FROM THE HEIGHTS TO THE DEPTHS
I
On the 4th of July at a quarter to one, Donna Fedele reached the Seghe
station in her usual small carriage, drawn by the usual small horse. On
hearing the whistle of the train on its way from San Giorgio, she left
the waiting-room where she had been amusing herself by talking with a
dirty old herdsman, and went out into the broiling sun without opening
her parasol. Before the train had come to a standstill she had caught
sight of Massimo at one of the windows of the last carriage, and was
hastening towards him, smiling joyously. Massimo's expression showed
how pale and ill he thought her looking, and at first both shrank from
referring to their recent loss. As they left the station she inquired
when he intended to leave. By the next train, he told her, and he was
going back again to Milan. They would have two hours together, and the
carriage would take them to the San Giorgio cemetery in a very few
minutes. They drove along the banks of the Astico, which was swollen
and noisy after the heavy rain of the night before; and she talked of
Signor Marcello's death, referring to the premonitory symptoms, the
particulars of that last day, and of the thunderstorm, and telling of
the plants he had carried outdoors, the money he had laid ready on the
writing-table, the lamp that had been found burning, and the aspect
of the body. She spoke very quietly about it all, not mentioning Leila
on account of the driver. At San Giorgio the custodian of the cemetery
pointed out a dark mound of freshly upturned earth, and then left them.
Donna Fedele had brought two roses with her, one of which she now gave
to Massimo. They knelt down and placed the roses upon the upturned
earth, and prayed silently, while the custodian struggled with a group
of inquisitive urchins who had slipped in at the open gate. Their
voices seemed disturbing to the peace of him who slept there. Donna
Fedele rose, ordered the children to kneel down and be silent, and her
quiet power compelled their obedience. Then she returned to Massimo,
remaining there beside him for a few minutes longer. He felt that she
was moved by an emotion far deeper than his, but he knew nothing of the
past, and this feeling drew his thoughts away from his dead friend to
her.
Before getting into the carriage again, she said that she wished to
speak to him on a critical matter. She could not do so in the carriage
or in the waiting-room at Seghe, and she therefore suggested that they
should cross the small wooden bridge that connects Seghe with the group
of houses known as _Schiri_, and follow the shady path along the left
bank of the Astico.
"I must talk to you about Leila," she said, when they had left the
carriage near the Seghe post-office, and were walking along a narrow
street between two rows of grimy cottages. "I must"? thought Massimo.
Why _must_ she? Had she been charged to do so? He remained silent, and
put himself on the defensive.
"I must ask your advice, not so much for Leila as for myself in dealing
with her."
Their conversation was interrupted by a meeting with some friends of
Donna Fedele, who were coming from the bridge. Presently, when they had
passed the cottages, they came in sight of the broad and angry river,
threading the wide, green plain to the stretch of open sky between the
two wings of the valley beyond.
"Poor Signor Marcello always loved this spot!" said she.
"You wish advice for yourself?" Massimo asked.
"Yes, yes! For myself!" Donna Fedele answered. "Do you know that Leila
is staying with me now?"
Massimo stopped short, and Donna Fedele looked at her watch.
"We have an hour and a quarter longer," said she. "Let us go and sit
down."
They crossed the bridge, and sat down on a low wall in the broken
shadows of the hornbeam-trees whose branches hung over the sunlit
stream. Donna Fedele began by speaking of the will, and of Signor
Marcello's mistake as to Leila's age. Andrea had said she was nearly
eighteen, when she could not have been more than sixteen. He himself
might not have known.
"Leila's father," Donna Fedele went on, "who heard the news
immediately, no one knows how, telegraphed that, as his daughter was
a minor, he was coming at once to assert his rights as her guardian.
Leila had a terrible attack of nerves, and refused to see her father.
So he sent to beg me to fetch her, and I took her home with me. Then
the funeral took place, but she did not go. She was in no condition
to do so, indeed, for she spent the whole day in bed with a raging
headache. I went, and, of course, her father was there."
"What sort of a man is he?" Massimo asked, interrupting her.
"Ah! Disgusting to look at! Imagine one of those wax heads out of a
barber's window, grown old, with badly dyed hair and a dirty skin! He
talks idiotically, and with great stiffness. You would say he was
starched with self-consciousness. In my presence, at least, he showed
extreme embarrassment. If I did not know him to be a sly fox I should
set him down as an imbecile. After the funeral he came to pay me a
visit, 'to perform his duty,' he said, in his affected way. He asked
to see Leila as her steward might have done, but not her father. She
would not hear of this, and after a few muttered expressions of pity
for her he took himself off, perfectly satisfied. He is unique in his
way. This morning he sent me a note, saying he was going away for a few
days with the agent, and that on his return he hoped to find Leila at
the Montanina. But Leila...."
Donna Fedele pronounced these two last words very softly and then
lapsed into silence, slowly drawing mystic signs in the grass with the
point of her parasol. She was waiting for a question that did not come.
"Leila is a great anxiety to me," said she, "and I do wish Don Aurelio
were here to advise me."
Massimo immediately began talking of Don Aurelio, of his present
condition, and of his hopes for the future. At any other time Donna
Fedele would have listened eagerly, and have put a thousand questions.
But now she was impatient, feeling that Massimo was only trying to
avoid talking of Leila.
"Perhaps you could ask his advice for me?" said she at last.
Massimo answered coldly that he would do so if she wished it.
"But you yourself ought to see Leila."
The young man started. How could that be possible? The train would be
starting in half an hour now.
"You might stay here," Donna Fedele murmured.
Stay here? Certainly not! The harsh answer was delivered with emphasis
and decision, and seemed like a protest--almost a reproach.
"It would really please her."
In spite of his emphatic refusal, Donna Fedele made this remark very
calmly. Massimo, however, was as clever as she was at not hearing what
he did not wish to hear and not understanding what he did not wish to
understand.
"But you wrote to her," she went on. "I know you did, because they
brought the letter to her at the Villino while she was ill, and I
myself received it. What did you say?"
It was Massimo's turn now to be deaf.
"I should not like to lose my train," he remarked. "I have only about
twenty minutes left."
"Lose it!" Donna Fedele was getting excited. "You would certainly do so
if you had heard Leila's confession to me this morning," she added.
"What confession?"
"Stay here, if you want to know!"
Massimo rose. The colour had fled from his face.
"I must not," he said. "And you--forgive me for saying so--should not
ask me to. It would be too humiliating after her treatment of me. But
now I shall really lose my train if I do not start. Goodbye."
"Go, then," said Donna Fedele, without rising. "But you are only a
great, foolish boy!"
"A boy?"
"Yes, a boy! You do not know what love is yet. You do not know that
when one really loves, one loves! There can be no question, then, of
humiliation. When one really loves, one loves!"
They heard the whistle of the train at the Arsiero station. Massimo
said goodbye and hurried off, but Donna Fedele knew that the train
always whistled some time before it actually started. She rose, too,
but very slowly, and stood thinking over her own words: "When one
really loves, one loves!"
She was back again, young and passionate, with Marcello in the forests
of Lavarone, and living again in that sweet moment when, had he asked
it, she would have given herself blindly to him, forgetful of all else.
Then suddenly the noisy, plaintive waters awoke her to realities again.
She rejoined Massimo at the station just as the train was coming in,
and had time to whisper to him: "Stay! She loves you--she has almost
admitted it!"
"She loves you!" The words pierced him like an arrow, pinioning him. He
could neither move nor speak. Donna Fedele began to hope that, after
all, he would stay. But he suddenly started from her side and jumped
into the train, almost without knowing what he was doing. The engine
had been uncoupled and sent to fetch some freight-cars, and Donna
Fedele was able to speak to him again through the open window of the
first-class compartment, in which there were other travellers besides
Massimo. As she might want to write to him, she inquired if he intended
to be in Milan during July. He told her that a letter from Rome had
lain a very dear and solemn charge upon him, which would oblige his
leaving Milan almost immediately and going to the Lake of Lugano. For
the future he had other plans. Donna Fedele brought her face as near as
the open window as possible and whispered a farewell:
"She loves you!"
The train started. Massimo's head swam, and he closed his eyes, partly
so that he might escape recognising a fellow-traveller whom he knew.
He pretended to be asleep, and saw Leila coming towards him. He opened
his eyes quickly, that he might no longer see her, and his gaze rested
upon the flying greenness of this happy valley. Then he closed them,
that he might see her once again, and he had a vision of her fair
head, drooping upon her breast as if to hide her face. Presently he
saw two little white hands being raised very slowly, and felt them
resting at last upon his shoulders. With a shudder he opened his eyes.
He no longer saw the glittering landscape, but always that fair head.
The train thundered into the Mea tunnel. Then he felt her arms about
his neck, her face against his, and kisses and tears, and heard the
oft-repeated words, "I love you, I love you!" His breath was coming in
gasps, and he suddenly thought, "What a weak fool I am! What has become
of my tower of pride?" He put his head out of the window and watched
the passing trees and fields, repeating to himself, "Fool! Fool!"
Besides, Donna Fedele had said "almost." It was she, she alone, who
was trying to put things straight. But if it really were so! He drew
back from the window, searched his pockets for a newspaper he could
not find, bowed to his fellow-passenger, apologising for not having
recognised him sooner, and began discussing the railway that would one
day connect Rocchetta with Asiago.
He had two hours to wait at Vicenza. He knew no one there, and so
walked slowly up and down the broad avenues of plane-trees leading to
the station. It was five o'clock and very hot, and only a few idle
people like himself were pacing silently in the sultry shade. He
thought for a moment of coming to live in this peaceful, unknown little
town. But no, Velo was too near. As he entered the station once more he
heard the cry, "Thiene--Schio!" By taking that train he could be back
at Villino delle Rose before dark! Farewell, farewell, green valley,
dear streams, roses blowing in the mountain breeze! He went to the café
and read the _Corriere della Sera_ through from beginning to end. He
even dipped into the advertisements, and found the following notice:
"The post of parish-physician to the united communes of Valsolda will
remain open until the end of August. Salary 3,500 lire. Applications
to be addressed to the Mayor of Drano (Como)."
Half an hour later he heard the cry, "Verona--Brescia--Milan!"
Massimo rose, still lost in thought, and still clutching the _Corriere
della Sera_.
II
Before she returned to the Villino, Donna Fedele went to Seghe to see
a poor young fellow who was dying of consumption, and who worshipped
her as an angel from heaven. He had known her when working as painter's
apprentice at the Villino. A wild life had brought disease upon him,
and, remembering Donna Fedele's gentle admonitions, he had begged her
to visit him. She went often to read to him or to show him illustrated
books and photographs. To-day she found him unhappy and restless. The
chaplain of Velo had been with him, and having noticed a copy of the
Gospels, published by the Society of St. Jerome, which the Signora
had given him, he had advised him not to read it, saying he would not
be able to understand. Donna Fedele hid her indignation as well as
she could, and promising the poor boy that she herself would read and
explain the holy book to him, she went away, leaving him comforted,
but carrying with her much sadness and another weight upon her soul.
Leila had not told her in so many words that she loved Massimo. She had
simply offered to leave the house, in case, she said, Signor Alberti
were so indignant with her that her presence there would make it too
embarrassing for him to stay there. That was all she had said, but her
tone, her manner, and her face had spoken eloquently. If Massimo had
yielded to her entreaty and had stayed, perhaps....
But he had gone, and in Donna Fedele's heart hope was giving way to
disappointment, and with Leila in her present state of mind, she
foresaw the danger of a catastrophe. The girl had not said anything to
her to arouse suspicion, but in the past she had more than once told
Teresina that, should she again be forced to live with her father, she
would certainly kill herself. Poor, frightened Teresina had thought her
mad, but Donna Fedele did not think this. She admitted that she was
strange, but she thought her largely the victim of a false conception
of religion, the result of a naturally eccentric temperament, ignorant
upbringing, and evil example. She hoped that Leila's speeches to the
maid had not been serious, but her present gloomy silence was not an
encouraging sign. She did not wish Leila to go out alone; therefore,
when, on reaching the house, she learned that the girl had done so she
trembled with fear, though she tried to reassure herself that Leila had
gone out to avoid a possible meeting with Massimo. The servants knew
nothing of her whereabouts; they had only seen her leave the grounds
by the great gate. Donna Fedele went down to question the gate-keeper,
but the man, who worked at the Perale paper-mill, was away. His wife
told her that the Signorina had left a message that she was going to
the Montanina to fetch something, and that she would not be home before
six o'clock. Evidently Leila had thought that, if Alberti came to the
Villino, he would be leaving by the six o'clock train, and this only
meant that she did not wish to be in the way. To make sure, however,
Donna Fedele dispatched her maid to the Montanina, with the excuse that
Leila might need her help.
At six o'clock they both returned from the Villino with Teresina,
who had begged to be allowed to go back with them and to visit the
house, which she had never been inside. Leila greeted Donna Fedele
affectionately, without inquiring for Alberti or about the visit to
the cemetery, and then withdrew to her own room. Donna Fedele answered
Teresina's request to see over the house with a sweet smile, but hardly
had Leila left the room than the woman's face assumed an expression
of anxiety and embarrassment that showed the Signora something had
happened, and that the maid's desire to see the Villino was merely an
excuse.
"I will show you my study first," said Donna Fedele.
The study was in one comer of the house, looking south and west, and
it was the room in which they were least likely to be disturbed. As
soon as Donna Fedele had closed the door she inquired in a low tone
if anything unpleasant had happened. By way of answer Teresina buried
her face in her hands and began to sob. Donna Fedele urged her gently
to explain herself, and the maid began by protesting in a voice which
shook with emotion that it was not her fault, that she had thought she
was doing right, and that, after all, she had only told the truth.
Donna Fedele could make nothing of all this. What had she done? What
had she said? Little by little the woman became more calm, and told her
story.
"I was not expecting to see the Signorina," said she. "I was in the
scullery when I heard steps in the passage outside the kitchen. I
looked to see who was there. It was the Signorina, and she greeted me
affectionately. She seemed perfectly calm, and told me she had come for
the photographs of poor Signor Andrea from the master's room, and for
the one the master had placed in Signor Alberti's room.
"'You have come for them?' said I. 'Are you really not coming back
again to the Montanina?' She answered angrily, 'No, no!' and I
understood what she meant, for you know what she has often told me
about her father, about living with him, when she wished me to help her
send him money. I understood perfectly, but did not dare say anything.
'Shall I come too?' I inquired. 'No, no,' said she, 'stay here and go
on with your work. I will go in alone. Is there any one in the house?'
I told her there was no one, for Signor da Camin went away this morning
with the agent, and the footman was having his afternoon out. Even the
cook had gone out. Then she left me, and I felt rather anxious in case
she might want help. As she did not return, I made up my mind to go
after her. I waited a little while outside the master's door, thinking
she was in his room, but suddenly I heard steps on the floor above,
near the guests' room. I went into the salon. She was on her way down
the wooden stairway, and on catching sight of me she turned very red
and made a gesture of impatience. I begged her pardon, and asked if I
could not get her a cup of coffee or anything else. She did not even
answer me.
"'Are you going away at once?' I asked. 'Yes,' said she, 'almost
immediately.' Then she went into the poor master's room, where I
believed she had already been, but she was there only a few seconds,
and came out with the photographs. On reaching the drawing-room she
flung herself into an easy-chair without speaking. I was at a loss
whether to go or to remain, but concluded at last I had better go. When
I reached the doorway, however, she called me back. 'Do you know,' said
she, 'whether Signor Alberti had permission to take that photograph
away with him?' I was astonished at this question. 'No,' said I. She
frowned. 'How shameful!' she exclaimed. 'Excuse me, Signorina,' I
answered, 'but the photograph is still there. I myself placed it in one
of the drawers of the table. I forgot to tell you so just now.' I found
the picture and gave it to her. And then--having known so much about
all this, somehow I began to talk, and took the liberty of putting in
a good word for Signor Alberti. She grew very angry. 'What is this you
are saying?' she demanded. 'Don't you remember what you yourself told
me about him?'"
Here Teresina paused, begged Donna Fedele to excuse her for what she
was about to say, and then went on:
"'Donna Fedele has probably been talking to you!' Signorina Leila
cried. 'No!' said I, 'I have never seen her since the funeral. It is
true I told you some evil tales about Signor Alberti, but I found out
later they were only gossip.'"
Teresina, feeling very ashamed and penitent, now had to relate what
she had told Leila concerning Massimo's Milanese entanglement, and she
also confessed her later discoveries. On the day of the funeral the
archpriest's sister-in-law, talking to the seamstress, Angela, about
Alberti, had said that the young man was a most improper person, and
a deadly enemy of all priests. Her brother-in-law, she said, had been
instrumental in bringing about his departure; the chaplain had received
a letter from a Milanese priest who knew a lady who was deeply attached
to Signorina Leila, and who was in the greatest anxiety concerning the
presence here of this disreputable young man, whom all Milan knew to
be mixed up with a married woman. Her brother-in-law had found a means
of informing the people at the Montanina about this, and thereupon
the young man, who had come especially to arrange a rich marriage for
himself, finding himself unmasked and his plan discovered, had taken
the next train home. Signora Bettina had said that the archpriest had
his eye on a certain count from Vicenza, who, he thought, was made for
the Signorina. But this, of course, was a secret. Angela had at once
decided that it was her duty to hand on this information to her friend
Teresina.
"I told the Signorina all this with the very best intentions," the
woman went on, "because I saw there had been a conspiracy against poor
Signor Alberti, and I felt I had somehow been in it also, and I was
dreadfully upset."
"Well, and what happened?" Donna Fedele inquired anxiously.
"I am going to tell you," sighed Teresina. "First of all she looked
angry--Dio, how angry she looked! But she never uttered a word. Then
presently she began to question me, and made me repeat over and over
again what Angela had said. At last she rose and ran quickly upstairs
to her own room. I waited a bit and then I followed very softly along
the corridor and called, 'Signorina, do you want anything?' I heard her
turn the key sharply in the lock, and that was all. I stood waiting for
some time, and then, fearing she would be still more angry should she
come out and find me there, I started to go away. I had not gone ten
steps, however, when I heard a cry, followed by a kind of gasp--that I
have heard her give before, once when she had received an unpleasant
letter from her father. It is a sound ... ah, ah! ... as if her breath
were failing her. But she was soon quiet again, and I made up my mind
it would be wiser to go down to the drawing-room and wait for her
there. She came down in a few minutes as pale as death, but quite calm.
It was then I asked her to let me go with her to see the Villino. At
first she hesitated, but just at that moment your maid arrived, and we
started off together. Before reaching the bridge over the Posina who
should we meet but the archpriest! When he came up to us he smiled,
and made one of his sweeping bows. Gèsummaria! you should have seen
the Signorina! She drew herself up as stiff as a soldier, and gave the
priest a stare with eyes that were as cold as ice, and passed on. I
said nothing, and she never opened her lips until we got here."
Donna Fedele smiled. "Poor Teresina!" said she, as if in pity for an
unnecessary anxiety. Then she proposed that they should go over the
rest of the house, and in such a careless manner that Teresina felt
rebuffed. "I beg you to pardon me if I have gone too far ..." she said.
Donna Fedele understood, and throwing aside her apparent apathy, which
was nothing more than absent-mindedness, she overflowed with kind
words, making no comment, however, upon Teresina's story. Presently she
inquired about Leila's father. Hardly had his name been pronounced when
Teresina cried, "Goodness! I had almost forgotten!" That horrid man!
Before going away with the agent he had asked her, with a laugh, half
cunning, half stupid, about her poor mistress' jewels. She had answered
that she knew nothing about them. Just fancy their falling into such
hands! She knew well enough that the poor mistress had had a lot of
rings and bracelets, a string of pearls and sapphires, and a diamond
ornament. The master had no safe, but kept them in a secret drawer of
the writing-table in his own room.
"Do you know why he asked?" said Teresina. "I am willing to swear it
was because he had taken them already. For one whole day he did nothing
but look over papers in the study. He is sure to have found some note
or memorandum of them. Besides, last night I heard him go into the poor
master's room, and he was in there a long time. I will take my oath my
dear mistress' jewels are travelling at this very moment. And to think
of his asking me! You can fancy how I feel, knowing that he is quite
capable of accusing me of theft."
Donna Fedele sought to reassure her, and having at last got rid of her,
went to lie down, for she felt completely worn out. Still, the physical
relief only increased her mental unrest. That hot-headed Alberti! Why
was he not here now? Love was waiting for him, and he must needs play
the haughty prince! And yet perhaps, should he yield, the girl might
take it into her head to play the haughty princess too.
From her window looking east Donna Fedele could see the great arch of
sky between the two ranges of hills stretching across the plain. Her
eyes fell upon the cemetery of San Giorgio. How bitter to think of the
Montanina in the hands of that man, plundering and laying irreverent
hands on everything belonging to her poor old friend! She summoned all
her faith to convince herself that Marcello was at peace and satisfied
that good must come from all these ills, but it was not easy. Then she
turned over an idea that had come to her in the night, to ask Camin's
permission to take Leila away with her into Piedmont, so that she might
be spared, for a time at least, from the misery of living with him. The
girl would have time to recover, and so many things might happen in
that time! Having decided to do this, Donna Fedele made an effort to
free her mind from all thought, hoping that sleep might come.
III
She had indeed fallen asleep when, half an hour later, the maid came to
announce dinner. The Signorina was already downstairs. Donna Fedele was
tempted to stay where she was, for she was still weary and disinclined
to eat. But she forced herself to get up and go down. The table was set
in the verandah in the front of the house. Leila appeared so calm that
Donna Fedele was encouraged to tell her of Massimo's visit, and of the
news he had brought of Don Aurelio. In speaking of the priest, she said
how deeply she felt the loss of his wise and spiritual counsel.
"For I am a wicked woman," said she. "I lack gentleness and charity,
especially towards certain other priests who are unlike him."
Leila let the matter drop, and began to talk of the little cemetery
where she had never been. She had planned to go there on the following
morning, and hoped her friend would be able to accompany her. They
would take some roses--plenty of roses. She would have liked to take
white roses, but just now there were only a few red ones in the Villino
garden. The talk went on to roses. Donna Fedele was dissatisfied with
hers. It seemed to her that at that moment the place would have been
more appropriately named after the thorns. She must really plant a
great many more trees. The Villino should look as if it were resting
upon a basket, full of roses, and be muffled in them up to the very
eaves.
"We will take a little trip to Milan," said she, "and go about among
the horticulturists, choosing what is best. Would you like that?"
Leila seemed pleased, and said she believed her father would allow her
to go. Donna Fedele was amazed at her submissiveness.
"I ought to go into Piedmont on business also," she added. "Would you
like me to ask your father to let you come with me for three or four
weeks?"
Leila assented, waited in silence until the maid had withdrawn after
serving the coffee, and then said, with a ghastly smile, playing
nervously with her spoon the while:
"Now that everything is over, may I know if a certain person came to
the Montanina in accordance with a preconcerted arrangement?"
Donna Fedele gave a start, and raised her eyebrows, offended by this
reflection upon her own honesty.
"Now that everything is over," she retorted severely, "I can assure you
that I never lie, and that there was no preconcerted arrangement. When
Alberti came he had as little thought of marrying you as I have of
marrying Carnesecca!"
Leila gave a harsh, forced laugh.
"What makes you think of Carnesecca?" she asked.
"Because I see him," was Donna Fedele's reply. "There he is, coming
through the small gate, which the keeper has forgotten to close, as
usual."
Leila glanced over her shoulder. There, indeed, was friend Carnesseca,
coming slowly towards the verandah, hat in hand. On reaching the steps
he paused, regardless of Donna Fedele's smile of encouragement.
"Come in, Carnesecca!" she cried, and then hastened to correct herself.
"I beg your pardon--I mean Ismaele!"
"Why should you beg my pardon, White Lady of the Roses?" said the
pedlar of Bibles. "Why, and for what? They have put a scornful name
upon me because I preach Jesus and the most righteous servants of the
Lord, and thus they have insured me a humble seat among the blessed.
_Beati estis cum dixerint omne malum._ I glory in my title!"
Donna Fedele, protesting that she had no intention of mocking him,
invited him to come up the steps and sit down, and ordered coffee for
him. Then she inquired what had brought him back to these parts where
he had been so roughly handled. He said he was on his way to Laghi, and
that he was ready to undergo there the same martyrdom he had suffered
at Posina.
"At this time of the year," said Donna Fedele gravely, "it will
probably take the form of potatoes."
"I wish it might!" the old man replied. "But if the Caiaphas of Laghi
resembles him of Velo, it will probably be stones."
"Look here, my conscience tells me that I myself should be pelting you
with a few pebbles at least!"
At this half-laughing, half-serious declaration of Donna Fedele's,
Carnesecca flung his arms heavenwards, innumerable rents in his coat
revealing an extremely dingy shirt.
"No, White Lady of the Roses. You are not called upon to cast even the
smallest pebble against me. I have never offered you a Bible, because
I am quite sure you have one already. I do not seek to convert you to
Protestantism, for you are a Christian already. I come to-night to
thank you once more for your kindness in receiving me beneath your
roof."
Donna Fedele inquired if he intended to push on to Laghi that same
evening. No; he was tired. He had come all the way from Vicenza, and
had been walking seven hours. Donna Fedele expressed pity for him,
but hastened to destroy an illusion he had evidently cherished. She
had entertained him once when his bones were broken, but she had no
intention of doing so again, now that he was on his way to get them
broken once more. He spoke of a vague hope that the Montanina hayloft
might afford him shelter for the night. He had not heard of Signor
Marcello's death, nor was he acquainted with Leila. The young girl
sat silent and unmoved while her friend imparted to him the mournful
intelligence, falteringly and in a low voice. Carnesecca was greatly
shocked, and, having said good-night, went his way, without stating
whether or no he had altered his plans for the night.
The friends went out to a corner of the garden where some chairs had
been placed.
"'White Lady of the Roses,'" said Leila. "A pretty name!"
"Too pretty for me," Donna Fedele replied. "But Carnesecca would
certainly do better to confine himself to inventing names, instead of
preaching Luther and Calvin, and I don't know whom besides."
Leila inquired carelessly who this man really was, and how he had
become a Protestant. Donna Fedele told her his story. She went into
much detail, and for some time failed to notice that Leila was not
listening. The girl's eyes were fixed upon an empty chair. Donna Fedele
lapsed into silence, but still Leila sat gazing at the chair. Although
it was nearly nine o'clock, and the sky was overcast, it was still
light in this part of the high, open garden, with its light gravel
paths. Presently Leila became conscious that Donna Fedele was looking
at her. She left off looking at the chair, but did not break the
silence. A few drops of rain began to fall, and Donna Fedele suggested
that they should go in. Seeing the maid busy clearing the dinner-table,
she asked her to send the keeper to close the small gate through which
Carnesecca had come and gone. Leila hastened to say she would like a
little exercise, and would take the message herself.
The keeper was just going to bed when she entered the cottage beside
the main gate. His wife received her, and Leila asked to see a
sick child of theirs, inquiring after it with so much affectionate
solicitude that the mother was greatly touched. Leila remained some
ten minutes at the lodge, and then returned to the Villino without
having mentioned the open gate. Entering the drawing-room in the dark,
she heard Donna Fedele's voice: "Did you send?" And unhesitatingly she
answered:
"Yes."
Donna Fedele begged her to play something. In the dark? Yes, in the
dark. The old piano had been silent for many months, for its mistress,
who had been a fairly good musician in her youth, now only played
occasionally for the amusement of some childish visitor. Leila played a
composition of Signor Marcello's--his only composition, a Barcarola he
had written some thirty years before. When it was finished she paused,
waiting for a word from her friend, a request for more music. But the
elder woman did not speak. The only sounds that broke the silence were
the quick ticking of an alarm-clock and the gentle patter of the rain
upon the gravel.
"You know that, do you not?" said Leila at last.
Out of the shadow the sweet voice answered softly:
"Oh, yes!"
That sweet and soft "Oh, yes!" told Leila things which she had already
vaguely guessed. She rose from the piano and went towards the corner of
the drawing-room whence the voice had come. Bending over Donna Fedele,
she sought her hands and silently kissed first one and then the other.
Donna Fedele gladly yielded to the kisses that seemed to say, "I also
am a woman, and I understand." They held a second meaning as well, but
one that was still hidden.
"Are you not going to play any more?" Donna Fedele whispered quickly.
She was grateful for the kisses, but words would have grated upon her.
Leila did not answer, but still stood holding her hands and pressing
them.
"Shall we go to bed, then?" Donna Fedele went on. Leila dropped her
hands. "You must go," said she; "but if I may, I should like to stay
and play a little longer." She turned on the light. Donna Fedele rose
from her chair with a smile. "That is right, dear," said she. She
embraced Leila, rang for her maid, and then withdrew.
Leila remained standing motionless until the house was quite still.
Then she sat down at the piano again and went on playing at random
until the maid returned and began closing the heavy double doors
opening upon the verandah. Leila begged her to leave them open. She
would close them herself. Perhaps she might go out again to get a
breath of air.
"It is raining, Signorina," said the maid; "and now the wind is
rising." But Leila had begun to play again and made no answer, and,
after a moment's hesitation, the woman decided she had better go and
leave the doors open. Leila paused to listen, heard her mounting the
stairs, and then heard her footsteps on the floor above. She rose and
went to assure herself that the door had really been left open, peering
for an instant out into the night. There was little wind, but it was
raining steadily, and the shadows were black. She went back to the
piano, and hid her face in her hands as if searching in her memory for
music. Presently she let her hands drop upon a chord, while her head
fell forward and her eyes stared unseeingly. Once more she raised her
head, and once more went to peer into the whispering shadows. Then
she closed the doors, shot the bolts noisily, and opened them again
quietly. Then she put out the light and went up to her room, whose
single window looked south across the plain of Arsiero, upon Priaforà
and the Montanina. It stood open. Over yonder, between the plain of
Arsiero and Priaforà, flowed the invisible Posina. Leila held her
breath to listen, but she could not hear the river. In her mind's eye
she saw the bridge that spans it, the water flowing noisily far below
over its bed of grey gravel, the canal that runs along beside it,
higher up, and then turns southwards, shaded by birch-trees, flowing
silently and rapidly. A gust of wind blew the rain into her face. She
closed the window hastily, and then smiled at herself for shrinking
from a splash of rain. She looked at her watch--it was half-past ten.
There were still two hours before the moment she had fixed upon, when
she would throw herself from the bridge into the swift and silent canal
below.
She sat down at her table beneath the lamp, feeling it her duty to
leave a few written words. She wrote as follows:
"DEAR FRIEND,--I am going to my death. I do not know why I should die,
but still less do I know why I should go on living."
And beyond that? Should she ask pardon? But for what? And if not to
ask pardon, why should she write at all? To bid farewell? Donna Fedele
would remember those two last kisses. She could not even find words
to write with. There was nothing within her save icy purpose, held
stiff by action. She tore the note in pieces, rose from the table, and
changed her dress. The gown of deep mourning she had on was one Donna
Fedele had lent her. She changed it for the grey dress she had worn on
the day she came to the Villino. Then she took up a silver chain-bag
that had been a gift from poor Andrea, and in which she kept certain
other souvenirs of him. A little plaque, upon which was engraved the
word "Leila," was incrusted upon the chainwork. Her eyes fell upon the
plaque and the name that reminded her of a quarrel. Several times she
put the bag down only to take it up again, uncertain whether to carry
it with her or leave it behind. An inner impulse moved her to leave it
behind, and at that moment the frost that bound her heart melted into a
very tempest of desire. Once more she opened the window, and, yielding
to the passionate impulse, flung her soul towards him, wherever he
might be. "I love you! I love you! I give myself to you! Take me, take
all of me before I die! Kiss me, kiss me! Hurt me with your kisses!"
She spread her arms wide, writhing as if in a spasm of pain. She raised
one arm, pressed it against her mouth, gasped, and closed her teeth
upon it, holding them there until the violent throbbing of her heart
was quieted somewhat. The clock at Arsiero struck eleven. From the
silver bag she drew a photograph of poor Andrea, and wrote beneath it:
"July fourth--I am coming!"
Then she placed the picture on the table near the inkstand, where it
would be seen at once, and she finally decided to take the bag with
her. She glanced about her to see that everything was in order. She
took the "Journal d'Eugénie de Guérin" from the bedside table and
placed it upon the chest of drawers. Donna Fedele had given it to her
to read, but she felt she had nothing in common with Eugénie de Guérin,
who would have been horrified with her at that moment, and that it
would be an act of hypocrisy to leave the book where it was. She looked
at her watch. It was only a quarter-past eleven. There was no danger
of meeting any one on such a dark and rainy night, and she decided to
wait no longer. She cut a piece of cord from one of the curtains with
which to tie her skirts before the leap, that they might not float over
her head, and put on her rubber goloshes that her footsteps might not
be heard on the stairs. Then she put out the light, and went down very
softly and cautiously.
Suddenly she remembered that she had forgotten to destroy the pieces
of the note she had written. Should she go back and get them? She gave
a shrug of indifference and then crossed the drawing-room, listening
to the quick ticking of the clock, and judging from that in which
direction the verandah door lay. Very cautiously she parted the wings
she herself had only pushed together, and passed quickly out. She
had only gone a step or two, however, when she gave a sudden spring
to the left, upsetting several chairs, for a form had started up in
front of her. She did not cry out, but making for the verandah steps,
disappeared into the garden. But Donna Fedele had heard the crash of
the overturned chairs, and she cried out: "Who is there?" Carnesecca's
voice answered, "A woman! A woman has left the house!" "What woman?
Where is she now?" Donna Fedele cried again from the window in great
alarm. "I don't know. She has gone away! She has disappeared!" "Follow
her!" came the order. "She is a sleep-walker!"
Carnesecca tore away into the darkness towards the small gate. A
silence followed which was soon broken. Donna Fedele, going down the
verandah steps, wrapped in a dressing-gown, heard Carnesecca saying
in a soft and soothing voice, "Wake up, Signora! Wake up!" Ah, then
she was safe! Donna Fedele's strength failed her, and she sank upon
the lowest step, regardless of the pouring rain. Leila, who had been
overtaken on the grassy slope below the gate, had screamed on feeling
herself grasped, and had then fallen in a dead faint.
* * * * *
"What a piece of good fortune," said Carnesecca, bringing the
insensible girl into the house with the help of the cook and the
housemaid--"what a piece of good fortune that I could find no shelter
anywhere, and so determined to take the liberty of spending the night
on your verandah! Otherwise this child of God might have come to
serious hurt with her sleep-walking!"
"Yes, yes! Good fortune indeed!" said Donna Fedele, who was still
trembling, while the maid and the cook could only mutter:
"Gèsummaria Signore! Blessed Lady! Dear Lord preserve us!"