CONCERNING A SOUL
I
The service for the repose of the soul of Signor Marcello was to begin
at ten o'clock. Donna Fedele was not well enough to attend. She had
written to Camin, begging that Leila might be allowed to stay with
her until the morrow, for the cousin to whom she had written was not
expected until the following day, and Leila would not hear of leaving
the Villino until her arrival. However, no answer had come from the
Montanina. About half-past nine o'clock Leila and the maid started to
walk to Velo.
* * * * *
Leila refused her father's invitation to sit beside him on the bench
that had been covered with black drapery, and sat down near the door,
that she might be able to go out as soon as the service was over.
But before it began the archpriest's sister-in-law, all smiles and
blushes, came to her side, and begged her to look in at the parsonage
after the service, as Don Emanuele wished to speak to her. Leila, who
was absorbed in one thought, and perfectly indifferent to anything
Don Emanuele might have to say to her, was not even astonished at
the request. She would have preferred not to go, both because she
had come to detest the two Velo priests and because she longed to be
alone. But foreseeing further demands and annoyances, she concluded
it would be best to comply at once for the sake of future peace. She
slipped quickly out of church on catching sight of her father coming
towards her with Molesin, who was already preparing himself for
the introduction. Siora Bettina joined her outside the church, and
conducted her to the parsonage with a show of politeness and amiability
that cost her many sharp pangs, which nevertheless she endured for the
sake of Don Emanuele. She discussed the impressive way in which the
service had been conducted, spoke of Don Emanuele's solemn dignity and
edifying devotion while officiating, praising him even above her own
brother-in-law, whom she described as "a saint, but easy-going." Then
she went on to speak of his skill as a spiritual adviser, remarkable
in one so young, and she declared that any conscience would be safe in
his charge. Leila paid no attention to any of her remarks, but kept her
eyes fixed on the door, longing for this tiresome priest to come and
get the interview over quickly.
She had been to confession to him two or three times, but he had at
last requested her to go to the archpriest in the future, putting
forward as an excuse that his superior might feel hurt that she had
not preferred him. Ever since her boarding-school days confession had
been a mere formality for her, and she cared little whether it were
addressed to one priest or to another.
Poor Siora Bettina herself, having exhausted her conversation, had
begun to glance anxiously at the door, when it was opened at last,
revealing the chaplain's lank figure. Bettina bestowed a parting smile
on Leila, and murmuring a farewell, rose to go.
Don Emanuele was approaching this interview with the firm intention
of working for the greater glory of God and the good of a soul. His
grave face and dignified bearing revealed so strong a consciousness
of authority that an unfriendly observer might have mistaken it for
pride. Pride is so subtle an intruder, and its presence is so difficult
to trace, that Don Emanuele may indeed have been honestly deceived
in his belief that he was free from it and a humble instrument of
the Lord. He was unconscious of his own complacence and pride in the
immense power exercised by the priesthood to which he belonged; and
while the recognition of this power renders other and better ministers
of the Church humble, not only before God but before men, and fearful
of exercising it too rigorously, the chaplain's complacency inclined
him to wield it without moderation. As the arrogant menial often usurps
the master's authority, so did Don Emanuele persuade himself that in
all things he was interpreting the Divine Will. His spirit waged fierce
war against his flesh, and gained the mastery none too easily, yet so
far from being thereby inclined to leniency in dealing with sinners he
was the more relentless towards them.
His reason for acting no longer as Leila's confessor lay in the fact
that his senses were troubled by the faint suggestion of essence of
rose that she brought to the confessional. To the peasant nature of Don
Tita the perfume would have suggested nothing; but to Don Emanuele it
spoke of crafty wiles for the beguiling and stirring of the senses, and
herein arose the desire, prompted still further by the subsequent news
of Leila's desperate attempt at suicide, to win her for the cloister.
To snatch her from Signora Vayla's pernicious influence, to use her
as a means of getting rid of that scandalous housekeeper, to take
advantage of her isolation at the Montanina, and of her aversion to
her father, to inspire her with the longing for a religious life--such
was the undertaking in which his interview with Molesin had been the
first step, and which had already borne fruit in the departure of
Carolina. He had not taken the archpriest into his confidence for
several reasons; one may have been that he knew of Don Tita's hope of
bringing about a marriage between the Signorina and a certain young
Vicentine. Signora Bettina was certainly aware of it. The latter, with
many groans, was now bravely seeking to overcome her aversion to any
contact with Signorina da Camin, and all out of pure devotion to Don
Emanuele, who wished her to try to become Leila's friend in place of
Signora Vayla, and to exert a wholesome religious influence over her.
On catching sight of the chaplain Siora Bettina hoped that, at any
rate for the time being, she was going to be released, and she rose,
intending to withdraw. Without so much as a glance in her direction
the priest detained her by a gesture of his hand, and having saluted
Leila, calmly seated himself on the sofa, while Signora Fantuzzo
wriggled uneasily in her chair, eyeing the chaplain meanwhile with an
air of humble entreaty, until a frown from him reduced her to a state
of subjection. On hearing that Don Emanuele had a favour to ask of
Signorina da Camin and herself, she stared wildly. The bare idea of
doing anything in collaboration with the young girl sent the blood
flaming to her cheeks. She hastened to declare that she was good for
nothing, that she was quite incapable in every way.
"Pardon me," said Don Emanuele in the serenely authoritative manner
of a superior imposing silence oh his inferior, "pardon me." The
frightened woman turned her scarlet face towards Leila and murmured,
nervously rubbing her hands together in her lap, as if seeking to wring
from them her reasons for resisting, "It is true--really, it is quite
true!"
Don Emanuele took no further notice of her, and addressed to Leila
the long speech he had prepared. The pith of it was this: The local
Board of Charity had the administering of a legacy for the benefit of
mothers of families who were incapacitated for work by illness or by
childbirth. As there were many complaints in the parish concerning
this legacy, the chaplain had persuaded the Board to consent to the
nomination of two lady visitors, and had proposed the names of Signora
Fantuzzo and Signorina da Camin. At every second word the chaplain
uttered Signora Fantuzzo groaned Gèsummaria! She was willing enough
to help the poor from a distance, but coming into personal contact
with them was not to her taste. Don Emanuele, with perfect unconcern,
begged the ladies to make some arrangements at once for their future
co-operation.
"If you cannot stop now, this afternoon or to-morrow Signora Fantuzzo
can go to Villa da Camin, and you will then be able to talk the matter
over. Meanwhile I will prepare a list of the mothers to be visited at
once."
Leila shook off her indifference, and observed that she was not sure
of being at the villa on the morrow. She had, indeed, determined in
her own mind not to leave the Villino until after the arrival of the
cousin from Santhià. Don Emanuele, who was somewhat perplexed, remained
silent, but at that moment there was a knock at the door, and Don Tita
appeared. He greeted Leila heartily, as if the encounter at the Posina
Bridge had never taken place, called the chaplain aside and told him
something in an undertone, and then mentioned to his sister-in-law to
withdraw. She left the room, followed by Don Emanuele. The archpriest
came over to Leila, who had risen.
"One moment, Siora Leila," said he. "One moment! Papa is here."
The door opened slowly and revealed Sior Momi's red-and-yellow
countenance, his twitching eyelids, and parti-coloured beard.
"Come in, Signor da Camin," said the archpriest. "Is everything in
readiness?"
"I should say it was, sir," Momi answered, employing the conditional as
a mood expressive of much deferential hesitation, and, turning to his
daughter, he greeted her with a timid "Ciao! How are you?" that might
have been one of his familiar "ahos." Leila was in the dark as to what
was on foot, and from Sior Momi's gaping mouth there issued no further
word of explanation. The good-natured archpriest quickly intervened,
however, declaring that her father really did not know his duties, but
that he, the archpriest, had undertaken to instruct him. Thus Sior Momi
would have allowed Leila to go home on foot, in all the heat, but he,
the archpriest, had advised him to send to Arsiero for a comfortable
carriage and pair. Leila at once scented a conspiracy between her
father and the archpriest to get her back to the Montanina. She could
not guess that it had been Molesin who had advised a little stratagem
of this sort, or that her father, who had pretended to fall in with the
plan, in Molesin's absence, had begged the archpriest to intervene,
and to preach her a little sermon on the duty of filial obedience and
of returning to her own home without delay. But the little sermon
never passed Don Tita's lips, for the girl promptly checked it by
declaring imperiously that she intended to walk. Sior Momi immediately
acquiesced. "Well, well, well!" said he, and Leila took her departure,
with the very slightest of bows, while her meek parent sought to
convince his astonished accomplice that the obstinate girl would have
flung herself out of the carriage rather than submit to the deceit.
II
A few hours before the time fixed for Leila's departure from the
Villino--she was leaving in obedience to Donna Fedele's wishes rather
than to Sior Momi's--the cousin arrived from Santhià. Eufemia Magis was
a little, old woman, so bowed and shrivelled that she seemed more in
need of care herself than able to bestow it. Although Donna Fedele was
very ill, the sight of Cousin Eufemia sufficed to open the wellsprings
both of affection and of fun. Whenever Eufemia was her guest she
was anxious that no want or desire of hers should be neglected; but
nevertheless she could not refrain from teasing her most unmercifully,
rallying her concerning the old-fashioned cut of her clothes, her
enormous black cap, trimmed with violet ribbons, the supposed love
affairs of her youth, the imaginary matter of her frequent confessions,
and her quaint ejaculations whenever she dropped her spectacles or a
knitting-pin. Eufemia was present when Leila said goodbye to her friend.
"I hope your father will often let you come to see me," said Donna
Fedele.
Leila's eyes flashed.
"I should like to see him try to prevent me!" she cried.
Donna Fedele took her hands, and patting them tenderly, whispered, "Be
a good girl! Be good! Be good!"
Leila glanced at Cousin Eufemia, who slipped meekly and silently from
the room. The young girl flung her arms around her friend, and laid her
head on the pillow beside her. The invalid placed her hand upon Leila's
hair, and said gently:
"Did the letter wound you?"
No word, no sign answered her question.
"Do you really not wish me to tell him anything about you?"
Donna Fedele said this very softly and hesitatingly. She had noted
the look Leila had bestowed upon Cousin Eufemia, and believed she had
something to tell her in confidence. Leila's shoulders heaved, and she
shook her head violently.
"Is there anything else you wish me to do?"
Although she spoke caressingly, the invalid's sweet, youthful voice
held a faint note of impatience that seemed to say, "Do speak out!"
And there was the same impatience in the large brown eyes. Leila could
not see them, but she knew what they were saying. She raised her
tear-stained face from the pillow, kissed her friend, and then left the
house.
III
On the following afternoon she returned. Donna Fedele was sitting up
reading in her bedroom. Leila flung herself on her knees before her
friend and protested vehemently that it was impossible for her to
stay at the Montanina any longer. The invalid patted her head softly,
murmuring words of gentle reproof.
"What has happened?" she said at last. "Get up and tell me about it."
It was some time before she could persuade Leila to raise her head,
which she had buried in her friend's lap, and tell her story. As a
matter of fact nothing had happened, save that she had been brought
face to face with a reality of which she had never really been
ignorant. On perceiving how upset she was Donna Fedele's mind had
immediately flown to Signor Camin's housekeeper. She did not know how
to question Leila concerning her, and so inquired for Teresina instead,
and was informed that Teresina had consented to remain because "that
other creature" had taken herself off. But not even Teresina could
stand the house, the master, and "those other people" any longer.
"Those other people" stood for Dr. Molesin alone, who was about to
leave, thank Heaven! Leila detested that slimy individual, who had
sought to ingratiate himself by discoursing of the Camin ancestry, of
an old priest who used to say Mass at the Carmelite Church, and of a
venerable nun who had been famous as a pastry-cook. And her father?
Was he unkind to her? No, no! Leila only wished he were! But, on the
contrary, he was nauseatingly humble and obsequious. He would not move
so much as a chair in the house without asking her permission, and had
even asked her leave to have the grass cut. He was equally obsequious
with Teresina, and Leila was convinced he had even been confidential
with the maid at times. She said this with such utter contempt that
Donna Fedele cried out, "Oh, Leila!"
"What do I care?" said the girl.
But she refrained from describing how Signor Momi, after a futile
attempt at familiarity with his daughter, would beat a sudden retreat,
uttering his silly "Aho! aho!" as if he had been in jest. With his
timid advances and his hasty retreats, he was like one who stretches
out his hand to a hedge of roses in the dark, hoping to grasp a flower,
and encounters the thorns instead.
The very walls of the Montanina were no longer the same. Formerly they
had been full of life and affection. Now Leila felt that they were
dead and indifferent to her. Her father's spirit had contaminated
everything. Had she not feared to shock Donna Fedele she would have
confessed her monstrous suspicion that she was not the daughter of this
man. Could she possibly remain at the Montanina under such conditions?
She paused for an answer to this question.
"Bring me a glass of water," said her friend, "and the bottle with the
drop-stopper, from the bedside table."
Leila obeyed in silence. Donna Fedele, who was past-mistress in the art
of not hearing when she did not wish to, swallowed her medicine, and
then went on calmly:
"I know what you wanted to tell me yesterday."
Leila had never become accustomed to her friend's voluntary deafness.
It always irritated her.
"Answer me!" she said impatiently. "Am I not justified in not wishing
to return? Are you afraid I shall plant myself upon you, here?"
The thoughtless words lighted a flame in Donna Fedele's eyes, but she
controlled herself.
"I know what you wanted to tell me yesterday," she repeated coldly,
accentuating every syllable. "You were going to confess that you love
him."
The moment was ill-chosen. Leila started, and knit her brows as if an
insolent hand had touched her cheek.
"No!" she cried. "Never!"
She sprang angrily to her feet, knocking over her chair against the
door at the very moment when Cousin Eufemia was pushing it carefully
open with one hand, while in the other she bore a cup of broth on
a tray. The broth splashed over her gown. "Mercy on us!" cried the
little old woman. Donna Fedele forced a short laugh. If she did not
laugh heartily, she was, nevertheless, glad to show her indifference
to Leila's dramatic violence, and to avail herself of her cousin's
presence in order to cut short an unpleasant conversation. She stopped
Eufemia, who was already starting to fetch more broth, and sent her to
the writing-desk for a letter, which she requested her to give to Leila.
"Now you can go," said she to the little old woman. When Eufemia had
left the room, Leila laid the letter down.
"Read it!" said Donna Fedele.
"Why should I?" the girl retorted. "It will do no good."
"How do you know?" Donna Fedele insisted. "It is not from Alberti."
The letter was from Don Aurelio. He had found a good many pupils and
was quite happy on this point. But he complained greatly of Alberti,
who had left Milan without even an attempt to see him, and without
sending him a line. He had heard of his departure through Engineer
Alberti, Massimo's uncle and benefactor. To Don Aurelio the young man's
act appeared in the light of a mere caprice. He could only explain it
as a result of the bitter disappointment of Signorina Leila's repulse,
and he added the following words:
"His having left me thus makes me fear he is undergoing a crisis so
severe as to affect even his religious conscience. I have reasons for
fearing this. Ah! what a blessing it would have been had a certain
person but understood him better!"
Leila laid the letter down in silence.
"Do you see?" said Donna Fedele.
"Why do you make me read these letters?" the girl cried angrily. "I
refuse to admit that they touch me in any way."
"So the evil you may cause does not touch you in any way?"
"What evil? This religious crisis? I have passed through mine, and I am
glad of it," Leila retorted bitterly. "I leave Catholicism to my father
and Dr. Molesin, who went to Mass together this morning; I leave it to
the chaplain who officiated, to the archpriest----"
"And to me also, I suppose?" said Donna Fedele freezingly.
Leila was silent. She had not intended to wound her friend, but
nevertheless, she was glad she had spoken as she had. Presently Donna
Fedele added:
"Thank you!"
She took up the book she had been reading when Leila arrived, the
verses of a great Catholic poet, Adam Mickiewitz, a Catholic, not of
Don Emanuele's stamp, but a follower of Dante. Leila felt that she was
dismissed. She thought she saw tears in Donna Fedele's eyes, and was on
the point of flinging her arms about her neck, but she choked the good
impulse in its birth, and turned to go instead.
She had already opened the door when her friend called her back.
"We have both been disagreeable," said she. "Come and be friends
again!" And she held out her hand.
Leila seized it in hers, kissed it, and then rushed away.
IV
On reaching the Posina Bridge she paused to gaze into the silent,
rapid stream. She had never passed the spot since that momentous
night without being assailed by regret for the promise she had made
Donna Fedele, without a shiver of desire and repulsion. She had never
since stopped to look down, but to-day she did so almost against her
will, as if compelled by some unknown force, and to acknowledge, also
unwillingly, that she no longer had any desire to die. Only then,
as she peered into the depths, was this new, unfathomable state of
her own mind made clear to her. Her bewildered soul slowly opened,
revealing, in its depths, the instinctive hope of love and happiness,
triumphing over all previsions of reason, all generous resolutions
of renunciation. Her heart was beating fast as she withdrew from the
parapet and started again on her way. She seemed to feel the life
imprisoned in all things straining towards love and joy, and their dumb
eagerness entered into her. All nature seemed to speak in the roaring
of the whirlpool at Perale and to call to her, "For you also! For you
also!" And her heart throbbed back, "For me also! For me also!" The
very air of the woods seemed alive. She would have liked to follow the
path that led upwards on the left of the bridge, and there among the
trees to have abandoned herself entirely to dreams and fancies. But the
mouth of the path had been closed with logs and brambles, and the main
road seemed the only way. She passed some carts and several people,
and her excitement cooled somewhat; but she trembled at herself, at the
violent outburst of desire that had blazed within her, and had then
shrunk back, like some startled wild animal, into the deep recesses of
her soul. She thought of Donna Fedele, who had evidently doubted the
strength of her "no" and of her "never," and she resolved to write to
her in unmistakable language, thus binding herself irrevocably.
* * * * *
At the chestnut-tree she met her father, who inquired timidly if she
was on her way from the Villino. He might have been inquiring, half
boldly, half shrinkingly, if she had been keeping some shameful tryst.
Her sharp and challenging answer, made him blink rapidly.
"The priests ... on account of the priests, you see ..." he stammered
with a smile.
This concise utterance meant a great many things. It meant that the
priests disapproved of her friendship for Donna Fedele, and that he
would advise her to comply with their wishes, but that he would not
presume beyond simple advice.
The priests had been to the Montanina with Signora Fantuzzo during
Leila's absence. The chaplain's expression had been absolutely
funereal, but Siora Bettina had looked as if a great weight had been
lifted from her shoulders. Sior Momi, steering warily between clerical
rocks and filial shoals, had gone the length of promising the lady
a visit from Leila. "She will come herself--come herself!" He had
listened attentively to the archpriest's conversation, who seemed more
interested in Leila's parent than in Leila herself, seeing in him a
new elector, a future town-councillor, a strong and mighty cat's-paw,
working for the parsonage in the Council, and a precious ally of his
successor.
That meek and smiling utterance of her father's, "The priests ..."
irritated Leila even more than a rebuke or a protest would have
done. Her overwrought nerves were deprived of the relief of violent
rebellion. She shut herself up in her room and refused to leave it even
at dinner-time, in order to avoid meeting her father. She tried to
write to Donna Fedele as she had determined, but found it impossible to
do so. The knowledge of her father's presence in the house, the thought
that at any moment she might hear his voice or step, made concentration
of thought impossible. As soon as Teresina had assured her, shortly
after ten o'clock, that he had retired, she showed such eagerness
to be left alone, that the maid, remembering what had happened that
night at the Villino, became alarmed. When Leila told her to go, she
could not help exclaiming, "What are you going to do now, Signorina?"
Leila replied that she wanted to be alone to write some letters. Poor
Teresina spent the night in the corridor, seated on a trunk. She heard
the key turn in the lock, and then Leila moving about the room at
intervals. From time to time she caught the sound of sobbing, and the
noise of paper being torn in pieces. Once she heard a window opened,
and was on the point of flinging herself against the door. But after
a long silence steps sounded again, the dressing-room door creaked,
and she heard water being poured into the basin. Teresina became less
anxious, but did not dare to leave her post. She closed her eyes,
however, and after a brief struggle, sleep overcame her.
A sharp voice roused her: "What are you doing here?"
She started to her feet. "Gèsu!" she exclaimed, and that was all she
could say.
"You foolish creature!" said Leila. "Go down and open the door of the
covered passage for me. My head aches, and I want some air," she added
more gently.
It was dawn. The Torraro was sweeping joyously through the Posina
valley, through the birches and poplars of the Montanina. Leila went up
to the chestnuts, and flung herself on the ground like a tired child
beneath their great branches, in the grass still heavy with dew. She
had written, but had not yet fastened up her letter, undecided whether
to send it or not. As she lay in the damp grass, the words she had
written stood out in front of her, and her mind was torn by indecision.
"Please never mention that _great_ person to me again." She had arrived
at this after many attempts and after tearing up seven or eight sheets
of paper. The expression had pleased her, conveying, as she meant it
to convey, a retort to a certain reference to herself in Massimo's
letter. But now she doubted whether it would not be better not to show
herself influenced by resentment, that her answer might appear the more
decisive. She thought she would read the letter through again, and so
returned to the house. On the way she met Teresina, who was coming to
say she had made some strong coffee.
"Mother of Mercy!" she cried, as she walked along behind Leila. "You
look as if you had been----" She stopped, and did not add "in the
water," for the very word reminded her of what had been uppermost in
her mind all the night, namely, that a man had but lately drowned
himself in the Posina close by.
* * * * *
No, "great person" would not do at all! Nor would it do to strike out
the word "great." She must give another tone to the whole letter, and
remove every trace of resentment and contempt. She tore the sheet in
two, and wrote as follows:
"DEAR FRIEND,--Please never speak to me again of a person I may indeed
respect, but who inspires me with an antipathy it is impossible to
overcome. My unkindness to you yesterday was caused by the same feeling
that now urges me to write in this way. Forgive me.
"LEILA."
She read the lines again and decided that she had expressed herself
clearly and to the purpose. There was no need of further corrections
or regrets. When that letter had gone all would be over for ever. She
flung herself upon her bed completely exhausted both in mind and body,
and slept for an hour, and on awaking, sprang up in bed, troubled
because she had slept she knew not how long, and bewildered as to what
had previously taken place. At sight of the note lying open on the
writing-table, consciousness began slowly to return, making her heart
throb with a dull pain. She bathed her face and did her hair. The
heartache grew, and waves of tears rose, but she did not weep. She took
the note up to examine it again, but her hands trembled so violently
and her sight was so troubled that she was unable to do so. She went
out to read it in the open air, in the garden, where her nerves would
not dare to rebel in this manner. She was so weary, there was such
peace in the fresh breeze, in the waving of the ripe grasses, in the
ceaseless murmuring of the Riderella, that for a long time she sat
there beneath the walnut-trees, dazed and motionless, the note slipping
from her lap to the grass. Something else slipped from her mind at
the same time, and she paid no heed to either. At last she stooped
and picked up the note, and began slowly tearing it into strips, her
eyes fixed dreamily on the grass. As she tore the thought came to her
that she was performing a solemn rite, to which it seemed strange that
surrounding nature should remain so indifferent, that the wind should
sway the grasses as before, that the water should be still murmuring.
When she had completely destroyed the note, her heart began throbbing
violently, as if her lover's arms were about her shoulders and his
lips on hers. She sprang from her seat, frightened and aflame with
excitement, gathered together the scraps of paper and flung them into
the Riderella, watching until every tell-tale scrap had disappeared,
and the very act itself seemed to have been annulled.
V
In the afternoon Signora Fantuzzo reappeared at the Montanina, but
this time she came alone and was received by Teresina. Leila had a
headache, and even had this not been the case she would have invented
one as an excuse. Official works of charity were not to her liking,
especially when they were to be carried out in such company. Sior Momi
had scented the coming storm on the preceding day, and had determined
to avoid it by a little trip to Padua. Siora Bettina was fairly well
disposed towards Sior Momi, in spite of her brother-in-law's somewhat
ambiguous description of him. The chaplain, however, to whom she looked
up as to an oracle, had spoken otherwise of him. Don Emanuele knew him
as well as the archpriest did, and even better, but until Leila should
be fairly started on her way to the convent, he saw in Momi a valuable
ally. He therefore declared to Siora Bettina, with an expression of
deepest compunction and many twistings of words and phrases, that
perhaps the archpriest, in his saintly simplicity and inborn honesty,
had attached overmuch importance to slanderous rumours and unduly harsh
judgments. Signor da Camin had been unfortunate in business, and was,
perhaps, not exempt from certain human frailties, but he was a man of
pure faith, free from all taint of modern error, a man who practised
his religion, and an excellent Catholic. He was, in short, a man to
make the clergy and the people of Velo thank God that the Montanina had
fallen into his hands instead of into those of the young man from Milan.
As neither Leila nor Sior Momi were visible, Bettina seized the
welcome opportunity of a few moments' conversation with Teresina. She
was fond of the maid's company, not only because she was at her ease
with her, but because Teresina was a woman of good sense and piety.
Moreover, she was always so willing to tell all she knew, and she told
it in a characteristic way. Teresina, for her part, liked being with
Siora Bettina, who was so devout, and who treated her with so much
consideration. They met but seldom, but when they did meet their faces
always brightened, and they would twitter their bits of gossip like a
couple of canary-birds, mingling comments in a wise and God-fearing
spirit, and to their mutual satisfaction. Signora Fantuzzo had never
seen any part of the Montanina save the drawing-room, and Teresina now
volunteered to show her the rest of the house, all save Leila's room
and Sior Momi's, the door of which he had locked himself.
"He is a good Christian, is he not?" said the visitor. Teresina gazed
at her in amazement, but seeing she was quite in earnest, answered
quickly:
"Of course! Of course!"
"And the young mistress also?" Signora Fantuzzo went on, her face
assuming an ambiguous expression.
"Of course--she also!" said Teresina.
"I mean as concerns religion."
Once more Teresina, somewhat troubled this time, replied:
"Of course, of course!"
They had passed from the billiard-room to the open verandah, and here
Siora Bettina sat herself down. With much embarrassment and a very red
face, she asked whether Teresina did not think that the influence of
the lady at Arsiero, who had so little reverence for the clergy, and
had been the friend of that bad priest at Lago, had shaken the girl's
faith.
"Oh, no, I don't think so at all!" Teresina cried with conviction.
"Because you know ... don't you?"
At the moment Teresina did not understand what it was she was expected
to know, and the two women stood staring at each other, one filled with
amazement, the other with compunction. Bettina hesitated an instant,
and then hinted at the attempt to commit suicide. Teresina understood
at once, her face quickly betraying the fact, and she dropped her eyes
in silence. Siora Bettina also looked down, that she might collect her
thoughts, and recall the chaplain's instructions should she happen to
have any conversation with the maid. She inquired with great sweetness
if the young girl were in the habit of saying her morning and evening
prayers. Teresina, annoyed at such a personal question, flushed
angrily, and answered shortly enough that she did not know. And had
the Signorina any religious books? She had a beautiful New Testament,
that had been a present from poor Signor Marcello. Nothing else? And
Siora Bettina heaved a sigh of relief on learning that Leila possessed
a prayer-book and a volume entitled "The Road to Paradise"; both were
books she had had at the convent. But did she read them? Teresina might
have answered that she had never seen any one of the three books in
Leila's hands, but her only reply was a vague "Who can say?" Siora
Bettina then braced herself to say, sweetly, that up at the parsonage
they had anxiously hoped that, after what had happened on that eventful
night, the young girl would soon come to confession. Don Emanuele, who
knew more about the events of that awful night than did the archpriest,
was especially distressed. In making this speech Siora Bettina had
been in no wise conscious of setting a trap, but a trap it proved for
Teresina, who promptly walked into it. As a good Catholic she also
longed that Leila should go to confession, and now her feelings got the
better of her.
"Of course she should go!" she said fervently.
Once more Siora Bettina communed with herself.
"How much better it would have been had the Trentos never taken the
girl into their house!" she said. "In her grief at her lover's death
she would probably have decided to withdraw from the world, but not in
the way she meant on that fatal night. She would have dedicated herself
to the Lord!"
"Oh, no! I don't believe she would!" cried Teresina, irritated at any
blame being cast upon her old master and mistress. But why not? Ma! Who
knows! That "ma" was as a casket full of golden reasons, but carefully
locked. Teresina did not see fit to open the casket, and Signora
Fantuzzo therefore concluded it was empty.
"It would have been a great blessing!" said she, and was about to add
that it might still come to pass, but remembered in time that Don
Emanuele had warned her not to go too far. The maid expressed her
regret that her work would not allow her to enjoy Siora Bettina's
society any longer, and hereupon the visitor rose.
"If only the confession could be managed!" said she.
"I wish it could," Teresina replied.
She went with Signora Fantuzzo as far as the small gate. At the last
moment the lady hinted that Leila might get some one to accompany her
to Vicenza, and make her confession at Monte Berico. Perhaps she would
be more willing to do it there.
"Perhaps she would," Teresina acquiesced, and Signora Fantuzzo observed
that her father would be the proper person to propose the Monte Berico
excursion to Leila.
"Dio!" thought the maid.