THE WHITE LADY OF THE ROSES
Leila rose from her bed before dawn, and, without waiting to dress, sat
down at her table and wrote as follows:
"The night is still dark; I am very tired, but, nevertheless, I find
it impossible to stay in bed. I have been feeling as if you were going
away from me. I must talk to you. Last night, between nine and ten,
I went up to the church place once more, to the place where we said
goodbye. In memory I went over all the paths we had travelled along
during the day, especially the one in the wood, where we went soon
after our meeting. I should like to go there now if I could. I believe
I should be able to find the exact place, the very tree near which we
passed, and from which I pulled a leaf on our return. I am covering
that leaf with kisses now. Ah, I am still Leila, Leila, Leila! But I
promise you to become Leila! Please love Leila also!
"Now I am going to write what I should never have the courage to say.
Perhaps, at the bottom of your heart, you despise me because I have
come to you thus, like a mad creature. You will despise me still more
when you learn that I came without intending to ask anything of you,
because I feel I have no right to do so, because whatsoever you may
do for me, for my honour, for my life, for my love, will be simply a
noble gift. My love for you is no sudden thing. I loved you even before
I knew you, before you came to the Montanina. The night you arrived
I listened with a beating heart to the whistle of your train. Then I
rebelled against love. Why? From pride. The more I loved you the more
unkind and haughty did my attitude towards you become. This is the
truth. I deserved all the bitter thoughts you harboured against me. I
came here to tell you this, and also to place myself in your hands.
And, after all, I told you only of my love, but ah! I had no need to
tell you more.
"I feared you would cast me off as unworthy. I should have said, 'It
is what I deserve!' I should not have taken my life, for I have given
my word not to do that. I should not have entered a convent, for I
have lost my faith. I should have arranged, in some way, to live near
you, seeing you sometimes without being seen. But you were kind and
generous. You took pity on one who has been both proud and sinful. Your
lips have pronounced absolution, for you have said, _for ever!_--you
have said, _my wife!_ The memory of this will be a never-ending joy to
me! But your gentleness terrifies me. I tremble lest I may cause you
unhappiness, lest I be unable to maintain what I promise, lest I fail
to become Leila. I tremble because of the evil blood that flows in my
veins. Had I not possessed this evil blood I could not have deceived my
father, my devoted maid, and that poor creature who accompanied me to
Vicenza, deceived them by acting a part, with perfect naturalness and
without remorse.
"But still, still ... still, when I reflect that you are going to
make me yours for ever, I feel that no worshipper has ever served and
adored his God as I shall serve and adore you. I have written that I
have lost my faith. I am a creature of passion rather than of reason.
I cannot analyse my religious sentiments clearly for you. As long as
I could I clung to the religion of my convent school. You may perhaps
recall my aversion to innovation in religion, to destructive yet not
reconstructive ideas. As long as I could I accepted the religion of the
archpriest and of the chaplain of Velo. Even Signor Marcello's religion
and Donna Fedele's did not seem entirely pure to me. They spoke of the
gospel as if they had a right to interpret it, and I knew well enough
that no layman had such a right. I said to myself, 'The whole, or
nothing.' As long as I could I accepted everything, and then, when I
came to know really well some of those who represent that whole, and
to see them intriguing together--the archpriest, the chaplain, the
archpriest's sister-in-law, my own father, and a certain friend of his
called Molesin--I could stand it no longer, and I said, 'It shall be
nothing.'
"But this nothing does not satisfy me, and I turn to you, rejoicing
that you are freed from your old beliefs, from your ideas of a
renovated Catholicism. I ask you to give me a God whom I can worship
in the forests of Dasio, in the gorge where the waterfall murmurs,
upon the lake, and in the bridal chamber, a God who shall not force
official mediators upon me; a God who shall ask me for love only, and
forbid me only to hate; a God who will not torment my intelligence
with incomprehensible dogmas, nor annoy me with tedious practices, nor
expect to delight me with a paradise and terrify me with a hell.
"Shall I see you to-morrow? Did my window overlook the street, I think
I should stand by it all day long, hoping! But my room overlooks the
courtyard. Shall I be doing wrong if I start from San Mamette this
afternoon at three o'clock, and go and sit on the grass, opposite the
waterfall? Shall I be doing wrong if I linger near a half-ruined
chapel, where the path begins to descend, and where a view of the whole
valley, the rocks of Dasio, and the dolomitic peak suddenly breaks into
sight? Would there be any harm in your passing that spot on your way to
visit your mayors?
"Perhaps Leila should not write these things.
"POOR LEILA."
Returning to bed, she slept the deep sleep of fatigue and youth until
the sun was high. She could not wait for Alberti's messenger and sent
the boy who had been her guide to Dasio with the letter.
She did not leave her room again until two o'clock, and spent the time
in gazing upon the hills, the lake, the clouds, the play of light and
shadow, and in dreaming and writing. She wrote to Donna Fedele, telling
of her joy at being loved and forgiven, craving pardon once more for
having left without informing her friend of her intention, telling of
the letter she had written to her father, and begging for news of the
invalid's condition. She directed her letter to the hospital in Turin,
fearing it would not find Donna Fedele at Arsiero. At two she went out
to buy some stamps, and on the threshold met a messenger who was the
bearer of a letter from Massimo. He wrote:
"Yesterday was such a dream, Leila, that your letter of this morning
was welcome to me if only as a proof of the reality of those heavenly
hours. And last night, on my way to Muzzaglio, I saw once more, and in
reality, the wood where, in less than an instant, we blotted out all
the bitterness, all the pain of the past. I did not pluck a leaf, but I
lingered there, for the delight of the memory was overpowering. In that
precious instant you were still Leila to me. Please never again speak
unkindly of Leila; it hurts me. Do not speak of kindness on my part,
much less of noble actions. Do not use the word 'pity' in connection
with the sentiment which you aroused in me when we first met, and
against which I also struggled at its birth. Never again utter that
horrible thought--which you have never really believed--that I could
despise a woman capable of such a miracle of love and humility. And, on
my part, I will not ask you to forgive me for my harsh early judgment
of you. I will tell you only that my love for Leila now fills and stirs
my soul like an eternal melody.
"Dearest, we will seek a faith together. I remember your aversion to
my Master and to my ideals at the time, though I thought then that you
probably spoke in ignorance and only because you disliked me so. Now
I understand better. But--forgive me--I still feel that if you knew
those first ideals of mine you would see that, in themselves, they were
no barrier to a religion such as you desire and long for, a religion
of the open fields and watercourses, a religion of love and freedom
from ritual. From my letters to Donna Fedele you have learned what
is my present attitude towards dogmatic beliefs and of the grief the
overthrow of these has caused me. Only yesterday did I cease to dwell
upon this sorrow, and I would not think of it to-day, nor to-morrow,
nor for all the time that I might have your love, were it not for a
fast approaching event to which I cannot even allude without a feeling
of deep emotion and sadness. One who is dead has come forth from his
grave, and is drawing near me, is seeking for me. He is my Master, the
man I have loved best in this world, the man whose wonderful faith
embraced all sinners. His body is to be brought here the day after
to-morrow in the evening. I have this morning had a telegram to tell
me. I must go to meet him. Dearest Leila, you and I will indeed seek
for a faith together, but the thought of this meeting has paralysed me,
I cannot tell you how my mind is torn.
"It will not be possible for me to meet you as you have arranged. I
must be at Cima at half-past two to see the mayor. Please start from
San Mamette at that hour, and get some one to accompany you to the
Sanctuary of Caravina. When you have passed the village of Cressogno,
dismiss your guide. You cannot miss the way, for the sanctuary stands
alone. Should we not have met before, wait for me at the church. We
will proceed to Cima together, and you can return thence by boat to San
Mamette, while I go up to Dasio alone. Leila, my own!
"M."
A whistle! A steamer arriving from Oria. Leila had forgotten to wind up
her watch. She consulted a time-table that had been placed in her room,
and concluded it must be nearly half-past two. She sent for the boy who
had accompanied her before, and they immediately started out, walking
rapidly, and in half an hour's time she found herself at the farther
extremity of Cressogno, in sight of Caravina. Here she dismissed her
guide and went on alone.
She had brought Massimo's letter with her, and now read it through once
more, as she sauntered slowly along the pleasant level path beneath the
olives and among the vineyards of the sunny hillside, sloping gently
downward to the lake. At about a hundred paces from the cypresses that
faced the sanctuary she raised her eyes, and her face beamed. Massimo
was coming towards her.
For a time they were silent, partly from emotion, partly for another
reason. Each felt that the other was thinking of a shadow cast by a
dead man, and a diffidence constrained them both.
"You are sad," Leila said at last softly. "Can I do anything to comfort
you?"
"Dearest," he began impulsively, as if he had been waiting only for a
word from her to pour out his heart, "there were several things in my
letter that do not in the least express my true feelings. I felt this
somewhat while writing, but still more strongly after the letter had
left me. As long as I possess your love I shall never feel contempt for
any one. I shall feel nothing but pity for those to whom such a love is
denied."
Leila did not speak, but gazed upon him with tender eyes. Presently
she ventured to inquire timidly about the dead friend. She remembered
that one evening after dinner, at the Montanina, she had asked where
Benedetto was buried, and that Massimo had answered, "At Campo Verano,
for the time being."
Massimo now told her everything, but without touching upon the mental
trouble he had referred to in his letter. Leila approached it gently.
She repeated her question softly:
"Can I do anything to comfort you?"
As Massimo made no answer, she added:
"I can see how much you still love your Master."
"Yes," said Massimo, "I love him still."
He spoke excitedly and as if there were further words to follow. At
that moment a cloud cast a rapid shadow over olives and vineyards, over
the path, and a long, pale-green strip of slumbering lake along the
shore. Massimo paused. Leila, convinced that he was about to speak,
gazed anxiously at him as she waited. He did indeed wish to speak, and
was struggling to find his way amid the tumult of thoughts and feelings
that were warring within him. The words seemed so close to his lips and
then they sank back again. He was so fully conscious of this that he
never doubted she would not understand him when he cried sadly at last:
"I cannot!"
He stepped away from the olive-tree against which he had been leaning,
and begged Leila to go on, for the sky looked threatening over towards
Lugano, and a suspicious mist hung over Caprino and San Salvatore.
She obeyed sadly. She was pained that he should not have relieved his
feelings, and also because she vaguely realised her own powerlessness.
Massimo, feeling that he had grieved her, took her arm, and began
stroking her hand tenderly. She laid her right hand upon her left, that
both might share in his caresses, and so, in silence, they advanced
towards Cima. In the village they heard an old piano quavering: _Sola,
furtiva al tempio...._
Massimo paused, and stood listening.
"The prelude to love!" said he. Leila glanced at him in astonishment.
What could he mean? On learning that Massimo had been greatly moved
by that melody, which he had heard on the night of his arrival at the
Montanina, while the whole house slept, she blushed and smiled.
"It was not I who was playing," she said.
"Not you?"
"No; it was Signor Marcello."
She had flushed hotly, fearing he would be disappointed, and his face
did indeed show some slight disappointment. But he saw at once her
distressed look, and laughed heartily at his own mistake. She joined in
so readily, that he began to suspect she had been jesting, and begged
her to tell him the truth.
"It _was_ you who was playing!" he cried.
"Yes, yes!" said she, flinging up her head and smiling, as was her wont
at happy moments. "Yes, I was playing!"
Massimo did not know whether to believe her or not, and both laughed
in turn, without further discussion, until the noise of distant wheels
told them that the steamer had left Porlezza, and was nearing Cima.
Now there was a little tussle. Massimo, half serious, half in jest,
proposed that they should not meet on the morrow. They might expect
an answer from Leila's father or from Donna Fedele by Monday. Leila
protested. No matter what the answer might be, it could not change
anything, and on Monday, answer or no answer, she was going with him
to meet Benedetto's body. It was decided at last that early on the
following morning he would send her a letter containing the plans for
the day.
Once on board the boat, she took up her position near the stern, and
remained gazing at Massimo, who was standing on the landing-stage, as
long as she could see him.
II
At six o'clock she dined in her own room, and then sat down to write to
Massimo. Towards seven she heard the whistle of the steamer from Oria,
and went to the window to see it pass, returning afterwards to her
writing. Suddenly there was a knock at her door. It was the housemaid.
Two ladies had arrived by the boat, and were asking for the Signorina.
Leila inquired their names. The girl did not know. What were they like,
then? They were both elderly; one was short and the other tall. The
tall one had white hair, and appeared to be very ill. Leila sprang to
her feet. Donna Fedele! Was it possible? Bewildered and in silence she
stared at the girl, who went on to say that she had heard the lady with
the white hair inquire of the proprietor if Dr. Alberti were also at
the hotel. No further doubt was possible. At a bound Leila reached the
door, thrust the girl aside, and flew down the stairs.
In the narrow entrance-hall she saw Donna Fedele sitting, while Cousin
Eufemia stood near, talking with the proprietor.
"You?" she cried, and would have flung herself into her friend's arms
had not the old cousin restrained her.
"The poor Signora," said the proprietor, who was holding a tray with a
small glass of Marsala, "is greatly fatigued."
Donna Fedele, whose face was as colourless as her hair, forced a sweet
smile, while her beautiful voice said painfully:
"This is a surprise, is it not? Are you quite well, and did you have a
pleasant journey?"
Leila could not keep back her tears.
"Tut, tut!" said Donna Fedele. "What in the world are you crying about?
Are you sorry to see me here?"
"Poor Signorina!" said the sympathetic proprietor; "it is only because
she is so delighted." He was sure there was some mystery, but he did
not know what it was.
Meanwhile Cousin Eufemia was trying to persuade the invalid to taste
the Marsala. Donna Fedele had almost fainted on entering the hotel.
They had hastened to place her upon a chair, and some minutes had
elapsed before she was able to ask the proprietor if a young lady,
travelling alone, were stopping in his house, and if Dr. Alberti were
there also.
The Marsala restored her somewhat, and Leila also succeeded in calming
herself. She arranged that the invalid should have her room, which was
the best double-room that was available, and that she should have a
small one next to it.
Donna Fedele now declared that she felt strong enough to mount the
stairs and go to bed, adding, with a touch of her old love of teasing,
that her companion, having excited the admiration and curiosity of the
natives, was now at liberty to go for a walk and show herself.
"Nonsense, nonsense!" laughed the delighted Eufemia. "The Lord and Our
Lady be praised, you are better again!"
With difficulty, leaning upon Leila's arm and pausing at every step,
Donna Fedele reached the top at last, and entered her room, where Leila
and Cousin Eufemia hastened to get her into bed.
As she helped to undress her friend Leila was horrified by her
emaciation, and by the signs of illness. She said nothing in Cousin
Eufemia's presence, but as soon as the little old woman had gone out of
the room, Leila flung herself upon her knees, and seizing the hand that
hung beside the bed, kissed it passionately.
"What have you done, child?" said Donna Fedele.
She did not understand that the young girl was shedding tears of
compassion for her, for the sublime and single-hearted woman whom
she had wronged, and who had come to her, sick and fainting, as the
tenderest of mothers might have come; while she herself, absorbed
in her love, had given so little thought to her and to her terrible
sufferings. Leila sobbed out:
"I am happy, dear friend--so happy! I did wrong not to tell you, but I
did right in coming here."
"You did right?"
"Yes. He loves me--he is going to marry me. He is so noble, so good! We
had written to you all about it."
"'He is going to marry me'!" Donna Fedele repeated. "I should think so
after what has happened!"
Leila, still on her knees, raised her head.
"Why?" said she. "It is not his duty for him to marry me."
Donna Fedele silently withdrew her hand from Leila's clasp, and placing
it upon her head, said softly:
"Who knows what strange ideas of duty this little head may contain!"
It was dark in the room, and Donna Fedele could not see the sudden
flame in Leila's eyes, but she heard it in her voice and in her excited
utterance.
"Why should it be his duty? It was I who came to him. He loves me, but
at the same time something brotherly in his affection would protect me
even against myself, if that were necessary."
Donna Fedele smiled and stroked the young girl's hair tenderly.
"It is necessary--very necessary," said she.
Leila took the hand that had been caressing her hair, and pressing her
face upon it, murmured:
"Perhaps it is."
"For shame, for shame!" her friend cried.
While Donna Fedele, who had withdrawn her hand, was thus chiding
the kneeling girl, patting her head somewhat sharply the while, the
searchlight flashed through the room, and they heard a scream from
Cousin Eufemia. Even Donna Fedele had been startled. Her terrified
cousin came bustling in to close the windows, exclaiming: "Oh, poor
me! What an awful thunderstorm we are going to have!" and Leila had to
explain where the light came from before she went away, soothed. Donna
Fedele now wanted every detail of Leila's life during the past three
days. The girl gave a colourless account of her doings, and then asked
permission to inform Massimo at once of their friend's arrival. Donna
Fedele herself desired this, but protested that she would not see him
until the morrow. Leila went into the next room and wrote a few hurried
lines, telling Massimo also how ill Donna Fedele was, and then begged
the hotel proprietor to have the note carried to Dasio immediately.
Cousin Eufemia, who, in spite of her fatigue, was fully determined not
to go to bed until all her preparations for the night were completed,
and a supply of broth, mineral water, and Marsala placed in the
invalid's room, took Leila aside and implored her, with tears in her
eyes, to arrange so that, should it prove necessary, a physician might
be sent for. She trembled for Fedele, who, by this time, ought to have
been in the Turin hospital.
"She thinks she will die," said Eufemia. "She went to confession and
received Communion the day before yesterday, and yesterday she sent for
her confessor again. If we could only get off to Turin to-morrow! But I
am sure she will not wish to go."
Leila, frightened and distressed, went to inquire about the doctor. The
physician who was on duty for the time being lived at Cadate, not ten
minutes' walk from San Mamette. Leila insisted upon relieving poor old
Eufemia, and sitting up with the invalid at least part of the night.
But Eufemia would not agree to this.
"I must sit on a chair," said she, "for if I lie down, even in my
clothes, I shall go fast asleep at once. With my rosary, and my mind
fixed on Our Blessed Lady of Consolation, I shall be better off than in
bed."
Leila was obliged to give way. She sent word to the proprietor that
the person to whom she had sent the note might perhaps come, some time
before midnight, to inquire for the invalid. She did not go to bed, but
often went to listen at her friend's door. Once she heard Donna Fedele
ordering her cousin to lie down. Eufemia resisted for a time, but
Fedele raised her voice, and the old woman was obliged to obey, having
first stipulated that she would not undress. Again Donna Fedele made a
request in a low tone, and Cousin Eufemia began reciting the rosary.
The young girl brought a chair and sat down by the door, determined
to spend the night there, prepared to enter the room should it be
necessary.
She was sure that Alberti would start as soon as he received her
note, and was therefore not surprised when he arrived towards
half-past eleven. Hearing voices at the door of the hotel, Leila went
downstairs. Massimo was very troubled, and was still more distressed
by the account of the invalid. They discussed the advisability of his
seeing Donna Fedele at once, should she be awake. Leila did not think
it wise, and so he went to the room he had ordered for himself, begging
Leila to call him immediately in case of need, and to send for the
Cadate doctor as well.
Leila was alone in the dark corridor, while the entire household slept.
Yesterday there had been light in her heart, and to-day there was
shadow. For her sake, entirely for her sake, Donna Fedele lay there
suffering, perhaps dying. She felt almost as if she now loved Massimo
less, and she wept silently, biting her lip that she might not sob
aloud. A small voice did indeed whisper to her that Donna Fedele had
not been obliged to come, that it had not been necessary, and that she
would have done better to go to Turin. Leila would have listened to
this voice willingly enough, had her motherly friend come to her in
good health, and with reproaches on her lips. But she had come in so
pitiful a plight, so kindly, and with such tenderness in her words and
upon her face! And to whom did she owe her happiness if not to this
friend, who had paved the way to it?
Towards two o'clock she feared she would fall asleep, and rising
softly, went to her room and stood by the open window that the cool air
might banish her drowsiness. She saw a light shining beyond another
open window. Perhaps Massimo was lying awake in that room. She withdrew
from the window, for she shrank from seeing him and being seen by him
at that moment. She listened to the whisperings of the night, the
gentle lap of the placid lake, the leap of a fish, the hooting of an
owl in the distance, and presently, on resuming her post at Donna
Fedele's door, she became conscious that her love was undergoing a
transformation, that contact with painful reality was imparting to it
an earnestness and a depth it had lacked before.
At four she heard Donna Fedele ask for something. Cousin Eufemia got
out of bed, and ran against a chair, at which Donna Fedele laughed
softly. After this all was quiet until morning.
III
At half-past six Cousin Eufemia, who had come out of the room at six,
leaving Donna Fedele asleep, cautiously opened the door again, and
seeing that the invalid was awake, entered on tiptoe.
"Dr. Alberti is here," said she.
Donna Fedele turned painfully on her side, so that her face was towards
the door, and said:
"Let him come in."
Massimo entered briskly, his tall person slightly bent, his face
wearing an expression of eager satisfaction.
"What a pleasure!" he exclaimed, partly from force of habit, partly to
deceive himself and her, although he was fully aware that those words
were not the most appropriate he could have uttered on meeting a friend
whose condition was so much more serious than when he had last seen her.
Donna Fedele smiled.
"I don't know about the pleasure!" said she, and held out her hand,
which he kissed.
"But why did you undertake this trying journey? I assure you it was
entirely unnecessary. How could you doubt----"
Massimo had been about to add "that I should act as a Christian and a
gentleman?" But he checked himself, and flushed hotly, for the word
"Christian," after his last letter to the woman who was now listening
to him, would have scorched his lips.
Donna Fedele gazed at him in silence, but with a scrutiny so
penetrating that his colour deepened still more.
"It will depend upon you and Leila," she said, "to make this the best
action of my whole life."
Failing to grasp her meaning, Massimo made no answer.
"And now," said he at last, breaking a silence that was embarrassing,
"allow me to act the part of a doctor."
But with a slow shake of her forefinger, the invalid refused. Greatly
disappointed, Massimo asked the reason of this refusal. She replied
that she did not need a doctor, that indeed she herself had come to act
the part of physician both to Leila and himself. But not at once. At
present she wished to know what these young people intended to do. On
hearing that Leila had written to her father, and was waiting for an
answer, she pointed out that it was absolutely certain to be a refusal,
and that, answer or no answer, the girl could not remain here.
"God will give me strength to take her back to her own home," said she,
"or at least to the Villino for a few days."
Thereupon Massimo told her what Leila had written to her father, and
the reason for anticipating a favourable answer. Donna Fedele readily
admitted this, and was furthermore pleased to learn that Massimo had
hopes of being appointed physician to the Commune of Valsolda. But it
was none the less necessary that Leila should go away with her, and
Massimo at once recognised this necessity. He believed, however, that
it would be difficult to persuade Leila, but this he did not say.
"Call her," said Donna Fedele.
Leila came, but on learning what was proposed the colour fled from her
face.
"No, no!" she cried, rather beseechingly than in protest.
Donna Fedele called her a foolish child, and assured her that, as she
and Massimo had come to an understanding, matters would of necessity
take their natural course. Was it possible she could not see the
impropriety, the impossibility of her remaining in Valsolda? Leila
hastened to explain. She had hoped Donna Fedele would remain a few
days, that this rest and quiet might benefit her. Then she, Leila,
would have gone to Turin with her friend. Of course she was sorry to
leave Valsolda, but it was the bare thought of returning to Velo that
horrified her. Her coming of age and becoming her own mistress was
simply a question of months now, of a very few months. Donna Fedele
pointed out that in Turin she would be left entirely on her own
resources.
"If your father would consent," she said, after a few moments'
reflection, "I could leave you at Santhià, with my cousin."
After a brief discussion it was decided that Donna Fedele should rest
to-day, see the Cadate doctor to-morrow, and, should he consent, start
with Leila, sending a telegram to another cousin to meet the girl at
the Santhià station, while Eufemia, who had recovered her box, over
which she had begun to sigh frequently in private, should continue
the journey with the invalid. Letters coming to San Mamette for Leila
would be sent on to the Santhià address. Donna Fedele determined to act
without waiting for Sior Momi's permission. He had always shown himself
most deferential towards her, while her cousin's house at Santhià was
so safe a refuge, and Leila so abhorred the idea of going back to Velo,
that she felt she had the right to decide on her own responsibility.
The long talk had exhausted her small stock of strength, and she begged
for an hour's rest and silence. She made another request, that Massimo
would return to Dasio, and that Leila would make up her mind not to
see him again until that evening between six and seven o'clock, and
then only in her, Donna Fedele's, presence. She felt the share she
had had in bringing about Leila's mad flight, and her responsibility
weighed upon her more than it would upon a real mother. Leila showed
signs of rebellion.
"Leila, dearest Leila!" said Massimo, with a smile. As by enchantment
the little wild animal, with flaming eyes, was tamed. He wished it to
be so, and that was enough. Donna Fedele started.
"How is this? You have changed your name?"
"Only for him," said Leila, blushing. "But for him, I have really
changed it."
"But why?"
With a rapid gesture Leila checked Massimo's explanation, and implored
Donna Fedele not to press her for reasons.
"It will be far better for you to call me Leila, also," said she.
Donna Fedele shook her head, and made a gesture as if to say: "Who
can make anything out of this extraordinary pair?" And here the
conversation ended.
IV
It was Sunday, and on Saturday, in obedience to Donna Fedele's orders,
Cousin Eufemia had sought information concerning the whereabouts of the
church and the hours of the different services. She had learned that
the church, on the hillside above the town, could only be reached by a
flight of very steep steps, and that the one Mass celebrated there was
at nine o'clock. Nor were there any other churches in the neighbourhood
which were easier of access. She saw well enough that her cousin was in
no condition to go to Mass, but nevertheless, she did not dare to go
herself without informing the invalid of her intention. At half-past
eight, therefore, she told her. Donna Fedele sent for Leila.
"Go to Mass with Eufemia," said she. "Unfortunately, I am not well
enough to go. You must hear it for me."
Leila was anxious to stay with her, but she would not hear of this.
"No, dear," said she, "I insist upon your going," and added that, had
it been necessary, Eufemia could have stopped with her. As Leila still
hesitated, she asked with a smile if, in order to obtain a favour
from her, she must call her Leila. The young girl made no answer, but
started immediately with Cousin Eufemia.
Donna Fedele was suffering. Sharp pains had begun to torment her during
her interview with Massimo, and still continued. This was no new form
of suffering--she had had these pains before; now, however, she could
not help recognising how weak was her power of resistance. She took
her Prayer Book and sought to read the prayers of the Mass, but she
could not, and presently her hand sank heavily upon the coverlet,
and the little book fell to the floor. A heavy perspiration drenched
her brow, and coursed down her thin cheeks; but no groan escaped her
lips. Shortly before her cousin and Leila returned from Mass the pains
grew less severe, and during the first moment of comparative ease she
murmured aloud to herself:
"My dear Fedele, you will never leave this place!"
However, she found strength to receive them calmly on their return,
and in answer to their anxious questions, said she had indeed been
suffering some slight pain, but that she was better now. She asked for
a little Marsala, and her voice betrayed extreme exhaustion. Leila
proposed sending for the doctor.
"Send for him if you will," said the invalid, smiling, "but mind you
send for the right one!"
Leila blushed, and explained that she had meant to allude to the Cadate
doctor, and not to Massimo at all.
Cousin Eufemia's heart was full of misgivings, for she reflected that,
if Fedele consented to see the doctor, she must be feeling very ill
indeed. The sufferer sent her to see that the physician was summoned,
and then begged Leila to pick up the Prayer Book, and read her the
following words of St. Augustine's:
"And now it is time that I should come to Thee for all eternity. Open
Thy door to me, and teach me how to reach Thy threshold. I possess
nought save a willing heart, and I know nothing save that the things
of the world and all frailties are to be shunned, while the things of
eternity and of truth are to be sought after. This is all my wisdom;
and how to reach Thee I know not. I beseech Thee, therefore, to watch
for me, to enlighten me, and to set my feet upon the right path. If
those who find a refuge in Thee reach Thee through faith, then give
me faith; if this be obtained through virtue, then grant me to be
virtuous; and if knowledge lead to Thee, then give me knowledge. Cause
faith, hope, and charity to increase within me, through Thine own
admirable and singular bounty."
At the opening words Leila had shuddered. Was this a forewarning of
the end? As she read on, it no longer appeared so, but her first
impression did not fade, and it sounded in her voice until the end of
the paragraph.
"Thank you," said Donna Fedele, gently and seriously. "When I shall
have crossed that threshold I hope you will sometimes pray thus, in
memory of your poor old friend."
Leila seized her hand and kissed it. After that the invalid lay without
speaking until the arrival of the doctor. His visit was to little
purpose, for he was not allowed to make the thorough examination
that alone could have enlightened him. Donna Fedele told him of the
operation, and said that she had intended leaving for Turin on the
morrow, but would not do so without his permission. She therefore
requested him to come again the next morning and give his verdict.
Meeting Leila in the corridor, the doctor told her he had found the
patient's heart in an extremely weak state, and that he feared the
worst.
Massimo came at six o'clock. The invalid was free from pain. Cousin
Eufemia, greatly distressed because Fedele had left off teasing her,
kept glancing from Leila to Massimo with questioning eyes which were
full of dread and anguish. Silence and the absence of the familiar
smile terrified the watchers, but each shrank from confessing this fear
to the others. At seven o'clock Donna Fedele begged her cousin to leave
the room for a time, and signed to the two young people to come to her
bedside. She asked Leila if she had received an answer from Velo. No,
it was not possible yet.
It was apparent that she intended to introduce another topic, and was
finding it difficult to connect it with this preamble. She thought for
a time, and presently spoke.
"If Leila has really made up her mind to give up her fortune," she
began, "there is no use discussing the matter. But she is young. The
day will come when the Montanina will be at your disposal, and I
entreat you both not to forsake it. Did I not fear to burden you with
such a charge, I would also beg you to have a Mass celebrated once a
year, for the repose of my soul, at Santa Maria ad Montes, and----"
She paused, stretched out her thin hands to the two young people, and,
finding her familiar smile once more, finished the sentence.
"--and to be present at it."
They pressed her hands in silence, and the sufferer's beautiful dark
eyes shone. She seemed to be a little stronger, and requested Massimo
to look out the trains for her, in case she should be able to start on
the morrow. By leaving San Mamette shortly after ten, the travellers
would reach Santhià at six in the afternoon, and Turin at half-past
seven. Massimo would go with them as far as Porto Ceresio. Leila asked
timidly:
"Why not as far as Milan?"
He explained to her in an undertone that he could not do so. That
other traveller from Rome would reach Porto Ceresio from Milan eight
minutes before their arrival there from Lugano, and the steamer he had
chartered would start for Oria at once.
"You cannot come?" said Donna Fedele, who had not heard his
explanation. "Ah!" she added. "Perhaps for the reason of which Don
Aurelio informed me."
Massimo was unaware that she had met Don Aurelio in Milan, and they now
spoke of him, of his poverty, and of his untroubled soul. Donna Fedele
mentioned the conditions that had made him decide to accompany the body.
"Could they not have left those poor bones to rest in peace in Rome?"
she said.
Leila glanced at Massimo, who made no answer.
* * * * *
Towards midnight Donna Fedele had another attack of severe pain.
By dawn she was easier, but the doctor from Cadate who saw her at
six found her feverish, and naturally pronounced the journey to be
impossible. At ten Massimo started for Porto Ceresio, expecting to be
back at Oria with the private steamer by two in the afternoon. From the
Albogasio cemetery, where Benedetto was to be buried, it was only a
quarter of an hour's walk to San Mamette.
V
Pale, and with a beating heart, Massimo stood at the entrance to the
Porto Ceresio station, waiting to see among the passengers by the train
from Milan, which was late, the familiar faces of Don Aurelio and of
the friends from Rome, who were expected to arrive at the same time
as the body. There was no one of his acquaintance in the train. The
first impression, which was almost a relief, was quickly followed by
one of vexation that he should not have been notified of the delay, and
that he should have left Leila and Donna Fedele so much earlier than
was necessary. He consulted the station-master, who could give him no
information, but promised to telegraph to Milan for news. Massimo went
to wait at the station café, on the railed terrace overlooking the lake.
Here, in the presence of the peaceful waters reflecting the green
mountains, his quiet thoughts also reflected three figures. One was
that of the beloved and fiery-souled girl; a second was that of the
sweet woman who had come for the sake of the fiery-souled girl and for
his own sake, who had come to die, perhaps, in a strange house, moved
by a love of a nature different indeed, but infinitely more lofty and
serene. A third figure was that of Benedetto, standing at a greater
distance, and at once loved and feared. This last figure suddenly drew
near to him, and stood alive before him once more. He felt his dying
Master's hand upon his head, could almost feel his arm about his neck,
the arm that was too weak to press him close. He heard the feeble voice
saying, "Be holy!" and he heard the words, "Let each one perform his
religious duties as the Church prescribes, according to strict justice,
and with perfect obedience." He reflected that yesterday--Sunday--he
had neglected to go to Mass. This had never happened before. The
breaking away from the Church in thought had been an easier matter than
the breaking away from her external practices, than the breaking with
long-standing habits, an act which seemed almost an offence to his
beloved dead. A slight twinge of conscience roused him, admonishing him
to assert his will against these dangerous impulses, proceeding from
a sentiment but imperfectly dominated by reason. The painful conflict
that for days had been going on within his soul, and that had become
more violent on the news of the arrival of the dead Benedetto, was now
reaching the acute stage. The oft-repeated and alternating prevalence
of one impulse over another was weakening that of reason, while the
impulse of sentiment--a force that never lies dormant, that knows no
doubt, and tends constantly to reconquer lost ground--grew ever more
vigorous as the meeting with the dead friend grew nearer.
Massimo scanned the surface of the distant waters over towards the
point of Melide for the special steamer that, by this time, should
have been in port. The lake was deserted in that direction. There were
only two small boats to be seen between Morcote and Brusino Arsizio.
This second delay was a mystery also. Once more he sought out the
station-master. Milan had answered that nothing had arrived there, but
that some other persons having also made inquiries, a telegram had
been sent to Bologna, and that the answer would be forwarded to Porto
Ceresio as soon as it was received. Massimo went back to the café, and
at last discovered the white prow of a steamer coming from Melide, and
keeping well in the middle of the lake. A slight breeze had sprung up.
Now a breath would break the surface of the water into azure ripples
above the green reflections of the mountains; then the breath would die
down, and the reflections reappear. This new unrest of wind and lake
seemed to the young man an unrest of waiting, like his own.
To Massimo's amazement the special steamer arrived crowded with people.
The fact was quickly explained, however. The people of Albogasio looked
upon Piero Maironi as a benefactor. They had chartered the steamer
to Oria at their own expense, and had started, more than one hundred
strong and led by their parish priest, to meet the dead son of Franco
and Luisa.
On learning that there was no news of the body, these poor souls were
somewhat disconcerted, but presently the station-master came to tell
Massimo that he had been notified from Milan that the body would reach
Porto Ceresio at eight in the evening. It was then half-past two.
Massimo telegraphed news of the delay to San Mamette. The Albogasio
people, who had feared that they had gone to useless expense, and had
lost a day's work as well, now appeared quite satisfied, despite the
prospect of a wait of nearly six hours. There was some grumbling on
the part of those who had come unprovided either with food or money,
but they grumbled submissively. These good people would have suffered
the pangs of hunger uncomplainingly, had not Massimo and their parish
priest arranged to provide them with bread at least, while those
provident ones who had brought food with them showed themselves willing
to share with the others. A sense of gentle pity and of gratitude
towards the deceased, gentle memories of other dear departed souls,
a solemn demonstration of deep and unsullied faith, bore witness to
the presence of so many other virtues in the hearts of this humble
flock, that Massimo was profoundly touched. The parish priest made
known to him a woman called Leu, who remembered Benedetto's parents,
and who could not say enough in praise of _Sciora Luisa_. But the
others were discussing the man who had disappeared years ago from
Oria, leaving no trace, and whose dead body was now returning. They
spoke of the sensation that disappearance had caused, of the many
mistaken suppositions, and of the good priest, a stranger in these
parts, who had seen to it that the charitable dispositions of him who
had disappeared were carried out. A few old people remembered the other
Piero, the uncle, Engineer Ribera.
Shortly after five o'clock a telegram from Don Aurelio informed Massimo
that he was about to start from Milan with the body. When Massimo
had read the telegram he handed it to the priest from Albogasio, and
walking away without a word, began to follow a deserted path along the
shore, on the left of the landing-stage. He continued walking slowly up
and down here for nigh on three hours, without being able to formulate
a single thought, until evening's welcome shadows fell.
When the train entered the station the darkness was profound, for
storm-clouds now lay massed in the sky, where no moon shone. The people
from Albogasio had invaded the station, carrying lighted candles and
flaring torches, and led by their priest, in surplice and stole. Don
Aurelio and Massimo's Roman friends alighted silently and with grave
faces. Massimo, shaken by a nervous trembling, bit his lip that he
might not sob aloud. Short and measured greetings marked the solemnity
of the moment, and many of the bystanders were weeping. Railway
employees, carrying lanterns, opened the freight-car that contained the
body. Massimo and the young men from Rome stepped forward. Some slight
confusion ensued, and excited voices were heard. Don Aurelio commanded
silence in a tone of authority, and once more all was quiet as the
coffin appeared, borne towards the station entrance on the shoulders of
six young men, of whom Massimo was one. The few passengers the train
had brought had all passed out. One woman only, dressed in mourning,
and accompanied by a maid, followed the funeral procession on board the
steamer. No one knew who she was, and even the glare of the torches
failed to reveal her face, hidden by a thick veil.
Amidst deep silence the bier was placed upon the fore-deck, and covered
with a black pall ornamented with a silver fringe. Amidst deep silence
also those who bore lights lined up on either side of the deck. The
priest took up his position in front of the pilot-house, and facing the
bier. Still in deep silence the rest of the little flock huddled in the
stern, leaving the space clear between the candle-bearers and the bier.
Don Aurelio, Massimo, and the young men from Rome stationed themselves
beside the priest. Without a word of command, the gang-plank was
withdrawn from the landing-stage, the crew pushed the steamer off, the
captain bent over his speaking-tube, the pistons creaked, and slowly
and heavily the paddles beat upon the water. When the boat had swung
half round, and brought her prow towards the upper lake, the parish
priest of Albogasio began intoning the rosary. The assembly responded,
and the combined and steady sounds of the pistons, the paddles, and
the water, cleft by the prow, formed a deep-toned accompaniment to the
monotonous chant. Like a phantom ship the vessel thus broke the silence
of the quiet lake and of the sleeping shores, broke the darkness with
two shining lines of funeral candles.
Massimo kept his eyes fixed on the black pall with its silver fringe.
The love that the dead man had once borne him, the calumnies, the
insults, the outrages of every description for which that poor body
and the spirit that moved it had been the mark; the thought of his own
desertion, which had come so near accomplishment, while others, like
these friends from Rome standing here beside him, had remained loyal
to the beloved memory, despite the contempt, the derision, and the
animosity of the world--all these thoughts formed within him a confused
tumult of love, grief, and remorse that completely unmanned him, and
slipping away quietly, he went down to the cabin and wept bitterly, his
sobs mingling with the combined and steady sounds of the pistons, the
paddles, and the flying foam.
"No, no, dear friend! I will not forsake you! I am coming back to you!
I am coming back!"
He had not noticed the presence at the farther end of the cabin of
the two women who had been in the train. When his sobbing had become
less violent, and he had risen to his feet, seeking to compose himself
before going on deck once more, she who appeared to be the maid rose
and came towards him.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said she, "but can you tell me whether any
one will speak at the grave?"
Massimo, who was taken by surprise, hesitated an instant, and then
replied in the affirmative. The maid thanked him, and then returned
to the dark corner where the lady in mourning was sitting. The young
man went up the steps, and had nearly reached the deck when the maid
addressed him once more.
"I beg your pardon, sir, but are you going to speak?"
"No," said Massimo.
The woman thanked him.
This was a fresh grief to Massimo, for it showed him that there
were those who expected the favourite disciple to speak the last
farewell, while he had refused, and now, at this eleventh hour, he
would be entirely unable to find fitting language. Grief he felt, and
astonishment as well. Why had these women supposed he would speak? Did
they know him? Presently he went back to the place where he had stood
before. The priest had finished reciting the rosary, and now all was
silent, only the sounds of moving things could be heard, while the
shadows that were cleft at the prow of the phantom ship by the glow
of the candles foregathered once more about the stern, in a darkness
that was deeper still. When they had passed the Melide Bridge, some one
standing behind the priest said, in a loud voice:
"_De profundis._"
A hundred voices began intoning the _De profundis_. When the psalm was
half over, the steamer, which was making straight for the dark outline
of the point of Caprino, suddenly came to a standstill. The chant was
quickly interrupted. A great black shadow, set with shining points,
passed within fifty yards of them, cutting across the steamer's path.
But few were aware of this shadow, and of the danger of a collision
between the ship of Death and that other vessel. Those few shuddered
in silence. Once more the pistons creaked, and once more the psalm was
taken up. In the broad basin between Campione and Lugano the darkness
encompassing the funereal illumination that shone on the fore-deck
appeared less deep. On all sides majestic profiles stood out in black
relief against the sky. The lights of Lugano outlined the curve of
the bay. As the boat sped towards Caprino, the lights of Castagnola,
of Gandria, and at last the formidable summits and the distant waters
of Valsolda, with the lightning flashes from the torpedo-boat, were
revealed in rapid succession. Massimo took Don Aurelio's arm.
"You are going to speak?" he asked.
Don Aurelio replied that he was, and as he felt the young man draw him
towards him, immediately understood that there was something further he
wished to say.
"I have returned to Christ and the Church!" said Massimo, trembling
violently. "I have returned but now!"
Don Aurelio folded him in a close embrace, and whispered softly, in a
voice that was full of joy:
"Dear, dear friend, let us thank God! You have lifted a great weight
from my heart!"
Don Aurelio told him presently that he was much pleased with these
young men who had come from Rome, and that the misrepresentations and
intemperance of certain innovators had produced a salutary reaction
in their minds, so much so that, were it not too late, he would have
greatly preferred to entrust the task of speaking at the grave to one
of them.
Meanwhile the boat had passed Gandria. The dazzling eye of the
torpedo-boat flashed upon Don Aurelio and Massimo, who were going
towards the fore-deck. The brilliance swept the vessel fore and aft,
following it on its way, then suddenly forsook it. Upon the black brow
of Bisgnago, over against the sky, the electric signals were glowing
like flames upon a sublime altar, whence prayers were ascending for the
valleys below. The shore at Oria was crowded with people who had come
from Castello and from San Mamette, to meet the body. Those who, from
this spot, witnessed the slow growth of the point of light advancing
out of the west across the black waters, the flashing around it of the
silvery ray that seemed to be guarding its path, the sublime flames
upon the mountain-top, and the silent eagerness of the crowd, were
filled with a sense as of a mysterious solemnity in which both heaven
and earth were taking part. And aboard the boat also the travellers, as
they approached the end of their journey, were experiencing a feeling
of trepidation for which they could not account. The parish priest gave
an order; the black pall was removed; Massimo and Benedetto's other
youthful disciples stood forth, ready to raise the bier. The woman who
seemed to be a maid came on deck, asked a question, and going down to
the first-class cabin once more, presently reappeared with the veiled
lady. They went as far astern as possible, evidently desiring to be
the last to leave the boat. The steamer came alongside the pier, and
the gangway was thrown across. Six young men, of whom Massimo was
again one, raised the bier. Some orders were heard and a few words
of warning or reproof, but immediately all was silence once more. The
parish priest stepped ashore first, then came the disciples with their
burden, while the bearers of candles followed close behind. Then slowly
and decorously the other passengers crossed the gangway, the two women
last of all. The silent procession passed under a portico, across a
small square, through a first dark passage, and then through a second,
which lay beneath the house that had belonged to the dead man, and so
reached the church, the very church where, but a few years before, Don
Giuseppe Flores had learned of the flight of him who was now brought
here for his humble burial. The candles on the high-altar were already
alight. In an instant the church was full of people and of lighted
candles. The veiled lady would not have been able to enter at all had
not the crowd parted before her, moved by instinctive respect. The two
took up their position in the last row of benches near the holy-water
font, and were much stared at. No one knew who they were. Only Massimo
and Don Aurelio had any idea as to the identity of the veiled lady, but
the two friends exchanged no word concerning her, respect for the past
forbidding either to confide in the other.
The funeral service began, and the voice of the congregation was raised
in response to the priest. Massimo, upon his knees, his face buried in
his hands, remained absorbed in prayer during the entire service, and
so also did the veiled lady. There was some slight disturbance, first
at the main door and then at a side entrance, because a lad who had
come from San Mamette with a letter for Dr. Alberti was trying to force
his way in. He did not succeed, however, and the letter, which some one
took from him, could not possibly be delivered to Massimo until later
on. When the service was over Massimo and his five companions raised
the bier once more, and moved forward behind the priest. The church
was soon empty, and the last person to rise from her seat and go out
was the veiled lady; but seeing that the path was very rough, and that
the candle-bearers were already far ahead, she returned to the church
again. Among the stragglers behind the procession her companion found a
boatman who was willing to undertake to row them to Lugano later on.
While the procession was traversing the short distance that separates
the church from the cemetery, lightning flashes began to break from
the banks of heavy cloud, and a sudden gust of wind blew out almost
all the candles. The coffin was put down at the head of the flight of
steps leading to the gate of the cemetery, and the bearers of the few
candles that were still alight took up their position on either side.
A second gust extinguished these last candles also, and went whistling
away through the olive-groves that slope down to the lake. Don Aurelio,
who had remained behind, forced his way through the crowd, and reached
the steps. Some one tried to strike a match, that he might not stumble
on the unfamiliar stairs, but it was immediately blown out. Then a hand
grasped his and guided him upwards. Only those who were nearest could
see him, the others heard only his ringing tones, carrying above the
noise of the wind and of the waves breaking against the embankments far
below.
"He is come," Don Aurelio began, "the much afflicted wayfarer, unto
his last resting-place, succoured once more by the prayers of Holy
Church, who, when he died in her maternal arms, commended him to Divine
mercy. It was neither his friends nor his disciples who, to his pain
and vexation, proclaimed him a saint, but simple souls from amongst the
people, souls full of faith and imaginings. When the Church prays for
a dead son, she does so in no spirit of criticism, but, in her austere
wisdom, considers only the universal frailty of man, the universal
misery of hidden or apparent sin before the inscrutable mystery of
Divine justice. But the Church, remembering the tears that Jesus shed
by the tomb of Lazarus, allows poor human hearts to utter words of love
and grief beside the grave, allows them to voice the praises which,
indeed, are contained in their tears. Love, pain, and praise all now
rush to my lips for utterance, but I cannot find words to express them,
for I feel within me I know not what hidden influence restraining me;
I believe this influence is that of the dead; I believe he desires
neither expressions of pain nor of praise, but I also believe that I
hear the words he wishes me to speak."
The speaker paused with heaving breast. A quiver of emotion ran through
the crowd that thronged the steps. A few voices said softly, "Yes, yes!"
"Peace!" Don Aurelio went on--"peace to thee, O spirit of Piero
Maironi! O spirit of Benedetto! I will not speak my own words, the
words of love and pain and praise, but rather those that thou biddest
me speak! Let these hills of thine send their wind, not to destroy my
words, but to waft them far afield, wheresoever thou hast been named
with affection and respect, or with anger and insult.
"Listen, my friends! This man spoke much of religion, of faith and of
works. Being neither a prophet nor the Sovereign Pontiff, speaking
from his high place, he may sometimes have been led astray; he may
sometimes have put forward views that the authority of the Church
would be justified in rejecting. The true character of his mission
was not to agitate theological questions, wherein he might deviate
from the true path, but to bring back the faithful, of all orders and
conditions, to the spirit of the gospel; it was to reinspire the world
with this spirit. He never failed to proclaim his humble submission to
the authority of the Church, to the Holy See of the Roman Pontiff. Were
he still alive he would glory in giving proof of this as an example
to the world. It is in his name that I declare this! He knew that
the world despises religious obedience as cowardice. He, on his part,
fiercely despised the contempt of the world, that glorifies military
obedience and the sacrifices it imposes, although military authority
is assisted by prisons and chains, by powder and lead, while religious
authority has no such support. He loved the Church above all things
on earth. In thinking of the Church he was wont to compare himself
with the smallest stone of the greatest temple, which, had it a soul,
would glory in its small ministry. Yes, he did indeed think he could
perceive the evil spirits which hell lets loose within Holy Church;
which we know cannot prevail against her--we have the Divine promise
for this--but which, nevertheless, may inflict cruel wounds upon her by
conspiring with those other evil spirits that work their fiendish havoc
in the world. He thought he recognised them, and it was an irresistible
impulse of filial affection, of filial sorrow, that carried him, a
suppliant, to the feet of the Sovereign Pontiff, the Father of the
faithful.
"He wishes me to pardon in his name all those who, possessing no
ecclesiastical authority, passed judgment upon him, condemning him as
a Theosophist, a Pantheist, and as one who shunned the Sacraments;
but that the scandal of these accusations may be destroyed, he also
wishes me to proclaim, in a loud voice, that such errors were ever
abominations in his sight, and that from the moment when he, a
miserable sinner, turned from the world to God, he did always and in
all things suit his actions to the beliefs and the prescriptions of the
Catholic Church, and this unto the very hour of his death.
"He died trusting firmly that one day, when the spirits of evil that
afflict the Church shall have been driven back behind the gates of
hell, all men who have received baptism, and who call upon the name of
Christ, will be united in one great religious body around the Holy
Throne of the Roman Pontiff. He implores all those who are his friends
to pray for this end.
"Friends and brothers, all you who resented the false accusations
brought against this man by Catholic laymen, journalists, and
libellers, let us unite with him in forgiving them all. Let us also
pardon such as derided and insulted him for his faith. _Nesciebant_,
all of them! We ourselves are too ignorant to dare to judge of the
ignorance of others. Wanderers amidst the darkness, we question the
stars as we grope blindly on our way, we call to each other with voices
that ask, that advise, that encourage; we cry out the good news when
we have discovered the right path, that others may hasten towards it.
But let us not judge him who fails to answer our call, for we know not
whether the obstacles that lie between him and us be not greater than
his strength may overcome. Let us pray for one and all, as we pass
through the darkness, longing for the dawn of the day of God.
"Poor body, that was once so dear to us, rest in peace until the coming
of that glorious dawn!"
The coffin was lowered to the side of Elisa Maironi, the last prayers
were recited, the grave was closed. The priest had returned to the
church to lay aside his robes, and the crowd was fast dispersing.
Massimo, Don Aurelio, and the young Romans who had lingered long beside
the grave, were descending the steps, and the sexton was about to close
the gates, when the woman who seemed to be a maid came to beg that they
should be allowed to remain open a few minutes longer. As the sexton
hesitated, Don Aurelio and Massimo intervened, and persuaded him to
consent. Hereupon the maid withdrew and joined the veiled lady, who was
waiting in the lane, to the west of the cemetery. Not until that moment
did the person who had taken the letter which the messenger had brought
from San Mamette remember to deliver it to Massimo. Between the gusts
of wind Massimo succeeded in reading it by the light of a match:
"Our friend is very ill. Come as soon as possible.
"LEILA."
Massimo implored Don Aurelio to go with him. Don Aurelio should have
returned to Milan at once, but he gave up his intention of doing so on
hearing what had happened. The two took a hurried farewell of their
young friends, who were left behind to wonder at their sudden flight.
During the confusion of leave-taking the veiled lady and her companion
passed the group of disciples without being seen by them. Presently,
however, they noticed that the maid was standing with the sexton at
the gate. They saw how inconsiderate it would be to remain there, but
as they had retained the services of the steamer, they felt bound to
take the two strangers on board. One of the young men went up to the
gate and spoke to the woman who was waiting there, but she refused his
offer with something like dismay. Hereupon the friends started on their
way towards Oria. The sexton saw the tall, slim figure of the veiled
lady kneeling by the grave upon the upturned sod. She remained there
motionless for a few minutes, and then went down the steps, leaning on
the arm of the maid, who told her of the offer, and of her refusal.
Her mistress made no comment. On the Oria road they met the boatman,
who had come to tell them that the lake was very rough, and that a
second pair of oars would be necessary. The lady made a sign, and the
maid ordered him to engage another boatman to help him. Shortly before
reaching the church-place of Oria they met the parish priest, who was
carrying a lantern and offered to guide them through the dark and
winding lanes of the village. The veiled lady pressed her companion's
arm as a sign that she was to refuse, but the maid, who had no desire
to break her neck, saw fit to accept. Mistress and maid then held a
whispered consultation, and presently the servant begged the priest to
stop. Producing her purse from a bag that hung upon her arm, she took
out a gold coin, and offered it to him.
"From my mistress," she said, "for your poor."
The steamer had not yet started on its way when, by the light of a
couple of lanterns, the veiled lady and her companion stepped aboard
a boat which lay rocking on the waves. Shot vigorously forward by two
pairs of oars, the boat passed alongside the steamer, and was seen in
the light that shone from the first-class cabin. The young men were
watching it with great curiosity from the deck. The lady had thrown
back her veil, and they saw that she was both young and lovely. One of
them exclaimed:
"I know who she is! She must be the woman on whose account Benedetto
fled from the world."
"Who is she?" another inquired.
All were more or less vaguely acquainted with the main facts of the
matter, but no one knew the lady's name. More curious than ever, they
hastened to the fore-deck, seeking to catch another glimpse of the
little boat, against which they could hear the waves plashing in the
distance. Again they saw it for an instant in the light of the electric
ray from the torpedo-boat, and then Jeanne vanished from their sight
for that night and for ever.
VI
Shortly after twelve o'clock Donna Fedele had become suddenly and
alarmingly worse. She was suffering no pain, but the fever, which had
risen rapidly, convinced the doctor that there was nothing further he
could do for her. The end could not be far away now. The sufferer,
who was perfectly conscious and aware of her condition, desired to see
a priest at once and receive the last Sacrament. The parish priest of
San Mamette was summoned, and by five o'clock everything had been done.
Greatly impressed by the poor woman's piety, faith, and resignation,
the parish priest had given her Extreme Unction. Massimo's telegram
from Porto Ceresio troubled her visibly. She did not say so, but Leila
saw plainly that she thought he might have arranged not to go there.
After having received the consolations of her religion, the young man's
return seemed to be the one thought that troubled her. She asked for
him so often that at last she begged Leila to forgive her.
"I know I am foolish," she said, taking the girl's hand, "for according
to his telegram he cannot possibly be here yet. I have a few words to
say to him, and I am much afraid he will not arrive in time."
Leila sought to reassure her, but could not do so, for a lump in her
throat prevented her speaking. She envied Cousin Eufemia, who appeared
perfectly calm. The old woman's affection for Donna Fedele amounted
almost to adoration, but her fear of not being able to accept the
will of the Almighty with sufficient humility oppressed her even more
sorely. She was unceasing in her attentions to the sufferer, but she
came and went gravely and calmly, and with dry eyes. Only once was she
on the verge of failing in her determination to be strong, and that was
when the invalid, reaching out to take her hand, said with the shadow
of her old smile:
"Give my dear love to your sisters."
The poor old cousin bit her lips, but did not answer. The pious
gentleness of the dying woman and Cousin Eufemia's fortitude, both
pointing to a state of the soul at once so humble and so lofty, were a
revelation to Leila, and filled her with amazement and reverence. At
six o'clock the parish priest withdrew, promising to return at seven,
and Donna Fedele, begging the doctor and Cousin Eufemia to leave them
alone for a few minutes, called Leila to her side, and signed to her to
kneel down, that she might place her arm around her neck.
"Dearest," said she, "tell Massimo that after thinking of him and of
his poor mother, I died with a pain in my heart, and a hope also. Will
you tell him so?"
Torn by an inner conflict caused by the belief that she knew the nature
of that pain and of that hope in which she might not participate, and
also because she shrank from the idea of being appointed by another
to bring pressure to bear upon Massimo's spirit, while, at the same
time, to refuse would be horrible, Leila breathed a "yes" which did
not deceive the dying woman. Donna Fedele sighed and withdrew her arm,
murmuring that she had much to say to her, but that her strength failed
her. She asked for a crucifix, and then lay without speaking until nine
o'clock. At nine she inquired for Massimo once more. Half an hour later
Leila, who was standing at the west window, saw a light appear in the
distance amidst the surrounding darkness. The doctor recognised the
special steamer, and announced its arrival to the invalid, who begged
that a note might be sent to Massimo, asking him to come at once.
Hereupon there ensued a period of extreme unrest for her. She seemed
to have lost all notion of time and space, and was continually asking,
first if the boat had arrived, and then, when it had been seen to stop
at Oria, if Massimo were come. And so the time dragged on, and at last
it was eleven o'clock. Leila herself was uneasy, for they had heard
nothing from the boy who had carried the note. She could not understand
how Massimo, having received the note, had not hastened to San Mamette.
Shortly after eleven the proprietor, who had sent some one towards
Albogasio, came rushing upstairs, and announced: "He is coming! he
is coming!" Leila hastened downstairs, and met the two men in the
vestibule. She had not expected to see Don Aurelio, who, perceiving her
embarrassment, left her in the midst of a rapid explanation to Massimo
and hastened upstairs. The proprietor accompanied him to the door of
Donna Fedele's room. The well-known voice and familiar face, from which
radiated content and kindness, revived Donna Fedele somewhat.
"Oh, Don Aurelio!" she cried. "And Massimo?"
Placing his lips near the dying woman's ear, Don Aurelio began speaking
so softly that the parish priest, the doctor, and Cousin Eufemia,
standing at a little distance, could not even hear his voice. But they
heard Donna Fedele's short and feeble exclamations uttered with an
indescribable accent of astonishment and delight.
"Here he is!" said Don Aurelio, raising his head as Massimo entered.
* * * * *
From that moment Donna Fedele appeared transformed. The chamber of
death seemed to have become the chamber of convalescence, so much
that for a moment the watchers believed that a very serious, but
favourable, crisis had been passed. The first indication of this was
when Donna Fedele asked Massimo if he had read a letter from Sior
Momi, and pointed to Leila, implying that she would show it to him.
To satisfy her he held before his eyes, but without distinguishing a
single syllable of it, the letter in which Sior Momi gave his consent,
protesting at the same time that he desired to vacate the Montanina,
as he had discovered that the air of those regions did not suit him.
The letter further contained kind messages for Massimo, and solicited
the favour of a few lines from him, endorsing what Leila had said
concerning the accounts to be rendered.
Presently Donna Fedele begged Don Aurelio and the two young people to
draw near to her.
"I was unkind to the archpriest and the chaplain of Velo," she said.
"Please let them know that I am sorry."
"Yes, yes! I will see it is done," said Don Aurelio. She thanked him
with a long glance full of ineffable meaning, and signed to him that
she wished to kiss his hand.
Towards three o'clock they saw from the nervous movements of her hands
and the restless twitching of her lips that she wanted something and
could not express herself. With her eyes she drew their attention to
a glass in which the roses from the Villino were still languishing.
Cousin Eufemia placed her ear near the sufferer's lips, and asked:
"Is it the roses?"
The dying woman moved her head in acquiescence, while her hands plucked
at the sheet. Her cousin, convinced that she wished to have the roses
upon her bed, went to bring them to her, but Donna Fedele shook her
head as vigorously as she could. Poor Eufemia was distressed at not
being able to understand. Massimo and Leila understood but did not dare
to speak. Don Aurelio, who was more familiar with death, ventured to
intervene.
"She wishes to have them scattered upon her afterwards," he explained.
Again Donna Fedele thanked him with her eyes.
At last the beautiful dark eyes were closed--those eyes that for
two-and-fifty years had shed so much spiritual radiance, so many sweet
and gentle smiles. The hands rested quietly upon the Crucifix. Don
Emanuele bent over the still face. He was not sure that the end had
come, for the long lashes still trembled slightly.
"Dear friend," said he in a loud voice, "pray for us. Are you
suffering?"
Her eyes remained closed, but her waxen lips moved. Don Aurelio
believed he caught the words, "I am happy!"
* * * * *
He repeated this to the watchers. "She says, 'I am happy!'"
With his eyes still fixed upon the dying woman he signed to the others
to kneel.
A few minutes of silence.
"Yes, she is happy!" he added at last in a loud voice. "Let us worship
and rejoice!"
* * * * *
The sun was rising and Donna Fedele Vayla di Brea, clad in black and
clasping the Crucifix, lay upon her bed, where side by side with the
faded roses from the Villino, there rested many bright blossoms of
Valsolda. Death had restored her sweet smile. It shone through the
closed lids like the light of a secret vision of delight. It rested
gently on her waxen lips. No youthful, living countenance could surpass
the beauty of that ivory face, smiling beneath its arch of thick, snowy
hair. And thus, having lived according to the faith of her fathers
and the spirit of the gospel, having redeemed her promise to Signor
Marcello, and consummated her supreme sacrifice, did the White Lady of
the Roses rest, in the first light of her mystic dawn.
FINIS