CHAPTER II

DISTAFFS AND THREADS

I

The next morning Massimo came down to the drawing-room at half-past six, to the dismay of the footman Giovanni, who left the floor-polishing in which he had been engaged amidst great disorder of furniture, and rushed off for the coffee.

Gentle breezes blew fresh from all sides through the large, open windows, through which could be seen, on the south, the emerald of chestnut-crowned slopes, on the north, the bare and mighty crags of Barco, and on the west, the deep declivities of the garden beneath the Lago road. There could be seen, too, the tremulous glistening of the clumps of birch and poplar that border the garden fence, the Posina ravine, and beyond the little town of Arsiero, whose houses cluster amid the green at the foot of the church which seems to guard them, the gloomy depths of the sharp-cut gorge, and then mountain upon mountain rising under changing lights and shadows towards imperial Torraro.

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

Massimo meanwhile had been paying more attention to the music that littered the piano than to the vision of hills and valleys, sunshine and verdure. A thick volume of Clementi and a thin one of Corelli bore the name "Leila," written in a large hand.

While he was drinking his coffee he learned from the footman that Signor Marcello had gone out some time before, but whether he was in the garden or had gone to church, whether he had taken the Velo road or that to Arsiero, Giovanni could not say. Massimo went out also, intending to look up Don Aurelio. The caretaker opened the gate for him, and Massimo was questioning him as to the road to Lago, when he saw the man look beyond him and salute some one who was passing, with marked respect. He turned round. A woman stood behind him, no longer young, but tall and slim; her head was bare, and in her hand she carried a closed sunshade, although the sun was already hot upon the rocky path. To the young man's intense surprise, she stood still and smiled.

"Signor Alberti, I believe?" she said.

The soft voice struck Massimo as being the same he had heard in the night, alternating with Don Aurelio's. He bowed with some embarrassment, looking at the lady as if apologising for failing to recognise her. Before him stood a noble figure, that of a woman between fifty and fifty-five years of age, pale, with a suggestion of olive in her pallor, her face showing traces of bodily suffering, her hair quite white, her large and luminous eyes still youthful, and her manner, voice, and slow utterance conveying an expression of sweetness and of the dignity of gentle breeding.

"I am a friend of Don Aurelio's," she said, still smiling. "We passed this way last night, hoping to see you, but you were already asleep."

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

"Yes, I was wearing a white shawl," she answered. "Are you on your way to Don Aurelio's? I am going there too."

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

"Then you are Signora----?"

"Vayla di Brea," was her answer, with a pleasant smile. "Has Don Aurelio been writing to you about me? And was my name quite unfamiliar to you?"

Massimo was obliged humbly to admit that it had been.

"You see," she went on, "I have rather a grandmotherly feeling towards you! Was not your mother a Vittuoni, and was not her name Rachele? I was at Madame Bianchi Morand's school with her, in Milan. Your mother was one of the little girls when I was one of the elder ones. I was very fond of her and used to amuse myself sometimes by playing at being her mother."

They started together along the narrow road that, just beyond the gate, enters the cool shade of great chestnuts that fringe the crest of the sharp slope to the ravine, whence rises the deep, rhythmical booming of the whirlpools of Perale.

His companion spoke at once of Don Aurelio's great disappointment at being unable to receive Massimo as his guest nor even to meet him at the station. She told him that two days before the priest had taken in a sick man, a wretched pedlar of Protestant Bibles, who had fallen a victim to the people's fury at Posina, and to whom no one else would offer shelter.

"Poor creature!" the lady exclaimed. "He is an oddity, an oddity indeed!" And she gave a short laugh, which she quickly checked, however, pity overcoming her sense of the comic and her desire to indulge it.

"He is a certain Pestagran, but about here they have taken to calling him 'Carnesecca,' because in his sermons, which are always poetical, he often introduces Carnesecchi. But he gets even with them. He used to call his fellow-citizens of Lago fishes, sprats, eels, pike, and sometimes crabs. Now he calls them all sharks!"

She talked on pleasantly of the despised Carnesecca, with a gentle humour that amused Massimo, and without revealing to him that she was an attentive visitor to the sick man. Their conversation was interrupted three times; first at the end of the chestnut-grove, then in that green, flowery spot, shaded by nut and apple trees, where the women of Lago have their washhouse, amid idyllic surroundings. First a poor old woman, then a lame beggar, stopped the Signorina and poured their woes into her ears. Then she herself stopped a small, barefooted, and dirty maiden, carrying a basket. To each she spoke gently and kindly by name, inquiring for some invalid or absent relation. For the girl she had a word of reproof--a little bird having told her certain things! When she had gently dismissed these poor people she fell once more to describing Carnesecca and his partly comic, partly heroic ways, punctuating her description with the often-repeated word "Poveretto!" as a salve to a conscience that was reproaching her for her slightly uncharitable mirth.

Passing the first cottages and low sheds of Lago, guarded by walnut-trees and grape-vines throwing their cool shade across narrow, sweet-smelling lanes, Massimo and his companion reached the small square, where a few neat houses listen respectfully to the sermon on cleanliness that the fountain preaches to them, who do not need it, while the rabble of filthy hovels keeps at a distance, as the human rabble avoids the priest's sermons. If a peasant woman who was drawing water were to be believed, Carnesecca had died in the night. A man in his shirt-sleeves, with wooden shoes, who was clattering off to his work, his scythe upon his shoulder, burst out contemptuously as he passed, without deigning to look in the woman's direction:

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

The woman protested loudly, not because the information of a _foresta_ might, nevertheless, be correct, but because she happened to be a native of Maso, a group of houses not more than a quarter of a mile away. The sound of the man's heavy tread grew fainter, down among the dirty cottages, but his insolent voice could still be heard repeating:

"A foresta! Foresta! Foresta!"

Then a girl, who was watering some carnations, leaned out of the window, and greeting the Signora, told her that she had carried the milk to Don Aurelio's house an hour ago, and that Carnesecca was feeling much better. The other woman excused her mistake by stating that she had hoped the horrid creature might really be dead! And when the Signora reproached her for her cruel thought, she turned the tables upon her, saying:

"You cannot understand, Ela! You are a foresta! And the priest too.... It seems to me that, though he is indeed a holy man----"

"He is, nevertheless, a foreigner," said the Signora, and, turning to Massimo, she added, with a smile, "He is a Samaritan."

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

Massimo and the Signora laughed and started to climb the steep path leading to the little church of Sant' Ubaldo. The church door stood open, and hearing Don Aurelio's voice, they entered. He was saying Mass and had reached the _Pater Noster_. There were only two worshippers--a little old woman, seated on the last bench, and Signor Marcello, who was sitting in the row of benches directly in front of the altar, his shaggy head bent low, his whole being rapt in ardent prayer. The new-comers knelt down beside the little old woman.

When Signor Marcello rose, somewhat feebly, and went to kneel at the altar-rail, Donna Fedele Vayla di Brea fixed eyes brimming with grave tenderness upon that venerable head, reverently lowering them again when the priest advanced towards him with the consecrated host and the words of eternal life.

She had known Marcello since her early childhood, when, soon after the liberation of Venice, Colonel Vayla di Brea purchased the Villino delle Rose, near Arsiero. Marcello was then past his thirtieth year. His parents were still alive, and a warm friendship soon sprang up between the two families, who spent the summer holidays in Val d'Astico. Little Fedele showed a strong liking for Marcello, and he, touched by this childish affection, would often amuse himself by playing duets with her. When he became engaged, the girl, who was now nearly fifteen and was growing very tall, altered her manner towards him, avoiding rather than seeking his society. He alone guessed that this change concealed those ardent, immature feelings which young girls sometimes have for men older than themselves, and under these circumstances consideration for Fedele urged him for a time to break off all familiar intercourse with her. With Marcello's wife the girl became, as she grew up, on most affectionate terms. Only, being unmusical, Signora Trento could not share the love of music which still remained a bond between her husband and Fedele. Gradually these two began to seek each other's company again, and their eyes would meet more often than was necessary. One day, during an excursion, the two found themselves separated from the rest of the party, and lost in a pine forest. Perhaps, at first, passionate dreams overwhelmed the emotional girl, but as they wandered, trembling indeed and silent, neither sought the other's eyes. As they came out of the woods Marcello picked a cyclamen and offered it silently. Fedele took it and pressed it to her lips, her eyes glistening with tears.

Henceforth they played no more together, as if by an unspoken agreement; but Fedele could not forget. She persuaded her father to leave Arsiero, and they spent their summers at Santhià, where they had relatives. In winter they lived in Turin, where she was much courted, and where at times she seemed not indifferent to the admiration she excited. There was talk even of a real passion--of a rejected suitor, who took his life for love of her. But she never married, and at eight-and-forty she found herself alone. Her parents were dead, and, tired of city life, she remembered Arsiero, and went back to the Villino delle Rose. Poor Andrea Trento was already ill, and during the short time that elapsed between his death and that of his mother, Donna Fedele was often at the Montanina. Her former attachment to Marcello had grown into a regard that, with pity for his great misfortunes, became almost veneration.

But after Signora Trento's death and a first exchange of visits Marcello ceased to come to the Villino, and Donna Fedele no longer went to the Montanina. Leila was the cause of this estrangement. She had, at first, been quite captivated by Donna Fedele, who, however, had unintentionally treated her with icy indifference, arising perhaps from absent-mindedness or from some passing mood. Inexplicable attacks of iciness had more than once bewildered those around her. She had smiled at the girl, had bestowed a careless greeting upon her, and throughout the rest of the visit had not once addressed a word to her. Leila set her down as haughty, and concluded she had taken a dislike to her. Her future attitude towards Donna Fedele was the more proud and cold because her longing to be friends was so strong. On her side, Donna Fedele, who had no suspicion of the truth, was sure that Leila disliked her; and deeply though she regretted this, her reserved nature stood in the way of her taking steps to win the young girl's heart, and, believing that her presence was unwelcome to the person most dear and sacred to Signor Marcello, she discontinued her visits to the Montanina. She met Marcello not infrequently on the road from Velo to Arsiero, which passes below the villa. On such occasions they would walk and talk together, but they never spoke of Leila. Marcello himself shrank from any reference to her. Knowing how peculiarly susceptible Donna Fedele was to impressions, he had concluded that Leila was uncongenial to her, and he felt that his son's memory was thereby affronted. As through narrow mountain clefts a cold air can sometimes be detected rising, even through hot summer grass, from the heart of the mountain, so Donna Fedele felt, and endured in silence, a coolness invading Signor Marcello's friendship for her, for she understood whence it came.

She raised her eyes to the old man's face as he rose from the altar-rail and returned to his seat, while Don Aurelio turned to pronounce the _Dominus vobiscum_. Massimo looked at his friend, thinking he had noticed him, but he was mistaken. The priest's eyes were blind to the things of this world. The young man saw that he had aged and had grown thinner since their last meeting, and that his face seemed more spiritual than ever.

When Mass was over, Donna Fedele whispered to Massimo:

"Of course, you will wait for Don Aurelio. I am going to see my friend. Will you come there too, later on?"

Just for the moment Massimo did not realise that the friend to whom she referred was Carnesecca. However, he nodded assent, and sat down to wait for the priest.

He was kept waiting for some time. The lad who had served the Mass put out the candles and departed about his own business. Signor Marcello, after remaining long absorbed in prayer, rose from his seat and entered the sacristy. Massimo heard a few whispered words, and then all was silence. The minutes passed, and neither Signor Marcello nor Don Aurelio reappeared. But Massimo was not impatient. He was enjoying the sense of peace that dwelt within these poor walls, in these poor and well-worn fittings and ornaments, that called up pictures of still poorer homes, simple beings, and of the festivals of an unsophisticated faith. Meanwhile through the open door a light breeze was wafting to him fresh scents of woods and meadows and voices from the distant fields. Once more he was rejoicing in his release from the noise and dust of scorching Milan, as he had done last night on his way up to the Montanina, along the side of the dark gorge where the water sings.

How sweet it was to be overcome by sensation alone! The music of the night sounded in his memory like a distant song. A gentle drowsiness, that was full of vague imaginings, crept gradually over him. The voices of an invisible choir filled the church with sweet sounds, while a young girl, with disordered hair and eyes downcast, came slowly towards him from the sacristy, and, stooping, touched his shoulder. His heart gave a bound; he opened his eyes and saw Don Aurelio, who had touched his shoulder and now stood smiling beside him.

* * * * *

Don Aurelio, a Roman by birth, had studied in the Propaganda College with the intention of becoming a missionary. A long illness, however, and the wishes of his superiors, who doubted his physical powers, had obliged him to relinquish this purpose. An intimate friend of the Benedictine Dom Clemente of Santa Scolastica, at Subiaco, he had met Benedetto there, had seen him again in Rome, at Dom Clemente's desire, and had become deeply attached both to him and to Massimo. During convalescence, following a relapse of his illness, mountain air had been prescribed, and a Vincentine priest, who had been with him at the Propaganda, persuaded the Bishop of Vicenza to appoint him to the cure of Lago di Velo. Gentle Don Aurelio had gladly accepted this dispensation of Providence, rejoicing at the prospect of preaching Christ to simple souls in the poverty to which he had been born. And thus he had come to Lago, knowing nothing of it beyond the fact that it was very poor. He did not forget Massimo. He wrote to him often and watched over him, not like a father, ready to help the struggle of a fervent disciple of him who lay buried at Campo Verano, but like a mother, who trembles for the welfare of her son's soul. He knew how sorely he must be tempted to wrath and hatred by the unjust war that was being waged against him by opposite parties; he knew that he was sometimes tempted to swerve from the doctrines of true religion, as not a few of his friends, some moved by natural pride, others by rebellious impulses, had swerved; and, finally, he knew that worldly pleasures were also a source of temptation to him. He was aware, from what Massimo himself had told him, that women, lovely and brilliant women, had been attracted by him; and he knew that the young man's deep and poetic feeling for woman was perhaps more dangerous to him than mere physical temptations. He felt there would be grave danger for Massimo until such a time as he should meet and love a woman worthy to be his wife, who would weave about him a net of affections and of personal interests, strong enough also to hold him back from the field of religious strife. Don Aurelio, either from the natural gentleness of his character, or from his conception of the special duties which the ecclesiastical habit imposed, was not a man of strife. In religious matters he opened his heart to God alone, praying and looking to Him only for the triumph of truth and of the Church. A lecture Massimo had recently delivered in Milan on the Italian heretics of the sixteenth century had brought such a hailstorm of insults, both black and red,[1] had excited such a pandemonium of universal comment, that Don Aurelio had advised him to withdraw for a time from this confusion, offering him hospitality which, if devoid of comforts, was rich in peace.

When he had locked the church door, Don Aurelio put his arm affectionately through Massimo's.

"You were good to come!" he exclaimed, pressing the arm he held still closer to his side. In this pressure Massimo felt something that troubled him. His heart misgave him lest this silent demonstration of affection should mean that his friend shrank from expressing certain criticisms, or was but preparing him for them. These criticisms, he felt sure, could not fail to contain disapproval.

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

"Dear friend, you may not have had my approval in everything, but at this moment I remember only that you have suffered."

"_You may not have had my approval in everything._" These words overwhelmed Massimo with sorrow and oppression. At the moment he made no answer, but when Don Aurelio, going in front of him, led the way through the yard surrounding the priest's poor little house, and was telling him how disappointed he was at being unable to receive him there, the young man interrupted and asked, with almost painful anxiety, of what he had disapproved. At that very moment Donna Fedele came towards them, and Don Aurelio was first astonished and then pleased to see the two whom he thought strangers to one another smile at their introduction. Carnesecca was doing very well, but he was restless, and kept asking for Don Aurelio. The priest objected to his being called Carnesecca, but Donna Fedele, raising her eyebrows and speaking with unwonted rapidity, protested warmly that she was one of the people, and must express herself as they did.

"Would you have me give him the name by which the archpriest calls him?" she inquired. This dignitary, juggling with the stranger's name, Pestagran, had dubbed him Gran Peste. Don Aurelio's face flushed. He disliked the archpriest's nickname for the miserable but well-intentioned wanderer, but still more he disliked hearing the priest himself alluded to in sarcastic and ironical terms.

"Here I am!" he cried, as he and Massimo passed from the fresh air and coolness of the stairway into the heavy, drug-laden atmosphere of the invalid's room. A little old woman who was seated beside the bed, whence Carnesecca's yellow and wrinkled old face peered forth, like a handful of clay, from between his nightcap and the folded sheet, rose to her feet, clasping her hands and crying delightedly:

"Thank Heaven, you have come!"

The invalid raised his head and shoulders a little, propping himself upon one elbow, while he brought the other hand to his nightcap in a military salute. Then, turning to the old woman, he pronounced her name solemnly:

"Lúzia!"

He stretched out his arm, turning his wrist slowly and majestically until the palm of his hand faced the door.

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

The old woman hurried away, exclaiming: "I am going! I am going!" And the upraised palm fell back upon the coverlet with a dull thud.

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

Thus saying, Signor Ismaele Pestagran blew a noisy breath through his nostrils and screwed up his small eyes into two glittering, black points. Noticing Massimo, who had entered behind Don Aurelio, he once more brought his hand to his nightcap.

"And this gentleman?..."

"This gentleman's" presence did not seem entirely welcome to him. Massimo saw this and made haste to withdraw. Whereupon Carnesecca said calmly, "Your pardon." Donna Fedele, who was waiting for Massimo on the landing, asked him to go downstairs with her. Something was going on that Massimo should know of. While Don Aurelio had been saying Mass, the sacristan of Velo had arrived with a letter from the archpriest. He had left the letter with Lúzia, who had afterwards expressed herself to Ismaele as follows: "Those accursed books of yours will bring you to perdition and me to beggary!" She had refused to explain her outburst; but Ismaele was convinced that the priests of Velo intended to drive Don Aurelio away from Lago on his, Ismaele's, account. Massimo asked if there were really any danger of this. How could Donna Fedele tell? Lúzia had taken the archpriest's note to her master's study, and Don Aurelio had not been in there yet. But what was Donna Fedele's opinion? Donna Fedele was much alarmed. On account of something Don Aurelio had told her? Certainly not. He never spoke of his superiors except to sing their praises. It was her opinion that there was more to be feared from the chaplain than from the archpriest, and more to be feared from him than from the bishop. The bishop, indeed, appeared most benevolently inclined towards Don Aurelio. What sort of men were this archpriest and this chaplain? Donna Fedele would tell him nothing concerning the chaplain, and said it was a difficult matter to understand the archpriest. At times he seemed good-natured, at times harsh; he was sometimes jovial, sometimes sarcastic; liberal on some occasions, conservative on others. As a priest he was above censure. And here Donna Fedele felt it her duty to add that, as far as morals were concerned, the chaplain was above censure also. Don Aurelio had pronounced the archpriest a good theologian and Latin scholar, and had indeed endowed him with all those merits of which she was incapable of judging. Between him and the bishop, a warm-hearted man, full of charity for friends and enemies alike, there was some friction. She was willing to wager that the archpriest had accepted Don Aurelio most unwillingly at Lago, and only because he had been obliged to do so. She believed that Don Aurelio had been under suspicion for some time on account of his sermons, which were carefully watched, and of which the chaplain was known to have hinted that they contained overmuch of purely moral teaching and mystical sentiment, and overlittle of theology and asceticism.

While Donna Fedele and Massimo were holding this conversation in the doorway, Lúzia passed on her way to the kitchen-garden to gather some peas. Donna Fedele stopped her. Well, what had the sacristan really said? He had said: "Take good care of your Gran Peste! Take good care of him! This time your priest will have to go!"

Donna Fedele's face flushed angrily, while in Massimo's breast a flame of bitterness burned hot. The grass in the field, the leaves of the mulberry-tree, quivering and glistening in the breeze, the calm hills flooded with sunshine, the clear sky, even the little garden itself, everything was brimming with kindness, was a hymn to kindness encompassing the humble home of this servant of God whose soul was full of Christ. And now everything seemed meaningless, frozen by a sudden icy breath. Neither Massimo nor Donna Fedele dared to utter their indignation here in the near neighbourhood of Don Aurelio, any more than if they had been in church. They heard the priest's step on the stairs, and Carnesecca's voice crying, "I wish it, Signore! I wish it!" to Don Aurelio's "No, no!" And then there was silence.

"He probably wished to go away on account of the letter," Donna Fedele whispered. "But there is no danger of Don Aurelio's allowing him to leave in the state he is in."

The priest did not come to them, and Donna Fedele, leaving Massimo, went upstairs and entered Carnesecca's room without knocking. Massimo was greatly astonished to see her come down again almost immediately, laughing heartily, her face hidden in her hands. She had found Carnesecca with his bare legs out of bed, and they were such black, dry stilts of legs, and the poor man had been so dismayed, and had shouted so vigorously, "Go away! Go away!" dragging at the clothes the while, that, with her sense of humour, Donna Fedele would have had to laugh even if her father and mother had both died but that morning.

She went out to Lúzia and advised her to go and attend to her invalid. But Lúzia would not. The man was always doing that. He was always trying to get out of bed without help, and even she herself was sent out of the room on these occasions. But--what if he should become giddy? What if he should fall? What if he should break his arm--break his leg?

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

"What a lot indeed!" Donna Fedele retorted, laughing. "One would be enough, I should think!"

Lúzia laughed too, and then went on gathering her peas. Massimo came up and offered to go to the invalid. Lúzia grasped at this proposal, saying, "Yes, yes; you go!" But Donna Fedele said, "H'm!" and smiled in a way that excited Massimo's curiosity. She then explained to him, with other smiles and some reticence, that he was not in Carnesecca's good books. Carnesecca read the newspapers, and had come to the conclusion that Massimo was a Modernist, one of those people who study the Bible to discover falsehoods in it, to find errors, contradictions, and interpolations; while to him, Carnesecca, every word it contained had been written by the hand of the Almighty Himself. He rejoiced in Don Aurelio's disapproval of Bible criticism, and he had been heard to say that, on this point, he was more in sympathy with the Jews than with certain Catholics. In fact, one of his best friends was a rabbi in London. Massimo, who had never given any thought to Bible criticism, was greatly amused by the horror he had inspired and much interested concerning this friendship with the English rabbi. Donna Fedele informed him that Carnesecca had spent several years in England, where he had become a Protestant and had made the acquaintance of a rabbi, a man of science, who had taught him that there were three hundred and sixty-five bones in the human body. Allowing her own humorous imagination to colour her story somewhat, perhaps, she went on to say that, after the tortures he had endured from Catholic sticks and stones, Ismaele declared he could locate pains in no less than three hundred and fifty-nine separate bones. The two were still talking quietly among the peas when they were roused by the priest's voice. Don Aurelio was standing at his study window.

"Massimo! Will you come in now?"

Massimo hastened indoors, and Donna Fedele, who was very tired, begged Lúzia to bring her out a chair, and, settling herself comfortably, waited for news concerning the archpriest's message.

* * * * *

Don Aurelio came out to meet Massimo on the landing, and grasping his hands, held them in his own for a space, gazing smilingly into his friend's eyes. Presently he drew him into a little study flooded with light, with a whitewashed ceiling and brick floor, and barely furnished with a bookshelf, a deal table, a few rickety, straw-bottomed chairs, a dilapidated leather easy-chair, from whose rents hung ragged ends of lining, and, hanging above the easy-chair, a wooden crucifix. The bookshelf was opposite the fireplace, and it was crowded with books, as were the table, the mantelshelf, and all the chairs save one. Yet there was no disorder or dust; the books were arranged in tidy piles, and everything was as neat as Don Aurelio's cassock and his delicate hands. Above the mantelshelf, between the two windows, hung two photographs, one of the Sacro Speco at Subiaco, the other of the Cosmati Cloister at Santa Scolastica. The books were chiefly religious works. Don Aurelio set especial store by his collection of the writings of the great mystics and of his complete sets of the works of Antonio Rosmini and of Father Gratry. These and the collection of the sacred orators of Nôtre Dame, together with many books by modern French Catholics, were the gift of Donna Fedele, and had belonged to her father. Don Aurelio showed his treasures to his friend with such untroubled satisfaction, and stood so quietly beside him at the window, pointing out the different peaks, the villages, and the more distant paths, that Massimo was forced to conclude either that nothing was wrong or that Don Aurelio did not yet know. But he was conscious, to the point of embarrassment, of his own air of distraction and of his visible lack of interest in the things of which Don Aurelio was talking.

Don Aurelio mentioned Val d'Astico, and Massimo seized the opportunity to inquire how he got on with the archpriest there.

"He is an excellent man," his friend answered; but he added, smiling, "I fear, however, he has no great liking for me."

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

"Why do you smile?" he asked.

The priest did not answer.

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

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

She burst into the room, glanced wildly round, and, wringing her hands as if beside herself, cried:

"Gèsumarite! He is not here!"

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

Don Aurelio realised at once what had happened. He gave a start and dashed downstairs, followed by Massimo and Lúzia. It was as she had said--the room was empty. And his clothes? They were gone too.

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

A silver coin was glittering on the straw bottom of a chair, beside a ball of wool and a set of knitting-needles.

"He has forgotten his watch," she added.

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

At the front door they met Donna Fedele; she had heard Lúzia's cries and the excited voices of the two men, and was on her way to inquire what had happened. They told her quickly. The colour left her face. It was true, then? The letter the sacristan had brought?... Carnesecca had gone because of that?

"It is true," said Don Aurelio quietly; "but that poor creature has nothing to do with it. And now he will make himself worse again, for this morning he was still feverish. You did not see him go out?"

Donna Fedele, who had been watching Lúzia gathering her peas, had neither seen nor heard anything. Neither had Lúzia seen nor heard him go.

Don Aurelio set about arranging a plan of pursuit. Something must be done at once. "I can't run!" observed Donna Fedele with a smile. She was so far from being able to run that, having pressed the priest's hand in silence, she dropped wearily into her chair once more. Later she had to ask the milk-girl from Lago to lend her an arm as far as the chestnut-tree, where a small hired carriage awaited her.

Don Aurelio started running towards Lago, believing that Ismaele had gone to the Montanina. Massimo went up towards Maso. The priest reached the chestnuts on the hillside, from which point one can see the white Trento villa, without having met a soul. Could Ismaele have passed already? A man of sixty, with fever upon him, and practically fasting? Impossible! Don Aurelio stopped abruptly, seized by a sudden thought. What if the tiresome fellow, believing all he did believe, had gone to confront the archpriest? The longer Don Aurelio thought about it the more he thought it probable, and, turning, he hastily retraced his steps. Instead, however, of going straight up by the short cut that leads from Lago to Sant' Ubaldo, he took the road that, a few yards from the church, joins the one descending from Velo. And here he found Massimo, who had met several people on the Maso road, but no one of them had seen Carnesecca. This convinced Don Aurelio.

"I will go to Velo," he declared, "but I must go alone. You had better go back to the Montanina, where they will be waiting for you."

Massimo asked if, in case Pestagran would not come back and his room being then unoccupied....

Don Aurelio interrupted him.

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

And reading further questions and suspicions in Massimo's expression of sorrowful indignation, he urged him away.

"Go to Signor Marcello, who is expecting you. We will talk later on. I must first find this unhappy, man and prevent his committing further follies. Leave me now! Signor Marcello has asked me to luncheon, and I will come if possible."

* * * * *

The archpriest's letter had contained an enclosure from the episcopal _curia_ of Vicenza that was nothing more nor less than Don Aurelio's dismissal within a fortnight from the benefice of Lago di Velo. The archpriest himself, in a few appropriate lines, expressed his regret at this unexpected communication, and begged Don Aurelio to see that all persons and furniture were removed from the house within the appointed time, as his successor would then be arriving with his mother and sister.

It was a bitter thing to be driven from that peaceful retreat, from his small, much-loved flock, not to know where to find shelter or food. _All persons and furniture to be removed._ It was impossible that he could be dismissed on Ismaele's account, but, under the circumstances, that word "persons" was not without import.

After the first moments of grief and bewilderment Don Aurelio's soul was filled with a sense of sweetest peace, as if Christ Himself had laid loving hands upon his head. His own sad plight no longer troubled him; he was thinking now of two things only--of finding the Bible-seller, and of a certain important communication, of a most delicate nature, which Signor Marcello had made to him in the sacristy after Mass.

Walking quickly, he soon reached a wayside inn. The innkeeper, a bearded Lombard, who had once been gardener at the Villino delle Rose, stood smoking in his shirt-sleeves in the doorway. As Don Aurelio came up he turned his back upon him and entered the tavern, saying in a tone easily heard outside:

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ah! I suppose you mean the Bible-seller. I'm sorry for what I said. It wasn't meant for you. For my part I prefer the priests to this Bible chap. Yes, he is here; my wife found him on the road, half dead. But he is not going to stay here, I can tell you! If that is what is worrying you, put your mind at rest. I'm going to tell him that if his own feet don't move him, mine will. Will that suit you? I spoke wrong at first; I'm speaking right enough now, ain't I? Good-morning!" He greeted a band of soldiers belonging to a regiment of mountain chasseurs, who were entering the tavern.

Meanwhile Don Aurelio went to the courtyard at the side of the house, drawn by the sound of an agitated woman's voice. Upon a broken chair planted unsteadily in the black ooze, within a yard of the manure-heap, sat the wretched Carnesecca, grudgingly held up by the innkeeper's wife, who was calling: "Checca! Checca! Quick! Quick!" with all the strength of her lungs. Don Aurelio rushed forward to support the tottering man, who was the colour of a badly-washed rag, and scolded the woman for not having taken him into the house. The woman, one moment calling "Checca" and the next making her excuses to the priest, said it had been her man, Gèsummaria! who had not been willing. And besides, Carnesecca himself--Blessed Lady!--had not wanted it. He had seemed much stronger when they brought him in from the road; not as he was now. He had even said: "Fling me on the dung-heap, for I am Jopha!" At this point Carnesecca half opened his eyes and mumbled, his chin still resting upon his breast:

"Jonah! Not Jopha!"

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

Here was Checca at last, a great, stolid-looking country girl of about sixteen, bringing the coffee--not, indeed, the coffee of the padrone and his customers, but that of the padrone's wife and her servant, a semblance of coffee on terms of intimacy with roasted wheat.

Just at this moment a hen that had been calmly disporting herself on the manure-heap, frightened by the house-dog, flapped down into the yard, and disappeared through a near hedge.

"Gèsu! Mistress! The hen!" screamed Checca, stopping short. "Catch her, catch her!" shouted her mistress, remembering a certain hole in the hedge and the ferocious threats of one of her neighbours.

Don Aurelio snatched the coffee-pot from Checca's hands, and the two women, the mistress in front, Checca close behind, were off like the wind, splashing through the black ooze. A sip of coffee revived the Bible-merchant, who fixed upon Don Aurelio a look that was half dazed, half mirthful.

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

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

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

Another sip of coffee.

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

Another sip, after which Carnesecca cast a look of deep inquiry at the liquid, with a most expressive pout of his lips.

"Where do I intend to go?" he said, still gazing into the wheat coffee. "First to the High Priest of Velo!"

"I forbid your doing that!"

"I shall go to the High Priest of Velo in a spirit of respect and of meekness," said Carnesecca serenely, "and I shall say to him: 'Vent thy wrath upon me, cause me to be crucified, for this is Jerusalem, thou art Caiaphas, and I am the son of the Lamb.'"

Don Aurelio was beside himself.

"Don't talk rubbish! What you suppose is all nonsense. There is not a word of truth in it. You are coming home with me immediately!"

The "son of the Lamb" was visibly impressed by Don Aurelio's flushed countenance and angry voice, and sat gazing fixedly at him.

"Well, well, well!" said he at last, letting the words off like pistol shots. "If it is not true, I need not go. But I had sooner die on that dung-heap than go back with you. I will ask shelter of the White Lady of the Roses, who----"

"Calàpo!" shouted the innkeeper's wife, who was bringing the hen back in her arms. "Calàpo, Calàpo! What are you about?"

Calàpo, a stumpy little man, barefooted and coatless, who was dragging a cart out of the stable, shouted, in his turn, that he was going to harness the donkey to drive to Piovene.

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

Carnesecca, interrupted in an intended panegyric upon the White Lady of the Roses, as he called Donna Fedele, made an effort to rise and go on his way. Don Aurelio detained him. It had struck him that it would be better, for many reasons, to allow the old man to go to the Villino, but he could not let him go on foot. He begged the woman, if she would not keep him, at least to allow Calàpo to take him to the villa in the donkey-cart. But the woman refused, on the plea of the animal's indisposition. Calàpo pushed the cart back into the shed, and Carnesecca declared that he was able to walk. Don Aurelio had started to interview the innkeeper, and beg him at least to keep the "Bible-man" till the evening, when Calàpo came up and offered to drag the cart as far as the villa. Meanwhile one of the soldiers had called Checca out into the street, whither others had followed, and formed a circle around the flushed and laughing girl. The mistress shouted to her and she came in, followed by the soldiers, one of whom, hearing Calàpo renew his offer, over which Don Aurelio was hesitating, cried out:

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

Scenting fun, his companions quickly volunteered to help also, and it was arranged that together they should draw the cart as far as Velo, where a donkey free from colic might be found. Calàpo took his place between the shafts, and a couple of soldiers lifted Carnesecca and placed him in the cart. Then there was a merry proposal to put Checca in too, but the girl ran off, while Carnesecca threatened indignantly to throw himself from the cart if his dignity were thus compromised. The innkeeper's wife settled the matter.

"You want more weight, do you, boys? You shall have it," she said, and sent Calàpo to fetch two bags of corn to take to the miller.

But Carnesecca called Calàpo to his side and inquired if he really felt able to drag the cart alone as far as Velo.

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

Thereupon Carnesecca, who shrank from the soldiers' noisy escort, turned towards them, giving them to understand that he could dispense with their services. Then he bowed his thanks to right and left, his head bobbing between upraised hands, that waved on either side like a pair of great ears. He looked like a pope imparting his blessing from the chair of state.

"Let us be off, Calàpo," said Carnesecca gently. "I give you my blessing," he said, turning to Don Aurelio, "for your hospitality." And addressing the woman, he added: "I bless you also for this cart, for the chair, and ... yes, let us be charitable ... for the coffee also!" At this moment the innkeeper made an appearance at the side door, and blustered: "What is all this farce about?" Carnesecca scrutinised him with the utmost composure. "I bless you also," he said, "you also, my good man--because you have a Christian wife, and a Christian wife may save a heathen husband. Let us be off, Calàpo."

The innkeeper was speechless with amazement. Calàpo, bending beneath the load, turned out at the gateway into the road, the soldiers following and jeering at him, "Gee up, Calàpo, gee up!" Don Aurelio stood for a few seconds watching this strange procession move towards Velo, and then started in the direction of Sant' Ubaldo.

II

Don Aurelio's mind was now wholly engrossed in what Signor Marcello had confided to him in the sacristy after Mass. Without explaining his reasons for thinking so, further than by alluding to his seventy-two years, Signor Marcello had spoken as one who believed he had not long to live. An unusual gentleness in his bearing confirmed the priest's suspicion that some physical warning must have come to him. The substance of his unexpected communication was as follows. Uneasy concerning the future of Leila, whom he looked upon as his daughter, and anxious lest she should refuse the benefits his will might offer, lest she should fall once more into the hands of one or other of her parents, he had thought that if a union were possible between her and Massimo Alberti, his poor boy's friend, the second and more serious of these dangers might be averted. Probably thereby the other difficulty would be avoided as well, at least to a certain extent, for he would then comply in part with Leila's wish, and leave her the villa only. It was to be hoped that neither she nor her husband would wish to offend his memory by refusing this legacy.

It was unreasonable to expect a girl of two-and-twenty to mourn for ever, and she must know that another future was expected and desired for her. Perhaps as long as he, Marcello, lived she would hesitate to commit what might seem an outrage against poor Andrea's memory, but if she were encouraged and persuaded that Andrea in heaven would not disapprove of this marriage, she would surely give way. Signor Marcello was convinced of this. The unknown quantity in the problem was Massimo Alberti.

Signor Marcello had heard much that was good of him from Don Aurelio, but he did not know whether he had other ties and affections, whether or no he intended to marry. This was why he had confided in Don Aurelio and asked for his advice and the help that the priest's friendship with Massimo could give him, first by information and then, if possible, by influencing the young man in the matter.

During this conversation the priest's face had flushed with trouble and embarrassment. Massimo had no ties of a shameful nature, of this he felt sure, nor, to his knowledge, was he in love. He knew him to be of a susceptible nature, and in writing to him the young man had never tried to hide the fact. As to marriage, he was certainly not opposed to it, but he was firmly determined never to bind himself without love, or to tolerate suggestions concerning his choice. Advice of this kind had once turned him against a certain alliance which otherwise very probably would have been made. In matters like these special tact was required which Don Aurelio felt that he did not possess; he wished he did possess it, for he would have been heartily glad to urge Massimo to marry, believing him capable of realising the highest ideals of married life.

All this he told Signor Marcello, but he said nothing of what to him presented the thorniest aspect of the problem. Signorina Leila was a riddle to him, a closed casket that might contain either rich jewels or false ones. Signor Marcello persisted, however, in his request, and showed some impatience. In the short time he had known him Don Aurelio had grown to respect this old man, with his warm heart, his honest and humble soul, with such pure faith in and love of the Divine Word. He could not refuse the favour he was now being asked, and promised to do his best.

* * * * *

He would do his best, but how was he to set to work, he wondered as he walked slowly along the parched road to Sant' Ubaldo. The first step must be to discover whether Massimo's heart was free. This was not difficult. And if it were free, by what means was he to influence his friend in the right direction without revealing his purpose? Besides, was there time enough? When he had talked with Signor Marcello he had not known he must leave in a fortnight. Would not Massimo also want to leave? And could a matter of this sort be arranged in a fortnight? He must take Donna Fedele into his confidence. She had experience of these things, and would advise him. Although she went very rarely to the Montanina, she would surely know more about Signorina Leila than he could possibly discover. He looked at his watch. It was half-past ten. There was time for him to go to the Villino and get back to the Montanina for luncheon. Opportunities of studying the girl and of seeing the two young people together were precious. He hurried along, taking the road that leads down to Lago without touching Sant' Ubaldo. While crossing the glade between the slope of Lago and that on which the Montanina stands he tried to recollect his few distinct impressions of Signorina Leila. He had heard her play with great feeling. He had occasionally seen her coming down the road from Sant' Ubaldo to the Battery, carrying great bunches of wild flowers. He could not remember any but insignificant remarks of hers. Whenever he said Mass at Santa Maria ad Montes she was present, seated beside Signor Marcello. Once when he and Signor Marcello had had a discussion in her presence concerning the reading of the Gospels she had shown not the slightest interest. He recollected, indeed, that he had come away wondering whether she had ever read them. She was not unattractive-looking, but she did not seem to him beautiful enough to captivate Massimo at first sight. His impression of her face was that it revealed great intelligence and a character containing much of reserve and caprice.

Absorbed in these thoughts, he would probably have passed Donna Fedele without seeing her had she not called out, "Don Aurelio!" She and the girl from Lago were seated upon the fallen trunk of a great tree, a little above the turn that leads towards the Montanina.

"Well? Did you find him?"

Hearing that Carnesecca was on his way to Villino delle Rose, she rose to her feet, astonished, but glad to have him, and anxious to get home. Although she was still very tired, she dismissed the girl, that she might be free to discuss Don Aurelio's dismissal from his benefice. There was little to tell, and the priest cut short her conjectures, perhaps because another matter was then uppermost in his mind, or that he feared an indignant outburst against the priests of Velo. He made haste to tell her that he wanted her advice on a very important question. "More so than this?" Donna Fedele asked. Yes. This matter was simple enough, but the other was most complex. Talking thus they had almost reached the little hired carriage that had come up as far as the entrance to the Montanina. The priest stopped, intending to explain the matter shortly.

"Don Aurelio," said his companion, "if you do not mind giving me your arm, I will stop, otherwise I must go and sit in the carriage." She was very pale, but her sweet eyes were smiling.

As it was not yet eleven, Donna Fedele decided that there was time for Don Aurelio to accompany her home and then be driven back to the Montanina by twelve o'clock, and although the driver's presence would prevent their talking on the way, they would, nevertheless, have a quiet quarter of an hour at the Villino.

* * * * *

At five minutes to twelve Don Aurelio pushed open the covered gate that leads into the Montanina grounds, beside Santa Maria ad Montes, feeling much lighter-hearted than he had felt earlier in the day. Donna Fedele had promised her aid with such enthusiastic goodwill that he, ignorant as he was of the depths of her good nature, was touched and filled with gratitude, as if that goodwill had been all on his behalf.

III

Massimo came down from Sant' Ubaldo with his heart full of bitterness, believing firmly, with Carnesecca, that Don Aurelio's dismissal had been brought about by his championship of the Lutheran missioner. He wondered anxiously what would happen to his poor friend. Even if the unfortunate priest should wander far in search of another diocese, would not these calumnies follow him? Would he not be met on all sides with reluctance, diffidence, and timidity?

Hardly had his hand touched the Montanina gate than another anxiety beset him, overruling the first. He thought of his approaching meeting with the Signorina, which he desired and yet at the same time dreaded. The green, flowery loveliness of the villa's setting seemed to him to distil a subtle sense of awe-inspiring mystery. Instead of going straight to the house he turned to the left, past the clump of poplars and the bridge, overgrown with roses, and walked along the bank of the Riderella to where a tiny waterfall sings, almost in the shade of the walnut-trees. Presently he asked himself impatiently what was the meaning of this agitation on account of one whom he had never seen. For answer the two photographs rose to his mind, and he shrank from the thought of being confronted by that pale face and the downcast eyes. He started towards the villa, trying to steel himself into indifference. In the distance, by the stables, he saw Teresina talking to a gentleman, whom he learned from her later was the village doctor, who had not deemed it prudent to intrude upon Signor Marcello without a plausible excuse. Massimo went up to his room and stood gazing for some time at Andrea's picture. Then he carefully and almost reverently changed the water in the glass that held the rose, the rose that had drooped a little lower and become more languid, its outside petals already touched by the first pallor of death. Again he re-read his letters to his lost friend, letters whose pages were still more faded than the rose. He was standing at the window in passive enjoyment of this feast of sunshine, wind, and living things that exhorted to life, when he heard a heavy step in the corridor, and, turning, saw the door slowly pushed open. It was Signor Marcello, who, on perceiving him, uttered an exclamation of apology.

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

In his hand he carried a fresh rose, a magnificent white one, like the other. They stood gazing at each other for a while in silent sympathy; then Massimo, deeply moved, took the rose, and Signor Marcello withdrew.

Towards half-past eleven, while Massimo was writing letters, Giovanni brought a message from his master, asking the young man to come down.

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

"Which shall I see?" was the thought that sprang to Massimo's mind as he went down the wooden staircase.

Leila was seated with her back to the stairs at the writing-table placed crosswise between the spacious window and the fireplace. She was annoyed with herself because her heart was beating so violently; she would not admit, even to herself, her burning curiosity to see this man who was descending the stairs; she would not have turned her head to look at him, either then or later, if she could have avoided doing so without being set down as hopelessly discourteous.

"Leila!" said Signor Marcello gently.

She laid down her pen, opened the drawer to place something in it, seemed to be searching in it for an instant, and finally rose and faced about.

Signor Marcello introduced her: "My daughter."

She barely inclined her head. Massimo bowed low, murmuring something incoherent of which the only word distinguishable was "pleasure."

Yes, pleasure! Here was neither the one face nor the other. Here was the serious face of a girl who receives for the first time a friend of her dead lover. It was the face of one who had once given everything to love, and had now consecrated her life to the memory of that love. Massimo might have been more critical of the irregularities of this face had its expression been different. But the irregularities seemed to him too insignificant to dwell upon, and he thought her almost beautiful. He could not but admire her figure, which, though not tall, was perfect in all its lines, revealed by her simple grey gown, trimmed with black, and cut slightly low at the neck. He noticed the splendid, fair hair that crowned her small head, and the grace of her neck, which was the colour of old ivory. His bearing immediately became less constrained.

But Leila became even more rigid. Signor Marcello saw, by a slight movement on her part, that she was about to flee, like a child whose feet fidget to be off. He tried to detain her by making her the subject of conversation.

"She has sacrificed herself for my poor wife and myself," he began, but obtained the opposite result to that at which he aimed. Leila cried reproachfully, "Papa!" and darted off. Signor Marcello was hurt, and called after her:

"Leila!"

She paused on the threshold of the dining-room, turned towards them, and stood resting her hands against the door-jambs. Massimo shuddered. It was the face he had dreaded--the marble sphinx, with downcast eyes. The vision lasted but an instant. Then Leila looked up with a forced smile.

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

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

Hardly had she left the room than he began to sing her praises. She was kind, intelligent, a musician, a skilful housewife. Massimo listened in silence. As soon as possible he brought the conversation round to Don Aurelio's dismissal, of which, of course, Signor Marcello had not yet heard. Massimo was as yet unacquainted with the particulars, but the fact itself was certain.

Signor Marcello was more disappointed and grieved than indignant. Four-and-twenty hours before he would have felt differently. Of Carnesecca, Massimo only knew that he had fled, and he greatly doubted whether Don Aurelio would be able to keep his engagement to luncheon. He also spoke of Donna Fedele, although he was unaware on what terms she stood at the Montanina. Signor Marcello expressed his pleasure at discovering that there was a link between them, repeating several times how glad he was, without giving any reason why, and without any special praise for any of the persons concerned, and going on to tell how the Vayla di Breas had come to settle in Arsiero. At this point Don Aurelio arrived.

He came in with a bright manner, and answered Signor Marcello's and Massimo's questions briefly. Yes, it was quite true that he must leave his benefice within a fortnight. But it was no one's fault. Ismaele was only a poor visionary. The rough time he had had at Posina had made him fancy there was persecution everywhere. A priest, with his mother and sister, were coming to Lago. Probably it was to assist them, poor things--while he, without any such claims upon him----And he shrugged his shoulders, as if it would be the easiest thing in the world for him to earn a livelihood. Changing the subject, he became eloquent in his account of Carnesecca's wanderings, saying that, at the present moment, he was in bed in a comfortable little room at the Villino, in a state of beatitude. Well, perhaps not precisely of beatitude, because the three hundred and fifty-nine bones had begun to ache again, but, nevertheless----! The footman here announced that luncheon was served. Leila was waiting in the dining-room.

* * * * *

The four seated themselves at the square table, one on each side. Leila sat facing the glass door opening into the garden and commanding a view of the crags of Barco; Massimo was on her left. On her right sat Don Aurelio, who began talking to her at once, telling her he had often seen her coming down the road from the Battery, carrying wild flowers. He referred to the rhododendrons that grew luxuriantly where landslides have torn the slopes of Priaforà. She knew these well, and admitted that those wild spots were favourites of hers. Her voice was deeper and not so sweet as Donna Fedele's, but rich, sympathetic, and soft, nevertheless, suggesting as far as a woman's voice can the notes of a violoncello, and rich with potential feeling. Her answer to Don Aurelio's question, whether she was fond of solitudes, came unhesitatingly and in the affirmative, but she added quickly, fearing she had not understood aright:

"Solitude, you say?"

"I really said 'solitudes.'"

Without looking at Massimo she felt he was about to speak, and hastened to renew the conversation with Don Aurelio, asking him if he had seen the rhododendrons of Priaforà in blossom. Alas! no, that was impossible! The Signorina forgot that he had only come to Sant' Ubaldo in October.

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

Don Aurelio smiled.

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

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

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

"They are driving him away," said Massimo, with some irritation, and determined to conquer the girl's assumption of indifference towards himself. She flung him a glance that seemed to say, "What have you to do with it?" and once more repeated, "He is giving us up?"

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

"Yes, indeed, they are driving him away," he reiterated, speaking rather to Don Aurelio himself than to Leila. "The archpriest has dismissed him. He is sending him away because he has housed a Protestant! Or it may be perhaps because he believes him to be a Modernist."

To Massimo, Don Aurelio's humble meekness towards his enemies seemed excessive, and sometimes irritated him, as it had a moment since when he had alluded to his needy successor. He was burning to tell him so openly, to make him see the truth clearly. During his outburst Don Aurelio could only protest in monosyllables, but when his friend had finished he expressed the pain such violent language and these unproved accusations caused him.

"He is capable of it," murmured Signor Marcello with bowed head, alluding to the archpriest. "Quite capable of it--quite!"

"The archpriest knows perfectly well I am not a Modernist," Don Aurelio went on with a last protesting gesture. His superior had, indeed, assured him of his most complete satisfaction on that point.

"Nonsense!" said Signor Marcello. "You a Modernist indeed!"

"He certainly is not," Massimo interposed. "At the most he may be a Modernist only in the way Antonio Rosmini was. They say I am one also," he added candidly.

Don Aurelio laughed heartily.

"You ... you...!" he cried, with a blankness that was eloquent.

Massimo understood, and looking round, met a glance from Leila's eyes that pierced him like a shaft of fire. For an instant he felt blinded, and it was only by an effort that he brought himself to answer Don Aurelio.

"Yes," he said, "I may be more of a Modernist than you are, but I am not one, after all."

What a significant glance from the marble sphinx that had been!

Signor Marcello stretched out his hand, and laid it upon Massimo's, that rested on the table.

"My dear young friend," said he, "remember an old man's words: 'There is but one true form of Modernism, and that is the Modernism of Dante! Therein is the whole Catholic creed to the last iota, inspired by ardent faith, bringing the Gospel in simple language to all men, regardless of the shades of their opinions. Dante, dear friend, Dante! And now talk about the rhododendrons again.'"

But instead Massimo spoke of the room Carnesecca had left unoccupied at Sant' Ubaldo, saying there was no longer any excuse for his intruding upon Signor Marcello. The old man, astonished and somewhat hurt by this display of formality, protested that he could not hear of Massimo's leaving. His friend's speech seemed to upset Don Aurelio also, who generally found it easier to express his feelings by certain restless physical movements than by words. But Massimo persisted. Like Don Aurelio, he also accompanied broken sentences with various gestures, that were the visible signs of unspoken arguments.

"I assure you," cried his friend, half in jest, half in earnest, "by your presence in my house you would injure me more than poor Carnesecca did, and I can't have you! You will have to listen to Signor Marcello."

A conviction that he was being encompassed by some irresistible influence suddenly overwhelmed Massimo. His brain struggled feebly to send forth the words "Then I will return to Milan," but they remained unsaid, and he kept silence.

Leila had not spoken since meeting the glance which had said, "Are you interested in me?" She could not forgive herself her own glance. She perfectly understood Signor Marcello's displeasure, but she could not see why Don Aurelio did not wish to have his friend at Sant' Ubaldo. She encouraged her forced contempt for Massimo by telling herself he did not really wish to leave, that if he had wished it, instead of bringing the matter up at the luncheon-table, he would have come down later with his luggage ready strapped, and said to Signor Marcello: "There is no longer any excuse for my remaining here, and I am going." But, of course, Signor Alberti preferred a comfortable room, a nice house, and a good table to the priest's poor home and meagre fare.

* * * * *

So he was a Modernist as well! Of Modernism Leila knew less than nothing. She disliked the name, and she disliked her own ignorant interpretation of it. She had never thought about her own attitude towards religious observance. A creature of instinct and of passions rather than of reason, the vagaries of her fancy and ideas were in no wise checked by the regular, if mechanical, performance of religious duties. She looked upon Modernism, not as an effort to adapt traditional Catholicism to modern conditions, but rather as a doctrine that sought to substitute for the ancient religious obligations of Catholic tradition new obligations that were more extensive, less clearly defined, and heavier.

At times she prayed devoutly, but always with the traditional forms and never spontaneously. Her prayers were for definite and immediate objects, and not for Divine love and for spiritual blessing. Her impulse, nevertheless, was sincere, and she found a help in prayer of this kind.

She imagined, and the thought was odious to her, that Modernism was incompatible with traditional prayer. The only aspect of Modernism that could appeal to her was its element of rebellion, but she judged it an abortive, half-hearted rebellion at best. And so Signor Alberti was a Modernist! This helped her in her determination to despise him.

The fruit had been placed on the table and Leila rose.

* * * * *

Her obstinate silence after that fiery glance, from which Massimo still smarted, was, to his mind, the necessary complement of that glance, and was characteristic of his conception of her as a marble sphinx. In rising with the others when Leila rose, the young man recalled certain teasing words a friend had once spoken, the recollection of which often galled him: "You have not yet experienced it, but when you do fall in love, it will be sudden and overwhelming." As he passed into the drawing-room behind Leila he noticed certain tiny red spots upon her white neck. He was glad to see these, for they seemed to diminish somewhat the power of physical attraction which this strange creature possessed. Taking Don Aurelio's arm, he scolded him gently for not wishing to have him at Sant' Ubaldo. But Don Aurelio had found a useful excuse. "You would compromise me!" said he, laughing his hearty laugh that shook his whole frame. "Is it not true, Signorina?"

"It seems to me," she said, without looking at either of them, "that compromise cannot matter now." And she busied herself in pouring out the coffee.

Don Aurelio, always slow to recognise a thrust, failed absolutely to recognise this one, which wounded Massimo more deeply than himself. He murmured humbly: "I am only in jest, only in jest, you know!" and added, in his simplicity and inexperience of _double entente_:

"Poor Massimo cannot compromise any one."

Massimo was somewhat embarrassed, but said nothing. Leila, however, smiled slightly, thus making Don Aurelio aware of his blunder.

"Ah, well ... yes ... of course ... what nonsense!" he stammered, answering her with a laugh almost of regret for unspoken words. "I speak simply, and must be taken simply."

Signor Marcello called them out to the terrace to see a fine effect of gathering storm-clouds. On the north the sun was beating upon the heights of Rotzo in Val d'Astico, that stood out, brightly gilded, against the clear blue, while the brow of the same uplands was lit up towards the east by continuous summer lightning, flashing out of a sky of turquoise. Leila hastened to obey the summons, pretending to have forgotten that she had not given Signor Alberti his coffee. When, a moment later, he appeared on the terrace with Don Aurelio, she withdrew, and slipping into the dining-room, crossed to the threshold of the garden door. A thunderstorm always made her nerves tingle with a mad delight, and she liked to enjoy it alone, drawn to it like a small cloud saturated with electricity. If there had been wind, she would have rushed out as she did sometimes at night, letting her hair blow wild. But as no leaf stirred, and as she heard Signor Marcello's voice asking for her, she returned to the terrace.

"The coffee, dear," said the old man. "Neither Alberti nor I have had ours."

She murmured some excuse. In helping Massimo her manner was not precisely rude, but there was something ungracious both in her face and bearing. Don Aurelio, who noted everything, with meekness indeed, but with keenness as well, reflected in his artless optimism that the memory of her lover could no longer be very vivid in her heart, if she could treat his dearest friend thus coldly.

"Where was it," said Signor Marcello suddenly to Massimo, "that you met that Benedetto from Subiaco?"

"At Jenne."

"And what was he like?"

"Well, I will not say that I adored him, for I object to the word, but I loved him better than I have ever loved any one in this world, except my mother."

Massimo had no idea the sphinx would speak.

"Was he indeed a saint, then?" said she.

"I beg your pardon, Signorina," he retorted, "but I have never felt the necessity for saintliness in those I love."

"But is it true he performed miracles?"

"No, he performed no miracles."

"Did he really die in a woman's arms?"

Don Aurelio, amazed that a young girl should ask such a question, could not suppress an exclamation of protest.

"Leila!" Signor Marcello ejaculated severely.

With flaming face Massimo exclaimed:

"It is a vile calumny! I never heard it before!"

"I read it somewhere," said Leila calmly.

Don Aurelio intervened.

"I would have you know, Signorina, that the man of whom you speak may have erred in matters of doctrine; on that point I can express no opinion. But, had the Church pointed out his errors to him, he would have been the first to recognise them. As to his private life, after his conversion it was one of perfect purity. I can answer for that, at least."

Signor Marcello, who was following the discussion with a nervous twitching of every line of his expressive face, now cut it short in a voice of authority. Saying that he wanted to speak privately with Don Aurelio, he proposed that Leila should take Alberti for a walk in the garden. Leila cast him a half-dazed glance, and then looked towards Massimo as if beseeching his support.

"It is too hot," she objected.

The young man protested that he was quite ready to go alone, but Signor Marcello would listen to no excuses. A heavy bank of clouds was rapidly darkening the villa's green surroundings, and the rain was more to be feared than the heat.

* * * * *

"You know the Montanina well?" said Leila, as she passed out by the south door that opens upon the green slope, studded with pines and mountain-oaks, and crowned, far above, with chestnuts. "You have seen the sun-dial, and Blessed Alberto Magno, and the goat's head, through whose mouth flow the waters of the Riderella?" All this she delivered like a tiresome and oft-repeated lesson, and, walking in front of him, did not appear to notice that he made no answer. She took the path leading upwards, on one side of the villa. "Do you know the Fonte Modesta also?" she inquired, as they passed near the small cave, filled with the spring's soft murmuring. On she went, pointing out this feature and that, regardless of Alberti's silence, and with all the perfunctoriness of a professional guide.

While she was speaking the words "the source of the Riderella" he interrupted her. He had been waiting to speak only until they should have reached a sufficient distance from the house.

"Signorina," said he, "I did not insist with Signor Marcello because I saw that I should cause him pain, but I wish you to understand that you need not put yourself out for me. If you will allow me, I will finish the walk alone."

Leila answered coldly: "As you like."

The path being narrow, she stepped aside to let him pass, standing with downcast eyes, like a statue of marble.

"Thank you," said the young man, quivering with indignation, and he passed her without a look. Why had this girl taken it into her head to treat him thus? Did she think he was going to make love to her? He could not fancy any other reason. And those foolish questions concerning Benedetto had simply been a piece of pointed impudence. Make love to her indeed!

But that fiery glance! In thinking of it Massimo recalled the music he had heard in the night. What lay concealed in the soul of this mysterious creature? Her stiffness and indifference, her silent discourtesy, and her insolent words were not only intentional but incomprehensible as well. What reason had she to suppose he intended making love to her? What sign had he given? A suspicion flashed upon him. Don Aurelio had taken it into his head that his friend should marry young. Was it possible he had chosen this girl for him, that some inkling of his plan had reached her? No, it was impossible, and that for a hundred reasons, and if on account of nothing else, at least for the friendship between Don Aurelio and Signor Marcello. The conclusion, then? The conclusion was that one thing only was clear--the girl's pointed hostility. This he might have regarded as armour against budding affection had affection had time to bud. But as it was...?

He sat down to rest upon a rustic bench beneath the chestnut-tree. The great clouds were veiling Torraro, the shadows of the trees swayed in the wind on the flower-strewn banks, the white villa was smiling brightly down below in the sunshine, and the dull roar of the torrent and of the whirlpools of Perale rose through the silence of chestnut-groves. But Massimo could enjoy neither the shade nor the fresh breeze, nor the grand and gentle beauty of all things. He felt that beauty was a stranger to the bitterness of his heart, felt himself a stranger to beauty. He wondered what course he should pursue. He would not go back to the Montanina, and he must either persuade Don Aurelio to take him in or he must return to Milan. He took pleasure in recalling all the bitterness of his heart, mingling that which lay at the bottom, almost outside the bounds of memory, with the bitterness of the present hour. He tried to concentrate his thoughts on Don Aurelio's sad plight, for Signorina Leila's discourtesy was really not worth worrying about. But Don Aurelio! The old temptation rose up again, grim and violent. Would it not be better to break away at once and for all from the people who persecute such men as Don Aurelio, the very salt of the earth? But immediately he felt the grave eyes of Don Aurelio himself fixed upon him, the eyes of the victim who was all meekness towards his persecutors; and the impulse of rebellion was defeated. But to cease fighting the enemies of the Church for the Church's own sake, to stand by and watch the struggle--this was no temptation, but a wise counsel. But what should he do in the world, then? Ignore the world, obtain an appointment as parish doctor--why not? In some village, among the hills, would it not be happiness to taste something of the joys of love? Presently he saw Don Aurelio come out of the villa, look upwards, and start in his direction, and he went down to meet him. Don Aurelio appeared astonished to see him alone.

"And the Signorina?"

Massimo said he had begged her not to put herself out for him, and hastened to add that, being alone, he had had time to think of his own plans. He was resolved to leave the Montanina that very evening, and still hoped to occupy Carnesecca's room. Don Aurelio answered firmly, and at the same time regretfully, that he had just now promised Signor Marcello that Massimo would stay at least a fortnight at the Montanina, if not all the time he had arranged to spend at Lago di Velo. Massimo repeated that this was out of the question. If Don Aurelio would not have him as his guest during the few days that remained of his ministry, he would go back to Milan. Don Aurelio seized this favourable opportunity.

"Is it an interest in any special person that calls you back to Milan?" he asked.

Massimo answered promptly in the negative and smiled.

"Really, no? You can assure me of that?"

"Really, no! My hand upon it!" cried the young man, extending his hand, which Don Aurelio pressed.

"In that case," he said, "you must not disappoint this old man so cruelly."

But Massimo was so determined that the priest was forced to conclude something unpleasant had happened. He asked if the Signorina's questions about Benedetto had offended him. No, she had spoken in ignorance, repeating newspaper gossip. Perhaps there had been further discussion in the garden? No, there had not. But Don Aurelio pressed him so hard that at last Massimo confessed the real reason. The girl could not bear him, and had let him see it. This Don Aurelio refused to believe, and made him describe all Leila's hostile actions, which appeared insignificant enough in the telling; but the priest admitted that certain things that might almost pass unobserved may be keenly felt. It was only with difficulty that he extracted a promise from Massimo to postpone his departure until the morrow. He should be free to leave the next night if his impressions were confirmed. He advised him, at all events, to pay a farewell visit to the Villino delle Rose immediately, and pointed out the little house, showing like a red berry on the edge of the plain of Arsiero, that looks towards Seghe. Don Aurelio urged his friend to start at once, that he might be sure of finding Donna Fedele at home.

When Massimo had gone the priest returned to Signor Marcello, with whom he had a long talk. Then he left him to go back to Sant' Ubaldo. Signor Marcello sent for Leila. He told her how dear Alberti was to him, and said she must surely understand why. He wished him to remain some time at the Montanina, and he therefore begged her to be gracious to him. The old man spoke in low tones and with great gentleness, as one who wishes his manner to convey the seriousness of unspoken words. Leila, who had stood listening, pale and motionless, murmured that she had not been conscious of ungraciousness towards Signor Alberti. Signor Marcello looked at her, but did not answer. Presently he said, with the same gentleness as before:

"I ask it as a favour."

Hardly above a whisper she answered, "Yes, Papa."

Then going to her room, she locked the door and burst into a violent fit of weeping.

IV

Massimo returned from the Villino delle Rose shortly before the dinner-hour. Signor Marcello came out to meet him, and drawing his arm through his own, repeated lovingly to him how delighted he was to have him at the Montanina. He meant to show him many treasured old letters, wherein he, Massimo, was mentioned. A few days ago he would not have believed himself able to do this, but now, largely owing to Massimo's presence at the Montanina, he felt quite strong. The young man, who was both touched and troubled, was at a loss how to introduce the painful but necessary question of his departure. He was still casting about in his mind for a suggestion when the bell rang for dinner. Then it was too late to speak, and he postponed the difficult announcement until later.

Leila was late for dinner. She was dressed in black and wore a bunch of pansies in her belt. She was very pale, and ate scarcely anything. With a visible effort she forced herself to put some questions to Massimo as to how he had spent the afternoon, paying but slight attention to his answers. Signor Marcello glanced frequently at the black gown and at the flowers she wore, with a look half tender, half regretful. He talked a great deal and with affectionate admiration of Donna Fedele, speaking of her former beauty, the youth that still shone in her brown eyes, and sweet voice. Looking at Leila, he said how sorry he was that the lady no longer came to the Montanina as before.

"To tell the truth," said Leila, "it is for us to go to see her."

Signor Marcello's face beamed with satisfaction and gratitude, and taking the hand that she allowed to rest limply in his, he pressed it tenderly.

Then the conversation turned upon Don Aurelio's dismissal. "Who is this archpriest?" Massimo inquired.

"Gèsummaria!" cried Signor Marcello, covering his eyes with his big, thin hands, a gesture that spoke volumes. And "Gèsummaria!" was all he would say, nor did Massimo press him. Leila's eyes were downcast, but her face was not sphinx-like; it wore rather the expression of one who disapproves and is grieved. This expression of hers goaded Massimo into saying that Don Aurelio was a priest whom the most uncompromising conservatives, even the _intransigenti_, had no excuse for persecuting. He was a follower of Rosmini, and had never been suspected of Modernism even in Rome, when he was living there. A few questions from Signor Marcello easily led the young man to speak of his own life in Rome, of Subiaco, and of Jenne; how he had come to know Don Aurelio, Dom Clemente, and Benedetto, and the adventures of his dead friend from the time he disappeared from his house at Oria, in Valsolda, in order that he might dedicate himself to God, to his death in Rome, in the gardener's cottage at Villa Mayda. He told the story of his last hours, and placed in its true light the part Jeanne Dessalle had played. It was almost dark when he finished his story. Coffee and lights had been forgotten, and Signor Marcello and Leila remained silent. Presently Giovanni entered, and asked if he should light the lamps.

"No," said Leila promptly, in a hushed voice. Then she asked Massimo if he had known Jeanne Dessalle. He replied that he had seen her that night at Villa Mayda.

Was she beautiful? He really could not say. She had simply passed him in one of the ante-rooms. It was not yet dark, but, as it was raining hard, there was little light in the room. Her figure had struck him as graceful. Leila then inquired what had become of her. No one knew. And where was Benedetto buried? Massimo hesitated an instant.

"At Campo Verano ... for the time being," he said.

"For the time being?"

The same astonished question fell from the lips of both his listeners. Massimo did not answer.

"And what will Don Aurelio do?" Leila asked. "Where will he go?"

"I do not know."

The room was full of shadows, and the three rose from the table in silence.

* * * * *

Giovanni having been ordered to light the drawing-room, had lighted a large lamp near the fireplace. Signor Marcello begged Leila to play for their guest, and at the same time he rang the bell, intending to have the lamp by the piano lighted. Leila hastened to prevent this.

"No, Papa, please not!"

She preferred this dim light, and Signor Marcello did not insist, but went out to the terrace, with stooping shoulders, to watch the darkness over in the west that was dotted with the lights of Arsiero.

"What sort of music would you like?" said Leila. "Serious or light?"

"Signorina," Massimo said, "you must not put yourself out for me."

Remembering their conversation in the garden, Leila said to herself: "He evidently has no other expression."

"Perhaps you are not fond of music?" she said.

"Perhaps not."

He smiled slightly as he spoke, and his smile hurt her like a blow upon the cheek. Without a word, she opened the piano and began playing something from Schumann's "Carnival" from memory.

She played it too nervously and without sweetness. When she had finished Massimo thanked her dryly. That would have been the moment to go to Signor Marcello and press the question of departure, but he hesitated. The girl's conduct was beginning to strike him in a new light. The black dress and the pansies had jarred upon him as a sort of unnecessary hint to himself, but her questions during dinner, the interest she had shown in his story, and now her way of answering his "perhaps not," showing that she had understood his feelings and his irony, her choice of the author and of the passionate music, the very nervousness of the execution, and the immobility that followed it, gave him the impression of a state of mind that was neither hostile nor indifferent. He could not help thinking it a little strange of Signor Marcello to leave them together as he had done. For a minute or so Leila let the fingers of her right hand run softly along the high notes, and then she inquired carelessly if he wished to hear something else.

He remembered that melody by Bellini he had heard in the night.

"Will you play 'Sola, furtiva al tempio'?"

"'Norma'?"

She sought the beginning, but after the first notes struck a wrong one, tried others at random, and murmuring, "I don't know it," took her hands from the keyboard. Massimo was tempted to say, "You knew it well enough in the night!" But meanwhile the girl had tried again in an absent-minded way, and again had failed. Then, almost in a whisper, and studying the palm of her hand, she said:

"Was not your Benedetto a heretic?"

"No!" cried Massimo. "His teaching may sometimes have erred, but he lived in obedience to the Church, and preached that obedience always."

"Then would you mind explaining to me why they persecuted him as a heretic?"

The tone of the question was hostile, but Massimo answered, nevertheless.

"Willingly. Now, if you like!"

"No, no! To-morrow or the day after. Now I am going to play for Papa."

With a scale of chords Leila put an end to the dialogue that had been carried on softly and rapidly. Then she began an _Étude_ by Heller, and Massimo concluded that the Signorina did not really wish to hear his explanations, but, at any rate, it would be impossible to interrupt her now, and tell her the day after to-morrow would be too late.

"This is for Papa, you know," she said, still playing. "I don't care for it."

Massimo listened for some time, and then rose to go to Signor Marcello. He paused before the fireplace, where the light fell full upon the frieze of marguerites interwoven with the motto, _Forse che si, forse che no_ ("Perhaps yes, perhaps no").[2] The motto was so entirely in harmony with his own uncertainty that he looked curiously to see how it ended. He said to himself: "If it is cut short at _yes_, I will go. If it is not cut short, and ends in _no_, I will remain." He was conscious of reflecting that, according to all probability, it would end in _no_. The motto finished with _perhaps_!

Massimo stood gazing upon it, somewhat baffled, but presently he saw that there was another test he could apply. The marguerites in the frieze were all losing their leaves, but the one where the motto ended still retained a few. He might pluck these in imagination, and see if the answer were _yes_ or _no_.

A soft voice whispered close behind him:

"Are you consulting the oracle?"

The young man turned quickly. Donna Fedele stood smiling at him, her finger at her lips, for Heller's _Étude_ was not yet finished. She had arrived while Leila was playing Schumann, and had been chatting with Signor Marcello until, seeing Massimo contemplating the frieze, she had come behind him.

"I am really here on your account," she said, still smiling. The music ceased, and she turned from the fireplace towards Leila, who had risen. She kissed her affectionately, as if no shadow had ever touched her friendship for the girl. Congratulating her on her playing, she took her arm and returned with her to the fireside. Signor Marcello stood looking into the drawing-room.

"Did you know," Donna Fedele began, addressing Leila, "that Signor Alberti's mother and I were friends? He is going to dine with me to-morrow, for we must have a long talk about his mother. She was such a dear, poor thing!"

Massimo, who was both troubled and surprised, could only murmur:

"Thank you, but----"

"Just fancy," she went on, as if she had not heard his _but_, "Signor Alberti was kind enough to come and see me to-day, and I, who ever since last night have been meaning to invite him, entirely forgot to do so. I am so absent-minded! I came myself this evening instead of writing, because I had to go to Arsiero any way, and so had the carriage. But now it is late, and I must be off."

She kissed Leila again, pressed Signor Marcello's hand, and holding out her own to Massimo, said, with her charming smile, and a slight dropping of her chin towards her breast:

"At seven, then."

"We will let him go for once," said Signor Marcello, in a tone of satisfaction.

Donna Fedele went out with Leila, who walked with her as far as the carriage, that she had left at the main entrance.

* * * * *

Massimo resigned himself to postponing his departure, at least for a day, and persuaded himself that he was glad to do so only because it would please Don Aurelio. Signor Marcello made him sit with him on the terrace, and put his hand on the young man's shoulder.

"Dear Alberti," he said with a sigh. Massimo took his other hand in both of his and answered:

"I do not forget, sir."

The old hand pressed the young one convulsively, and a long silence followed. They could hear no steps on the gravel. Signor Marcello glanced into the drawing-room, but there was no one there.

"Did he ever speak to you of Leila's family?" he said in an undertone.

At first Massimo did not understand the allusion. Then, suddenly enlightened, he exclaimed:

"Yes, yes--several times!"

"How much did he tell you?"

"He said it was just on account of the family that you opposed his wishes, but that he was sure of the girl, and would find a means of keeping her parents at a distance after his marriage."

"Did he really know her parents well? I ask because, in talking with me, he did not appear to."

"Yes, yes; he knew them perfectly well. He told me the father, who carefully hid his evildoings, was quite as corrupt as the mother, whose evil reputation is a matter of public knowledge."

Signor Marcello listened again, and then began talking of Leila, who, he said, was a living confutation of the theories of heredity. He praised her virtue, which was as adamant, her warm heart, which often led her to commit acts of charitable folly, and made her the idol of all the servants, in spite of certain sudden outbursts of temper. He told of a little child whose mother was dead, and whom Leila had one day brought home with her to save it from a drunken father's brutality, and whom she proposed taking care of herself, although, poor girl! she had not the slightest idea how to set to work. He admitted certain peculiarities in her character that, he said, were more apparent than real, and pleaded her early and sad experience of life in her childhood as an excuse for language that was at times more bold, perhaps, than was seemly in a young girl.

And now, in thinking of the future and of those parents, the idea of leaving Leila unprotected caused him the greatest anxiety. His only hope was in God, and the only blessing for which he now asked was a worthy protector for her who was dearer to him than a daughter.

"You will live a long time yet," said Massimo.

"Dear Alberti, do you think it is kind to wish that for me? And, besides...."

The old man paused.

"I beg your pardon, sir," Said Massimo. "Besides what?"

"And, besides, my dear young friend, I am aware of something I do not speak of."

There were steps upon the gravel, coming from the Riderella bridge. The bell above a door announced Leila, who was entering the drawing-room from the open verandah. She came out to the terrace, kissed Signor Marcello good-night, saluted Massimo graciously enough, and withdrew.

* * * * *

It was after ten o'clock, and Giovanni brought Signor Marcello his coffee and the brass lamp. After the billiard-room door had closed upon him, Massimo still lingered on the terrace, contemplating the huge shadows of the mountains, breathing in the cool night air, and thinking how strangely confidential Signor Marcello's communications had been. He had doubtless failed to reflect that they might convey precisely that meaning which was most repugnant to his fatherly heart. At the same time Massimo confessed to himself that something had indeed stirred within him at the sound of Leila's step upon the gravel, and that her friendly good-night had caused him at once displeasure and delight. He had better not dwell upon all this, he thought, as he passed into the drawing-room on his way to bed.

On reaching the fireplace he raised his eyes almost mechanically to the frieze of marguerites and the mysterious _perhaps_. There was no longer any need to question the marguerites concerning his departure. He was tempted to consult them on another subject now, but he refrained. He stepped back from the fireplace and turned unconsciously to the piano. Awakening to a sense of his movement, he asked himself wonderingly what had prompted it, and stooped to examine the volume of Heller on the music-rack as if he had come there for that especial purpose. But he was possessed by the sense of Leila's presence and personality that breathed from objects, like a perfume perceptible only to the spirit. Upon the chair he saw a pansy that must have fallen from her belt, and he stooped to pick it up, but drew back his hand, and, turning, started upstairs, resisting a strong temptation to go down again. Hearing steps in the drawing-room, Giovanni appeared on the threshold, inquiring if he might put out the lights, and, having received permission, proceeded to do so. At the moment Massimo was glad of this interruption. When he reached his room he told himself that, had he picked up the pansy, he would have placed it beside his dead friend's picture, and he regretted that he had not done so.

* * * * *

Regardless of Teresina's protests, Leila had filled her room for the night with roses, honeysuckle, and acacia. It was a weakness of hers. She had as many flowers as possible brought to her room unknown to Signor Marcello, and she delighted in the strongest scents. That night she had a sea of flowers. She stuck several bunches of acacia between the bedhead and the wall, and a bunch of roses between the wall and a holy picture. She loved to lie in bed and feel the petals falling upon her face. Teresina begged her to leave all three windows open, and to this she agreed. As soon as Teresina had left the room she put out the light, turned upon her side, indulging her consciousness of fragrance as if she were listening to some caressing language, and gazing through the window at the black, crescent-shaped crown of woods, at the sharp dolomitic peaks against the dark sky, and neither thinking nor wishing to think.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Black and red insults: black from the clericals, and red from Socialists and free-thinkers.--TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.

[2] This strange motto, which Gabriele d'Annunzio has chosen for the title of his latest novel, may be found running through the rich decorations of the wooden ceiling of a room near Isabella d'Este's boudoir in the ducal palace at Mantua.--TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.