SHEARS
I
At Lago di Velo the news of the priest's impending departure had
greatly distressed the inhabitants. Many, indeed, had been displeased
that he had taken Carnesecca into his house, but after he had explained
his action from the altar, condemning the pedlar's doctrines, and yet
reminding them of the teachings of the gospel, no one had dared raise
his voice in censure. The news that Carnesecca was gone and that the
curate must leave spread simultaneously.
The "Chief" of the countryside, as he to whom his fellow-peasants
freely entrust the handling of all matters of common interest is here
called, summoned a meeting of the heads of families, and spoke sensibly
and in a religious spirit. There was to be no rioting, no disorder,
no inciting of the priest to resist. A priest is a priest, and must
obey his superiors. It is to these superiors petition should be made.
But these were not the views of all. The women were already declaring
that the priest should not leave; that an appeal must be made, if
necessary, to the Pope. The Chief persuaded them to be calm, and await
the result of the first protests. He himself headed a deputation to
the archpriest. But the archpriest repulsed them, giving these honest
souls to understand that they were but fools, ignorant countrymen, and
bullies. They went home cowed, and the general dissatisfaction grew
rapidly.
Don Aurelio, after halving in vain endeavoured privately to dissuade
his flock from any attempt to retain him, repeated his exhortations
from the altar in language that was both affectionate and firm. Several
of the summer visitors, people of position, also went to the archpriest
in the name of the inhabitants of Lago, begging him to intercede with
the _Curia_. For these the excellent Don Tita had pleasant words,
saying that he had had nothing to do with the much-to-be-regretted
measure, praising Don Aurelio, and promising to act, to speak, and to
write. His flock listened respectfully to Don Aurelio, without the
slightest intention of obeying him, and they listened to the report of
the second deputation without the slightest faith in the archpriest's
promises. The Chief called another meeting, and it was decided that
all those present should go in a body to the bishop and seek to obtain
at least a postponement. On hearing this Don Aurelio begged them first
to listen to something he had to tell them. This was on Friday, and
there were five days more before the date upon which he must resign
his benefice. The peasants intended going in to Vicenza to the bishop
on Sunday morning. But they promised to come to Don Aurelio the next
day, Saturday, at noon. On Friday evening Don Aurelio went down to the
Villino delle Rose, stopping at the Montanina on the way back. It was
nearly eight o'clock, and Giovanni having informed him that the family
were still at dinner, he would not allow them to be disturbed, and
waited in the drawing-room, examining a small collection of books near
the fireplace. They were all works on botany and gardening and belonged
to Signor Marcello. Don Aurelio knew little concerning Leila's taste
in literature, and would gladly have known more. To a direct question
he had asked some days before, the girl had said that her favourite
reading was the works of foreign poets. Don Aurelio, who knew little of
foreign poets, had not ventured to press her with questions, but later
Donna Fedele had confided to him that the two foreign poets preferred
by Leila were Shelley and Heine. He knew nothing of the first, but
the name of the second conveyed a suggestion of fatal scepticism. The
suspicion that Leila's soul contained some bitter dregs of scepticism
had been forced upon him by several remarks of hers which Donna Fedele
had repeated, wherein she had maintained that the acts of men, even
those apparently of a most generous nature, were prompted only by a
spirit of egotism, and her words had seemed to point indirectly to
Signor Marcello's action, in taking into, his house a living memory of
his dead son.
Don Aurelio had been greatly incensed, and his more indulgent
friend had found it difficult to pacify him by placing before him
the surroundings amongst which Leila had dwelt and the painful
origin of her scepticism. Donna Fedele was less uneasy than he
concerning Massimo's future should this marriage take place. The
girl's eccentricities did not impress her so painfully as they did
Don Aurelio. She remembered that her own girlhood had been fanciful
and passionate also, and understood so much that to Don Aurelio was
incomprehensible.
Having examined all the books, Don Aurelio caught sight of the maid
Teresina at a door at the further end of the room. She came silently
towards him, advancing on tiptoe, and he went forward to meet her.
Teresina had a secret message for Donna Fedele, who, having been less
well than usual after her raid upon the parsonage, had not appeared for
two days, whereas usually a day rarely passed now without a visit from
her.
"If you see her," the woman whispered, "tell her things are worse!"
Don Aurelio failing to understand, Teresina explained. After the affair
of the closed bedroom windows she had promised to tell Donna Fedele
everything that she considered important concerning Leila.
"And now," said she, "she has got hold of the key of the Velo Park,
and, for the last two nights, after dark, she has been there all alone,
spending hours there. What she does in the Park I cannot say. She makes
me tell lies to the master, and say she is in bed with a headache when
he asks for her. Of course he always asks. Then I must go and wait for
her at the park gate, at eleven, and, to tell the truth, I am rather
afraid. But she won't listen to anything. Last night she was not in
until midnight. Please ask Donna Fedele what I am to do. What would you
yourself advise, Don Aurelio?"
"First of all I must inform you that I shall not be able to tell Donna
Fedele anything," said the priest.
Teresina was astonished and asked the reason of his refusal.
"Never mind the reason," Don Aurelio answered, and added: "You have
done very wrong not to speak. You must do so, and at once."
At that moment the dining-room door was thrown open and Signor Marcello
himself appeared, protesting against so much ceremony on the part of
his friend, who had refused to have his presence announced. Taking him
by the arm, he led him into the dining-room.
Leila's greeting was so slight that Signor Marcello spoke to her.
"You absent-minded puss!" said he. "Here is Don Aurelio."
For some days past the priest had thought that her usual coldness
towards him had grown. Now he was sure of it. Massimo also seemed to
be in a gloomy mood. Don Aurelio told of his call at the Villino and
of Donna Fedele's condition, which was far from satisfactory, judging
from her look and some vague hints that had escaped her. Leila, who
had been won over by Signora Vayla's charm and affection, listened
attentively.
"She is a woman who will break down entirely, if she does not have
something done for her health, and that at once. You are her friends,
and it is your duty to make her take care of herself."
Signor Marcello, more impressed by the tone in which the words were
spoken than by the words themselves, asked what they could do, and what
the nature of Signora Vayla's disease really was. Don Aurelio replied
that he did not know, but that a suspicion had been aroused in his mind
by the very, unwillingness of the sufferer to call in a consulting
physician, and he believed a consultation to be absolutely necessary.
A painful silence ensued, and then Don Aurelio rose to go. Massimo rose
with the intention of accompanying him as far as Sant' Ubaldo. The
curate turned to Leila and said impressively:
"Signorina, Donna Fedele is very fond of you. I recommend her
particularly to your care. Hers is a life that is useful to many."
Signor Marcello had risen also.
"And so, Don Aurelio," he began, "you are going to have this meeting
to-morrow. Will you be able to bring us some good news afterwards?"
"I cannot say, my friend," Don Aurelio replied in his fine Roman accent
and rich voice. "I cannot say whether it would be well to remain. But
the Lord tells me that obedience is good."
There ensued a short struggle between them, for Signor Marcello would
have kissed the hand the priest sought to withdraw in dismay. Then they
embraced, and Don Aurelio felt tears upon the old man's face, and went
out murmuring "Poor fellow! Poor fellow!"
* * * * *
As they left, Don Aurelio told Massimo that had he not offered to
accompany him to Sant' Ubaldo, he himself would have asked him to do
so. The young man did not answer, and Don Aurelio, glancing at him,
saw that he appeared not to have heard. It was growing dark, and there
was no other sound in the air but the gentle voice of Riderella and
the deep one of Posina. All Nature seemed filled with a sense of the
mystery of that shining city whose myriad portals opened tremblingly,
one by one, in the splendid space above. Beyond the gate Don Aurelio
paused, and silently put his hand upon his friend's shoulder. In his
eyes there shone a new expression which Massimo failed to see, for he
was insensible to everything save his own feelings. Perhaps the poetry
of the evening increased his fever, but he felt the fever only, not
the poetry. Every pulse in him responded to a burning passion that
had grown during these last ten days, and had discovered itself in
divine moments of contact by a glance or other fleeting, involuntary
revelations in spite of the coldness and gloom with which he had to
contend. Things that Donna Fedele and Signor Marcello himself had said
seemed to breathe a vague encouragement of his hopes, and he could
not rid himself of the apparently inexplicable idea that he moved
among accomplices. He was bewildered by doubts, and his love for Leila
alone radiated the darkness wherein she, too, stood, a dark and half
incomprehensible figure. When Don Aurelio placed his hand upon his
shoulder the fact that during dinner Leila had neither looked at him
nor addressed him was weighing upon his heart. He took his friend's
gesture as a warning.
"You have seen?" said he. "Do I give myself away so quickly?"
Don Aurelio's astonished silence revealed to him that it had been only
at that moment that he had given himself away.
"Then why," he exclaimed excitedly--"why did you put your hand on my
shoulder?"
"Poor Massimo!" Don Aurelio answered smiling, and perceiving that now
he did really understand his friend. "And so this time it is serious?"
"Dio! and you can laugh!" cried Alberti.
"Why, yes, yes! Come, we will talk it over!"
So this man, who was being unjustly driven from his humble pastorship,
and who saw the moment rapidly approaching when he would not know where
to lay his head, set himself to the task of comforting his friend, whom
the egotism of love had made oblivious to the other's sorrows.
"You see, this is something that pleases me and will please others
as well," he said, as they passed into the deep shadow of the great
chestnuts. Massimo stopped short.
"Signor Marcello also? Will it really please him? Really?"
The shadows were so dark that Don Aurelio did not venture to answer,
for on the road itself, or within the Montanina grounds, some one might
easily overhear them without being seen. It was not until they had
reached the point where the road, issuing from the grove and turning to
the left, winds along the open hillside of the hollow of Lago, that Don
Aurelio revealed Signor Marcello's secret to his trembling friend.
Massimo embraced him impetuously.
"What is all this? What is all this?" the priest exclaimed, freeing
himself with difficulty.
"But Signorina Leila?" Massimo panted. "What are Signorina Leila's
feelings?"
"Ah! that I really cannot say!" Don Aurelio replied. "I really don't
know. I don't understand such matters, but it seems to me that you
yourself ought to know."
"But you can see for yourself I don't know. I am completely in the
dark."
Don Aurelio was at a loss to know what to say. He told Massimo that he
believed he was justified in hoping, for this was also Donna Fedele's
opinion. Massimo's joy flamed forth once more, and without pausing to
ask how and why Donna Fedele and Don Aurelio had come to discuss this,
he inquired what reasons, what signs had led Donna Fedele to form this
opinion. But as to that she alone could enlighten him.
"I am going to her now!" the young man cried. But Don Aurelio would not
allow it.
"No, my dear fellow, I want you with me now."
Massimo demanded why, but the priest replied that he would tell him
when they reached home. A few steps farther on the young man again
stopped, begging and praying to be allowed to go on to Villino delle
Rose at once. It was then that Don Aurelio asked him sadly if there was
really no one else in all the world for him but Leila. His sorrow-laden
accents were as a fiery touch to Massimo. With both hands he seized his
friend's arm, and would not be appeased until Don Aurelio had embraced
him as a sign of pardon. They walked through Lago without speaking, but
beyond the village, on the road that winds upwards round the steep,
grassy hill on which stands the church of Sant' Ubaldo, Massimo opened
his heart to his friend. He told him of the impression he had received
from Leila's photograph while poor Andrea was still alive; he spoke of
his impression of her on the occasion of their first meeting, of the
strange and alluring changes in her mood, of the fascination of the
depths which he believed existed in her soul, of the dawn of passion in
himself, of his remorse, of Signor Marcello's inexplicable attitude,
of the growth of his own infatuation, of the one dream of his days
and nights--to turn his back upon the world and forget it, spending
his days with her in some mountain solitude, fulfilling the duties of
his profession, serving man, and practising religion with that quiet
freedom of soul which no despotism may overcome.
Don Aurelio listened in silence. When they reached the church he opened
the side door and went in to pray. Massimo followed him, but did not
pray--he thought of Leila instead. That same morning, after having
treated him with almost contemptuous indifference, she had suddenly
sat down at the piano and played Schumann's "Aveu." He had followed
the music with keen delight, gazing upwards through the opening in the
gallery at a slender, dolomitic peak, swathed in the blue mists like
the tremulous outline of a dream. And now, within the little church, he
was trying to recall that indescribable moment, that sweet music, and
the mountain peak, cleaving the blue ether like a shaft of passion shot
skyward.
Lúzia, hearing her master coming, had placed a light in the little room
on the ground floor. Don Aurelio took the lamp, and climbed the wooden
stairs, followed by Massimo.
"First, we will talk of your affairs," said he, when he had placed the
lamp on the writing-table in the study. He motioned Massimo to a chair
opposite his own with a certain air of solemnity that startled the
young man.
"You must answer a question I am going to ask you. And think well
before you answer."
He looked steadily and in silence at his friend's astonished eyes, and
saw that they were questioning him.
"It is this," said he. "Do you know whether there was ever any gossip
in Milan about yourself and a married woman? Think well."
Massimo's brow cleared, and he smiled at the saintly simplicity of this
man, who had lived so far away from the world.
"Certainly there may have been," he answered, "and not with one alone,
but with two or perhaps even three. You don't know what Milan is. But
did you believe the gossip? Did you doubt me?"
Don Aurelio hastened to declare that he had not doubted, but
nevertheless he seemed perplexed. Then Massimo guessed there was
something serious, and cried anxiously:
"Ah! now I understand! Signorina Leila believes in it."
No, Don Aurelio did not think that the subject had been mentioned at
the Montanina. It had been discussed at the Villino, and though Donna
Fedele did not doubt him, Massimo himself must reassure her. Massimo
thought it would be better for Don Aurelio to undertake to do this.
"I! my dear boy?"
Don Aurelio thought for a moment, and then added in a low tone:
"I am leaving to-night."
Massimo started from his chair.
"What! you are leaving? What do you mean?"
His first thought was, "He is forsaking me at this time!" His second
was, "Why does he leave when there is still hope that he may be allowed
to remain? And why to-night? Where will he go?" And he burst into a
string of questions.
Don Aurelio checked him at once, and placed his finger upon his lips.
Lúzia might hear! No one knew, and no one must know. There was no
hope that his superiors would allow him to remain at Lago, and there
was danger that the inhabitants might resort to violent measures to
prevent his departure. His duty, his positive and absolute duty, was to
leave at once, and secretly. He would start on foot during the night,
and take the train at Schio at five in the morning for Vicenza. Once
there he would go to the Bishop, acquit himself of the accusations he
believed had been lodged against him, and then ... place himself in the
hands of Divine Providence. He was sure the Bishop would help him to
find a living in some other diocese, where he could be even more out
of the world than he had been at Sant' Ubaldo.
"Whatever happens," he said, "the Lord will not forsake me." And when
Massimo gave vent to his indignation against his supposed persecutors,
he checked him. "They think they are doing right. Can you look into
their hearts? Can you see into their consciences? We must pray for
them. Promise to do so."
So saying, he held out his hand, which the young man seized with both
his own, and pressed to his lips.
"And now you must help me," said Don Aurelio, rising.
Together they sorted the books, dividing the ones to be returned to
Donna Fedele and to Signor Marcello from those that belonged to Don
Aurelio, which Massimo undertook to send wheresoever destiny might
determine. The priest could take with him only his breviary, a small
pocket Bible, and the "Imitation of Christ." As he handled and laid
aside the precious volumes, his hands trembled, but not a single word
of complaint escaped him. Only once, on handing a fine edition of the
"Confessions of St. Augustine" to Massimo, a book that reminded him of
many hours of reading and religious meditation in the shady solitudes
of the Velo Park, near the gentle murmur of running water, did he lack
strength to say, "This is for Signor Marcello." Massimo, catching a
glimpse of his face, guessed the truth, and instead of taking the book,
seized his hand, pressing it in sympathy. "For Signor Marcello!" Don
Aurelio quickly exclaimed, but he did so with an effort, as if his
wandering thoughts alone and not emotion had prevented his speaking
before. Not another moment of weakness did he have, and even had a
reproof ready for Massimo, who, towards the end, found the strain
too severe, and tried to make one last effort to shake his friend's
decision. They had scarcely finished when Lúzia appeared, on the
pretext of seeing that the shutters were closed. Don Aurelio bade her
go to bed.
"Thank you, sir," said the woman gratefully, and withdrew.
Don Aurelio thought for a moment. He must remunerate Lúzia in some way
beyond her monthly salary, which he had already put aside for her.
Donna Fedele had once given him an alarm-clock that was much too fine
for him.
"It is handsome, is it not?" he said to Massimo. "Please sell it for me
and give the money to Lúzia."
Ah! Massimo had not considered that the poor priest had perhaps not
enough in his pocket to support him for two days away from home. He
offered him fifty lire which he had by him. Don Aurelio himself had
three lire, and it was with a simplicity truly Franciscan that he
accepted twelve more for the journey to Vicenza, and, if necessary,
from Vicenza to Milan, where, if the worst came to the worst, he could
seek the hospitality which a brother priest had frequently offered to
him. Massimo could not make him accept more.
"I should have asked you for those twelve lire any way," he said. Then,
with burning cheeks he showed Massimo the drawer in which he kept his
linen, a silent witness to his saintly poverty. He would write from
Vicenza saying where his few belongings were to be sent. As to the
books, the best plan would be to pack them in a case, and get Donna
Fedele to keep them for him. His few bits of furniture must also be
packed up. Then it came into his mind that Lúzia once said, "If you go
away, Don Aurelio, you will leave me the bed, will you not?" After all,
it would be better to leave her the bed and not sell the clock. Poor
Lúzia! She had never lost an opportunity of saying that her own bed was
a wretched, shaky thing, only fit to be burnt.
"But, my dear friend!" Massimo cried, as if suddenly realising the
fact, "how can I remain if you go? Ah! why did I not think of this
before? I will go with you!"
Don Aurelio embraced him tenderly.
"Can you forgive me," the young man cried, "for not having thought of
this at once?"
But Don Aurelio only pressed him closer without speaking. Presently he
thrust him gently from him, and kissed him on the brow.
"I do not want you."
"You do not want me? Why not? Well, I shall come even if I am not
wanted."
The small petroleum lamp was threatening to go out. Don Aurelio
extinguished it.
"We shall need it later," he said, "and I don't know whether there is
any more oil in the house. At any rate, I should not be able to find
it. Let us sit down."
Dark masses of cloud in a moonless sky loomed dimly through one of the
windows. Don Aurelio, whom the darkness hid from Massimo, began talking
in a low voice and with the earnestness of a father.
"It is I, dear lad, who will be with you. I have never told you, but
I have prayed so hard that God might give you what He is now giving
you, a strong and mighty love, rich and holy. You are not made for
celibacy, you are made for a union ideally human, ideally Christian,
ideally beautiful. You are made to raise up a strong and pure progeny.
The tradition of great families, heroically devoted to kings, is at an
end. We must found families that shall be heroically devoted to God, in
which devotion to God shall be handed down as a title of nobility, as
the just and traditional sentiment of nobility. You must found such a
family. It is my dream for you. It was the dream of----"
Don Aurelio's voice whispered a name and then was silent.
"Was that indeed so?" Massimo cried.
"Yes, it was poor Benedetto's dream for you."
The vision of a dear, suffering face, with great speaking eyes, flashed
across Massimo's brain amidst the darkness of the room. Benedetto had
dreamed of happiness in love for him! Once more he saw, for an instant,
the face upon the pillow, lifeless and waxen. Tears welled up in his
heart, but he forced them back.
"You cannot go away," Don Aurelio went on. "You must see Donna
Fedele early to-morrow morning, and reassure her on the point we
have discussed. She does not doubt you, but as she is charged with a
mission, she wishes to receive this assurance from you. Then she will
speak to Signorina Leila at once, to-morrow; she will question her in
Signor Marcello's name, for, through me, he has requested her to do so.
To-morrow night you will know. Donna Fedele is sure of a favourable
answer. Then you yourself can speak."
The table upon which Massimo was leaning, his hands pressed to his
temples, shook like a living thing.
"If all goes well," Don Aurelio went on, "send me a telegram to
Vicenza, to be called for at the office.... Are you afraid?" he added,
for the table still vibrated. "Donna Fedele says the girl's is a
self-contained nature difficult to penetrate, but she does not believe
her to be bound to a memory; she thinks that she feels the need of
love, and of a future. She believes her also to be a very storehouse
of moral energies, a little embittered perhaps by her sad experience
of life; this Donna Fedele has to admit. But she is sure that certain
peculiarities will disappear when these energies are properly ordered
and guided by one in whom she has confidence."
Massimo was silent. He, too, looked upon her as a closed paradise,
darkened by the shadow of a tree of knowledge of good and evil, which
was all too wide-spreading. When Don Aurelio asked him if he had really
been unable to discover any clear sign as to her feelings towards
himself, he answered, with a sigh:
"I am inclined to think that something in me attracts her, while
something else repels her."
"What is it that repels her?"
"Benedetto."
Don Aurelio was amazed. What did this girl know of Benedetto? Massimo
hastened to explain. Surely Don Aurelio remembered the conversation
at the dinner-table on that first day, and Signorina Leila's words
concerning Benedetto, that had offended him? Soon afterwards she had
brought up the subject again, speaking in the same hostile tone. She
believed him to have been a heretic. She had seemed disposed at the
time to listen to Massimo's defence of him, but later she had always
openly avoided the subject.
"Well, well!" said Don Aurelio. "But if that is all----"
He could not bring himself to believe that this girl could be so
influenced by religious questions as to be willing to sacrifice her
future for them. He realised at once that this scepticism, apparently
tinged with but slight esteem, had hurt Massimo. He felt for his
friend's hands amidst the darkness, and did not mention Leila again.
"It is of Benedetto that I want to speak to you," he said. "I had a
letter from Elia Viterbo to-day. He would have written to you, but
no one in Rome knows where you are. They take for granted, however,
that I know. It was even rumoured in Rome that you had taken refuge at
Praglia. Fancy that!"
Don Aurelio could not restrain a short laugh of comment.
"A nice sort of Praglia indeed! He wishes me to tell you that your
friends have decided to accept your proposal concerning Benedetto's
poor remains, and they beg you to communicate with them. It seems that
as you live in the neighbourhood of Oria, they rely on you to help to
carry out their intentions."
A few of Benedetto's disciples had proposed some months before to
erect a simple monument to his memory in Campo Verano, and had opened
a subscription for this purpose. Others among his followers had
disapproved of this proposal, both because they foresaw that the sum
subscribed would be but small, and because the proposal itself was not
in harmony with the Master's spirit. Much dissatisfaction had resulted,
and Massimo, who was opposed to the proposal, had sought a peaceful way
out of the difficulty, suggested by certain words of Benedetto's on
the occasion of a visit they had once paid together to Campo Verano.
Benedetto had said: "I shall surely end here, but I should like to
rest in the cemetery at Oria. However, that is a vain hope." Massimo
had proposed that the idea of a monument should be given up, and that
instead this touching desire should be carried out. A small piece of
ground, far removed from worldly strife, in the cemetery where Piero
Maironi's parents lay sleeping, and where his wife had wished to
rest--that would be the most fitting monument. And now it was decided
and Benedetto's wish was about to be fulfilled.
"Will you come to Oria on that day?" Massimo asked.
Don Aurelio could not promise this. He did not know whence or how far
he might be obliged to travel to reach Oria. But he would come only if
the ceremony were free from all unseemly religious manifestations. Then
he rose and relighted the lamp.
"It is late," said he, "and you must return to the Montanina." He
opened a drawer of the writing-table and drew from it two letters,
which he asked Massimo to forward on the following day, after having
read them himself. One was for the archpriest, the other for the
village Chief. The dying lamp flickered and went out.
"Oh!" Don Aurelio exclaimed. "And I wanted to write a few lines more!"
Massimo struck a match.
"You can do so," said he.
Don Aurelio took a sheet of paper and wrote a few words, while Massimo
struck match after match. Presently the priest handed him the paper.
"That is for Signorina Leila when she has said 'yes.'"
Massimo read the words, quivering with emotion.
"Allow a poor priest to bless your love in the name of that Infinite
Love, from whence may it derive eternal life.
"DON AURELIO."
At that moment they heard a knocking at the street door. Don Aurelio
released himself from Massimo, who had flung his arms about him, and
hurried to the window. It was Giovanni from the Montanina. Signor
Marcello had sent him to see if anything had happened to Signor Alberti.
"No, no, he will come directly!" Don Aurelio replied. He turned from
the window and felt Massimo's arms clasping his knees. The young man
was kneeling at his feet.
"Go, go!" he whispered, "and may God bless you!" Their parting was
perforce a sharp one. Massimo started to his feet, flung himself out
of the door and down the stairs, and soon disappeared into the night.
Don Aurelio withdrew to his bedroom, and, kneeling before the crucifix,
prayed with a keen sense of oppression, and almost as if struggling
to overcome an inward enemy, for the two priests of Velo and for all
his superiors, who wished to see him shamed, a wanderer, and hungry.
"Father, Father, they believe they are serving Thee. They believe they
are serving Thee! Forgive them, forgive them!"
Signor Marcello, who was really anxious, imagined all sorts of reasons
for Massimo's absence, for at ten o'clock he had not returned, although
he could not but be aware that this was the curfew hour at the
Montanina. The old man even grew rather annoyed with Leila, because she
would not admit that anything had happened.
"He is always in the clouds," said she. "He may have gone to the
Villino delle Rose under the impression that he was walking here."
It seemed almost as if Massimo's liking for Donna Fedele were
distasteful to the girl. Signor Marcello noticed this, and the allusion
to the Villino displeased him. He asked her if she blamed Massimo for
liking to go there. She protested hotly. On the contrary! She said no
more, but in her heart she was blaming Donna Fedele for her partiality
towards Massimo, although she would have been unable to explain the
reason why. She dreaded further questions, and so withdrew.
She went to her room determined not to give up her evening walk in the
park, and although it was already late, she meant to await the rising
of the moon there. The moon would rise at midnight that evening. Signor
Marcello would go to bed immediately on Alberti's return, and then she
could go downstairs. She did not light the lamp, but flung herself
into an easy-chair opposite the wide casement window that looked out
upon the upper slopes of the dark forest below the jagged crags of
Summano. Once more she turned over in her mind Signor Marcello's words.
Did she blame him? And so it would displease Signor Marcello should
she even so much as touch his Alberti with the slightest censure. It
was not the first time since his reproof to her on a certain day that
Signor Marcello had taken up the cudgels for Alberti and against her
on matters of trivial importance. And he was so determined to keep him
at the Montanina! Was it possible that the poor old man thought him so
devoted to the memory of his son that he might not even be tempted to
be disloyal to him?
At this point there suddenly flashed across her mind the idea that
she was the centre of a comedy. What if all had been pre-arranged,
the invitation to Alberti sent through Don Aurelio, and his reception
at the Montanina? What if Donna Fedele's sudden change of attitude
and her daily visits were all directed towards the same secret end?
What if Signor Marcello had been talked over by the priest of Sant'
Ubaldo and the mistress of the Villino, and what if they had succeeded
in persuading him to accept their plan, who knew by means of what
arguments? In a flash all seemed clear to her. Signor Alberti, invited
by people who had themselves arranged the part she, Leila, was to play,
had come to make the acquaintance of and captivate Signor Trento's
heir. In her wrath she grasped the arms of her chair firmly and bit her
lip that she might not cry. And she did not cry, but the flood of tears
she held in check made her bosom heave and heave again. How maddening
it would be if the tears should fall! Contempt, contempt, only contempt!
She lighted the lamp and rang the bell for Teresina, telling her to let
her know when Massimo returned. He was not back yet, the woman said. It
was with horror that she learned that the Signorina was determined to
go down to the park again that night. She begged and implored her not
to do so, and even threatened to speak, but a sharp scolding was the
only result, and she ended by consoling herself with the hope that this
would be the last time. The following morning she was to go to Schio.
From the drawer of her writing-desk Leila took a sealed letter that lay
there beside the one she had crushed in her hand on the evening of
Massimo's arrival.
"The usual thing," she said, handing it to the maid. It contained money
that Leila was sending to her father. She was in the habit of sending
it through Teresina and from Schio, fearing that some indiscretion
on the part of the postal officials of Velo d'Astico might reveal
her secret to Signor Marcello. Teresina delighted in this mark of
confidence which enabled her to rise somewhat from devotion towards
friendship. To-night's act of confidence helped her to start by slow
degrees a small rivulet of talk that, like the little rivulets in
nature, bend and twist amidst obstacles, and always find a way to the
great stream for which they are bound. She began cautiously by alluding
to the Signorina's very scanty wardrobe, and by saying she spent too
little on her clothes. Even the master had noticed this and reproached
her, Teresina, for it. But what could she do? She could only mention
it to the Signorina, and so now she had done so. Not extravagance,
certainly not. Too much dress would be out of place at the Montanina;
but she might dress more elegantly. The master thought she had better
get Donna Fedele to help her to choose a good dressmaker. It was true
Donna Fedele got her clothes in Turin, but Teresina was quite sure she
went only to some fourth-rate house. Leila, who got her clothes in
Vicenza, inquired whether Teresina could recommend a good dressmaker in
Schio, whereupon the maid protested. Was there not Milan? And which one
of Milan's great houses would the all-wise Teresina recommend? At this
point the rivulet could find no outlet, and formed a little pool. The
pool filled rapidly, and the rivulet presently began to trickle out on
one side.
"No, Signorina--I don't know anything about them," the woman at last
made answer. "But there are plenty of people who do."
"Now, who would be likely to know?"
This time the rivulet was forced to overflow.
"I suppose Signor Alberti must have some ladies in his family."
This speech formed a very waterfall!
"Let Signor Alberti alone!" exclaimed Leila.
It had been through no confidence on Donna Fedele's part, but rather
through a vague undercurrent in her remarks concerning the Signorina,
and through a new manner in Signor Marcello's speech and gesture that
the clever maid had recognised an unspoken support of the sentiments
she had early read in Massimo's expression. She did not know what to
make of the Signorina. At one moment she thought one thing, at the next
another, and now that she had thrown out the sounding-line, having
struck against something unresponsive, she tried again.
"I, Signorina!" said she. "I let him alone? I can see well enough the
master is wrapped up in that young man. It is a beautiful sight, I tell
you!"
Leila cut her short, and sent her to see if Massimo had returned. She
assured herself it was plain that Teresina would not have spoken as
she had done without having been prompted. Evidently she was in the
conspiracy also. "Ah, no, my friends! No, master fortune-hunter, no,
no, no!" She seized an old photograph of Signor Marcello that stood
upon the table and tore it across. Here was another bargainer like
Alberti, disloyal to a whole religion of memories in order that his
Montanina might not fall into the hands of her parents, or into other
similar hands. "No, Signor Marcello! Ah, no, all of you!" But where
was Teresina? Was it possible that Alberti had already returned, and
that the treacherous creature would not come to tell her in order to
prevent her going to the park? She stepped into the corridor in a state
of great irritation. It was nearly half-past eleven! She listened and
heard Teresina's step in the corridor below.
"Well?" She flung the question at her from above.
"Now, Signorina," the other answered softly. "This very minute."
* * * * *
A quarter of an hour later, feeling sure that Signor Marcello and
Alberti had gone to their rooms, Leila left the villa and the garden
and started towards the wooden gate that opens into the park from the
high-road just below the little church of Santa Maria ad Montes. With
fierce contempt in her heart for this man, who had come from Milan
with a fine plan for a rich marriage ready in his pocket, she said to
herself that, had her father and mother been upright people, she would
have taken refuge with one or other of them at this time. But she could
not live in the same house with her father's mistress, nor could she
allow her mother to support her on the old Austrian's money. A thought
came to her that had first attracted her when she was but fourteen, and
that had persistently haunted her ever since except during the time of
Andrea's courtship--the thought of escaping from the world. Yet this
morbid idea had never assumed the intensity of a purpose. Even on the
evening when she had closed the windows of her room, which was full of
lilies and tuberoses, she had not meant to do more than indulge her
delight in recklessly facing danger and risk. As a matter of fact, on
waking the next morning, with her limbs like lead, her brow tightly
clasped as by a band of iron, her nostrils, her mouth, and her throat
saturated with the acrid perfume, her first impulse had been to open
the window. Neither was she moved by any tragic purpose in visiting
the park to-night, although there was a pond in it that in some places
was more than two metres deep. She was satisfied with the knowledge
that there was a place of refuge for her should she wish to seek it.
Nevertheless, her hand trembled a little as she pushed open the small
gate and closed it behind her again. She advanced across the open space
to where giant trees guard the entrance to the kingdom of Silence. She
had trembled lest her step, light as it was, should be heard as she
came over the gravel of the garden paths and across the road. Now that
she was moving silently and like a spirit across the grass all sense
of fear left her, and that all-silent darkness seemed to offer her
protection. She listened to the murmur of streams in secret dells, or
in the mountains' open ravines; her foot sank often into soft, marshy
ground. There was a cool, still air, smelling of dampness, in the shady
hollows, but warm upon the sloping banks, and all alive with a wild
fragrance. She flung herself upon her back on one of these slopes,
as if overcome by all this warm sweetness. Night was indeed a tender
mother to all things, and their appealing influence filled Leila with
a sense of sweet fellowship with Nature. She lay without thinking,
revelling in vague yearnings, as at times in her own bed, when the
petals of flowers rained upon her hair and pillow. The voluptuous
spirit of the warm, fragrant earth took possession of her, and softened
the pride that held her back from love. She tore up a handful of grass
and bit it.
Presently she rose, though loth to leave the fragrant spot, and
wandered towards the long, dark avenue of horn-beams, whose entrance
glimmered faintly on her right. On her left the shadows were unbroken,
and rang with the noise of falling water. She turned this way, knowing
of a path that led from the avenue to some acacia-trees by the rivulet,
the same rivulet that splashes and sings farther on. She found the
path and paused among the acacias on the bank of the stream, which she
could hear but not see. Instinctively she began to undress herself,
at the invitation of that soft voice, then, awaking to a sense of
her actions, she dipped her hand in the water. It was cold. All the
better; it would do her the more good. And she went on undressing,
never heeding where she flung her garments, removing them all except
the last. She put her foot into the running water and shivered. She
tested the bottom--pebbles beneath a couple of feet of water. She put
her other foot in and, her heart gripped by the chill, let herself sink
slowly into the water with closed eyes and parted lips, uttering little
sighs the while. The water covered her with icy caresses and rippled
gently about her neck and heaving bosom. Other sweet voices sounded in
the air. Leila opened her eyes and raised herself in amazement. She
seemed clothed in light, which shone upon the trembling waters and
wrapped the banks and her clothes lying beneath the swaying, whispering
trees in a silver radiance. It was the rising of the moon, a mysterious
awakening of all things in the dead of night. Flowers were raining from
the acacias upon the stream and its banks. The girl pressed her folded
arms against her breast, and, under the gathering moonlight, amidst the
odours of the woods and the rain of flowers, some indefinable emotion
filled her heart with welling tears, which fell hot and silent into the
quivering water.
Presently she climbed the bank, dressed herself as best she could, and
then, with throbbing heart, with never a glance at the moon shining
amongst billowing clouds upon the brow of Monte Paù, fled back along
the same path and passed out at the wooden gate, feeling like a
castaway who suddenly finds himself safe. Teresina, who was waiting for
her beneath the little porch sheltering the entrance to the garden, and
who had been trembling with a thousand fears, received her with the
same sense of relief.
"Even you, Signorina, were frightened this time!" she said, seeing
Leila shudder, and being unaware of the dripping under-garment she wore.
"No, no!" said Leila; "but I shall not go there again."
II
At half-past seven the next morning Massimo was already at the Villino
delle Rose. He knew that Donna Fedele always rose at six, but this
morning she was still in bed, and the maid confided to him that her
mistress must be feeling very unwell indeed thus to break away from
her habit of early rising. Donna Fedele could bear much physical pain,
and hardly ever mentioned her sufferings, which were such as to alarm
any one who looked upon death less fearlessly than she did. But there
were times when she was unable to lead her usual life, which was one
of wonderful activity, taken up with the care of her house and her
roses, visits to the sick and the poor, correspondence, reading, and a
few lessons that she gave. She was training the gate-keeper's little
girl in composition and arithmetic, and teaching French to the Arsiero
doctor's daughter; for, notwithstanding her ill-health, she never
refused her aid to those who sought it.
She heard Massimo talking with the maid in the garden, and ringing
her bell, sent him word to wait a quarter of an hour for her, if his
patience would allow. Massimo understood the meaning she had intended
to convey by this phrase, "if his patience would allow," and she
entered the drawing-room presently with a smile that bore out the
playful allusion. She was pale, and there were black circles under her
big eyes, but she was in good spirits, and nothing about her suggested
suffering. Massimo began by excusing himself for having come at that
hour, but she checked him at once, saying, "Never mind that; never
mind!" Then the smile faded from her lips.
"And so he is gone?" she added.
Massimo replied that he believed so.
"Ah! then you were not with him when he started?"
"It was not possible for me to be."
Donna Fedele said nothing, but her silence and her face seemed to say,
"It ought to have been possible."
"I wished to go away with him," said he, "but he would not hear of it.
I am here this morning at his wish."
"I can quite understand that," Donna Fedele replied, somewhat coldly.
She would have liked Massimo to have stayed with Don Aurelio at any
cost up to the last. But, not knowing the circumstances, she refrained
from passing judgment on his action. She questioned him as to what the
fugitive had said and done during those last hours, and while Massimo
was talking kept repeating, "Poor Don Aurelio! Poor Don Aurelio!"
Massimo told her all he could.
"Now I hope they are satisfied," she said bitterly, rising from her
seat. She looked to see that the drawing-room doors were all closed,
and then returned to Massimo, saying: "I trust no one. We are living
in the realm of spies, to the greater honour and glory of honesty and
Christian charity!"
Then she immediately broached the delicate subject, excusing herself
for so doing. More tactful than Don Aurelio, she began by asking the
young man if she were mistaken in supposing that he was strongly
attracted by Signorina Leila, and upon his answer, she told him that
for the sake of the friendship between his mother and herself, and also
for his own sake after what Don Aurelio had told her about him, she
would gladly help him.
"As far as Signor Marcello is concerned, I hardly think you will need
my help," she said. "He sees that it would not be fair to the girl that
she should sacrifice her whole life, and besides, he is very, attached
to you. But how about Leila herself? I believe she cares for you, but
she is struggling with herself, partly, perhaps, because she wishes
to remain true to a memory, partly, perhaps, not to offend Signor
Marcello----"
Here Donna Fedele dropped her voice and continued, smiling:
"Perhaps because of some fancy, for you must see that your Leila is
just a little strange."
Massimo smiled also.
"Do you think so?" said he.
"Oh, yes, indeed!" Donna Fedele exclaimed, laughing outright. "And it
is partly for that reason you have fallen in love with her! I have
done the same, you see. She attracts me, being made much in the same
mould as myself--at least, according to what many people say of me,
the Velo priests among others, and the goldsmith at Arsiero, to whom
my gate-keeper took a gold coin last night, believing it to be false
because it did not ring true. What do you think the goldsmith said to
him? 'It is just like your mistress--it is good, but slightly cracked!'
They think my head is wrong, mainly because I am always going about
without a hat, but also because I keep a pluviometer and leave my
windows open at night. Even Carnesecca, who has left the 'den' at last,
told me that if the world called me mad, I might comfort myself with
the thought that it called him mad too! And now will you yourself set
me down as mad if I ask you a very bold question, my dear Alberti?"
"I shall only laugh," the young man replied, "and my worldly friends in
Milan would laugh even more heartily."
Donna Fedele sat looking at him affectionately for a time, speaking to
him with her eyes.
"In that case," said she at last, "I will see Leila this very day, and
try to find out how matters stand. Will that suit you?"
Massimo was profuse in his thanks, but his restless manner showed her
that he hoped she would start for the Montanina at once.
"I have ordered the carriage at half-past nine," she said, smiling. "Is
that early enough? And see what faith I am placing in the answer you
gave me a moment since, or rather, what faith I have in you yourself."
Massimo took her hand and raised it to his lips. She accepted his
homage laughingly, and then rose. She was expecting a pupil. Massimo
might come back for news about two o'clock. That was too late? Then he
might come to luncheon. She would tell them at the Montanina that she
had invited him. Meanwhile he could stay or go, as he pleased. If he
wished to read, the Villino had a small library. If he did not wish to
remain, he had four hours before him for a walk.
"Take a good long walk, one of those walks that refresh the soul."
Having given this piece of advice with her air of gentle raillery, she
held out her hand to her young friend. He begged her to have patience
with him a moment longer. Did she think the rumour of his supposed
intrigue in Milan had reached the Signorina's ears? Donna Fedele had
no reason to believe she had heard it. But who had spread this story?
Donna Fedele, by a virtuous effort, remained silent concerning the
Velo priests, and simply alluded to Leila's mother, without further
explanation, nor did Massimo venture to press her with questions.
Before leaving her, however, he wished her to know of Leila's antipathy
towards his Master--Benedetto. But she cut his explanation short,
demanding how that could affect matters. Ignorant alike of Modernism
and of Anti-modernism, content to believe and to live according to
the traditions of her family, Donna Fedele, knowing that both Leila
and Massimo were not irreligious, could not conceive of any religious
dissension between them. Yet certain words Leila had uttered had given
her the impression that the girl's faith sprang from habit rather
than from real conviction. It was just for this reason that she would
be glad to see her married to one who, like Alberti, was strong in
religious belief.
"How can that matter?" she said. "Love will change all that easily
enough. Besides, I do not suppose that you expect me also, simply
because I am very fond of you, to become an enthusiastic follower of
your Master. It seems to me that we need no other Master than the One
who has guided us now for some nineteen hundred years."
Massimo would have liked to reply to this, but Donna Fedele dismissed
him, saying: "Go now, go!" with her usual sweet smile, wherein there
was just a suspicion of irony.
Massimo took the road to the upper Val d'Astico, that led farthest
away from the Montanina. Passing the village of Barcarola, he left the
Pedescala bridge on his right, and went down through the fields to the
banks of the Astico, where for some time he watched the green water
flowing rapidly by, listening to its even murmur and to the beating of
his own heart. The sky was veiled with grey; the mountains that guard
the stream on either side, enveloped in heavy mists, looked like silent
cloaked mourners.
* * * * *
Shortly after nine o'clock Donna Fedele's unpretentious carriage was
slowly toiling upwards towards the Montanina. To her great surprise,
on turning in the direction of the candelabrum chestnut, she heard
the querulous tinkling of the bell of Santa Maria ad Montes. It was
always Don Aurelio who said Mass there, from time to time, on certain
festivals. Was it possible he had not started? Leaving her carriage
at the chestnut-tree, she went up to the little church on foot, and
entered. It was empty, but some one was moving in the sacristy.
On going to see who it was, she found herself face to face with
Don Emanuele. She could not check an exclamation of surprise, and
turned quickly away, while the chaplain sank on his knees upon the
prayer-stool, to prepare himself for the Mass. Presently the little
altar-boy told her that the Mass would be for the repose of the soul of
Signora Trento, this being the anniversary of her death. The priest's
preparation lasted a long time, and twice again the querulous little
bell tinkled. Donna Fedele, seated near the small stone holy-water
font with its frieze of "alpine-stars," reflected, not without some
pity, how difficult it would be for the poor chaplain to recover from
his unpleasant surprise. When she thought how furious he had made her,
she experienced a sense of remorse and humility. Amongst the leaves of
the mystic vine adorning the choir, she noticed the words of Christ:
"_Ego sum vitis, vos palmites_." The little demon of sarcasm that dwelt
in her brain took his revenge by suggesting to her that perhaps Don
Emanuele was an unfruitful tendril, but she despised herself for such
thoughts as these, coming to her in church, even while contemplating
the Lord's vine. "At least," she told herself, "the chaplain would
be a green tendril, while I am but a withered one." Signor Marcello
came in, and not having expected her to be there, thanked her by a
glance, believing she had come for the anniversary. Leila came in
behind him. Don Emanuele said Mass with all the gravity of an ascetic
and a prelate. Of the three participants Signor Marcello showed the
most devotion, and having put on his eye-glasses, stood reading the
"Imitation of Christ" from the beginning of Mass to the end, without
once sitting down. Leila was not praying, and her glance often wandered
through the little side-door to the green landscape of the Velo Park
and the bright strip of field between the chestnuts, that she had
crossed in the night. Donna Fedele glanced often and sadly at Signor
Marcello, who seemed to her to have grown even thinner, while his
face was worse than pale, it was yellow. She also studied Leila, who
looked dissatisfied and sullen. She could not help thinking of her
coming interview with this girl, and although she reproached herself
for her distraction, of poor Alberti's grief should Leila's answer be
a refusal, and of the mixed feelings of regret and satisfaction that
such an answer would bring to Signor Marcello. For Don Aurelio had told
her that Signor Marcello would certainly rejoice in her loyalty should
she refuse, but in the event of her consenting he would feel that in
Massimo Alberti he was regaining some part of his son, and that the
danger of Leila's falling again into her parents' power, or forming
some unfortunate union later on, would be definitely removed. The soft,
persistent murmur of the little fountain in the small vestibule behind
her soothed her melancholy; all this uncertainty would soon come to an
end, the interview would be a thing of the past, and its consequences,
whatever they might be, would pass away also; perhaps she herself
would soon be no more. She gave no further thought to anything but the
eternal words the priest was uttering. The quarter of an hour's drive
had sufficed to increase her suffering. During the Communion she was
obliged to sit down, and she felt that she looked like a dead woman.
The lad who was serving the Mass stared at her as he stood waiting with
the two flasks for the priest to present the chalice, and she smiled
inwardly on perceiving his look of amazement. When Mass was over, her
indomitable will helped her to rise and pass out by the side-door,
followed by Leila, while Signor Marcello remained behind a moment
longer. His profuse thanks embarrassed Donna Fedele, who, however,
concluded it would be wiser to accept them in silence.
"I came partly because I wanted a walk with Leila," said she. "And, as
I am here I should also like to ask you for some advice."
He seemed somewhat surprised.
"Certainly," he answered, "any advice I can give."
Whenever these two talked together there was a tone of respectful
affection in their voices; her voice was almost timidly affectionate.
While they were on the way up to the Villa, the little altar-boy came
to say that Don Emanuele could not come to take coffee, as he had an
engagement.
"I am the obstacle," thought Donna Fedele.
"And what do you think of the news about Don Aurelio?" said she.
Signor Marcello's frame was shaken by silent indignation, the lines on
his brow deepened, and his clear eyes flashed angrily.
Donna Fedele thought he must have heard the news from Massimo. No,
Alberti had not told him on his return from Lago, and he had gone out
very early that morning. Don Emanuele had brought the news. And how had
he brought it! He had simply come without sending any word, and Signor
Marcello to his intense astonishment had found the chaplain in the
sacristy, where he had expected to find Don Aurelio. Don Emanuele had
then said that the archpriest had ordered him to come as a substitute
for Don Aurelio. It had almost required a corkscrew to drag from him
the information that Don Aurelio had requested the archpriest to take
his place, that Don Aurelio was not ill, and that he had gone away,
leaving a letter in which he said that he recognised that it was his
duty to go. Donna Fedele's fine brow became overcast also, and a flash
of scorn lit up her great dark eyes. Leila knew, too, of what had
happened, for Signor Marcello had returned to the villa to tell her.
She now observed coldly that Don Aurelio had done quite right, and said
no more. A fleeting cloud passed over Donna Fedele's pale face. She
controlled herself, however, and taking the girl's arm, told her that
after a short talk with Signor Marcello, she was going to ask her to
show her that special corner of the Velo Park which she, Leila, had
often spoken of as being so beautiful. Leila consented coldly.
Signor Marcello asked whether Donna Fedele would prefer his study or a
garden-seat. She chose the study, and smiled, as if to tell him that
the advice she was seeking was of a delicate and personal nature. Once
there her face assumed a sweet seriousness which ennobled it with the
dignified beauty which is nearer to immortality than to youth, and
is the inheritance of years spent in doing good and guided by a pure
conscience.
"My dear friend," said she, addressing him thus for the first time
in her life, "if one to whom you were bound by ties of respect and
affection should charge you with a mission through a third person,
instructing you also through this person not to speak to him directly
concerning it, and you, having performed the mission, should find
it no longer possible to communicate with your friend through the
intermediary, would you appeal to him in spite of his first injunction,
or what would you do?"
While she was speaking very slowly and deliberately, Signor Marcello's
eyes brightened with a sad smile, for he recognised the instructions he
had given Don Aurelio.
"I was in the wrong," said he. "I suppose this walk----"
She nodded assent, and he went on:
"We must talk the matter over together. Forgive me!"
Donna Fedele protested warmly. His desire for secrecy was quite
natural. But Signor Marcello still persisted.
"No, no! Forgive me!"
There were no tears in her eyes, only her lids trembled slightly. It
was the first return, after long years, to an intimacy which, though it
had never overstepped the bounds of duty, was conscious, nevertheless,
of the sweet secret that each cherished. With the passing of time
the sweet secret had faded. Only its faint perfume remained, hardly
perceptible in his soul, but stronger in hers. But now, slowly but
irresistibly, the wave of memory was rolling backwards, bringing great
sweetness to Donna Fedele's heart and great sadness to Signor Marcello,
upon whose mind it was being borne that his was the fault that her
youth had faded without marriage, without maternity, and for one long
moment neither of them spoke.
Donna Fedele was the first to break the silence.
"I so thoroughly understand your feeling in this matter," said she.
Signor Marcello took her hand and pressed it, and she added softly:
"My poor friend!"
Still he was silent, and still he pressed her hand. But presently he
spoke with a fair amount of composure. He told her how the thought of
this marriage had first come to him. He had made Leila his heir, and on
the very night of Alberti's arrival, in the course of conversation, he
had sought to give her an inkling of this by speaking of the Montanina,
letting her see that the idea that this Montanina his dear ones had so
loved should pass into the hands of strangers would be most painful
to him. She had thwarted him. Knowing her character, he could only
suppose that pride had prompted this resistance to what might seem a
reward for the loyalty of her affection. Or perhaps she had acted thus
because she wished to be free to dispose of herself one day. All this
had deeply grieved him, and in recalling talks he had had in days gone
by with his poor wife, he had assured himself that the girl, who was
passionate by nature, would certainly end by marrying, and that it
would be wise for him to hasten this event that he might influence her
choice. The accident that had brought his son's dearest friend to the
Montanina had seemed to him truly providential, and immediately, indeed
the very next morning, he had taken Don Aurelio into his confidence.
"My first plan was," he concluded, "that you should ascertain Leila's
feelings. But now, I do not know why, I have grown very impatient.
And so please tell her straight out that should she consent to marry
Alberti, I should die happy."
"Do not speak of dying, dear friend!"
"We will not discuss that," replied the old man shortly.
She had wanted to question him about his health, but she no longer
dared to do so. She did venture, however, to point out to him that,
should Leila refuse to accept his legacy, the Montanina must go into
other hands, notwithstanding the marriage. He replied that as soon as
Leila and Alberti became engaged he would alter his will and leave the
villa to Alberti.
"Let us hope that all may end well," said Donna Fedele, rising and
smiling her own smile again. "Shall I find you here after my talk with
Leila?"
"Yes, you will find me here. I would wager now you are thinking, 'How
that old man clings to his home! How can he expect to hold it, in a
way, even after----'"
Donna Fedele checked him. "Don't, don't! Be quiet! Be quiet!"
She left the room. Signor Marcello took a Bible which always lay on his
table, and read the eighteenth chapter of the First Book of Kings, the
chapter of the "knitting together" of the souls of Jonathan and David.
As a child he had wept over the fate of the noble prince Jonathan, who
had been his favourite hero. Once more he read that vivid, dramatic
story, and reflected that Jonathan, falling in Mount Gilboa, must have
rejoiced in the thought that henceforth his friend would sit upon the
throne to which he himself had been born.
* * * * *
In the drawing-room Donna Fedele found Leila waiting, reclining in an
easy-chair, her parasol in her hand.
"Are we really going?" said she.
Donna Fedele seemed to hear in that question all the sarcasm of one who
has discovered what others are seeking to hide, and would fain publish
the discovery. Leila's voice and her eyes both said: "This walk is
a pretext. You are here to talk to me. You have just consulted Papa
on this same subject, and perhaps now the talk with me is no longer
necessary."
"Of course. Why do you ask?"
"Because," said Leila, rising from her chair, but lingering near it,
"it seems to me you cannot really want a walk. If you could only see
how pale you are! Look in the glass. If you have something to tell me,
you can say it here."
Her tone, not her language, was rude.
"Yes, dear," Donna Fedele answered with a note of icy command, "I have
something to tell you, but not here."
Leila started without a word.
"On the present occasion I have Signor Marcello's authority to speak
to you," Donna Fedele added very gently, tempering the pressure of her
command. Leila now had no further doubt concerning the existence of a
plot in which her friend had a part. Massimo's absence, Donna Fedele's
determination to speak to her in a secluded spot, confirmed her
suspicion that Donna Fedele was charged with a mission from Massimo,
and was acting with Signor Marcello's consent, a consent which she had
perhaps wrested from him but a moment since. She resented all this
ardour for the sake of Massimo, and the moral force that she imagined
to have been used against Signor Marcello. Frowning and in silence she
went down the garden path in front of her companion, who could not
keep up with her, and was obliged to ask her to go more slowly. Leila
pointed to a garden-seat beneath the walnuts, near the Riderella. Would
not that do? To her blunt question Donna Fedele replied with equal
bluntness:
"No, dear."
Leila said no more. The two women entered the park by the wooden gate.
"How beautiful!" said Donna Fedele.
Leila pouted contemptuously. How could she say "How beautiful!" when
they had only just passed the gate? The view was just the same from the
high-road. After all, Donna Fedele might be very clever, but she had
little feeling for Nature.
Leila walked on, and following a rough grass track, turned to the
right between the chestnuts and a small stream that flowed through the
narrow valley. A little farther on the track lost itself in a flowery
meadow-land between high, shady banks. Donna Fedele sat down here in
the shade of the walnuts and rested a little, gazing thoughtfully into
the dark waters. Presently she turned to Leila, who was still standing,
and tracing figures in the grass with the point of her parasol, saying
gently:
"Do you know what Signor Marcello spoke to me about?"
"Perhaps I do," said Leila, still tracing.
"That is good. What was it?"
"I shall not say."
"I can quite understand your not wishing to," said Donna Fedele
indulgently. "It is a very delicate and personal question. All the
same, it is much better to discuss it. In any case, you have expressed
your wishes and no one can coerce you."
"My wishes?" Leila cried with a start. "My wishes?"
"Well, did you not tell Signor Marcello you would never consent to be
his heir?"
Leila's hostile and unwilling manner suddenly changed, and she stopped
tracing with the point of her parasol.
"We discussed that and other matters as well. I want to talk to you
about that now. Sit down, and don't make me twist my neck."
"It will be of no use," the girl said impatiently.
"Perhaps not, but nevertheless you must listen to me. Why are you
determined to make this poor old man so unhappy?"
"Because I am willing to sacrifice everything to him except my
self-respect."
Donna Fedele raised her voice somewhat and smiled, to show that she did
not take this rude remark seriously.
"Do you think I would advise anything that could wound your
self-respect?"
Leila answered sharply, and with downcast eyes:
"You see things in one light, and I in another."
Then she cast a glance at Donna Fedele, as if to say, "It is your turn
now. What answer have you to that?"
Donna Fedele made no answer at all. She waited a moment and then played
her second card.
"And when Signor Marcello is gone, what will become of his son's
affianced bride?"
"Perhaps she herself may be gone too," the girl retorted promptly.
Donna Fedele was unmoved. "Perhaps," said she. "But if she should still
be here?"
Leila played among the grasses with her parasol for an instant, and
then said:
"It will be soon enough to think of that then."
"Child, child!"
"No, woman!" cried Leila. "And I thought you would understand me
better!"
As she spoke her eyes filled with tears, and Donna Fedele longed to
tell her that she did indeed understand her only too well, but checked
herself in order not to spoil her plan of action.
"Think of your future, dear," she said gently.
"I cannot decide my future," Leila answered calmly.
Then Donna Fedele took the third step.
"Don't you see that all this is a source of anxiety to Signor Marcello?"
Silence.
"It is such a great anxiety to him," Donna Fedele went on, "that if he
could only see you settled, and that at once, he would be quite happy."
The word "settled" was a mistake. Leila felt hot with resentment and
cold at the same moment.
"Ah!" she cried. "And so he wishes to see me settled. That is just what
I thought. And the means by which I am to be settled, by a strange
coincidence, happens to be ready to hand!"
The point of the sunshade jabbed the grass fiercely.
Donna Fedele felt very angry. She raised her eyebrows and gazed
severely and narrowly at her companion, who was still stabbing the
ground restlessly.
"What do you mean by that?"
Leila in her turn, threw her a nervous glance, and then brought her
attention back again to the parasol.
"Oh, you know well enough!" said she. "A strange coincidence has
provided the means of settling me. By a strange coincidence also, some
one who should have gone to Lago came to the Montanina. By another
strange coincidence this some one is a young man, unmarried, and
seeking to get settled too. He is fairly clever at speculating, and
knows how to play his cards. A series of strange coincidences--nothing
more!"
Donna Fedele's eyebrows went up higher than ever, and her voice, which
had been trembling, now sounded icy.
"Do you know that you are also insulting me?"
The point of the parasol stopped tracing.
"No, I am not insulting you. I am only insulting him--that man who came
so accidentally. You, perhaps, really believe he came by chance."
"Poor Leila!" sighed Donna Fedele, without anger and with deep pity.
"Oh, no, no!" said Leila softly. "It is not 'poor Leila!' at all."
After this both remained silent for a time, and sat gazing into the
water that was flowing onwards with a mournful lament. At last Donna
Fedele repeated:
"Yes. Poor Leila! And you do not know why I say so. It is because I can
read your heart."
"You cannot read my heart."
Donna Fedele felt that this denial was an admission. She waited a
moment longer, and then, with an air of determination, asked the girl
if she had heard any slander concerning Alberti.
"What do you think I could have heard?" she answered scornfully. "And
in any case do you suppose I should care?"
This time Donna Fedele could not contain herself.
"Oh, but you do care! How can you deny it in the face of your anger
which has been aroused simply because you believe the stupid calumny
that he is on the look-out for a fortune?" And the poor invalid rose,
not without difficulty.
"That concerns me!" Leila exclaimed, forgetting for an instant to help
her friend. She quickly begged her pardon, however, and offered to
fetch the little carriage that had gone up to the Montanina stables.
Donna Fedele made an effort to do without it, but when she had taken
a few steps she was obliged to admit, with her brave smile, that she
could not manage to walk. She must see Signor Marcello, and so Leila
went on to send her carriage for her.
* * * * *
Signor Marcello came anxiously to the door of his study to meet Donna
Fedele. She entered the room quietly, saying the conversation had not
been satisfactory, but she believed that, by careful management, they
might still succeed. Signor Marcello immediately inquired, with a
gentle and pathetic expectancy, if Leila's old love still burned too
warmly in her heart. Donna Fedele held out her hand to him, but did not
answer. He held it without pressing it, for he feared a disappointing
answer. Silence alone spoke between them.
"Then, if that is so----" said he at last.
Donna Fedele told him that Leila's attitude in the drawing-room had
indicated that she was not only antagonistic, but also overwhelmed with
suspicion, how she herself had then changed her plan in order not to
risk definite failure, how she had spoken of Alberti and found the girl
fierce against him, so fierce that her violence could only be explained
by conflicting sentiments. Leila was convinced that he had come to Velo
for the express purpose of arranging a rich marriage for himself. If
they could persuade her that this was untrue, they might still carry
the day. But of course great prudence was necessary. Signor Marcello
begged her to advise him. The only advice she could offer, however, was
that he should no longer detain Alberti at the Montanina, nor even seek
to persuade him to remain, for she had no doubt he would wish to leave
at once. At this point she deemed it prudent to tell Signor Marcello
of the interview she had had with the young man, who was now awaiting
her return. Then, almost timidly, and with her sweetest smile, she
proffered her help in the delicate and difficult task that lay before
them.
"It is only natural that I should wish to help. Don't you see that,
dear friend?" she said, realising his gratitude. They parted without
more words, but with a long handclasp.
* * * * *
On reaching the Villino, Donna Fedele found that Massimo had not yet
returned, nor did he appear until nearly noon. At the gate he met the
maid, who informed him that her mistress had returned at half-past
eleven, but had forgotten to leave word at the Montanina that he
would not be there to lunch, and had therefore dispatched her with
a message. While walking up the short drive Massimo reflected, with
alternate waves of despair and of hope, first, that the news must be
unfavourable, because if all had gone well Donna Fedele, instead of
sending a message, would surely have sent him off to the Montanina
instead; then, that the news must be favourable, because if all had
not gone well, she would probably not have forgotten to mention his
absence. The maid had smiled at him; this was a good sign, but Donna
Fedele did not come out to meet him, and that was a bad sign.
As a matter of fact she did come to meet him, but only as far as the
verandah that ran in front of the villa. She had seen him at the gate
and now met him here, neither in the house nor really out of doors,
neither smiling nor downcast. He read his fate upon her face, and
murmured quickly:
"I knew!"
She did not at once speak the words of comfort of which her heart was
full, but simply held out her hands to him, and although he tried to
appear composed, she saw him turn so pale that she felt she must give
him some encouragement.
"I cannot deny that things do not look very bright," she said, "but
perhaps they may not be so bad, after all. I will tell you all about
it. Come with me." And her familiar smile once more illumined her
face. When they were seated in the little study on the ground-floor,
she related all the particulars of her interview with Leila, omitting
nothing and hiding nothing. Her words were like so many lashes to him,
but he listened without flinching.
"Very well," said he, when his friend ceased speaking. "After all, the
girl is only very silly!" As he spoke his face flushed hotly with all
the anger he had held in check.
"She is not silly," Donna Fedele retorted. "But I am afraid she was
insincere with me. I really fear some one has been talking to her
about that intrigue you were supposed to have had in Milan. But I have
another idea also."
Massimo did not ask her what it was. At that moment he felt he was no
longer in love. His one desire was to get away, and never to return. He
regretted having thought, even for a day, of abandoning the field of
strife for Truth and Righteousness, and of yielding to a great love.
He said to himself that he was grateful to this girl's petty, foolish
pride, which was setting him free again. He rose to his feet, and to
Donna Fedele he seemed to have grown taller by several inches.
"You don't ask what my idea is," said she.
"I was to have telegraphed to Don Aurelio," Massimo replied. "But I
will go to him instead."
"You don't ask what I think," his friend repeated, raising her voice
and emphasising her words. "Well, what is this idea?" he demanded, more
to satisfy her than from any curiosity he felt. Thereupon, with some
hesitation, she gave him her impression of Leila's feelings. Massimo
showed himself bitterly incredulous. During luncheon he hardly spoke,
nor did he eat. His friend having mentioned Don Aurelio, he remarked
that he should see him that very evening. They took their coffee in the
verandah.
"I think you are wise to leave at once, at all events," Donna Fedele
whispered when the maid had withdrawn. "But you must not judge Leila
so hastily. Let me get to the bottom of things first. I will keep you
posted."
Massimo replied that he was sorry he had called the Signorina "silly,"
but that it was no use thinking any more about her. So slight a thing
as the affected mispronunciation of a word had once sufficed to cure
him of his attachment to another girl, and between Signorina Leila
and himself there was a lack of sympathy in outlook that was far more
serious than any lack of sympathy in culture.
"Could I not leave at once?" he demanded suddenly, looking at his
watch. There was a train at two thirty-seven. Might he not send Signor
Marcello a line, saying he had been unexpectedly summoned to Milan, and
to beg him to forward his luggage?
Donna Fedele protested. On the contrary, he must go to the Montanina
immediately, and say that when Don Aurelio had confided to him his
intention of going away, his first impulse had been not to allow him
to go alone, but that his friend had requested him to remain and do
several things for him after his departure. At this point Massimo broke
in. Certainly! And this was no pretext, but the truth. And to think he
had forgotten! He must go to Sant' Ubaldo at all costs. He could not
possibly leave before six o'clock.
"Go up to Sant' Ubaldo and talk to Lúzia," said Donna Fedele. "As to
the books, I will arrange to have them brought here, and the furniture
also. You will see--sooner or later you will return to these parts,
and then certain proprieties will make it impossible for you to stay at
the Montanina, and you will put up at the Villino delle Rose!"
She smiled as she spoke, and the young man saw she was alluding to a
local custom that forbade a betrothed couple to dwell under the same
roof. "No, no!" said he. The lady laughed outright.
"How is that? Don't you wish to come to me? Are you afraid of
compromising me?"
"You know what I mean!" the young man said. "You know what I mean!" And
he took a hasty leave, even forgetting his hat, which the maid brought
after him to the garden, while Donna Fedele's silvery laugh echoed
behind her.
* * * * *
After the unpleasant interview Leila took refuge in the gallery at
the head of the stairs leading from the drawing-room, and remained
there, watching to see when Donna Fedele would leave Signor Marcello's
study. Sooner than she had expected she heard Donna Fedele open the
door between the billiard-room and the salon, and saw her enter and
glance about her as if looking for some one. Leila drew back to
avoid being seen, dreading to be summoned, and remained quiet until
the tinkling of the bell above the door told that Donna Fedele had
gone away without asking for her. And so it was all over. They would
not worry her any more. But still she was not satisfied. A sense of
weariness and discomfort in all that she tried to do had taken the
place of her previous irritation. Until an hour ago she had delighted
in contemplating herself in the attitude of repelling love by pride, as
by pride she had repelled riches. And now a cruel doubt was torturing
her. What if, after all, there had been no plot, and Alberti had really
come to the Montanina by chance? But in any case she was bound to
despise him for not having spoken openly to her, and in thinking of
him as a fool she thought she had struck a fatal blow at the passion
of which she was ashamed. She determined to go to Lago to distract her
thoughts, and hear what they were saying there about Don Aurelio's
flight. Thinking she might meet Alberti if she went by the usual road,
she took the path under the chestnuts, and sank upon the first seat she
came to, trying to quiet her restlessness by listening to the murmur of
the wind, and by watching the breeze swaying the long meadow grass. And
at last dreams conquered. _He_ came upon her unawares in the Velo Park
at night, amidst the whispering of the wind, in the wavering moonlight,
beneath the fragrant rain of blossoms from the acacias. He flung his
arm about her, drew her towards him, and pressed his lips to hers, and
then the vision suddenly faded.
The luncheon-bell roused her to a sense of painful reality. At the
entrance to the villa she met the maid who had come with Donna Fedele's
message. At this moment of reaction against the mockery of her dream
the message was a welcome one. She found Signor Marcello already at the
table, and wearing an expression that promised nothing pleasant. His
greeting was of the slightest, and his manner made her blood boil, for
she attributed it to her persistent refusal to become his heir rather
than to the other and true reason. Why should he try to force upon her
what he might think a great favour, but for which she had no desire?
She was obstinately silent. Signor Marcello was the first to relent,
although the thought of the girl's having told Donna Fedele that her
self-respect forbade her acceptance of his fortune still rankled.
Such a remark betokened much pride and little affection, the old man
had reflected. He observed presently, however, in a fairly mild tone,
that she had eaten nothing. Leila could hardly bear this display of
tenderness, which always followed any outburst of displeasure on his
part. As soon as she had had her coffee she withdrew, that she might
hide the tears which were ready to fall, though she could not have
explained exactly what prompted them.
A moment later Signor Marcello rose and went into the drawing-room,
where he hoped to find Leila. He stood still for a moment, listening
for a voice or a step, but he heard no sound. Then he sat down sadly
at the piano and began to play. Leila, who was standing in the upper
gallery, gazing fixedly upon the steep, green slope, crowned with
chestnut-trees, recognised the air by Pergolese on which he had
engrafted his own fancies during the night that had followed his fit of
unconsciousness. And once again those sensitive fingers were touching
the keys in an inimitable fashion, pouring into them all the bitterness
of a lonely old man, who had lost everything on earth, and who now
felt the icy breath of opposition. She forgave him his black looks at
luncheon, and came down slowly and noiselessly to the drawing-room, and
sat down near the piano, where Signor Marcello would be sure to see
her. He did so immediately and at once stopped playing. She wanted to
say, "Go on," but pride held back the words. He stretched out his hand
to a music-stand, drew forth a piece at random, placed it open upon
the rest, and then sat gazing silently at it, instinctively waiting
for a word from her. This time Leila could not avoid murmuring, "What
is it?" and so reconciliation began. Signor Marcello turned to replace
the piece of music, which was a manuscript copy of an air from that old
comic opera called "Le Prigioni di Edimburgo," in the stand, but Leila
insisted upon his playing it, believing her request would please him.
He began to play, in a happier frame of mind, while Leila sat listening
to the music, to which both were utterly indifferent. But soon he flung
the manuscript aside, and placing a large volume of Clementi upon
the rest, turned to a page that was thickly strewn with pencil-marks.
Leila knew the volume, but not this particular page. Signor Marcello
leaned forward, his large hands, their fingers crooked like the talons
of a hawk, resting upon the keys, his eyes fixed upon the music, and
his whole face wrinkled and quivering with the effort of reading and
interpretation. He surpassed himself. When he had finished Leila
expressed her preference for Clementi, and took the volume into her
hands.
"Poor Clementi!" said Signor Marcello. "Who knows where he will end!"
She did not understand at once.
"Where do you suppose he will end?" she questioned.
"Oh, probably in some old book-shop."
She had not the courage to say that even if she could not accept his
wealth she would gladly take the book.
"Ah, dear Lord!" sighed the disheartened old man, straightening his
shoulders and pressing his face into his hands. Leila, overcome with
pity for him, tried to find something to say that should soften the
bitterness of her refusal. Each would have gladly welcomed a word of
affection from the other, and yet both were silent--she standing,
examining the volume of Clementi, he sitting, with his eyes fixed on
the empty music-rest and his hands lying motionless upon his knees.
Finally, Signor Marcello rose, saying, in a tone of tender melancholy,
"Goodbye, dear," and moved on his way to his study. Leila, who was
absorbed in the confusion and turmoil of her own feelings, did not at
once respond to this exceptionally tender greeting. She roused herself,
however, with a start, and softly followed the old man to the door,
whispering, "Papa!" And when he turned round in astonishment, she
raised her face to his for a kiss.
He kissed her brow gently, his face lighting with satisfaction, and
took her hand, saying, "Come with me, dear." She saw that her action
had been interpreted as a first sign of yielding to his wishes and
hesitated, but presently followed him with beating heart.
They passed into the billiard-room. He closed the door behind her, and
then, returning to where she stood, placed both hands upon her head and
said, smiling, while his eyes were wet with tears:
"Were you thinking of Andrea?"
At the moment she did not realise the true meaning of this question,
and answered, without thinking:
"Yes, Papa."
Then she trembled lest she had brought about a misunderstanding, and
also with the emotion of hearing him speak of Andrea.
"God bless you!" said the old man.
She shuddered. Why did he bless her? She longed for him to explain his
words, but it was impossible to say anything. The old man had not been
moved to bless her through any misunderstanding, but only by her gentle
and affectionate action, which always sufficed to make him forget any
displeasure. At the bottom of his heart, indeed, the hope was growing
that the prayers of one who was no more might persuade Leila to desist
from her refusal.
"Goodbye," he repeated. Then, seeing her indecision whether to go or
to stay, whether to speak or remain silent, he yielded to an impulse
and took her hands again, saying, with a smile: "I saw Signora Vayla
after you had a talk together. I want you to know that it was I who
thought of a certain plan when a certain person came here, and it was
only because I did not want to sacrifice you to my own selfishness.
I believed that Andrea himself would approve. But if it be indeed no
sacrifice for you to remain as you are, I can but rejoice in the
thought."
Leila did not answer, and appeared unwilling to understand. Her silence
made Signor Marcello regret he had spoken with such openness. But now
he could not unsay his words.
"Go out and get some air," said he. "You should go up to Lago and see
what is going on there, now that Don Aurelio has gone."
* * * * *
She had no desire to go out. She would have preferred to shut herself
up in her own room and think over Signor Marcello's words, but she
dared not give way to the idea. It would be better to walk to Lago.
Through the open verandah she passed into the garden, trying to fix
her mind upon Don Aurelio's flight, and what the people of Lago were
saying. But the very trees she passed seemed to be reminding her of
those thoughts from which she shrank. She began walking faster to
escape their silent scrutiny, but on the up-hill road, where she was
obliged to go more slowly, the great, spreading chestnut-trees renewed
the tyranny and hung over her in compassionate lament.
Defiant, she hurried on; yet a sob quivered in her throat, and she
shook with a strange impulse on passing the footpath leading to the
small lake whose waters lay quiet and clear in the shadows of a group
of horn-beams.
No one was to be seen among the huts of Lago, but an old woman was
drawing water at the fountain in the square. Leila questioned her. Was
it really true that Don Aurelio had fled? Gèsu! of course it was true!
And what did they say about it up here? "I tell you, Siora, they are
all up at Sant' Ubaldo, making a great to-do. They say they are going
to do for the archpriest. You go up, Siora, you go up, too! That young
gentleman who is staying with you has been talking to them. You go up
and talk to them also. You had better go!"
Leila, very pale, stared vacantly at the old woman, wondering whether
she should not turn back again.
"Go up! Go up, too!" the other repeated. And Leila felt ashamed at
having shown any hesitation. She fancied that she must have given
herself away.
"Yes, yes!" she exclaimed. "Of course I am going."
She took the Sant' Ubaldo path, and at a short distance from the
carriage-road that leads down to Velo she met two women and a man, who
were talking quietly as they walked. "They are all in the wrong," the
man was saying--"the priest who ran away like a thief, the archpriest
who was bound to get rid of him because he was a good Christian, and
the women who will not go to church nor receive the sacraments because
the young priest is no longer there."
"That is so," said one of the women approvingly. Then she greeted Leila
respectfully.
Leila stopped them. What had happened? The Lago priest had run away,
and the women of the village were furious with the archpriest and the
bishop also; they had assembled and, together with a few men, had sworn
that they would not enter the church again, neither on Sundays nor at
Easter, neither for baptism nor for marriage, until their priest's
return. A gentleman, a fine, handsome young gentleman, had addressed
them wisely and like a good Christian, but had not succeeded in
convincing them. The women had also written some words on the doors of
the church. And what were they about now? Now they had all dispersed,
having arranged to reassemble in the evening. And the young gentleman?
He was gone also. "Your servant, your servant, your servant!" and the
trio started onward again, leaving Leila to proceed alone. There was no
one near the church. She stopped to read what was written on the low
side door: "Closed until Don _Urelio_ returns."
She heard steps behind her, and looked round to see Alberti and Lúzia
bringing a basin of water and a sponge.
Before Leila caught sight of Massimo he had had time to adopt a
manner of calm, courteous indifference. He had done all he could to
pacify the turbulent people of Lago. He had sought to exculpate the
archpriest and the bishop by declaring that they had evidently been
misled by slanderous stories. He had tried in every way to make the
people see that by refusing to go to church they would not only be
grieving Don Aurelio most deeply, but injuring him with his superiors,
for the latter would not fail to say, "What sort of religion has this
priest been teaching?" Then he had spoken of the Blessed Sacrament, to
which more worship and respect was due than to any priest. He had not
succeeded in convincing them, but his conscience was at rest, for he
had risen above rancour and resentment, as Don Aurelio himself would
have done. And this conquest over self filled him with a great calm
that did not desert him even in Leila's presence. He felt himself out
of the reach of her unjust prejudices, more firm in his new resolve to
look upon the time when love had overcome him as a time of weakness,
more determined to stifle a passion that clashed with his self-respect,
to keep himself for some other woman who should be more in sympathy
with him.
"Good afternoon, Signorina," he said, smiling. "I failed to achieve my
purpose in words, and now I am going to see if a sponge will serve me
better."
He fell to rubbing the writing vigorously. Leila, who was very pale,
asked who had written the words, as if she knew nothing of what had
taken place. Massimo flung the sponge into the basin and related
everything with the utmost composure. Leila thought at first that
Donna Fedele could not have told him of their interview, but it
presently struck her that his easy manner was too unlike his usual
bearing and was not natural. Meanwhile, a peasant who had come from
Masa, catching sight of the basin and sponge, and of the use to which
they had been put, paused, and, smiling derisively, advised Massimo to
desist, else he might find that trouble was in store for him.
"From what quarter? From you?" Massimo demanded resolutely. The man
was somewhat taken aback, and mumbling, "Ah, no, Signore!" walked off,
still muttering under his breath.
"Signorina," said Massimo, in the same indifferent tone as that in
which he had first addressed her, "are you going on or returning home?"
Leila looked at him in astonishment.
"I must stay here a little longer," he said, reading in her face that
she dreaded he might offer to accompany her. A clap of thunder burst
from the heavy clouds hanging over Priaforà. There was no immediate
fear of rain, for the countryside beyond the foot of the mountain lay
in sunshine, and the points of Summano, flushed with a golden glory,
stood out against a clear sky. But the clap of thunder helped Leila out
of her dilemma.
"I shall go home," she said.
"In that case," Massimo replied, "may I ask you to tell Signor Marcello
that I must start for Vicenza, on my way, possibly, to Milan, by the
six o'clock train. I have one or two things to do here for Don Aurelio;
then I shall come down and say goodbye."
He raised his hat.
"I will not offer you my hand," he added. "It is unfit."
Leila started violently.
"I mean that my hand is too dirty!"
The young man smiled, and exhibited the hand that had held the sponge.
Leila responded only by the slightest of bows, and took the short cut
that leads straight downwards from the church. She could have cried
with mortification, for she was sure he had meant to be sarcastic, and
she was, moreover, furious with herself for having so readily shown
her susceptibility to the sarcasm. At Lago she met Teresina, who had
been sent by the master to meet Leila and bring her the key to the
Velo Park, in case she might like to come back that way and gather
some flowers for the dinner-table. But Leila preferred to go straight
home. She did not allude to Alberti's departure, which he had requested
her to announce; but the maid did so, however, in a very guarded
manner, giving it as her opinion that, in consequence of Don Aurelio's
absence, Signor Massimo would cut short his visit at the Montanina.
Upon learning that he was to leave that same evening, she gave an
exclamation of relief, and, making an excuse that she really must know
about his departure, because of some clothes the young man had sent
to the wash, she inquired whether Signor Marcello would not try to
induce him to stay longer. "Oh, no, no!" Leila exclaimed, with so much
assurance that the maid was emboldened to speak out.
"Well, I am glad of that!" she said. Leila remained silent, but
the woman's ejaculation struck her as very strange, for heretofore
Teresina had been in the habit of speaking of Alberti in a tone of
poetic admiration. Teresina, indeed, was only waiting for a word
of astonishment or a question, but as Leila showed no intention of
breaking the silence, she decided to proceed with her explanation.
She remarked with a smile that she had that morning heard fine things
concerning Signor Alberti. She had gone down to the station with
the cook, who was on her way to the market at Arsiero, and the cook
had repeated to her what the servant of Signora Bettina Pagan, the
archpriest's sister-in-law, had told her. They knew all about this
Signor Alberti up at the parsonage of Velo. They knew that, although
he went to church, he was really much worse than Carnesecca as regards
religion. And, moreover, he led an evil life with a married woman in
Milan. "Indeed!" said Leila, with perfect indifference; and not another
word did she utter. The maid, somewhat dismayed by this silence,
hastened to proffer her excuses for having spoken of what did not
concern her. A shrug of the shoulders was Leila's only answer. At that
moment they turned in at the Montanina gate. The maid said no more,
and went about her business. Leila stopped, and, leaning against the
handrail of the Riderella bridge, gazed into the water, her heart torn
between bitter pain and satisfaction. "He is unworthy, then! He is
unworthy!" she repeated monotonously to herself, standing there like
one turned to stone, while on either side the long, straggling branches
of the rose-bushes pressed clusters of red roses against her, and the
breeze, laden with the scent of new-mown hay, touched her softly,
urging her to listen to the seductive voices of the flowers. "There is
still love," they were saying. "There is still life!" But she neither
saw nor heard them. For her the future held no love, no life.
* * * * *
Signor Marcello received the news of Massimo's proposed departure with
apparent satisfaction. Leila reflected that he would be still better
pleased did he but know what the Velo priests had learned. It seemed
to her that by telling it she would more thoroughly confirm her own
belief in it, but when the moment came to speak a forbidding voice
vibrated deep within her. She spoke notwithstanding, her face aflame,
but felt as she did so that she was doing wrong, very wrong. Signor
Marcello listened with a frown, and when she had finished he observed
that the priests of Velo would have done better to keep such things
to themselves, and that he did not believe a word of the story. What
could those men know about it? But, he added, things being as they
were, it was useless to discuss the matter. On leaving the study, Leila
crossed the drawing-room, and glancing at the easy-chair in which she
had sat waiting, parasol in hand, but a few hours since, she thought
of Donna Fedele, and then suddenly remembered a phrase of hers she had
forgotten: "They have been telling you something evil...." And the
voice deep within her said, "Donna Fedele knows of this story, and does
not believe it."
* * * * *
Alberti returned to the Montanina towards four o'clock, and found a
telegram from Don Aurelio awaiting him, which said that the priest
was starting for Milan. There was also a letter from a Milanese
friend, which he saw was too long and not sufficiently important to
demand immediate attention, as he was pressed for time. He packed his
portmanteaux and then went down to the drawing-room. There was no one
there. He glanced at the piano and thought of the pansy that had fallen
from Leila's belt and of the music of the "Aveu." Then, suddenly, he
imagined himself holding in his arms the woman concerning whom he had
been so deceived; but quickly and by a strong effort of his will he
recalled his angry contempt for her.
"And so you are really going?" the old man said, with an embarrassment
the meaning of which Massimo could not wholly grasp.
"I am really going," he replied. He showed Don Aurelio's telegram, and
said that, although the priest had a friend in Milan, he himself wished
to be there, at least during these first days, to give him all the
help he could. When he came to the conventional expression of thanks,
he declared that his gratitude to Signor Marcello was very great, and
not for his hospitality alone. Here he paused, his emotion getting the
better of him.
Signor Marcello, himself deeply moved, would have been willing to
swear, at this moment, that the Velo priests were either mistaken or
had lied. He longed to say, "Come back soon!" but restrained himself,
and begged the young man to write and give him frequent news of himself
and of Don Aurelio. When Massimo looked at his watch and rose to go,
Signor Marcello rose also and followed him into the hall, arranging for
his luggage to be carried to the station. Then he kissed him twice.
"Once for _him_," he said, "and once for myself!"
"I hope you believe I am not unworthy of this," the young man whispered.
The answer came with a ring of conviction that startled him, so charged
was it with hidden meaning.
"I believe you."
Massimo had already placed his hand upon the handle of the door above
which hung the bell, but he hesitated before opening it.
"Do you wish to say goodbye to Leila?" Signor Marcello asked.
"If I might," Massimo answered, bowing slightly.
Leila was sent for, but she had gone out, taking the key of the little
church with her.
"Then you will see her in passing," said Signor Marcello, and silently
gave up the idea of walking with Massimo as far as the church. The
young man went down alone, asking himself whether to enter the chapel
or to pass on, as it was plain the Signorina wished to avoid seeing
him. On reaching the porch he paused, still hesitating.
Leila recognised his step, and on hearing him pause guessed his
indecision. Rising from her knees, she also stood hesitating whether
to remain where she was or to go out and meet him. She hoped he would
pass on, but presently both arrived at the same conclusion, that it
would be best to act with complete indifference. And so it came about
that she started to leave the church and he to enter it. They met upon
the threshold.
"You are going?" she said, without offering him her hand. "I wish you a
pleasant journey and _au revoir_!"
"We shall hardly meet again," Massimo suggested, smiling. "But I shall
never forget the days I have spent under your roof."
"My roof! Oh, no!" Leila broke in.
"And I wish you all possible happiness for long years to come," he went
on, disregarding her interruption. "I do so from my heart, Signorina."
"Thank you," said Leila.
Massimo bowed, and walked quickly away, glad to have shown himself less
embarrassed and more haughty than the girl herself, to have spoken as
if he should never see her again, and as if this thought did not affect
him at all.
III
Leila had gone to the church in order to avoid, if possible, taking
leave of Alberti. Their short interview left her dissatisfied with
herself, as usual, and she chafed at the tone of almost contemptuous
indifference he had so successfully assumed. She twisted her own
meaning into it. It was the tone of one, she thought, who had witnessed
the defeat of his plan rather than of one who had been disappointed in
love. Instead of returning to the house she followed the path along the
Riderella and presently sank upon a rustic seat under the walnut-trees.
She was mortally weary, and sat listening half unconsciously and with
an aching heart to the small, soft voice of the little waterfall close
by. Teresina had brought her a letter from her father, whose habit it
was to address his letters to the maid, "Teresina Scotz, Post-office,
Schio." She had already, read the letter, and had put it in her belt,
intending to throw it into the Riderella, but she had forgotten its
contents, and so proceeded to read it over again. It contained but a
few lines. Her father inquired if the preceding letter had gone astray,
and asked for an answer, the very answer Teresina had that day carried
to Schio. Leila tore the sheet into small pieces and threw them into
the stream.
She was accustomed to send her father the greater part of the allowance
Signor Marcello made her for her personal expenses, accompanying the
enclosures with a few short sentences. She despised her father, and
knew that she was justified in her contempt of him. She sent him the
money as a contemptible thing flung to a contemptible person. She
knew he was deeply in debt, but nevertheless she had no belief in
the poverty he was always pleading. Her life at home had convinced
her that he was an adept in the art of cheating his creditors, and
that, while he made a display of poverty, he carefully concealed his
money. But what was this to her? Had her mother asked her for money,
she would have sent it to her also. But her mother, who wrote to her
from time to time, asked for her affection only, in terms of religious
unction. Leila never answered her letters, and had, on one occasion,
quickly returned her mother's pious gift of a rosary, that had been
blessed by the Holy Father. "The Trento fortune would be put to fine
purposes should it come into my hands!" she reflected. Once more a
doubt assailed her concerning the mistaken conclusion at which Signor
Marcello might have arrived after that kiss of hers. How should she
rectify this? She dismissed the thought, wearily, and sat motionless,
her eyes fixed upon the tiny waterfall. Amongst other pictures that
floated into her tired mind, there came a vision of the dark lake,
encircled by, the bending, peering hornbeam-trees.
* * * * *
It was a great trial to Leila, two hours later, to come down from her
room to dinner. She felt she could not eat, and she dreaded Signor
Marcello's questions that were always more searching when he was in an
affectionate mood. She knew if she did not go down he would come up
and worry her to death with endless questions. And so she went down,
and invented a headache as an excuse for her want of appetite, and, as
she had foreseen, Signor Marcello's innumerable questions forced her
to tell a string of untruths. Partly from shame at her own deceit and
partly from impatience, she was once on the point of declaring angrily
that there was nothing at all the matter with her. But she restrained
herself, and presently Signor Marcello lapsed into grieved silence,
even more inclined to conclude that Donna Fedele was right, and that
the girl was indeed suffering on account of Massimo's departure. He
remained silent until the dinner was over. As soon as Giovanni had
withdrawn, and before Leila had finished her coffee, he inquired if she
had seen Alberti, who had wished to say goodbye to her. She answered in
the affirmative, half indifferently, half in annoyance, finished her
coffee, and, rising, asked permission to retire.
"Go, if you like, dear," Signor Marcello replied, but he called her
back again before she had reached the door.
"Listen, my child," he said. "I give you my blessing now, whether you
may decide to marry at some future time or continue to live alone.
But if you choose to live alone, I hope you will not accuse me of
selfishness because I had hoped----"
And he smiled his pathetic smile, so full of sadness and tenderness.
"Thank you, Papa," Leila murmured. And she could not refrain from
adding, as she thought of the misapprehension under which he was
probably labouring: "I am not sure I deserve your blessing."
The coldness of her words wounded the poor old man. Leila felt she had
hurt him, and was sorry, but she could not regret words which were
intended to free him from harmful illusions. She slipped silently from
the room, closing the door softly behind her.
Signor Marcello did not move. Not for a long time had the house
seemed so sad and empty. He drew towards him one of the two glass
bowls that ornamented the table, and contained two cyclamen plants
that had not yet blossomed. This style of table decoration was one
of Leila's fancies, and Signor Marcello disapproved of it. He gazed
with affectionate compassion upon the little plant, with its dark
leaves, streaked with pale green, that had been torn from its nest of
moss at the foot of some chestnut-tree and placed in these unnatural
surroundings. He had always greatly loved flowers and carefully
cultivated them, feeling that they returned a kind of real affection
for any care that he bestowed upon them. This little tortured plant
that sought to please him with its rich greenness seemed to him to show
more affection for him than Leila. He would have liked to press his
lips to this small, living thing, had he not been ashamed of what might
appear foolish sentimentality.
A long, dull peal of thunder from Priaforà, which all day long had worn
a threatening aspect, interrupted his fancyings. He remembered that the
large window in the drawing-room was open, and, in order not to disturb
Giovanni, who was having his dinner, went to shut it himself. He then
made the tour of the ground-floor, closing all the windows, faithful
to his habit of sparing the servants as much as possible. Presently he
returned to the drawing-room. It was rapidly growing dark, although
it was an hour before sunset. There was a flash of lightning, and more
thunder. Giovanni came in to attend to the windows, and catching sight
of his master as a flash illumined the room, asked if he would have a
light. Signor Marcello did not wish for a light. He sent the man to
close the upstair windows, and then stood gazing out into the shadows,
cloven repeatedly by the lightning that flashed out of Val d'Astico.
The usual noisy precautions against thunderstorms sounded above his
head--excited voices, hurried footsteps, and the banging of shutters.
The great, tragic cliffs of Barco gleamed white for an instant and
then were lost again in the darkness. The poplars along the Riderella,
standing transfixed in the motionless air, like the outposts of a
reserve force, waited in rigid silence for the approach of the battle
that was raging along their line. Suddenly the rain came pouring down,
the flashes ceased, and all was darkness. Signor Marcello stood gazing
into the sounding shadows until he heard Giovanni come in again to
light the lamps. As usual when there were no guests, and the Signorina
did not spend the evening in the drawing-room, he ordered him not to
light up. His own brass lamp would be enough. When the man had brought
it Signor Marcello put on his glasses and began to read the newspaper.
Contrary to his habit, he soon wearied of it. But it was only half-past
nine, and he was not sleepy, and as he had been suffering recently from
insomnia, he did not wish to go to bed at this early hour. He felt no
desire to play, for his heart was cold and heavy. He felt physically
well, and no further symptoms had followed his fit of unconsciousness.
Had he perhaps been mistaken about it? Must he look forward to long
years of such a life as this? At least, if he must live, he would fain
do so to some useful purpose. Some years ago a friend's advice had made
him think of starting an agricultural school. Why not take up that
plan again? He might at least write to his friend and ask his opinion
again. And he reflected how to word his letter. But the idea began to
fade from his mind almost as soon as he had formed it. By an effort
of his will he rose to his feet, determined to prevent its complete
escape by writing immediately; but still he hesitated, and stood lost
in thought, his lamp in his hand. The sound of the rain had sunk to an
even and melancholy whisper. The old man set down the lamp and went
into the open verandah to look upon the night.
There was no wind, but the rain was coming down persistently, as it
does in the autumn, and it hid the mountains and the lights of Arsiero.
This was the spot where Don Aurelio and he had their coffee on those
occasions when the priest said Mass at Santa Maria ad Montes. And he
was gone also, dear Don Aurelio! He was gone for ever. He would never
see him again.
The old man returned to the drawing-room with a heavy heart. Bitter
words against the priests of Velo rose to his lips, and agitated
his face as he took up his lamp again, meaning to go to bed, for he
had now lost all desire to write. At sight of the Bible and of the
"Imitation of Christ," on his bedside table, he was immediately filled
with remorse for having yielded to impulse, and for having harboured
uncharitable thoughts. He confessed his shortcomings in prayer, then,
as a castaway clings to a rope, he clasped the little Bible in both
hands until peace once more encompassed his spirit. As he laid the
Bible down again he determined to go to confession on the morrow to
the archpriest himself. Quieted by this determination, he proceeded to
enter the day's expenditures in his account-book, as was his habit.
As it was the last day of the month, and he had forgotten to pay the
servants' wages, he counted the amounts out carefully, placing them
in separate piles on his writing-table. He also set aside his monthly
dole to the poor. The melancholy patter of the rain reminded him of the
plants of cyclamen in the dining-room. He hunted in a cupboard until
he had found the two pots from which they had been removed--cruelly,
as he thought--to be placed in the glass bowls. Then he restored them
to the pots, delighting in the kindly action, and carried them out
lovingly, regardless of the rain, and set them side by side, behind
the villa, on the edge of a grassy slope. As he stood upright again
his head swam, but this did not trouble him. Even in his youth he
had often been seized with giddiness on resuming an upright posture
after bending over some plant. He waited until the giddiness passed
away, and then returned to his room, said his evening prayers upon
his knees, undressed himself, and got into bed. At that moment the
dizziness returned with renewed violence. He rested his head against
the head-board. A thunderbolt seemed to tear through him from his neck
downwards. He thought he cried out, but in reality he made no sound. He
felt his arms becoming as blocks of ice, and he recognised that this
was death. He tried in vain to move his lips and pronounce the words,
_In manus tuas, Domine_. Then all was over, and the only life the room
contained was in the heedless flame of the little lamp that illumined
the quiet face of yellow marble resting against the head-board, and the
only heart that throbbed was the small and heedless one of the watch
upon the bedside table.