiling Torraro, the shadows of the trees

swayed in the wind on the flower-strewn banks, the white villa was

smiling brightly down below in the sunshine, and the dull roar of the

torrent and of the whirlpools of Perale rose through the silence of

chestnut-groves. But Massimo could enjoy neither the shade nor the

fresh breeze, nor the grand and gentle beauty of all things. He felt

that beauty was a stranger to the bitterness of his heart, felt himself

a stranger to beauty. He wondered what course he should pursue. He

would not go back to the Montanina, and he must either persuade Don

Aurelio to take him in or he must return to Milan. He took pleasure in

recalling all the bitterness of his heart, mingling that which lay at

the bottom, almost outside the bounds of memory, with the bitterness of

the present hour. He tried to concentrate his thoughts on Don Aurelio's

sad plight, for Signorina Leila's discourtesy was really not worth

worrying about. But Don Aurelio! The old temptation rose up again, grim

and violent. Would it not be better to break away at once and for all

from the people who persecute such men as Don Aurelio, the very salt

of the earth? But immediately he felt the grave eyes of Don Aurelio

himself fixed upon him, the eyes of the victim who was all meekness

towards his persecutors; and the impulse of rebellion was defeated. But

to cease fighting the enemies of the Church for the Church's own sake,

to stand by and watch the struggle--this was no temptation, but a wise

counsel. But what should he do in the world, then? Ignore the world,

obtain an appointment as parish doctor--why not? In some village, among

the hills, would it not be happiness to taste something of the joys of

love? Presently he saw Don Aurelio come out of the villa, look upwards,

and start in his direction, and he went down to meet him. Don Aurelio

appeared astonished to see him alone.

"And the Signorina?"

Massimo said he had begged her not to put herself out for him, and

hastened to add that, being alone, he had had time to think of his own

plans. He was resolved to leave the Montanina that very evening, and

still hoped to occupy Carnesecca's room. Don Aurelio answered firmly,

and at the same time regretfully, that he had just now promised Signor

Marcello that Massimo would stay at least a fortnight at the Montanina,

if not all the time he had arranged to spend at Lago di Velo. Massimo

repeated that this was out of the question. If Don Aurelio would

not have him as his guest during the few days that remained of his

ministry, he would go back to Milan. Don Aurelio seized this favourable

opportunity.

"Is it an interest in any special person that calls you back to Milan?"

he asked.

Massimo answered promptly in the negative and smiled.

"Really, no? You can assure me of that?"

"Really, no! My hand upon it!" cried the young man, extending his hand,

which Don Aurelio pressed.

"In that case," he said, "you must not disappoint this old man so

cruelly."

But Massimo was so determined that the priest was forced to conclude

something unpleasant had happened. He asked if the Signorina's

questions about Benedetto had offended him. No, she had spoken in

ignorance, repeating newspaper gossip. Perhaps there had been further

discussion in the garden? No, there had not. But Don Aurelio pressed

him so hard that at last Massimo confessed the real reason. The girl

could not bear him, and had let him see it. This Don Aurelio refused

to believe, and made him describe all Leila's hostile actions, which

appeared insignificant enough in the telling; but the priest admitted

that certain things that might almost pass unobserved may be keenly

felt. It was only with difficulty that he extracted a promise from

Massimo to postpone his departure until the morrow. He should be free

to leave the next night if his impressions were confirmed. He advised

him, at all events, to pay a farewell visit to the Villino delle Rose

immediately, and pointed out the little house, showing like a red berry

on the edge of the plain of Arsiero, that looks towards Seghe. Don

Aurelio urged his friend to start at once, that he might be sure of

finding Donna Fedele at home.

When Massimo had gone the priest returned to Signor Marcello, with whom

he had a long talk. Then he left him to go back to Sant' Ubaldo. Signor

Marcello sent for Leila. He told her how dear Alberti was to him, and

said she must surely understand why. He wished him to remain some time

at the Montanina, and he therefore begged her to be gracious to him.

The old man spoke in low tones and with great gentleness, as one who

wishes his manner to convey the seriousness of unspoken words. Leila,

who had stood listening, pale and motionless, murmured that she had

not been conscious of ungraciousness towards Signor Alberti. Signor

Marcello looked at her, but did not answer. Presently he said, with the

same gentleness as before:

"I ask it as a favour."

Hardly above a whisper she answered, "Yes, Papa."

Then going to her room, she locked the door and burst into a violent

fit of weeping.

IV

Massimo returned from the Villino delle Rose shortly before the

dinner-hour. Signor Marcello came out to meet him, and drawing his arm

through his own, repeated lovingly to him how delighted he was to have

him at the Montanina. He meant to show him many treasured old letters,

wherein he, Massimo, was mentioned. A few days ago he would not have

believed himself able to do this, but now, largely owing to Massimo's

presence at the Montanina, he felt quite strong. The young man, who was

both touched and troubled, was at a loss how to introduce the painful

but necessary question of his departure. He was still casting about in

his mind for a suggestion when the bell rang for dinner. Then it was

too late to speak, and he postponed the difficult announcement until

later.

Leila was late for dinner. She was dressed in black and wore a bunch of

pansies in her belt. She was very pale, and ate scarcely anything. With

a visible effort she forced herself to put some questions to Massimo

as to how he had spent the afternoon, paying but slight attention to

his answers. Signor Marcello glanced frequently at the black gown and

at the flowers she wore, with a look half tender, half regretful. He

talked a great deal and with affectionate admiration of Donna Fedele,

speaking of her former beauty, the youth that still shone in her brown

eyes, and sweet voice. Looking at Leila, he said how sorry he was that

the lady no longer came to the Montanina as before.

"To tell the truth," said Leila, "it is for us to go to see her."

Signor Marcello's face beamed with satisfaction and gratitude, and

taking the hand that she allowed to rest limply in his, he pressed it

tenderly.

Then the conversation turned upon Don Aurelio's dismissal. "Who is this

archpriest?" Massimo inquired.

"Gèsummaria!" cried Signor Marcello, covering his eyes with his big,

thin hands, a gesture that spoke volumes. And "Gèsummaria!" was all he

would say, nor did Massimo press him. Leila's eyes were downcast, but

her face was not sphinx-like; it wore rather the expression of one who

disapproves and is grieved. This expression of hers goaded Massimo

into saying that Don Aurelio was a priest whom the most uncompromising

conservatives, even the _intransigenti_, had no excuse for persecuting.

He was a follower of Rosmini, and had never been suspected of Modernism

even in Rome, when he was living there. A few questions from Signor

Marcello easily led the young man to speak of his own life in Rome,

of Subiaco, and of Jenne; how he had come to know Don Aurelio, Dom

Clemente, and Benedetto, and the adventures of his dead friend from

the time he disappeared from his house at Oria, in Valsolda, in order

that he might dedicate himself to God, to his death in Rome, in the

gardener's cottage at Villa Mayda. He told the story of his last hours,

and placed in its true light the part Jeanne Dessalle had played. It

was almost dark when he finished his story. Coffee and lights had been

forgotten, and Signor Marcello and Leila remained silent. Presently

Giovanni entered, and asked if he should light the lamps.

"No," said Leila promptly, in a hushed voice. Then she asked Massimo

if he had known Jeanne Dessalle. He replied that he had seen her that

night at Villa Mayda.

Was she beautiful? He really could not say. She had simply passed him

in one of the ante-rooms. It was not yet dark, but, as it was raining

hard, there was little light in the room. Her figure had struck him as

graceful. Leila then inquired what had become of her. No one knew. And

where was Benedetto buried? Massimo hesitated an instant.

"At Campo Verano ... for the time being," he said.

"For the time being?"

The same astonished question fell from the lips of both his listeners.

Massimo did not answer.

"And what will Don Aurelio do?" Leila asked. "Where will he go?"

"I do not know."

The room was full of shadows, and the three rose from the table in

silence.

* * * * *

Giovanni having been ordered to light the drawing-room, had lighted a

large lamp near the fireplace. Signor Marcello begged Leila to play for

their guest, and at the same time he rang the bell, intending to have

the lamp by the piano lighted. Leila hastened to prevent this.

"No, Papa, please not!"

She preferred this dim light, and Signor Marcello did not insist, but

went out to the terrace, with stooping shoulders, to watch the darkness

over in the west that was dotted with the lights of Arsiero.

"What sort of music would you like?" said Leila. "Serious or light?"

"Signorina," Massimo said, "you must not put yourself out for me."

Remembering their conversation in the garden, Leila said to herself:

"He evidently has no other expression."

"Perhaps you are not fond of music?" she said.

"Perhaps not."

He smiled slightly as he spoke, and his smile hurt her like a blow

upon the cheek. Without a word, she opened the piano and began playing

something from Schumann's "Carnival" from memory.

She played it too nervously and without sweetness. When she had

finished Massimo thanked her dryly. That would have been the moment

to go to Signor Marcello and press the question of departure, but he

hesitated. The girl's conduct was beginning to strike him in a new

light. The black dress and the pansies had jarred upon him as a sort

of unnecessary hint to himself, but her questions during dinner, the

interest she had shown in his story, and now her way of answering his

"perhaps not," showing that she had understood his feelings and his

irony, her choice of the author and of the passionate music, the very

nervousness of the execution, and the immobility that followed it,

gave him the impression of a state of mind that was neither hostile

nor indifferent. He could not help thinking it a little strange of

Signor Marcello to leave them together as he had done. For a minute or

so Leila let the fingers of her right hand run softly along the high

notes, and then she inquired carelessly if he wished to hear something

else.

He remembered that melody by Bellini he had heard in the night.

"Will you play 'Sola, furtiva al tempio'?"

"'Norma'?"

She sought the beginning, but after the first notes struck a wrong

one, tried others at random, and murmuring, "I don't know it," took

her hands from the keyboard. Massimo was tempted to say, "You knew it

well enough in the night!" But meanwhile the girl had tried again in an

absent-minded way, and again had failed. Then, almost in a whisper, and

studying the palm of her hand, she said:

"Was not your Benedetto a heretic?"

"No!" cried Massimo. "His teaching may sometimes have erred, but he

lived in obedience to the Church, and preached that obedience always."

"Then would you mind explaining to me why they persecuted him as a

heretic?"

The tone of the question was hostile, but Massimo answered,

nevertheless.

"Willingly. Now, if you like!"

"No, no! To-morrow or the day after. Now I am going to play for Papa."

With a scale of chords Leila put an end to the dialogue that had been

carried on softly and rapidly. Then she began an _Étude_ by Heller, and

Massimo concluded that the Signorina did not really wish to hear his

explanations, but, at any rate, it would be impossible to interrupt her

now, and tell her the day after to-morrow would be too late.

"This is for Papa, you know," she said, still playing. "I don't care

for it."

Massimo listened for some time, and then rose to go to Signor Marcello.

He paused before the fireplace, where the light fell full upon the

frieze of marguerites interwoven with the motto, _Forse che si, forse

che no_ ("Perhaps yes, perhaps no").[2] The motto was so entirely in

harmony with his own uncertainty that he looked curiously to see how it

ended. He said to himself: "If it is cut short at _yes_, I will go. If

it is not cut short, and ends in _no_, I will remain." He was conscious

of reflecting that, according to all probability, it would end in _no_.

The motto finished with _perhaps_!

Massimo stood gazing upon it, somewhat baffled, but presently he saw

that there was another test he could apply. The marguerites in the

frieze were all losing their leaves, but the one where the motto ended

still retained a few. He might pluck these in imagination, and see if

the answer were _yes_ or _no_.

A soft voice whispered close behind him:

"Are you consulting the oracle?"

The young man turned quickly. Donna Fedele stood smiling at him, her

finger at her lips, for Heller's _Étude_ was not yet finished. She had

arrived while Leila was playing Schumann, and had been chatting with

Signor Marcello until, seeing Massimo contemplating the frieze, she had

come behind him.

"I am really here on your account," she said, still smiling. The music

ceased, and she turned from the fireplace towards Leila, who had risen.

She kissed her affectionately, as if no shadow had ever touched her

friendship for the girl. Congratulating her on her playing, she took

her arm and returned with her to the fireside. Signor Marcello stood

looking into the drawing-room.

"Did you know," Donna Fedele began, addressing Leila, "that Signor

Alberti's mother and I were friends? He is going to dine with me

to-morrow, for we must have a long talk about his mother. She was such

a dear, poor thing!"

Massimo, who was both troubled and surprised, could only murmur:

"Thank you, but----"

"Just fancy," she went on, as if she had not heard his _but_, "Signor

Alberti was kind enough to come and see me to-day, and I, who ever

since last night have been meaning to invite him, entirely forgot

to do so. I am so absent-minded! I came myself this evening instead

of writing, because I had to go to Arsiero any way, and so had the

carriage. But now it is late, and I must be off."

She kissed Leila again, pressed Signor Marcello's hand, and holding

out her own to Massimo, said, with her charming smile, and a slight

dropping of her chin towards her breast:

"At seven, then."

"We will let him go for once," said Signor Marcello, in a tone of

satisfaction.

Donna Fedele went out with Leila, who walked with her as far as the

carriage, that she had left at the main entrance.

* * * * *

Massimo resigned himself to postponing his departure, at least for a

day, and persuaded himself that he was glad to do so only because it

would please Don Aurelio. Signor Marcello made him sit with him on the

terrace, and put his hand on the young man's shoulder.

"Dear Alberti," he said with a sigh. Massimo took his other hand in

both of his and answered:

"I do not forget, sir."

The old hand pressed the young one convulsively, and a long silence

followed. They could hear no steps on the gravel. Signor Marcello

glanced into the drawing-room, but there was no one there.

"Did he ever speak to you of Leila's family?" he said in an undertone.

At first Massimo did not understand the allusion. Then, suddenly

enlightened, he exclaimed:

"Yes, yes--several times!"

"How much did he tell you?"

"He said it was just on account of the family that you opposed his

wishes, but that he was sure of the girl, and would find a means of

keeping her parents at a distance after his marriage."

"Did he really know her parents well? I ask because, in talking with

me, he did not appear to."

"Yes, yes; he knew them perfectly well. He told me the father, who

carefully hid his evildoings, was quite as corrupt as the mother, whose

evil reputation is a matter of public knowledge."

Signor Marcello listened again, and then began talking of Leila, who,

he said, was a living confutation of the theories of heredity. He

praised her virtue, which was as adamant, her warm heart, which often

led her to commit acts of charitable folly, and made her the idol of

all the servants, in spite of certain sudden outbursts of temper. He

told of a little child whose mother was dead, and whom Leila had one

day brought home with her to save it from a drunken father's brutality,

and whom she proposed taking care of herself, although, poor girl! she

had not the slightest idea how to set to work. He admitted certain

peculiarities in her character that, he said, were more apparent

than real, and pleaded her early and sad experience of life in her

childhood as an excuse for language that was at times more bold,

perhaps, than was seemly in a young girl.

And now, in thinking of the future and of those parents, the idea of

leaving Leila unprotected caused him the greatest anxiety. His only

hope was in God, and the only blessing for which he now asked was a

worthy protector for her who was dearer to him than a daughter.

"You will live a long time yet," said Massimo.

"Dear Alberti, do you think it is kind to wish that for me? And,

besides...."

The old man paused.

"I beg your pardon, sir," Said Massimo. "Besides what?"

"And, besides, my dear young friend, I am aware of something I do not

speak of."

There were steps upon the gravel, coming from the Riderella bridge. The

bell above a door announced Leila, who was entering the drawing-room

from the open verandah. She came out to the terrace, kissed Signor

Marcello good-night, saluted Massimo graciously enough, and withdrew.

* * * * *

It was after ten o'clock, and Giovanni brought Signor Marcello his

coffee and the brass lamp. After the billiard-room door had closed

upon him, Massimo still lingered on the terrace, contemplating the

huge shadows of the mountains, breathing in the cool night air, and

thinking how strangely confidential Signor Marcello's communications

had been. He had doubtless failed to reflect that they might convey

precisely that meaning which was most repugnant to his fatherly heart.

At the same time Massimo confessed to himself that something had indeed

stirred within him at the sound of Leila's step upon the gravel, and

that her friendly good-night had caused him at once displeasure and

delight. He had better not dwell upon all this, he thought, as he

passed into the drawing-room on his way to bed.

On reaching the fireplace he raised his eyes almost mechanically to the

frieze of marguerites and the mysterious _perhaps_. There was no longer

any need to question the marguerites concerning his departure. He was

tempted to consult them on another subject now, but he refrained. He

stepped back from the fireplace and turned unconsciously to the piano.

Awakening to a sense of his movement, he asked himself wonderingly

what had prompted it, and stooped to examine the volume of Heller on

the music-rack as if he had come there for that especial purpose. But

he was possessed by the sense of Leila's presence and personality that

breathed from objects, like a perfume perceptible only to the spirit.

Upon the chair he saw a pansy that must have fallen from her belt, and

he stooped to pick it up, but drew back his hand, and, turning, started

upstairs, resisting a strong temptation to go down again. Hearing steps

in the drawing-room, Giovanni appeared on the threshold, inquiring if

he might put out the lights, and, having received permission, proceeded

to do so. At the moment Massimo was glad of this interruption. When he

reached his room he told himself that, had he picked up the pansy, he

would have placed it beside his dead friend's picture, and he regretted

that he had not done so.

* * * * *

Regardless of Teresina's protests, Leila had filled her room for the

night with roses, honeysuckle, and acacia. It was a weakness of hers.

She had as many flowers as possible brought to her room unknown to

Signor Marcello, and she delighted in the strongest scents. That night

she had a sea of flowers. She stuck several bunches of acacia between

the bedhead and the wall, and a bunch of roses between the wall and a

holy picture. She loved to lie in bed and feel the petals falling upon

her face. Teresina begged her to leave all three windows open, and to

this she agreed. As soon as Teresina had left the room she put out the

light, turned upon her side, indulging her consciousness of fragrance

as if she were listening to some caressing language, and gazing through

the window at the black, crescent-shaped crown of woods, at the sharp

dolomitic peaks against the dark sky, and neither thinking nor wishing

to think.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Black and red insults: black from the clericals, and red from

Socialists and free-thinkers.--TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.

[2] This strange motto, which Gabriele d'Annunzio has chosen for the

title of his latest novel, may be found running through the rich

decorations of the wooden ceiling of a room near Isabella d'Este's

boudoir in the ducal palace at Mantua.--TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.