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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Casa Braccio, Volumes 1 and 2 (of 2), by 
+F. Marion Crawford
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Casa Braccio, Volumes 1 and 2 (of 2)
+
+Author: F. Marion Crawford
+
+Illustrator: A. Castaigne
+
+Release Date: August 16, 2008 [EBook #26327]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CASA BRACCIO, VOLUMES 1 AND 2 ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Suzanne Shell, Emmy and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CASA BRACCIO
+
+[Illustration: Emblem]
+
+[Illustration: "He looked at her long and sadly."--Vol. I., p. 239.]
+
+
+
+
+CASA BRACCIO
+
+BY
+
+F. MARION CRAWFORD
+
+AUTHOR OF "SARACINESCA," "PIETRO GHISLERI," ETC.
+
+IN TWO VOLUMES
+
+VOL. I.
+
+_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY A. CASTAIGNE_
+
+                 =New York=
+              MACMILLAN AND CO.
+                 AND LONDON
+                   1895
+
+          _All rights reserved_
+
+          COPYRIGHT, 1894,
+
+          BY F. MARION CRAWFORD.
+
+
+          =Norwood Press=
+          J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith
+          Norwood Mass. U.S.A.
+
+
+
+
+          THIS STORY, BEING MY TWENTY-FIFTH NOVEL,
+              IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED TO
+                         MY WIFE
+
+          SORRENTO, 1895
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS.
+
+          PART I.
+          SISTER MARIA ADDOLORATA      1
+
+
+          PART II.
+          GLORIA DALRYMPLE           225
+
+
+
+
+LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
+
+VOL. I.
+
+                                                         PAGE
+
+          Nanna and Annetta                                15
+
+          Maria Addolorata                                 25
+
+          "Sor Tommaso was lying motionless"               78
+
+          "She had covered her face with the veil"        126
+
+          "An evil death on you!"                         218
+
+          "He looked at her long and sadly"               239
+
+          "Fire and sleet and candle-light;
+              And Christ receive thy soul"                324
+
+
+
+
+PART I.
+
+_SISTER MARIA ADDOLORATA._
+
+
+
+
+CASA BRACCIO.
+
+
+
+
+PART I.
+
+_SISTER MARIA ADDOLORATA._
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I.
+
+
+SUBIACO lies beyond Tivoli, southeast from Rome, at the upper end of a
+wild gorge in the Samnite mountains. It is an archbishopric, and gives a
+title to a cardinal, which alone would make it a town of importance. It
+shares with Monte Cassino the honour of having been chosen by Saint
+Benedict and Saint Scholastica, his sister, as the site of a monastery
+and a convent; and in a cell in the rock a portrait of the holy man is
+still well preserved, which is believed, not without reason, to have
+been painted from life, although Saint Benedict died early in the fifth
+century. The town itself rises abruptly to a great height upon a mass of
+rock, almost conical in shape, crowned by the cardinal's palace, and
+surrounded on three sides by rugged mountains. On the third, it looks
+down the rapidly widening valley in the direction of Vicovaro, near
+which the Licenza runs into the Anio, in the neighbourhood of Horace's
+farm. It is a very ancient town, and in its general appearance it does
+not differ very much from many similar ones amongst the Italian
+mountains; but its position is exceptionally good, and its importance
+has been stamped upon it by the hands of those who have thought it worth
+holding since the days of ancient Rome. Of late it has, of course,
+acquired a certain modernness of aspect; it has planted acacia trees in
+its little piazza, and it has a gorgeously arrayed municipal band. But
+from a little distance one neither hears the band nor sees the trees,
+the grim medięval fortifications frown upon the valley, and the
+time-stained dwellings, great and small, rise in rugged irregularity
+against the lighter brown of the rocky background and the green of
+scattered olive groves and chestnuts. Those features, at least, have not
+changed, and show no disposition to change during generations to come.
+
+In the year 1844, modern civilization had not yet set in, and Subiaco
+was, within, what it still appears to be from without, a somewhat gloomy
+stronghold of the Middle Ages, rearing its battlements and towers in a
+shadowy gorge, above a mountain torrent, inhabited by primitive and
+passionate people, dominated by ecclesiastical institutions, and,
+though distinctly Roman, a couple of hundred years behind Rome itself in
+all matters ethic and ęsthetic. It was still the scene of the Santacroce
+murder, which really decided Beatrice Cenci's fate; it was still the
+gathering place of highwaymen and outlaws, whose activity found an
+admirable field through all the region of hill and plain between the
+Samnite range and the sea, while the almost inaccessible fortresses of
+the higher mountains, towards Trevi and the Serra di Sant' Antonio,
+offered a safe refuge from the halfhearted pursuit of Pope Gregory's
+lazy soldiers.
+
+Something of what one may call the life-and-death earnestness of earlier
+times, when passion was motive and prejudice was law, survived at that
+time and even much later; the ferocity of practical love and hatred
+dominated the theory and practice of justice in the public life of the
+smaller towns, while the patriarchal system subjected the family in
+almost absolute servitude to its head.
+
+There was nothing very surprising in the fact that the head of the house
+of Braccio should have obliged one of his daughters to take the veil in
+the Convent of Carmelite nuns, just within the gate of Subiaco, as his
+sister had taken it many years earlier. Indeed, it was customary in the
+family of the Princes of Gerano that one of the women should be a
+Carmelite, and it was a tradition not unattended with worldly advantages
+to the sisterhood, that the Braccio nun, whenever there was one, should
+be the abbess of that particular convent.
+
+Maria Teresa Braccio had therefore yielded, though very unwillingly, to
+her father's insistence, and having passed through her novitiate, had
+finally taken the veil as a Carmelite of Subiaco, in the year 1841, on
+the distinct understanding that when her aunt died she was to be abbess
+in the elder lady's stead. The abbess herself was, indeed, in excellent
+health and not yet fifty years old, so that Maria Teresa--in religion
+Maria Addolorata--might have a long time to wait before she was promoted
+to an honour which she regarded as hereditary; but the prospect of such
+promotion was almost her only compensation for all she had left behind
+her, and she lived upon it and concentrated her character upon it, and
+practised the part she was to play, when she was quite sure that she was
+not observed.
+
+Nature had not made her for a recluse, least of all for a nun of such a
+rigid Order as the Carmelites. The short taste of a brilliant social
+life which she had been allowed to enjoy, in accordance with an ancient
+tradition, before finally taking the veil, had shown her clearly enough
+the value of what she was to abandon, and at the same time had
+altogether confirmed her father in his decision. Compared with the
+freedom of the present day, the restrictions imposed upon a young girl
+in the Roman society of those times were, of course, tyrannical in the
+extreme, and the average modern young lady would almost as willingly go
+into a convent as submit to them. But Maria Teresa had received an
+impression which nothing could efface. Her intuitive nature had divined
+the possible semi-emancipation of marriage, and her temperament had felt
+in a certain degree the extremes of joyous exaltation and of that
+entrancing sadness which is love's premonition, and which tells maidens
+what love is before they know him, by making them conscious of the
+breadth and depth of his yet vacant dwelling.
+
+She had learned in that brief time that she was beautiful, and she had
+felt that she could love and that she should be loved in return. She had
+seen the world as a princess and had felt it as a woman, and she had
+understood all that she must give up in taking the veil. But she had
+been offered no choice, and though she had contemplated opposition, she
+had not dared to revolt. Being absolutely in the power of her parents,
+so far as she was aware, she had accepted the fatality of their will,
+and bent her fair head to be shorn of its glory and her broad forehead
+to be covered forever from the gaze of men. And having submitted, she
+had gone through it all bravely and proudly, as perhaps she would have
+gone through other things, even to death itself, being a daughter of an
+old race, accustomed to deify honour and to make its divinities of
+tradition. For the rest of her natural life she was to live on the
+memories of one short, magnificent year, forever to be contented with
+the grim rigidity of conventual life in an ancient cloister surrounded
+by gloomy mountains. She was to be a veiled shadow amongst veiled
+shades, a priestess of sorrow amongst sad virgins; and though, if she
+lived long enough, she was to be the chief of them and their ruler, her
+very superiority could only make her desolation more complete, until her
+own shadow, like the others, should be gathered into eternal darkness.
+
+Sister Maria Addolorata had certain privileges for which her companions
+would have given much, but which were traditionally the right of such
+ladies of the Braccio family as took the veil. For instance, she had a
+cell which, though not larger than the other cells, was better situated,
+for it had a little balcony looking over the convent garden, and high
+enough to afford a view of the distant valley and of the hills which
+bounded it, beyond the garden wall. It was entered by the last door in
+the corridor within, and was near the abbess's apartment, which was
+entered from the corridor, through a small antechamber which also gave
+access to the vast linen-presses. The balcony, too, had a little
+staircase leading down into the garden. It had always been the custom to
+carry the linen to and from the laundry through Maria Addolorata's cell,
+and through a postern gate in the garden wall, the washing being done in
+the town. By this plan, the annoyance was avoided of carrying the huge
+baskets through the whole length of the convent, to and from the main
+entrance, which was also much further removed from the house of Sora
+Nanna, the chief laundress. Moreover, Maria Addolorata had charge of all
+the convent linen, and the employment thus afforded her was an undoubted
+privilege in itself, for occupation of any kind not devotional was
+excessively scarce in such an existence.
+
+In the eyes of the other nuns, the constant society of the abbess
+herself was also a privilege, and one not by any means to be despised.
+After all, the abbess and her niece were nearly related, they could talk
+of the affairs of their family, and the abbess doubtless received many
+letters from Rome containing all the interesting news of the day, and
+all the social gossip--perfectly innocent, of course--which was the
+chronicle of Roman life. These were valuable compensations, and the nuns
+envied them. The abbess, too, saw her brother, the archbishop and
+titular cardinal of Subiaco, when the princely prelate came out from
+Rome for the coolness of the mountains in August and September, and his
+conversation was said to be not only edifying, but fascinating. The
+cardinal was a very good man, like many of the Braccio family, but he
+was also a man of the world, who had been sent upon foreign missions of
+importance, and had acquired some worldly fame as well as much
+ecclesiastical dignity in the course of his long life. It must be
+delightful, the nuns thought, to be his own sister, to receive long
+visits from him, and to hear all he had to say about the busy world of
+Rome. To most of them, everything beyond Rome was outer darkness.
+
+But though the nuns envied the abbess and Maria Addolorata, they did not
+venture to say so, and they hardly dared to think so, even when they
+were all alone, each in her cell; for the concentration of conventual
+life magnifies small spiritual sins in the absence of anything really
+sinful, and to admit that she even faintly wishes she might be some one
+else is to tarnish the brightness of the nun's scrupulously polished
+conscience. It would be as great a misdeed, perhaps, as to allow the
+attention to wander to worldly matters during times of especial
+devotion. Nevertheless, the envy showed itself, very perceptibly and
+much against the will of the sisters themselves, in a certain cold
+deference of manner towards the young and beautiful nun who was one day
+to be the superior of them all by force of circumstances for which she
+deserved no credit. She had the position among them, and something of
+the isolation, of a young royal princess amongst the ladies of her queen
+mother's court.
+
+There was about her, too, an undefinable something, like the shadow of
+future fate, a something almost impossible to describe, and yet
+distinctly appreciable to all who saw her and lived with her. It came
+upon her especially when she was silent and abstracted, when she was
+kneeling in her place in the choir, or was alone upon her little balcony
+over the garden. At such times a luminous pallor gradually took the
+place of her fresh and healthy complexion, her eyes grew unnaturally
+dark, with a deep, fixed fire in them, and the regular features took
+upon them the white, set straightness of a death mask. Sometimes, at
+such moments, a shiver ran through her, even in summer, and she drew her
+breath sharply once or twice, as though she were hurt. The expression
+was not one of suffering or pain, but was rather that of a person
+conscious of some great danger which must be met without fear or
+flinching.
+
+She would have found it very hard to explain what she felt just then.
+She might have said that it was a consciousness of something unknown.
+She could not have said more than that. It brought no vision with it,
+beatific or horrifying; it was not the consequence of methodical
+contemplation, as the trance state is; and it was followed by no
+reaction nor sense of uneasiness. It simply came and went as the dark
+shadow of a thundercloud passing between her and the sun, and leaving no
+trace behind.
+
+There was nothing to account for it, unless it could be explained by
+heredity, and no one had ever suggested any such explanation to Maria.
+It was true that there had been more than one tragedy in the Braccio
+family since they had first lifted their heads above the level of their
+contemporaries to become Roman Barons, in the old days before such
+titles as prince and duke had come into use. But then, most of the old
+families could tell of deeds as cruel and lives as passionate as any
+remembered by Maria's race, and Italians, though superstitious in
+unexpected ways, have little of that belief in hereditary fate which is
+common enough in the gloomy north.
+
+"Was Sister Maria Addolorata a great sinner, before she became a nun?"
+asked Annetta, Sora Nanna's daughter, of her mother, one day, as they
+came away from the convent.
+
+"What are you saying!" exclaimed the washerwoman, in a tone of rebuke.
+"She is a great lady, and the niece of the abbess and of the cardinal.
+Sometimes certain ideas pass through your head, my daughter!"
+
+And Sora Nanna gesticulated, unable to express herself.
+
+"Then she sins in her throat," observed Annetta, calmly. "But you do not
+even look at her--so many sheets--so many pillow-cases--and good day!
+But while you count, I look."
+
+"Why should I look at her?" inquired Nanna, shifting the big empty
+basket she carried on her head, hitching her broad shoulders and
+wrinkling her leathery forehead, as her small eyes turned upward. "Do
+you take me for a man, that I should make eyes at a nun?"
+
+"And I? Am I a man? And yet I look at her. I see nothing but her face
+when we are there, and afterwards I think about it. What harm is there?
+She sins in her throat. I know it."
+
+Sora Nanna hitched her shoulders impatiently again, and said nothing.
+The two women descended through the steep and narrow street, slippery
+and wet with slimy, coal black mud that glittered on the rough
+cobble-stones. Nanna walked first, and Annetta followed close behind
+her, keeping step, and setting her feet exactly where her mother had
+trod, with the instinctive certainty of the born mountaineer. With heads
+erect and shoulders square, each with one hand on her hip and the other
+hanging down, they carried their burdens swiftly and safely, with a
+swinging, undulating gait as though it were a pleasure to them to move,
+and would require an effort to stop rather than to walk on forever. They
+wore shoes because they were well-to-do people, and chose to show that
+they were when they went up to the convent. But for the rest they were
+clad in the costume of the neighbourhood,--the coarse white shift, close
+at the throat, the scarlet bodice, the short, dark, gathered skirt, and
+the dark blue carpet apron, with flowers woven on a white stripe across
+the lower end. Both wore heavy gold earrings, and Sora Nanna had eight
+or ten strings of large coral beads around her throat.
+
+Annetta was barely fifteen years old, brown, slim, and active as a
+lizard. She was one of those utterly unruly and untamable girls of whom
+there are two or three in every Italian village, in mountain or plain, a
+creature in whom a living consciousness of living nature took the place
+of thought, and with whom to be conscious was to speak, without reason
+or hesitation. The small, keen, black eyes were set under immense and
+arched black eyebrows which made the eyes themselves seem larger than
+they were, and the projecting temples cast shadows to the cheek which
+hid the rudimentary modelling of the coarse lower lids. The ears were
+flat and ill-developed, but close to the head and not large; the teeth
+very short, though perfectly regular and exceedingly white; the lips
+long, mobile, brown rather than red, and generally parted like those
+of a wild animal. The girl's smoothly sinewy throat moved with every
+step, showing the quick play of the elastic cords and muscles. Her
+blue-black hair was plaited, though far from neatly, and the braids were
+twisted into an irregular flat coil, generally hidden by the flap of the
+white embroidered cloth cross-folded upon her head and hanging down
+behind.
+
+[Illustration: Nanna and Annetta.--Vol. I., p. 15.]
+
+For some minutes the mother and daughter continued to pick their way
+down the winding lanes between the dark houses of the upper village.
+Then Sora Nanna put out her right hand as a signal to Annetta that she
+meant to stop, and she stood still on the steep descent and turned
+deliberately till she could see the girl.
+
+"What are you saying?" she began, as though there had been no pause in
+the conversation. "That Sister Maria Addolorata sins in her throat! But
+how can she sin in her throat, since she sees no man but the gardener
+and the priest? Indeed, you say foolish things!"
+
+"And what has that to do with it?" inquired Annetta. "She must have seen
+enough of men in Rome, every one of them a great lord. And who tells you
+that she did not love one of them and does not wish that she were
+married to him? And if that is not a sin in the throat, I do not know
+what to say. There is my answer."
+
+"You say foolish things," repeated Sora Nanna.
+
+Then she turned deliberately away and began to descend once more, with
+an occasional dissatisfied movement of the shoulders.
+
+"For the rest," observed Annetta, "it is not my business. I would rather
+look at the Englishman when he is eating meat than at Sister Maria when
+she is counting clothes! I do not know whether he is a wolf or a man."
+
+"Eh! The Englishman!" exclaimed Sora Nanna. "You will look so much at
+the Englishman that you will make blood with Gigetto, who wishes you
+well, and when Gigetto has waited for the Englishman at the corner of
+the forest, what shall we all have? The galleys. What do you see in the
+Englishman? He has red hair and long, long teeth. Yes--just like a wolf.
+You are right. And if he pays for meat, why should he not eat it? If he
+did not pay, it would be different. It would soon be finished. Heaven
+send us a little money without any Englishman! Besides, Gigetto said the
+other day that he would wait for him at the corner of the forest. And
+Gigetto, when he says a thing, he does it."
+
+"And why should we go to the galleys if Gigetto waits for the
+Englishman?" inquired Annetta.
+
+"Silly!" cried the older woman. "Because Gigetto would take your
+father's gun, since he has none of his own. That would be enough. We
+should have done it!"
+
+Annetta shrugged her shoulders and said nothing.
+
+"But take care," continued Sora Nanna. "Your father sleeps with one eye
+open. He sees you, and he sees also the Englishman every day. He says
+nothing, because he is good. But he has a fist like a paving-stone. I
+tell you nothing more."
+
+They reached Sora Nanna's house and disappeared under the dark archway.
+For Sora Nanna and Stefanone, her husband, were rich people for their
+station, and their house was large and was built with an arch wide
+enough and high enough for a loaded beast of burden to pass through with
+a man on its back. And, within, everything was clean and well kept,
+excepting all that belonged to Annetta. There were airy upper rooms,
+with well-swept floors of red brick or of beaten cement, furnished with
+high beds on iron trestles, and wooden stools of well-worn brown oak,
+and tables painted a vivid green, and primitive lithographs of Saint
+Benedict and Santa Scholastica and the Addolorata. And there were lofts
+in which the rich autumn grapes were hung up to dry on strings, and
+where chestnuts lay in heaps, and figs were spread in symmetrical order
+on great sheets of the coarse grey paper made in Subiaco. There were
+apples, too, though poor ones, and there were bins of maize and wheat,
+waiting to be picked over before being ground in the primeval household
+mill. And there were hams and sides of bacon, and red peppers, and
+bundles of dried herbs, and great mountain cheeses on shelves. There was
+also a guest room, better than the rest, which Stefanone and his wife
+occasionally let to respectable travellers or to the merchants who came
+from Rome on business to stay a few days in Subiaco. At the present time
+the room was rented by the Englishman concerning whom the discussion had
+arisen between Annetta and her mother.
+
+Angus Dalrymple, M.D., was not an Englishman, as he had tried to explain
+to Sora Nanna, though without the least success. He was, as his name
+proclaimed, a Scotchman of the Scotch, and a doctor of medicine. It was
+true that he had red hair, and an abundance of it, and long white teeth,
+but Sora Nanna's description was otherwise libellously incomplete and
+wholly omitted all mention of the good points in his appearance. In the
+first place, he possessed the characteristic national build in a
+superior degree of development, with all the lean, bony energy which has
+done so much hard work in the world. He was broad-shouldered,
+long-armed, long-legged, deep-chested, and straight, with sinewy hands
+and singularly well-shaped fingers. His healthy skin had that mottled
+look produced by countless freckles upon an almost childlike complexion.
+The large, grave mouth generally concealed the long teeth objected to by
+Sora Nanna, and the lips, though even and narrow, were strong rather
+than thin, and their rare smile was both genial and gentle. There were
+lines--as yet very faint--about the corners of the mouth, which told of
+a nervous and passionate disposition and of the strong Scotch temper, as
+well as of a certain sensitiveness which belongs especially to northern
+races. The pale but very bright blue eyes under shaggy auburn brows were
+fiery with courage and keen with shrewd enterprise. Dalrymple was
+assuredly not a man to be despised under any circumstances,
+intellectually or physically.
+
+His presence in such a place as Subiaco, at a time when hardly any
+foreigners except painters visited the place, requires some explanation;
+for he was not an artist, but a doctor, and had never been even tempted
+to amuse himself with sketching. In the first place, he was a younger
+son of a good family, and received a moderate allowance, quite
+sufficient in those days to allow him considerable latitude of
+expenditure in old-fashioned Italy. Secondly, he had entirely refused to
+follow any of the professions known as 'liberal.' He had no taste for
+the law, and he had not the companionable character which alone can make
+life in the army pleasant in time of peace. His beliefs, or his lack of
+belief, together with an honourable conscience, made him naturally
+opposed to all churches. On the other hand, he had been attracted almost
+from his childhood by scientific subjects, at a period when the
+discoveries of the last fifty years appeared as misty but beatific
+visions to men of science. To the disappointment and, to some extent, to
+the humiliation of his family, he insisted upon studying medicine, at
+the University of St. Andrew's, as soon as he had obtained his ordinary
+degree at Cambridge. And having once insisted, nothing could turn him
+from his purpose, for he possessed English tenacity grafted upon Scotch
+originality, with a good deal of the strength of both races.
+
+While still a student he had once made a tour in Italy, and like many
+northerners had fallen under the mysterious spell of the South from the
+very first. Having a sufficient allowance for all his needs, as has been
+said, and being attracted by the purely scientific side of his
+profession rather than by any desire to become a successful
+practitioner, it was natural enough that on finding himself free to go
+whither he pleased in pursuit of knowledge, he should have visited Italy
+again. A third visit had convinced him that he should do well to spend
+some years in the country; for by that time he had become deeply
+interested in the study of malarious fevers, which in those days were
+completely misunderstood. It would be far too much to say that young
+Dalrymple had at that time formed any complete theory in regard to
+malaria; but his naturally lonely and concentrated intellect had
+contemptuously discarded all explanations of malarious phenomena, and,
+communicating his own ideas to no one, until he should be in possession
+of proofs for his opinions, he had in reality got hold of the beginning
+of the truth about germs which has since then revolutionized medicine.
+
+The only object of this short digression has been to show that Angus
+Dalrymple was not a careless idler and tourist in Italy, only half
+responsible for what he did, and not at all for what he thought. On the
+contrary, he was a man of very unusual gifts, of superior education, and
+of rare enterprise; a strong, silent, thoughtful man, about
+eight-and-twenty years of age, and just beginning to feel his power as
+something greater than he had suspected, when he came to spend the
+autumn months in Subiaco, and hired Sora Nanna's guest room, with a
+little room leading off it, which he kept locked, and in which he had a
+table, a chair, a microscope, some books, a few chemicals and some
+simple apparatus.
+
+His presence had at first roused certain jealous misgivings in the heart
+of the town physician, Sor Tommaso Taddei, commonly spoken of simply as
+'the Doctor,' because there was no other. But Dalrymple was not without
+tact and knowledge of human nature. He explained that he came as a
+foreigner to learn from native physicians how malarious fevers were
+treated in Italy; and he listened with patient intelligence to Sor
+Tommaso's antiquated theories, and silently watched his still more
+antiquated practice. And Sor Tommaso, like all people who think that
+they know a vast deal, highly approved of Dalrymple's submissive
+silence, and said that the young man was a marvel of modesty, and that
+if he could stay about ten years in Subiaco and learn something from Sor
+Tommaso himself, he might really some day be a fairly good
+doctor,--which were extraordinarily liberal admissions on the part of
+the old practitioner, and contributed largely towards reassuring
+Stefanone concerning his lodger's character.
+
+For Stefanone and his wife had their doubts and suspicions. Of course
+they knew that all foreigners except Frenchmen and Austrians were
+Protestants, and ate meat on fast days, and were under the most especial
+protection of the devil, who fattened them in this world that they might
+burn the better in the next. But Stefanone had never seen the real
+foreigner at close quarters, and had not conceived it possible that any
+living human being could devour so much half-cooked flesh in a day as
+Dalrymple desired for his daily portion, paid for, and consumed.
+Moreover, there was no man in Subiaco who could and did swallow such
+portentous draughts of the strong mountain wine, without suffering any
+apparent effects from his potations. Furthermore, also, Dalrymple did
+strange things by day and night in the small laboratory he had arranged
+next to his bedroom, and unholy and evil smells issued at times through
+the cracks of the door, and penetrated from the bedroom to the stairs
+outside, and were distinctly perceptible all over the house. Therefore
+Stefanone maintained for a long time that his lodger was in league with
+the powers of darkness, and that it was not safe to keep him in the
+house, though he paid his bill so very regularly, every Saturday, and
+never quarrelled about the price of his food and drink. On the whole,
+however, Stefanone abstained from interfering, as he had at first been
+inclined to do, and entering the laboratory, with the support of the
+parish priest, a basin of holy water, and a loaded gun--all three of
+which he considered necessary for an exorcism; and little by little, Sor
+Tommaso, the doctor, persuaded him that Dalrymple was a worthy young
+man, deeply engaged in profound studies, and should be respected rather
+than exorcised.
+
+"Of course," admitted the doctor, "he is a Protestant. But then he has a
+passport. Let us therefore let him alone."
+
+The existence of the passport--indispensable in those days--was a strong
+argument in the eyes of the simple Stefanone. He could not conceive
+that a magician whose soul was sold to the devil could possibly have a
+passport and be under the protection of the law. So the matter was
+settled.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II.
+
+
+[Illustration: Maria Addolorata.--Vol. I., p. 25.]
+
+SISTER MARIA ADDOLORATA sat by the open door of her cell, looking across
+the stone parapet of her little balcony, and watching the changing
+richness of the western sky, as the sun went down far out of sight
+behind the mountains. Though the month was October, the afternoon was
+warm; it was very still, and the air had been close in the choir during
+the Benediction service, which was just over. She leaned back in her
+chair, and her lips parted as she breathed, with a perceptible desire
+for refreshment in the breath. She held a piece of needlework in her
+heavy white hands; the needle had been thrust through the linen, but the
+stitch had remained unfinished, and one pointed finger pressed the
+doubled edge against the other, lest the material should slip before she
+made up her mind to draw the needle through. Deep in the garden under
+the balcony the late flowers were taking strangely vivid colours out of
+the bright sky above, and some bits of broken glass, stuck in the mortar
+on the top of the opposite wall as a protection against thieving boys,
+glowed like a line of rough rubies against the misty distance. Even the
+white walls of the bare cell and the coarse grey blanket lying across
+the foot of the small bed drank in a little of the colour, and looked
+less grey and less grim.
+
+From the eaves, high above the open door, the swallows shot down into
+the golden light, striking great circles and reflecting the red gold of
+the sky from their breasts as they wheeled just beyond the wall, with
+steady wings wide-stretched, up and down; and each one, turning at full
+speed, struck upwards again and was out of sight in an instant, above
+the lintel. The nun watched them, her eyes trying to follow each of them
+in turn and to recognize them separately as they flashed into sight
+again and again.
+
+Her lips were parted, and as she sat there she began to sing very softly
+and quite unconsciously. She could not have told what the song was. The
+words were strange and oddly divided, and there was a deadly sadness in
+a certain interval that came back almost with every stave. But the voice
+itself was beautiful beyond all comparison with ordinary voices, full of
+deep and touching vibrations and far harmonics, though she sang so
+softly, all to herself. Notes like hers haunt the ears--and sometimes
+the heart--when she who sang them has been long dead, and many would
+give much to hear but a breath of them again.
+
+It was hard for Maria Addolorata not to sing sometimes, when she was
+all alone in her cell, though it was so strictly forbidden. Singing is a
+gift of expression, when it is a really natural gift, as much as speech
+and gesture and the smile on the lips, with the one difference that it
+is a keener pleasure to him or her that sings than gesture or speech can
+possibly be. Music, and especially singing, are a physical as well as an
+intellectual expression, a pleasure of the body as well as a
+'delectation' of the soul. To sing naturally and spontaneously is most
+generally an endowment of natures physically strong and rich by the
+senses, independently of the mind, though melody may sometimes be the
+audible translation of a silent thought as well as the unconscious
+speech of wordless passion.
+
+And in Maria's song there was a strain of that something unknown and
+fatal, which the nuns sometimes saw in her face and which was in her
+eyes now, as she sang; for they no longer followed the circling of the
+swallows, but grew fixed and dark, with fiery reflexions from the sunset
+sky, and the regular features grew white and straight and square against
+the deepening shadows within the narrow room. The deep voice trembled a
+little, and the shoulders had a short, shivering movement under the
+heavy folds of the dark veil, as the sensation of a presence ran through
+her and made her shudder. But the voice did not break, and she sang on,
+louder, now, than she realized, the full notes swelling in her throat,
+and vibrating between the narrow walls, and floating out through the
+open door to join the flight of the swallows.
+
+The door of the cell opened gently, but she did not hear, and sang on,
+leaning back in her chair and gazing still at the pink clouds above the
+mountains.
+
+          "Death is my love, dark-eyed death--"
+
+she sang.
+
+"Maria!"
+
+The abbess was standing in the doorway and speaking to her, but she did
+not hear.
+
+          "His hands are sweetly cold and gentle--
+           Flowers of leek, and firefly--
+           Holy Saint John!"
+
+"Maria!" cried the abbess, impatiently. "What follies are you singing? I
+could hear you in my room!"
+
+Maria Addolorata started and rose from her seat, still holding her
+needlework, and turning half round towards her superior, with suddenly
+downcast eyes. The elder lady came forward with slow dignity and walked
+as far as the door of the balcony, where she stood still for a moment,
+gazing at the beautiful sky. She was not a stately woman, for she was
+too short and stout, but she had that calm air of assured superiority
+which takes the place of stateliness, and which seems to belong
+especially to those who occupy important positions in the Church. Her
+large features, though too heavy, were imposing in their excessive
+pallor, while the broad, dark brown shadows all around and beneath the
+large black eyes gave the face a depth of expression which did not,
+perhaps, wholly correspond with the original character. It was a
+striking face, and considering the wide interval between the ages of the
+abbess and her niece, and the natural difference of colouring, there was
+a strong family resemblance in the two women.
+
+The abbess sat down upon the only chair, and Maria remained standing
+before her, her sewing in her hands.
+
+"I have often told you that you must not sing in your cell," said the
+abbess, in a coldly severe tone.
+
+Maria's shoulders shook her veil a little, but she still looked at the
+floor.
+
+"I cannot help it," she answered in a constrained voice. "I did not know
+that I was singing--"
+
+"That is ridiculous! How can one sing, and not know it? You are not
+deaf. At least, you do not sing as though you were. I will not have it.
+I could hear you as far away as my own room--a love-song, too!"
+
+"The love of death," suggested Maria.
+
+"It makes no difference," answered the elder lady. "You disturb the
+peace of the sisters with your singing. You know the rule, and you must
+obey it, like the rest. If you must sing, then sing in church."
+
+"I do."
+
+"Very well, that ought to be enough. Must you sing all the time? Suppose
+that the Cardinal had been visiting me, as was quite possible, what
+impression would he have had of our discipline?"
+
+"Oh, Uncle Cardinal has often heard me sing."
+
+"You must not call him 'Uncle Cardinal.' It is like the common people
+who say 'Uncle Priest.' I have told you that a hundred times at least.
+And if the Cardinal has heard you singing, so much the worse."
+
+"He once told me that I had a good voice," observed Maria, still
+standing before her aunt.
+
+"A good voice is a gift of God and to be used in church, but not in such
+a way as to attract attention or admiration. The devil is everywhere, my
+daughter, and makes use of our best gifts as a means of temptation. The
+Cardinal certainly did not hear you singing that witch's love-song which
+I heard just now. He would have rebuked you as I do."
+
+"It was not a love-song. It is about death--and Saint John's eve."
+
+"Well, then it is about witches. Do not argue with me. There is a rule,
+and you must not break it."
+
+Maria Addolorata said nothing, but moved a step and leaned against the
+door-post, looking out into the evening light. The stout abbess sat
+motionless in her straight chair, looking past her niece at the distant
+hills. She had evidently said all she meant to say about the singing,
+and it did not occur to her to talk of anything else. A long silence
+followed. Maria was not timid, but she had been accustomed from her
+childhood to look upon her aunt as an immensely superior person, moving
+in a higher sphere, and five years spent in the convent as novice and
+nun had rather increased than diminished the feeling of awe which the
+abbess inspired in the young girl. There was, indeed, no other sister in
+the community who would have dared to answer the abbess's rebuke at all,
+and Maria's very humble protest really represented an extraordinary
+degree of individuality and courage. Conventual institutions can only
+exist on a basis of absolute submission.
+
+The abbess was neither harsh nor unkind, and was certainly not a very
+terrifying figure, but she possessed undeniable force of character,
+strengthened by the inborn sense of hereditary right and power, and her
+kindness was as imposing as her displeasure was lofty and solemn. She
+had very little sympathy for any weakness in others, but she was always
+ready to dispense the mercy of Heaven, vicariously, so to say, and with
+a certain royally suppressed surprise that Heaven should be merciful.
+On the whole, considering the circumstances, she admitted that Maria
+Addolorata had accepted the veil with sufficient outward grace, though
+without any vocation, and she took it for granted that with such
+opportunities the girl must slowly develop into an abbess not unlike her
+predecessors. She prayed regularly, of course, and with especial
+intention, for her niece, as for the welfare of the order, and assumed
+as an unquestionable result that her prayers were answered with perfect
+regularity, since her own conscience did not reproach her with
+negligence of her young relative's spiritual education.
+
+To the abbess, religion, the order and its duties, presented themselves
+as a vast machine controlled for the glory of God by the Pope. She and
+her nuns were parts of the great engine which must work with perfect
+regularity in order that God might be glorified. Her mind was naturally
+religious, but was at the same time essentially of the material order.
+There is a material imagination, and there is a spiritual imagination.
+There are very good and devout men and women who take the world, present
+and to come, quite literally, as a mere fulfilment of their own
+limitations; who look upon what they know as being all that need be
+known, and upon what they believe of God and Heaven as the mechanical
+consequence of what they know rather than as the cause and goal,
+respectively, of existence and action; to whom the letter of the law is
+the arbitrary expression of a despotic power, which, somehow, must be
+looked upon as merciful; who answer all questions concerning God's logic
+with the tremendous assertion of God's will; whose God is a magnified
+man, and whose devil is a malignant animal, second only to God in
+understanding, while extreme from God in disposition. There are good men
+and women who, to use a natural but not flippant simile, take it for
+granted that the soul is cast into the troubled waters of life without
+the power to swim, or even the possibility of learning to float,
+dependent upon the bare chance that some one may throw it the life-buoy
+of ritual religion as its only conceivable means of salvation. And the
+opponents of each particular form of faith invariably take just such
+good men and women, with all their limitations, as the only true
+exponents of that especial creed, which they then proceed to tear in
+pieces with all the ease such an undue advantage of false premise gives
+them. None of them have thought of intellectual mercy as being, perhaps,
+an integral part of Christian charity. Faith they have in abundance, and
+hope also not a little; but charity, though it be for men's earthly ills
+and, theoretically, if not always practically, for men's spiritual
+shortcomings, is rigidly forbidden for the errors of men's minds. Why?
+No thinking man can help asking the little question which grows great in
+the unanswering silence that follows it.
+
+All this is not intended as an apology for what the young nun, Maria
+Addolorata, afterwards did, though much of it is necessary in
+explanation of her deeds, which, however they may be regarded, brought
+upon her and others their inevitable logical consequences. Still less is
+it meant, in any sense, as an attack upon the conventual system of the
+cloistered orders, which system was itself a consequence of spiritual,
+intellectual and political history, and has a prime right to be judged
+upon the evidence of its causes, and not by the shortcomings of its
+results in changed times. What has been said merely makes clear the fact
+that the characters, minds, and dispositions of Maria Addolorata and of
+her aunt, the abbess, were wholly unsuited to one another. And this one
+fact became a source of life and death, of happiness and misery, of
+comedy and tragedy, to many individuals, even to the present day.
+
+The nun remained motionless, pressing her cheek against the door-post
+and looking out. Her aunt had not quite shut the door by which she had
+entered, and a cool stream of air blew outward from the corridor and
+through the cell, bringing with it that peculiar odour which belongs to
+all large and old buildings inhabited by religious communities. It is
+made up of the cold exhalations from stone walls and paved floors in
+which there is always some dampness, of the acrid smell of the heavy,
+leathern, wadded curtains which shut off the main drafts of air, as the
+swinging doors do in a mine, of a faint but perceptible suggestion of
+incense which penetrates the whole building from the church or the
+chapel, and, not least, of the fumes from the cookery of the great
+quantities of vegetables which are the staple food of the brethren or
+the sisters. It is as imperceptible to the monks and nuns themselves as
+the smell of tobacco to the smoker.
+
+It had been very close in the little cell, and Maria was glad of the
+coolness that came in through the open door. Her eyes were fixed on the
+sky with a longing look. Again the words of her song rose to her lips,
+but she checked them, remembering her aunt's presence, and with the
+effort to be silent came the strong wish to be free, to be over there
+upon those purple hills at evening, to look beyond and watch the sun
+sinking into the distant sea, to breathe her fill of the mountain air,
+to run along the crests of the hills till she should be tired, to sleep
+under the open sky, to see, in dreams, to-morrow's sun rising through
+the trees, to be waked by the song of birds and to find that the dream
+was true.
+
+Instead of that, and instead of all it meant to her, there was to be
+the silent evening meal, the close, lighted chapel, the wearily nasal
+chant of the sisters, her lonely cell, with its close darkness, the
+unrefreshing sleep, broken by the bell calling her to another office in
+the chapel; then, at last, the dawn, and the day that would seem as much
+a prisoner as herself within the convent walls, and the praying and
+nasal chanting, and the counting of sheets and pillow-cases, and doing a
+little sewing, and singing to herself, perhaps, and then the being
+reproved for it--the whole varied by meals of coarse food, and
+periodical stations in her seat in the choir. The day! The very sun
+seemed imprisoned in his corner of the garden wall, dragging slowly at
+his chain, in a short half-circle, from morning till evening, like a
+watch-dog tied up in a yard beside his kennel. The night was better.
+Sometimes she could see the moon-rays through the cracks of the balcony
+door, as she lay in her bed. She could see them against the darkness,
+and the ends of them were straight white lines and round white spots on
+the floor and on the walls. Her thoughts played in them, and her maiden
+fancies caught them and followed them lightly out into the white night
+and far away to the third world, which is dreamland. And in her dreams
+she sang to the midnight stars, and clasped her bare arms round the
+moon's white throat, kissing the moon-lady's pale and passionate cheek,
+till she lost herself in the mysterious eyes, and found herself once
+more, bathed in cool star-showers, the queen of a tender dream.
+
+There sat the abbess, in the only chair, stolid, righteous, imposing.
+The incarnation and representative of the ninety and nine who need no
+forgiveness, exasperatingly and mathematically virtuous as a dogma, a
+woman against whom no sort of reproach could be brought, and at the mere
+sight of whom false witnesses would shrivel up and die, like jelly-fish
+in the sun. She not only approved of the convent life, but she liked it.
+She was at liberty to do a thousand things which were not permitted to
+the nuns, but she had not the slightest inclination to do any of them,
+any more than she was inclined to admit that any of them could possibly
+be unhappy if they would only pray, sing, sleep, and eat boiled cabbage
+at the appointed hours. What had she in common with Maria Addolorata,
+except that she was born a princess and a Braccio?
+
+Of what use was it to be a princess by birth, like a dozen or more of
+the sisters, or even a noble, like all the others? Of what use or
+advantage could anything be, where liberty was not? An even plainer and
+more desperate question rose in the young nun's heart, as she leaned her
+cheek against the door-post, still warm with the afternoon sun. Of what
+use was life, if it was to be lived in the tomb with the accompaniment
+of a lifelong funeral service? Why should not God be as well pleased
+with suicide as with self-burial? Why should not death all at once, by
+the sudden dash of cleanly steel, be as noble and acceptable a sacrifice
+as death by sordid degrees of orderly suffering, systematic starvation,
+and rigidly regulated misery? Was not life, life--and blood,
+blood--whether drawn by drops, or shed from a quick wound in the
+splendid redness of one heroic instant? Surely it would be as grand a
+thing, if a mere sacrifice were the object, to be laid down stark dead,
+with the death-thrust in the heart, at the foot of the altar, in all her
+radiant youth and full young beauty, untempted and unsullied, as to fast
+and pray through forty querulous years of misery in prison.
+
+But then, there was the virtue of patience. Therein, doubtless, lay the
+difference. It was not the death alone that was to please God, but the
+long manner of it, the summed-up account of suffering, the interest paid
+on the capital of life after it was invested in death. God was to be
+pleased with items, and the sum of them. Item, a sleepless night. Item,
+a bad cold, caught by kneeling on the damp stones. Item, a dish of
+sweets refused on a feast-day. Item, the resolution not to laugh when a
+fly settled on the abbess's nose. Item, the resolution not to wish that
+her hair had never been cut off. Item, being stifled in summer and
+frozen in winter, in her cell. Item, appreciating that it was the best
+cell, and that she was better off than the other sisters.
+
+Repeat the items for half a century, sum them up, and offer them to God
+as a meet and fitting sacrifice--the destruction, by fine degrees of
+petty suffering, of one woman's whole life, almost from the beginning,
+and quite to the end, with the total annihilation of all its human
+possibilities, of love, of motherhood, of reasonable enjoyment and
+legitimate happiness. That was the formula for salvation which Maria
+Addolorata had received with the veil.
+
+And not only had she received it. It had been thrust upon her, because
+she chanced to be the only available daughter of the ancient house of
+Braccio, to fill the hereditary seat beneath the wooden canopy, as
+abbess of the Subiaco Carmelites. If there had been another sister, less
+fair, more religiously disposed, that sister would have been chosen in
+Maria's stead. But there was no other; and there must be a young Braccio
+nun, to take the place of the elder one, when the latter should have
+filled her account to overflowing with little items to be paid for with
+the gold of certain salvation.
+
+That a sinful woman, full of sorrows, and weary of the world, might
+silently bow her head under the nun's veil, and wear out with prayerful
+austerity the deep-cut letters of her sin's story, that, at least, was a
+thing Maria could understand. There were faces amongst the sisters that
+haunted her in her solitude, lips that could have told much, but which
+said only 'Miserere'; eyes that had looked on love, and that fixed
+themselves now only on the Cross; cheeks blanched with grief and
+hollowed as the marble of an ancient fountain by often flowing tears;
+hearts that had given all, and had been beaten and bruised and rejected.
+The convent was for them; the life was a life for them; for them there
+was no freedom beyond these walls, in the living world, nor anywhere on
+this side of death. They had done right in coming, and they did right in
+staying; they were reasonable when they prayed that they might have
+time, before they died, to be sorry for their sins and to touch again
+the hem of the garment of innocence.
+
+But even they, if they were told that it would be right, would they not
+rather shorten their time to a day, even to one instant, of aggregated
+pain, and offer up their sacrifice all at once? And why should it not be
+right? Did God delight in pain and suffering for its own sake? The
+passionate girl's heart revolted angrily against a Being that could
+enjoy the sufferings of helpless creatures.
+
+But then, there was that virtue of patience again, which was beyond her
+comprehension. At last she spoke, her face still to the sunset.
+
+"What difference can it make to God how we die?" she asked, scarcely
+conscious that she was speaking.
+
+The abbess must have started a little, for the chair creaked suddenly,
+several seconds before she answered. Her face did not relax, however,
+nor were her hands unclasped from one another as they lay folded on her
+knees.
+
+"That is a foolish question, my daughter," she said at last. "Do you
+think that God was not pleased by the sufferings of the holy martyrs,
+and did not reward them for what they bore?"
+
+"No, I did not mean that," answered Maria, quickly. "But why should we
+not all be martyrs? It would be much quicker."
+
+"Heaven preserve us!" exclaimed the abbess. "What are you thinking of,
+child?"
+
+"It would be so much quicker," repeated Maria. "What are we here for? To
+sacrifice our lives to God. We wish to make this sacrifice, and God
+promises to accept it. Why would it be less complete if we were led to
+the altar as soon as we have finished our novitiate and quickly killed?
+It would be the same, and it would be much quicker. What difference can
+it make how we die, since we are to die in the end, without
+accomplishing anything except dying?"
+
+By this time the abbess's pale hands were unclasped, and one of them
+pressed each knee, as she leaned far forward in her seat, with an
+expression of surprise and horror, her dark lips parted and all the
+lines of her colourless face drawn down.
+
+"Are you mad, Maria?" she asked in a low voice.
+
+"Mad? No. Why should you think me mad?" The nun turned and looked down
+at her aunt. "After all, it is the great question. Our lives are but a
+preparation for death. Why need the preparation be so long? Why should
+the death be so slow? Why should it be right to kill ourselves for the
+glory of God by degrees, and wrong to do it all at once, if one has the
+courage? I think it is a very reasonable question."
+
+"Indeed, you are beside yourself! The devil suggests such things to you
+and blinds you to the truth, my child. Penance and prayer, prayer and
+penance--by the grace of Heaven it will pass."
+
+"Penance and prayer!" exclaimed Maria, sadly. "That is it--a slow death,
+but a sure one!"
+
+"I am more than sixty years old," replied the abbess. "I have done
+penance and prayed prayers all my life, and you see--I am well. I am
+stout."
+
+"For charity's sake, do not say so!" cried Maria, making the sign of the
+horns with her fingers, to ward off the evil eye. "You will certainly
+fall ill."
+
+"Our lives are of God. It is our own eyes that are evil. You must not
+make horns with your fingers. It is a heathen superstition, as I have
+often told you. But many of you do it. Maria, I wish to speak to you
+seriously."
+
+"Speak, mother," answered the young nun, the strong habit of submission
+returning instantly with the other's grave tone.
+
+"These thoughts of yours are very wicked. We are placed in the world,
+and we must continue to live in it, as long as God wills that we should.
+When God is pleased to deliver us, He will take us in good time. You and
+I and the sisters should be thankful that during our brief stay on earth
+this sanctuary has fallen to our lot, and this possibility of a holy
+life. We must take every advantage of it, thanking Heaven if our stay be
+long enough for us to repent of our sins and obtain indulgence for our
+venial shortcomings. It is wicked to desire to shorten our lives. It is
+wicked to desire anything which is not the will of God. We are here to
+live, to watch and to pray--not to complain and to rebel."
+
+The abbess was stout, as she herself admitted, and between her sudden
+surprise at her niece's wholly unorthodox, not to say blasphemous,
+suggestion of suicide as a means of grace, and her own attempt at
+eloquence, she grew rapidly warm, in spite of the comparatively cool
+draft which was passing out from the interior of the building. She
+caught the end of her loose over-sleeve and fanned herself slowly when
+she had finished speaking.
+
+But Maria Addolorata did not consider that she was answered. There in
+the cell of a Carmelite convent, in the heart of a young girl who had
+perhaps never heard of Shakespeare and who certainly knew nothing of
+Hamlet, the question of all questions found itself, and she found for it
+such speech as she could command. It broke out passionately and
+impatiently.
+
+"What are we? And why are we what we are? Yes, mother--I know that you
+are good, and that all you say is true. But it is not all. There is all
+the world beyond it. To live, or not to live--but you know that this is
+not living! It is not meant to be living, as the people outside
+understand what living means. What does it all signify but death, when
+we take the veil, and lie before the altar, and are covered with a
+funeral pall? It means dying--then why not altogether dying? Has not God
+angels, in thousands, to praise Him and worship Him, and pray for
+sinners on earth? And they sing and pray gladly, because they are
+blessed and do not suffer, as we do. Why should God want us, poor little
+nuns, to live half dead, and to praise Him with voices that crack with
+the cold in winter, and to kneel till we faint with the heat in summer,
+and to wear out our bodies with fasting and prayer and penance, till it
+is all we can do to crawl to our places in the choir? Not I--I am young
+and strong still--nor you, perhaps, for you are strong still, though you
+are not young. But many of the sisters--yes, they are the best ones, I
+know--they are killing themselves by inches before our eyes. You know
+it--I know it--they know it themselves. Why should they not find some
+shorter way of death for God's glory? Or if not, why should they not
+live happily, since many of them could? Why should God, who made us,
+wish us to destroy ourselves--or if He does, then why may we not do it
+in our own way? Ah--it would be so short--a knife-thrust, and then the
+great peace forever!"
+
+The abbess had risen and was standing before Maria, one hand resting on
+the back of the rush-bottomed chair.
+
+"Blasphemy!" she cried, finding breath at last. "It is blasphemy, or
+madness, or both! It is the evil one's own doing! Forgive her, good God!
+She does not know what she is saying! Almighty and most merciful God,
+forgive her!"
+
+For a moment Maria Addolorata was silent, realizing how far she had
+forgotten herself, and startled by the abbess's terrified eyes and
+excited tone. But she was naturally a far more daring woman than she
+herself knew. Though her face was pale, her lips smiled at her good
+aunt's fright.
+
+"But that is not an answer--just to cry 'blasphemy!'" she said. "The
+question is clear--"
+
+She did not finish the sentence. The abbess was really beside herself
+with religious terror. With almost violent hands she dragged and thrust
+her niece down till Maria fell upon her knees.
+
+"Pray, child! Pray, before it is too late!" she cried. "Pray on your
+knees that this possession may pass, before your soul is lost forever!"
+
+She herself knelt beside the girl upon the stones, still clasping her
+and pressing her down. And she prayed aloud, long, fervently, almost
+wildly, appealing to God for protection against a bodily tempting devil,
+who by his will, and with evil strength, was luring and driving a human
+soul to utter damnation.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III.
+
+
+"IT is well," said Stefanone. "The world is come to an end. I will not
+say anything more."
+
+He finished his tumbler of wine, leaned back on the wooden bench against
+the brown wall, played with the broad silver buttons of his dark blue
+jacket, and stared hard at Sor Tommaso, the doctor, who sat opposite to
+him. The doctor returned his glance rather unsteadily and betook himself
+to his snuffbox. It was of worn black ebony, adorned in the middle of
+the lid with a small view of Saint Peter's and the colonnades in mosaic,
+with a very blue sky. From long use, each tiny fragment of the mosaic
+was surrounded by a minute black line, which indeed lent some tone to
+the intensely clear atmosphere of the little picture, but gave the
+architecture represented therein a dirty and neglected appearance. The
+snuff itself, however, was of the superior quality known as Sicilian in
+those days, and was of a beautiful light brown colour.
+
+"And why?" asked the doctor very slowly, between the operations of
+pinching, stuffing, snuffing, and dusting. "Why is the world come to an
+end?"
+
+Stefanone's eyes grew sullen, with a sort of dull glare in their
+unwinking gaze. He looked dangerous just then, but the doctor did not
+seem to be in the least afraid of him.
+
+"You, who have made it end, should know why," answered the peasant,
+after a short pause.
+
+Stefanone was a man of the Roman type, of medium height, thick set and
+naturally melancholic, with thin, straight lips that were clean shaven,
+straight black hair, a small but aggressively aquiline nose and heavy
+hands, hairy on the backs of the fingers, between the knuckles. His
+wife, Sora Nanna, said that he had a fist like a paving-stone. He also
+looked as though he might have the constitution of a mule. He was at
+that time about five-and-thirty years of age, and there were a few
+strong lines in his face, notably those curved ones drawn from the
+beginning of the nostrils to the corners of the mouth, which are said to
+denote an uncertain temper.
+
+He wore the dress of the richer peasants of that day, a coarse but
+spotless white shirt, very open at the throat, a jacket and waistcoat of
+stout dark blue cloth, with large and smooth silver buttons,
+knee-breeches, white stockings, and heavy low shoes with steel buckles.
+He combined the occupations of farmer, wine-seller, and carrier. When he
+was on the road between Subiaco and Rome, Gigetto, already mentioned,
+was supposed to represent him. It was understood that Gigetto was to
+marry Annetta--if he could be prevailed upon to do so, for he was the
+younger son of a peasant family which held its head even higher than
+Stefanone, and the young man as well as his people looked upon Annetta's
+wild ways with disapproval, though her fortune, as the only child of
+Stefanone and Sora Nanna, was a very strong attraction. In the meantime,
+Gigetto acted as though he were the older man's partner in the
+wine-shop, and as he was a particularly honest, but also a particularly
+idle, young man with a taste for singing and playing on the guitar, the
+position suited him admirably.
+
+As for Sor Tommaso, with whom Stefanone seemed inclined to quarrel on
+this particular evening, he was a highly respectable personage in a
+narrow-shouldered, high-collared black coat with broad skirts, and a
+snuff-coloured waistcoat. He wore a stock which was decidedly shabby,
+but decent, and the thin cuffs of his shirt were turned back over the
+tight sleeves of his coat, in the old fashion. He also wore amazingly
+tight black trousers, strapped closely over his well-blacked boots. To
+tell the truth, these nether garments, though of great natural
+resistance, had lived so long at a high tension, so to say, that they
+were no longer equally tight at all points, and there were, undoubtedly,
+certain perceptible spots on them; but, on the whole, the general effect
+of the doctor's appearance was fashionable, in the fashion of several
+years earlier and judged by the standard of Subiaco. He wore his hair
+rather long, in a handsome iron-grey confusion, his face was
+close-shaven, and, though he was thin, his complexion was somewhat
+apoplectic.
+
+Having duly and solemnly finished the operation of taking snuff, the
+doctor looked at the peasant.
+
+"I do not wish to have said anything," he observed, by way of a general
+retraction. "These are probably follies."
+
+"And for not having meant to say anything, you have planted this knife
+in my heart!" retorted Stefanone, the veins swelling at his temples.
+"Thank you. I wish to die, if I forget it. You tell me that this
+daughter of mine is making love with the Englishman. And then you say
+that you do not wish to have said anything! May he die, the Englishman,
+he, and whoever made him, with the whole family! An evil death on him
+and all his house!"
+
+"So long as you do not make me die, too!" exclaimed Sor Tommaso, with
+rather a pitying smile.
+
+"Eh! To die--it is soon said! And yet, people do die. You, who are a
+doctor, should know that. And you do not wish to have said anything!
+Bravo, doctor! Words are words. And yet they can sting. And after a
+thousand years, they still sting. You--what can you understand? Are you
+perhaps a father? You have not even a wife. Oh, blessed be God! You do
+not even know what you are saying. You know nothing. You think, perhaps,
+because you are a doctor, that you know more than I do. I will tell you
+that you are an ignorant!"
+
+"Oh, beautiful!" cried the doctor, angrily, stung by what is still
+almost a mortal insult. "You--to me--ignorant! Oh, beautiful, most
+beautiful, this! From a peasant to a man of science! Perhaps you too
+have a diploma from the University of the Sapienza--"
+
+"If I had, I should wrap half a pound of sliced ham--fat ham, you
+know--in it, for the first customer. What should I do with your
+diplomas! I ask you, what do you know? Do you know at all what a
+daughter is? Blood of my blood, heart of my heart, hand of this hand.
+But I am a peasant, and you are a doctor. Therefore, I know nothing."
+
+"And meanwhile you give me 'ignorant' in my face!" retorted Sor Tommaso.
+
+"Yes--and I repeat it!" cried Stefanone, leaning forwards, his clenched
+hand on the table. "I say it twice, three times--ignorant, ignorant,
+ignorant! Have you understood?"
+
+"Say it louder! In that way every one can hear you! Beast of a
+sheep-grazer!"
+
+"And you--crow-feeder! Furnisher of grave-diggers. And then--ignorant!
+Oh--this time I have said it clearly!"
+
+"And it seems to me that it is enough!" roared the doctor, across the
+table. "Ciociaro! Take that!"
+
+"Ciociaro? I? Oh, your soul! If I get hold of you with my hands!"
+
+A 'ciociaro' is a hill-man who wears 'cioce,' or rags, bound upon his
+feet with leathern sandals and thongs. He is generally a shepherd, and
+is held in contempt by the more respectable people of the larger
+mountain towns. To call a man a 'ciociaro' is a bitter insult.
+
+Stefanone in his anger had half risen from his seat. But the wooden
+bench on which he had been sitting was close to the wall behind him, and
+the heavy oak table was pushed up within a few inches of his chest, so
+that his movements were considerably hampered as he stretched out his
+hands rather wildly towards his adversary. The latter, who possessed
+more moral than physical courage, moved his chair back and prepared to
+make his escape, if Stefanone showed signs of coming round the table.
+
+At that moment a tall figure darkened the door that opened upon the
+street, and a quiet, dry voice spoke with a strong foreign accent. It
+was Angus Dalrymple, returning from a botanizing expedition in the
+hills, after being absent all day.
+
+"That is a very uncomfortable way of fighting," he observed, as he stood
+still in the doorway. "You cannot hit a man across a table broader than
+your arm is long, Signor Stefano."
+
+The effect of his words was instantaneous. Stefanone fell back into his
+seat. The doctor's anxious and excited expression resolved itself
+instantly into a polite smile.
+
+"We were only playing," he said suavely. "A little discussion--a mere
+jest. Our friend Stefanone was explaining something."
+
+"If the table had been narrower, he would have explained you away
+altogether," observed Dalrymple, coming forward.
+
+He laid a tin box which he had with him upon the table, and shook hands
+with Sor Tommaso. Then he slipped behind the table and sat down close to
+his host, as a precautionary measure in case the play should be resumed.
+Stefanone would have had a bad chance of being dangerous, if the
+powerful Scotchman chose to hold him down. But the peasant seemed to
+have become as suddenly peaceful as the doctor.
+
+"It was nothing," said Stefanone, quietly enough, though his eyes were
+bloodshot and glanced about the room in an unsettled way.
+
+At that moment Annetta entered from a door leading to the staircase. Her
+eyes were fixed on Dalrymple's face as she came forward, carrying a
+polished brass lamp, with three burning wicks, which she placed upon the
+table. Dalrymple looked up at her, and seeing her expression of inquiry,
+slowly nodded. With a laugh which drew her long red-brown lips back from
+her short white teeth, the girl produced a small flask and a glass,
+which she had carried behind her and out of sight when she came in. She
+set them before Dalrymple.
+
+"I saw you coming," she said, and laughed again. "And then--it is always
+the same. Half a 'foglietta' of the old, just for the appetite."
+
+Sor Tommaso glanced at Stefanone in a meaning way, but the girl's father
+affected not to see him. Dalrymple nodded his thanks, poured a few drops
+of wine into the glass and scattered them upon the brick floor according
+to the ancient custom, both for rinsing the glass and as a libation, and
+then offered to fill the glasses of each of the two men, who smiled,
+shook their heads, and covered their tumblers with their right hands. At
+last Dalrymple helped himself, nodded politely to his companions, and
+slowly emptied the glass which held almost all the contents of the
+little flask. The 'foglietta,' or 'leaflet' of wine, is said to have
+been so called from the twisted and rolled vine leaf which generally
+serves it for a stopper. A whole 'foglietta' contained a scant pint.
+
+"Will you eat now?" asked Annetta, still smiling.
+
+"Presently," answered Dalrymple. "What is there to eat? I am hungry."
+
+"It seems that you have to say so!" laughed the girl. "It is a new
+thing. There is beefsteak or mutton, if you wish to know. And ham--a
+fresh ham cut to-day. It is one of the Grape-eater's, and it seems good.
+You remember, Sor Tommaso, the--speaking with respect to your face--the
+pig we called the Grape-eater last year? Speaking with respect, he was a
+good pig. It is one of his hams that we have cut. There is also salad,
+and fresh bread, which you like. And wine, I will not speak of it. Eh,
+he likes wine, the Englishman! He comes in with a long, long face--and
+when he goes to bed, his face is wide, wide. That is the wine. But then,
+it does nothing else to him. It only changes his face. When I look at
+him, I seem to see the moon waxing."
+
+"You talk too much," said Stefanone.
+
+"Never mind, papa! Words are not pennies. The more one wastes, the more
+one has!"
+
+Dalrymple said nothing; but he smiled as she turned lightly with a toss
+of her small dark head and left the room.
+
+"Fine blood," observed the doctor, with a conciliatory glance at the
+girl's father.
+
+"You will be wanted before long, Sor Tommaso," said Dalrymple, gravely.
+"I hear that the abbess is very ill."
+
+The doctor looked up with sudden interest, and put on his professional
+expression.
+
+"The abbess, you say? Dear me! She is not young! What has she? Who told
+you, Sor Angoscia?"
+
+Now, 'Sor Angoscia' signifies in English 'Sir Anguish,' but the doctor
+in spite of really conscientious efforts could not get nearer to the
+pronunciation of Angus. Nevertheless, with northern persistency,
+Dalrymple corrected him for the hundredth time. The doctor's first
+attempt had resulted in his calling the Scotchman 'Sor Langusta,' which
+means 'Sir Crayfish'--and it must be admitted that 'Anguish' was an
+improvement.
+
+"Angus," said Dalrymple. "My name is Angus. The abbess has caught a
+severe cold from sitting in a draught when she was overheated. It has
+immediately settled on her lungs, and you may be sent for at any moment.
+I passed by the back of the convent on my way down, and the gardener was
+just coming out of the postern. He told me."
+
+"Dear me, dear me!" exclaimed Sor Tommaso, shaking his head.
+"Cold--bronchitis, pleurisy, pneumonia--it is soon done! One would be
+enough! Those nuns, what do they eat? A little grass, a little boiled
+paste, a little broth of meat on Sundays. What strength should they
+have? And then pray, pray, sing, sing! It needs a chest! Poor lungs! I
+will go to my home and get ready--blisters--mustard--a lancet--they
+will not allow a barber in the convent to bleed them. Well--I make
+myself the barber! What a life, what a life! If you wish to die young,
+be a doctor at Subiaco, Sor Angoscia. Good night, dear friend. Good
+night, Stefanone. I wish not to have said anything--you know--that
+little affair. Let us speak no more about it. I am more beast than you,
+because I said anything. Good night."
+
+Sor Tommaso got his stick from a dark corner, pressed his broad catskin
+hat upon his head, and took his respectability away on its tightly
+encased black legs.
+
+"And may the devil go with you," said Stefanone, under his breath, as
+the doctor disappeared.
+
+"Why?" inquired Dalrymple, who had caught the words.
+
+"I said nothing," answered the peasant, thoughtfully trimming one wick
+of the lamp with the bent brass wire which, with the snuffers, hung by a
+chain from the ring by which the lamp was carried.
+
+"I thought you spoke," said the Scotchman. "Well--the abbess is very
+ill, and Sor Tommaso has a job."
+
+"May he do it well! So that it need not be begun again."
+
+"What do you mean?" Dalrymple slowly sipped the remains of his little
+measure of wine.
+
+"Those nuns!" exclaimed Stefanone, instead of answering the question.
+"What are they here to do, in this world? Better make saints of
+them--and good night! There would be one misery less. Do you know what
+they do? They make wine. Good! But they do not drink it. They sell it
+for a farthing less by the foglietta than other people. The devil take
+them and their wine!"
+
+Dalrymple glanced at the angry peasant with some amusement, but did not
+make any answer.
+
+"Eh, Signore!" cried Stefanone. "You who are a foreigner and a
+Protestant, can you not say something, since it would be no sin for
+you?"
+
+"I was thinking of something to say, Signor Stefanone. But as for that,
+who does the business for the convent? They cannot do it themselves, I
+suppose. Who determines the price of their wine for them? Or the price
+of their corn?"
+
+"They are not so stupid as you think. Oh, no! They are not stupid, the
+nuns. They know the price of this, and the cost of that, just as well as
+you and I do. But Gigetto's father, Sor Agostino, is their steward, if
+that is what you wish to know. And his father was before him, and
+Gigetto will be after him, with his pumpkin-head. And the rest is sung
+by the organ, as we say when mass is over. For you know about Gigetto
+and Annetta."
+
+"Yes. And as you cannot quarrel with Sor Agostino on that account, I do
+not see but that you will either have to bear it, or sell your wine a
+farthing cheaper than that of the nuns."
+
+"Eh--that is soon said. A farthing cheaper than theirs! That means half
+a baiocco cheaper than I sell it now. And the best is only five baiocchi
+the foglietta, and the cheapest is two and a half. Good bye profit--a
+pleasant journey to Stefanone. But it is those nuns. They are to blame,
+and the devil will pay them."
+
+"In that case you need not," observed Dalrymple, rising. "I am going to
+wash my hands before supper."
+
+"At your pleasure, Signore," answered Stefanone, politely.
+
+As Dalrymple went out, Annetta passed him at the door, bringing in
+plates and napkins, and knives and forks. The girl glanced at his face
+as he went by.
+
+"Be quick, Signore," she said with a laugh. "The beefsteak of mutton is
+grilling."
+
+He nodded, and went up the dark stairs, his heavy shoes sending back
+echoes as he trod. Stefanone still sat at the table, turning the glass
+wine measure upside down over his tumbler, to let the last drops run
+out. He watched them as they fell, one by one, without looking up at his
+daughter, who began to arrange the plates for Dalrymple's meal.
+
+"I will teach you to make love with the Englishman," he said slowly,
+still watching the dropping wine.
+
+"Me!" cried Annetta, with real or feigned astonishment, and she tossed a
+knife and fork angrily into a plate, with a loud, clattering noise.
+
+"I am speaking with you," answered her father, without raising his eyes.
+"Do you know? You will come to a bad end."
+
+"Thank you!" replied the girl, contemptuously. "If you say so, it must
+be true! Now, who has told you that the Englishman is making love to me?
+An apoplexy on him, whoever he may be!"
+
+"Pretty words for a girl! Sor Tommaso told me. A little more, and I
+would have torn his tongue out. Just then, the Englishman came in. Sor
+Tommaso got off easily."
+
+The girl's tone changed very much when she spoke again, and there was a
+dull and angry light in her eyes. Her long lips were still parted, and
+showed her gleaming teeth, but the smile was altogether gone.
+
+"Yes. Too easily," she said, almost in a whisper, and there was a low
+hiss in the words.
+
+"In the meanwhile, it is true--what he said," continued Stefanone. "You
+make eyes at him. You wait for him and watch for him when he comes back
+from the mountains--"
+
+"Well? Is it not my place to serve him with his supper? If you are not
+satisfied, hire a servant to wait on him. You are rich. What do I care
+for the Englishman? Perhaps it is a pleasure to roast my face over the
+charcoal, cooking his meat for him. As for Sor Tommaso--"
+
+She stopped short in her speech. Her father knew what the tone meant,
+and looked up for the first time.
+
+"O-č!" he exclaimed, as one suddenly aware of a danger, and warning some
+one else.
+
+"Nothing," answered Annetta, looking down and arranging the knives and
+forks symmetrically on the clean cloth she had laid.
+
+"I might have killed him just now in hot blood, when the Englishman came
+in," said Stefanone, reflectively. "But now my blood has grown cold. I
+shall do nothing to him."
+
+"So much the better for him." She still spoke in a low voice, as she
+turned away from the table.
+
+"But I will kill you," said Stefanone, "if I see you making eyes at the
+Englishman."
+
+He rose, and taking up his hat, which lay beside him, he edged his way
+out along the wooden bench, moving cautiously lest he should shake the
+table and upset the lamp or the bottles. Annetta had turned again, at
+the threat he had uttered, and stood still, waiting for him to get out
+into the room, her hands on her hips, and her eyes on fire.
+
+"You will kill me?" she asked, just as he was opposite to her.
+"Well--kill me, then! Here I am. What are you waiting for? For the
+Englishman to interfere? He is washing his hands. He always takes a long
+time."
+
+"Then it is true that you have fallen in love with him?" asked
+Stefanone, his anger returning.
+
+"Him, or another. What does it matter to you? You remind me of the old
+woman who beat her cat, and then cried when it ran away. If you want me
+to stay at home, you had better find me a husband."
+
+"Do you want anything better than Gigetto? Apoplexy! But you have
+ideas!"
+
+"You are making a good business of it with Gigetto, in truth!" cried the
+girl, scornfully. "He eats, he drinks, and then he sings. But he does
+not marry. He will not even make love to me--not even with an eye. And
+then, because I love the Englishman, who is a great lord, though he says
+he is a doctor, I must die. Well, kill me!" She stared insolently at her
+father for a moment. "Oh, well," she added scornfully, "if you have not
+time now, it must be for to-morrow. I am busy."
+
+She turned on her heel with a disdainful fling of her short, dark skirt.
+Stefanone was exasperated, and his anger had returned. Before she was
+out of reach, he struck her with his open hand. Instead of striking her
+cheek, the blow fell upon the back of her head and neck, and sent her
+stumbling forwards. She caught the back of a chair, steadied herself,
+and turned again instantly, at her full height, not deigning to raise
+her hand to the place that hurt her.
+
+"Coward!" she exclaimed. "But I will pay you--and Sor Tommaso--for that
+blow."
+
+"Whenever you like," answered her father gruffly, but already sorry for
+what he had done.
+
+He turned his back, and went out into the night. It was now almost quite
+dark, and Annetta stood still by the chair, listening to his retreating
+footsteps. Then she slowly turned and gazed at the flaring wicks of the
+lamp. With a gesture that suggested the movement of a young animal, she
+rubbed the back of her neck with one hand and leisurely turned her head
+first to one side and then to the other. Her brown skin was unusually
+pale, but there was no moisture in her eyes as she stared at the lamp.
+
+"But I will pay you, Sor Tommaso," she said thoughtfully and softly.
+
+Then turning her eyes from the lamp at last, she took up one of the
+knives from the table, looked at it, felt the edge, and laid it down
+contemptuously. In those days all the respectable peasants in the Roman
+villages had solid silver forks and spoons, which have long since gone
+to the melting-pot to pay taxes. But they used the same blunt, pointless
+knives with wooden handles, which they use to-day.
+
+Annetta started, as she heard Dalrymple's tread upon the stone steps of
+the staircase, but she recovered herself instantly, gave a finishing
+touch to the table, rubbed the back of her head quickly once more, and
+met him with a smile.
+
+"Is the beefsteak of mutton ready?" inquired the Scotchman, cheerfully,
+with his extraordinary accent.
+
+Annetta ran past him, and returned almost before he was seated, bringing
+the food. The girl sat down at the end of the table, opposite the street
+door, and watched him as he swallowed one mouthful of meat after
+another, now and then stopping to drink a tumbler of wine at a draught.
+
+"You must be very strong, Signore," said Annetta, at last, her chin
+resting on her doubled hand.
+
+"Why?" inquired Dalrymple, carelessly, between two mouthfuls.
+
+"Because you eat so much. It must be a fine thing to eat so much meat.
+We eat very little of it."
+
+"Why?" asked the Scotchman, again between his mouthfuls.
+
+"Oh, who knows? It costs much. That must be the reason. Besides, it does
+not go down. I should not care for it."
+
+"It is a habit." Dalrymple drank. "In my country most of the people eat
+oats," he said, as he set down his glass.
+
+"Oats!" laughed the girl. "Like horses! But horses will eat meat, too,
+like you. As for me--good bread, fresh cheese, a little salad, a drink
+of wine and water--that is enough."
+
+"Like the nuns," observed Dalrymple, attacking the ham of the
+'Grape-eater.'
+
+"Oh, the nuns! They live on boiled cabbage! You can smell it a mile
+away. But they make good cakes."
+
+"You often go to the convent, do you not?" asked the Scotchman, filling
+his glass, for the first mouthful of ham made him thirsty again. "You
+take the linen up with your mother, I know."
+
+"Sometimes, when I feel like going," answered the girl, willing to show
+that it was not her duty to carry baskets. "I only go when we have the
+small baskets that one can carry on one's head. I will tell you. They
+use the small baskets for the finer things, the abbess's linen, and the
+altar cloths, and the chaplain's lace, which belongs to the nuns. But
+the sheets and the table linen are taken up in baskets as long as a man.
+It takes four women to carry one of them."
+
+"That must be very inconvenient," said Dalrymple. "I should think that
+smaller ones would always be better."
+
+"Who knows? It has always been so. And when it has always been so, it
+will always be so--one knows that."
+
+Annetta nodded her head rhythmically to convey an impression of the
+immutability of all ancient customs and of this one in particular.
+
+Dalrymple, however, was not much interested in the question of the
+baskets.
+
+"What do the nuns do all day?" he asked. "I suppose you see them,
+sometimes. There must be young ones amongst them."
+
+Annetta glanced more keenly at the Scotchman's quiet face, and then
+laughed.
+
+"There is one, if you could see her! The abbess's niece. Oh, that one is
+beautiful. She seems to me a painted angel!"
+
+"The abbess's niece? What is she like? Let me see, the abbess is a
+princess, is she not?"
+
+"Yes, a great princess of the Princes of Gerano, of Casa Braccio, you
+know. They are always abbesses. And the young one will be the next, when
+this one dies. She is Maria Addolorata, in religion, but I do not know
+her real name. She has a beautiful face and dark eyes. Once I saw her
+hair for a moment. It is fair, but not like yours. Yours is red as a
+tomato."
+
+"Thank you," said Dalrymple, with something like a laugh. "Tell me more
+about the nun."
+
+"If I tell you, you will fall in love with her," objected Annetta. "They
+say that men with red hair fall in love easily. Is it true? If it is, I
+will not tell you any more about the nun. But I think you are in love
+with the poor old Grape-eater. It is good ham, is it not? By Bacchus, I
+fed him on chestnuts with my own hands, and he was always stealing the
+grapes. Chestnuts fattened him and the grapes made him sweet. Speaking
+with respect, he was a pig for a pope."
+
+"He will do for a Scotch doctor then," answered Dalrymple. "Tell me,
+what does this beautiful nun do all day long?"
+
+"What does she do? What can a nun do? She eats cabbage and prays like
+the others. But she has charge of all the convent linen, so I see her
+when I go with my mother. That is because the Princes of Gerano first
+gave the linen to the convent after it was all stolen by the Turks in
+1798. So, as they gave it, their abbesses take care of it."
+
+Dalrymple laughed at the extraordinary historical allusion compounded of
+the very ancient traditions of the Saracens in the south, and of the
+more recent wars of Napoleon.
+
+"So she takes care of the linen," he said. "That cannot be very amusing,
+I should think."
+
+"They are nuns," answered the girl. "Do you suppose they go about
+seeking to amuse themselves? It is an ugly life. But Sister Maria
+Addolorata sings to herself, and that makes the abbess angry, because it
+is against the rules to sing except in church. I would not live in that
+convent--not if they would fill my apron with gold pieces."
+
+"But why did this beautiful girl become a nun, then? Was she unhappy, or
+crossed in love?"
+
+"She? They did not give her time! Before she could shut an eye and say,
+'Little youth, you please me, and I wish you well,' they put her in. And
+that door, when it is shut, who shall open it? The Madonna, perhaps? But
+she was of the Princes of Gerano, and there must be one of them for an
+abbess, and the lot fell upon her. There is the whole history. You may
+hear her singing sometimes, if you stand under the garden wall, on the
+narrow path after the Benediction hour and before Ave Maria. But I am a
+fool to tell you, for you will go and listen, and when you have heard
+her voice you will be like a madman. You will fall in love with her. I
+was a fool to tell you."
+
+"Well? And if I do fall in love with her, who cares?" Dalrymple slowly
+filled a glass of wine.
+
+"If you do?" The young girl's eyes shot a quick, sharp glance at him.
+Then her face suddenly grew grave as she saw that some one was at the
+street door, looking in cautiously. "Come in, Sor Tommaso!" she called,
+down the table. "Papa is out, but we are here. Come in and drink a glass
+of wine!"
+
+The doctor, wrapped in a long broadcloth cloak with a velvet collar,
+and having a case of instruments and medicines under his arm, glanced
+round the room and came in.
+
+"Just a half-foglietta, my daughter," he said. "They have sent for me.
+The abbess is very ill, and I may be there a long time. If you think
+they would remember to offer a Christian a glass up there, you are very
+much mistaken."
+
+"They are nuns," laughed Annetta. "What can they know?"
+
+She rose to get the wine for the doctor. There had not been a trace of
+displeasure in her voice nor in her manner as she spoke.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV.
+
+
+SOR TOMMASO was rarely called to the convent. In fact, he could not
+remember that he had been wanted more than half a dozen times in the
+long course of his practice in Subiaco. Either the nuns were hardly ever
+ill, or else they must have doctored themselves with such simple
+remedies as had been handed down to them from former ages. Possibly they
+had been as well off on the whole as though they had systematically
+submitted to the heroic treatment which passed for medicine in those
+days. As a matter of fact, they suffered chiefly from bad colds; and
+when they had bad colds, they either got well, or died, according to
+their several destinies. Sor Tommaso might have saved some of them; but
+on the other hand, he might have helped some others rather precipitately
+from their cells to that deep crypt, closed, in the middle of the little
+church, by a single square flag of marble, having two brass studs in it,
+and bearing the simple inscription: 'Here lie the bones of the Reverend
+Sisters of the order of the Blessed Virgin Mary of Mount Carmel.' On the
+whole, it is doubtful whether the practice of not calling in the doctor
+on ordinary occasions had much influence upon the convent's statistics
+of mortality.
+
+But though the abbess had more than once had a cold in her life, she had
+never suffered so seriously as this time, and she had made little
+objection to her niece's strong representations as to the necessity of
+medical aid. Therefore Sor Tommaso had been sent for in the evening and
+in great haste, and had taken with him a supply of appropriate material
+sufficient to kill, if not to cure, half the nuns in the convent. All
+the circumstances which he remembered from former occasions were
+accurately repeated. He rang at the main gate, waited long in the
+darkness, and heard at last the slapping and shuffling of shoes along
+the pavement within, as the portress and another nun came to let him in.
+Then there were faint rays of light from their little lamp, quivering
+through the cracks of the old weather-beaten door upon the cracked
+marble steps on which Sor Tommaso was standing. A thin voice asked who
+was there, and Sor Tommaso answered that he was the doctor. Then he
+heard a little colloquy in suppressed tones between the two nuns. The
+one said that the doctor was expected and must be let in without
+question. The other observed that it might be a thief. The first said
+that in that case they must look through the loophole. The second said
+that she did not know the doctor by sight. The first speaker remarked
+with some truth that one could tell a respectable person from a
+highwayman, and suddenly a small square porthole in the door was opened
+inwards, and a stream of light fell upon Sor Tommaso's face, as the nuns
+held up their little flaring lamp behind the grating. Behind the lamp he
+could distinguish a pair of shadowy eyes under an overhanging veil,
+which was also drawn across the lower part of the face.
+
+"Are you really the doctor?" asked one of the voices, in a doubtful
+tone.
+
+"He himself," answered the physician. "I am the Doctor Tommaso Taddei of
+the University of the Sapienza, and I have been called to render
+assistance to the very reverend the Mother Abbess."
+
+The light disappeared, and the porthole was shut, while a second
+colloquy began. On the whole, the two nuns decided to let him in, and
+then there was a jingling of keys and a clanking of iron bars and a
+grinding of locks, and presently a small door, cut and hung in one leaf
+of the great, iron-studded, wooden gate, was swung back. Sor Tommaso
+stooped and held his case before him, for the entrance was low and
+narrow.
+
+"God be praised!" he exclaimed, when he was fairly inside.
+
+"And praised be His holy name," answered both the sisters, promptly.
+
+Both had dropped their veils, and proceeded to bolt and bar the little
+door again, having set down the lamp upon the pavement. The rays made
+the unctuous dampness of the stone flags glisten, and Sor Tommaso
+shivered in his broadcloth cloak. Then, as before, he was conducted in
+silence through arched ways, and up many steps, and along labyrinthine
+corridors, his strong shoes rousing sharp, metallic echoes, while the
+nuns' slippers slapped and shuffled as one walked on each side of him,
+the one on the left carrying the lamp, according to the ancient rules of
+politeness. At last they reached the door of the antechamber at the end
+of the corridor, through which the way led to the abbess's private
+apartment, consisting of three rooms. The last door on the left, as Sor
+Tommaso faced that which opened into the antechamber, was that of Maria
+Addolorata's cell. The linen presses were entered from within the
+anteroom by a door on the right, so that they were actually in the
+abbess's apartment, an old-fashioned and somewhat inconvenient
+arrangement. Maria Addolorata, her veil drawn down, so that she could
+not see the doctor, but only his feet, and the folds of it drawn across
+her chin and mouth, received him at the door, which she closed behind
+him. The other two nuns set down their lamp on the floor of the
+corridor, slipped their hands up their sleeves, and stood waiting
+outside.
+
+The abbess was very ill, but had insisted upon sitting up in her
+parlour to receive the doctor, dressed and veiled, being propped up in
+her great easy-chair with a pillow which was of green silk, but was
+covered with a white pillow-case finely embroidered with open work at
+each end, through which the vivid colour was visible--that high green
+which cannot look blue even by lamplight. Both in the anteroom and in
+the parlour there were polished silver lamps of precisely the same
+pattern as the brass ones used by the richer peasants, excepting that
+each had a fan-like shield of silver to be used as a shade on one side,
+bearing the arms of the Braccio family in high boss, and attached to the
+oil vessel by a movable curved arm. The furniture of the room was very
+simple, but there was nevertheless a certain ecclesiastical solemnity
+about the high-backed, carved, and gilt chairs, the black and white
+marble pavement, the great portrait of his Holiness, Gregory the
+Sixteenth, in its massive gilt frame, the superb silver crucifix which
+stood on the writing-table, and, altogether, in the solidity of
+everything which met the eye.
+
+It was no easy matter to ascertain the good lady's condition, muffled up
+and veiled as she was. It was only as an enormous concession to
+necessity that Sor Tommaso was allowed to feel her pulse, and it needed
+all Maria Addolorata's eloquent persuasion and sensible argument to
+induce her to lift her veil a little, and open her mouth.
+
+"Your most reverend excellency must be cured by proxy," said Sor
+Tommaso, at his wit's end. "If this reverend mother," he added, turning
+to the young nun, "will carry out my directions, something may be done.
+Your most reverend excellency's life is in danger. Your most reverend
+excellency ought to be in bed."
+
+"It is the will of Heaven," said the abbess, in a very weak and hoarse
+voice.
+
+"Tell me what to do," said Maria Addolorata. "It shall be done as though
+you yourself did it."
+
+Sor Tommaso was encouraged by the tone of assurance in which the words
+were spoken, and proceeded to give his directions, which were many, and
+his recommendations, which were almost endless.
+
+"But if your most reverend excellency would allow me to assist you in
+person, the remedies would be more efficacious," he suggested, as he
+laid out the greater part of the contents of his case upon the huge
+writing-table.
+
+"You seem to forget that this is a religious house," replied the abbess,
+and she might have said more, but was interrupted by a violent attack of
+coughing, during which Maria Addolorata supported her and tried to ease
+her.
+
+"It will be better if you go away," said the nun, at last. "I will do
+all you have ordered, and your presence irritates her. Come back
+to-morrow morning, and I will tell you how she is progressing."
+
+The abbess nodded slowly, confirming her niece's words. Sor Tommaso very
+reluctantly closed his case, placed it under his arm, gathered up his
+broadcloth cloak with his hat, and made a low obeisance before the sick
+lady.
+
+"I wish your most reverend excellency a good rest and speedy recovery,"
+he said. "I am your most reverend excellency's most humble servant."
+
+Maria Addolorata led him out into the antechamber. There she paused, and
+they were alone together for a moment, all the doors being closed. The
+doctor stood still beside her, waiting for her to speak.
+
+"What do you think?" she asked.
+
+"I do not wish to say anything," he answered.
+
+"What do you wish me to say? A stroke of air, a cold, a bronchitis, a
+pleurisy, a pneumonia. Thanks be to Heaven, there is little fever. What
+do you wish me to say? For the stroke of air, a little good wine; for
+the cold, warm covering; for the bronchitis, the tea of marshmallows;
+for the pleurisy, severe blistering; for the pneumonia, a good mustard
+plaster; for the general system, the black draught; above all, nothing
+to eat. Frictions with hot oil will also do good. It is the practice of
+medicine by proxy, my lady mother. What do you wish me to say? I am
+disposed. I am her most reverend excellency's very humble servant. But I
+cannot perform miracles. Pray to the Madonna to perform them. I have
+not even seen the tip of her most reverend excellency's most wise
+tongue. What can I do?"
+
+"Well, then, come back to-morrow morning, and I will see you here," said
+Maria Addolorata.
+
+Sor Tommaso found the nuns waiting for him with their little lamp in the
+corridor, and they led him back through the vaulted passages and
+staircases and let him out into the night without a word.
+
+The night was dark and cloudy. It had grown much darker since he had
+come up, as the last lingering light of evening had faded altogether
+from the sky. The October wind drew down in gusts from the mountains
+above Subiaco, and blew the doctor's long cloak about so that it flapped
+softly now and then like the wings of a night bird. After descending
+some distance, he carefully set down his case upon the stones and
+fumbled in his pockets for his snuffbox, which he found with some
+difficulty. A gust blew up a grain of snuff into his right eye, and he
+stamped angrily with the pain, hurting his foot against a rolling stone
+as he did so. But he succeeded in getting his snuff to his nose at last.
+Then he bent down in the dark to take up his case, which was close to
+his feet, though he could hardly see it. The gusty south wind blew the
+long skirts of his cloak over his head and made them flap about his
+ears. He groped for the box.
+
+[Illustration: "Sor Tommaso was lying motionless."--Vol. I., p. 78.]
+
+Just then the doctor heard light footsteps coming down the path behind
+him. He called out, warning that he was in the way.
+
+"O-č, gently, you know!" he cried. "An apoplexy on the wind!" he added
+vehemently, as his head and hands became entangled more and more in the
+folds of his cloak.
+
+"And another on you!" answered a woman's voice, speaking low through
+clenched teeth.
+
+In the darkness a hand rose and fell with something in it, three times
+in quick succession. A man's low cry of pain was stifled in folds of
+broadcloth. The same light footsteps were heard for a moment again in
+the narrow, winding way, and Sor Tommaso was lying motionless on his
+face across his box, with his cloak over his head. The gusty south wind
+blew up and down between the dark walls, bearing now and then a few
+withered vine leaves and wisps of straw with it; and the night grew
+darker still, and no one passed that way for a long time.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V.
+
+
+WHEN Angus Dalrymple had finished his supper, he produced a book and sat
+reading by the light of the wicks of the three brass lamps. Annetta had
+taken away the things and had not come back again. Gigetto strolled in
+and took his guitar from the peg on the wall, and idled about the room,
+tuning it and humming to himself. He was a tall young fellow with a
+woman's face and beautiful velvet-like eyes, as handsome and idle a
+youth as you might meet in Subiaco on a summer's feast-day. He exchanged
+a word of greeting with Dalrymple, and, seeing that the place was
+otherwise deserted, he at last slung his guitar over his shoulder,
+pulled his broad black felt hat over his eyes, and strolled out through
+the half-open door, presumably in search of amusement. Gigetto's chief
+virtue was his perfectly childlike and unaffected taste for amusing
+himself, on the whole very innocently, whenever he got a chance. It was
+natural that he and the Scotchman should not care for one another's
+society. Dalrymple looked after him for a moment and then went back to
+his book. A big glass measure of wine stood beside him not half empty,
+and his glass was full.
+
+He was making a strong effort to concentrate his attention upon the
+learned treatise, which formed a part of the little library he had
+brought with him. But Annetta's idle talk about the nuns, and especially
+about Maria Addolorata and her singing, kept running through his head in
+spite of his determination to be serious. He had been living the life of
+a hermit for months, and had almost forgotten the sound of an educated
+woman's voice. To him Annetta was nothing more than a rather pretty wild
+animal. It did not enter his head that she might be in love with him.
+Sora Nanna was simply an older and uglier animal of the same species. To
+a man of Dalrymple's temperament, and really devoted to the pursuit of a
+serious object, a woman quite incapable of even understanding what that
+object is can hardly seem to be a woman at all.
+
+But the young Scotchman was not wanting in that passionate and fantastic
+imagination which so often underlies and even directs the hardy northern
+nature, and the young girl's carelessly spoken words had roused it to
+sudden activity. In spite of himself, he was already forming plans for
+listening under the convent wall, if perchance he might catch the sound
+of the nun's wonderful voice, and from that to the wildest schemes for
+catching a momentary glimpse of the singer was only a step. At the same
+time, he was quite aware that such schemes were dangerous if not
+impracticable, and his reasonable self laughed down his unreasoning
+romance, only to be confronted by it again as soon as he tried to turn
+his attention to his book.
+
+He looked up and saw that he had not finished his wine, though at that
+hour the measure was usually empty, and he wondered why he was less
+thirsty than usual. By force of habit he emptied the full glass and
+poured more into it,--by force of that old northern habit of drinking a
+certain allowance as a sort of duty, more common in those days than it
+is now. Then he began to read again, never dreaming that his strong head
+and solid nerves could be in any way affected by his potations. But his
+imagination this evening worked faster and faster, and his sober reason
+was recalcitrant and abhorred work.
+
+The nun had fair hair and dark eyes and a beautiful face. Those were
+much more interesting facts than he could find in his work. She had a
+wonderful voice. He tried to recall all the extraordinary voices he had
+heard in his life, but none of them had ever affected him very much,
+though he had a good ear and some taste for music. He wondered what sort
+of voice this could be, and he longed to hear it. He shut up his book
+impatiently, drank more wine, rose and went to the open door. The gusty
+south wind fanned his face pleasantly, and he wished he were to sleep
+out of doors.
+
+The Sora Nanna, who had been spending the evening with a friend in the
+neighbourhood, came in, her thin black overskirt drawn over her head to
+keep the embroidered head-cloth in its place. By and by, as Dalrymple
+still stood by the door, Stefanone appeared, having been to play a game
+of cards at a friendly wine-shop. He sat down by Sora Nanna at the
+table. She was mixing some salad in a big earthenware bowl adorned with
+green and brown stripes. They talked together in low tones. Dalrymple
+had nodded to each in turn, but the gusty air pleased him, and he
+remained standing by the door, letting it blow into his face.
+
+It was growing late. Italian peasants are not great sleepers, and it is
+their custom to have supper at a late hour, just before going to bed. By
+this time it was nearly ten o'clock as we reckon the hours, or about
+'four of the night' in October, according to old Italian custom, which
+reckons from a theoretical moment of darkness, supposed to begin at Ave
+Maria, half an hour after sunset.
+
+Suddenly Dalrymple heard Annetta's voice in the room behind him,
+speaking to her mother. He had no particular reason for supposing that
+she had been out of the house since she had cleared the table and left
+him, but unconsciously he had the impression that she had been away,
+and was surprised to hear her in the room, after expecting that she
+should pass him, coming in from the street, as the others had done. He
+turned and walked slowly towards his place at the table.
+
+"I thought you had gone out," he said carelessly, to Annetta.
+
+The girl turned her head quickly.
+
+"I?" she cried. "And alone? Without even Gigetto? When do I ever go out
+alone at night? Will you have some supper, Signore?"
+
+"I have just eaten, thank you," answered Dalrymple, seating himself.
+
+"Three hours ago. It was not yet an hour of the night when you ate.
+Well--at your pleasure. Do not complain afterwards that we make you die
+of hunger."
+
+"Bread, Annetta!" said Stefanone, gruffly but good-naturedly. "And
+cheese, and salt--wine, too! A thousand things! Quickly, my daughter."
+
+"Quicker than this?" inquired the girl, who had already placed most of
+the things he asked for upon the table.
+
+"I say it to say it," answered her father. "'Hunger makes long jumps,'
+and I am hungry."
+
+"Did you win anything?" asked Sora Nanna, with both her elbows on the
+table.
+
+"Five baiocchi."
+
+"It was worth while to pay ten baiocchi for another man's bad wine, for
+the sake of winning so much!" replied Sora Nanna, who was a careful
+soul. "Of course you paid for the wine?"
+
+"Eh--of course. They pay for wine when they come here. One takes a
+little and one gives a little. This is life."
+
+Annetta busied herself with the simple preparations for supper, while
+they talked. Dalrymple watched her idly, and he thought she was pale,
+and that her eyes were very bright. She had set a plate for herself, but
+had forgotten her glass.
+
+"And you? Do you not drink?" asked Stefanone. "You have no glass."
+
+"What does it matter?" She sat down between her father and mother.
+
+"Drink out of mine, my little daughter," said Stefanone, holding his
+glass to her lips with a laugh, as though she had been a little child.
+
+She looked quietly into his eyes for a moment, before she touched the
+wine with her lips.
+
+"Yes," she answered, with a little emphasis. "I will drink out of your
+glass now."
+
+"Better so," laughed Stefanone, who was glad to be reconciled, for he
+loved the girl, in spite of his occasional violence of temper.
+
+"What does it mean?" asked Sora Nanna, her cunning peasant's eyes
+looking from one to the other, and seeming to belie her stupid face.
+
+"Nothing," answered Stefanone. "We were playing together. Signor
+Englishman," he said, turning to Dalrymple, "you must sometimes wish
+that you were married, and had a wife like Nanna, and a daughter like
+Annetta."
+
+"Of course I do," said Dalrymple, with a smile.
+
+Before very long, he took his book and went upstairs to bed, being tired
+and sleepy after a long day spent on the hillside in a fruitless search
+for certain plants which, according to his books, were to be found in
+that part of Italy, but which he had not yet seen. He fell asleep,
+thinking of Maria Addolorata's lovely face and fair hair, on which he
+had never laid eyes. In his dreams he heard a rare voice ringing true,
+that touched him strangely. The gusty wind made the panes of his bedroom
+window rattle, and in the dream he was tapping on Maria Addolorata's
+casement and calling softly to her, to open it and speak to him, or
+calling her by name, with his extraordinary foreign accent. And he
+thought he was tapping louder and louder, upon the glass and upon the
+wooden frame, louder and louder still. Then he heard his name called
+out, and his heart jumped as though it would have turned upside down in
+its place, and then seemed to sink again like a heavy stone falling into
+deep water; for he was awake, and the voice that was calling him was
+certainly not that of the beautiful nun, but gruff and manly; also the
+tapping was not tapping any more upon a casement, but was a vigorous
+pounding against his own bolted door.
+
+Dalrymple sat up suddenly and listened, wide awake at once. The square
+of his window was faintly visible in the darkness, as though the dawn
+were breaking. He called out, asking who was outside.
+
+"Get up, Signore! Get up! You are wanted quickly!" It was Stefanone.
+
+Dalrymple struck a light, for he had a supply of matches with him, a
+convenience of modern life not at that time known in Subiaco, except as
+an expensive toy, though already in use in Rome. As he was, he opened
+the door. Stefanone came in, dressed in his shirt and breeches, pale
+with excitement.
+
+"You must dress yourself, Signore," he said briefly, as he glanced at
+the Scotchman, and then set down the small tin and glass lantern he
+carried.
+
+"What is the matter?" inquired Dalrymple, yawning, and stretching his
+great white arms over his head, till his knuckles struck the low
+ceiling; for he was a tall man.
+
+"The matter is that they have killed Sor Tommaso," answered the peasant.
+
+Dalrymple uttered an exclamation of surprise and incredulity.
+
+"It is as I say," continued Stefanone. "They found him lying across the
+way, in the street, with knife-wounds in him, as many as you please."
+
+"That is horrible!" exclaimed Dalrymple, turning, and calmly trimming
+his lamp, which burned badly at first.
+
+"Then dress yourself, Signore!" said Stefanone, impatiently. "You must
+come!"
+
+"Why? If he is dead, what can I do?" asked the northern man, coolly. "I
+am sorry. What more can I say?"
+
+"But he is not dead yet!" Stefanone was growing excited. "They have
+taken him--"
+
+"Oh! he is alive, is he?" interrupted the Scotchman, dashing at his
+clothes, as though he were suddenly galvanized into life himself. "Then
+why did you tell me they had killed him?" he asked, with a curious, dry
+calmness of voice, as he instantly began to dress himself. "Get some
+clean linen, Signor Stefano. Tear it up into strips as broad as your
+hand, for bandages, and set the women to make a little lint of old
+linen--cotton is not good. Where have they taken Sor Tommaso?"
+
+"To his own house," answered the peasant.
+
+"So much the better. Go and make the bandages."
+
+Dalrymple pushed Stefanone towards the door with one hand, while he
+continued to fasten his clothes with the other.
+
+Stefanone was not without some experience of similar cases, so he
+picked up his lantern and went off. In less than a quarter of an hour,
+he and Dalrymple were on their way to Sor Tommaso's house, which was in
+the piazza of Subiaco, not far from the principal church. Half a dozen
+peasants, who had met the muleteers bringing the wounded doctor home
+from the spot where he had been found, followed the two men, talking
+excitedly in low voices and broken sentences. The dawn was grey above
+the houses, and the autumn mists had floated up to the parapet on the
+side where the little piazza looked down to the valley, and hung
+motionless in the still air, like a stage sea in a theatre. In the
+distance was heard the clattering of mules' shoes, and occasionally the
+deep clanking of the goats' bells. Just as the little party reached the
+small, dark green door of the doctor's house the distant convent bells
+tolled one, then two quick strokes, then three again, and then five, and
+then rang out the peal for the morning Angelus. The door of the dirty
+little coffee shop in the piazza was already open, and a faint light
+burned within. The air was damp, quiet and strangely resonant, as it
+often is in mountain towns at early dawn. The gusty October wind had
+gone down, after blowing almost all night.
+
+The case was far from being as serious as Dalrymple had expected, and he
+soon convinced himself that Sor Tommaso was not in any great danger. He
+had fainted from fright and some loss of blood, but neither of the two
+thrusts which had wounded him had penetrated to his lungs, and the third
+was little more than a scratch. Doubtless he owed his safety in part to
+the fact that the wind had blown his cloak in folds over his shoulders
+and head. But it was also clear that his assailant had possessed no
+experience in the use of the knife as a weapon. When the group of men at
+the door were told that Sor Tommaso was not mortally wounded, they went
+away somewhat disappointed at the insignificant ending of the affair,
+though the doctor was not an unpopular man in the town.
+
+"It is some woman," said one of them, contemptuously. "What can a woman
+do with a knife? Worse than a cat--she scratches, and runs away."
+
+"Some little jealousy," observed another. "Eh! Sor Tommaso--who knows
+where he makes love? But meanwhile he is growing old, to be so gay."
+
+"The old are the worst," replied the first speaker. "Since it is
+nothing, let us have a baiocco's worth of acquavita, and let us go
+away."
+
+So they turned into the dirty little coffee shop to get their pennyworth
+of spirits. Meanwhile Dalrymple was washing and binding up his friend's
+wounds. Sor Tommaso groaned and winced under every touch, and the
+Scotchman, with dry gentleness, did his best to reassure him. Stefanone
+looked on in silence for some time, helping Dalrymple when he was
+needed. The doctor's servant-woman, a somewhat grimy peasant, was
+sitting on the stairs, sobbing loudly.
+
+"It is useless," moaned Sor Tommaso. "I am dead."
+
+"I may be mistaken," answered Dalrymple, "but I think not."
+
+And he continued his operations with a sure hand, greatly to the
+admiration of Stefanone, who had often seen knife-wounds dressed.
+Gradually Sor Tommaso became more calm. His face, from having been
+normally of a bright red, was now very pale, and his watery blue eyes
+blinked at the light helplessly like a kitten's, as he lay still on his
+pillow. Stefanone went away to his occupations at last, and Dalrymple,
+having cleared away the litter of unused bandages and lint, and set
+things in order, sat down by the bedside to keep his patient company for
+a while. He was really somewhat anxious lest the wounds should have
+taken cold.
+
+"If I get well, it will be a miracle," said Sor Tommaso, feebly. "I must
+think of my soul."
+
+"By all means," answered the Scotchman. "It can do your soul no harm,
+and contemplation rests the body."
+
+"You Protestants have not human sentiment," observed the Italian, moving
+his head slowly on the pillow. "But I also think of the abbess. I was
+to have gone there early this morning. She will also die. We shall both
+die."
+
+Dalrymple crossed one leg over the other, and looked quietly at the
+doctor.
+
+"Sor Tommaso," he said, "there is no other physician in Subiaco. I am a
+doctor, properly licensed to practise. It is evidently my duty to take
+care of your patients while you are ill."
+
+"Mercy!" cried Sor Tommaso, with sudden energy, and opening his eyes
+very wide.
+
+"Are you afraid that I shall kill them," asked Dalrymple, with a smile.
+
+"Who knows? A foreigner! And the people say that you have converse with
+the devil. But the common people are ignorant."
+
+"Very."
+
+"And as for the convent--a Protestant--for the abbess! They would rather
+die. Figure to yourself what sort of a scandal there would be! A
+Protestant in a convent, and then, in that convent, too! The abbess
+would much rather die in peace."
+
+"At all events, I will go and offer my services. If the abbess prefers
+to die in peace, she can answer to that effect. I will ask her what she
+thinks about it."
+
+"Ask her!" repeated Sor Tommaso. "Do you imagine that you could see her?
+But what can you know? I tell you that last night she was muffled up in
+her chair, and her face covered. It needed the grace of Heaven, that I
+might feel her pulse! As for her tongue, God knows what it is like! I
+have not seen it. Not so much as the tip of it! Not even her eyes did I
+see. And to-day I was not to be admitted at all, because the abbess
+would be in bed. Imagine to yourself, with blisters and sinapisms, and a
+hundred things. I was only to speak with Sister Maria Addolorata, who is
+her niece, you know, in the anteroom of the abbess's apartment. They
+would not let you in. They would give you a bath of holy water through
+the loophole of the convent door and say, 'Go away, sinner; this is a
+religious house!' You know them very little."
+
+"You are talking too much," observed Dalrymple, who had listened
+attentively. "It is not good for you. Besides, since you are able to
+speak, it would be better if you told me who stabbed you last night,
+that I may go to the police, and have the person arrested, if possible."
+
+"You do not know what you are saying," answered Sor Tommaso, with sudden
+gravity. "The woman has relations--who could handle a knife better than
+she."
+
+And he turned his face away.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI.
+
+
+THE sun was high when Dalrymple left Sor Tommaso in charge of the old
+woman-servant and went back to Stefanone's house to dress himself with
+more care than he had bestowed upon his hasty toilet at dawn. And now
+that he had plenty of time, he was even more careful of his appearance
+than usual; for he had fully determined to attempt to take Sor Tommaso's
+place in attendance upon the abbess. He therefore put on a coat of a
+sober colour and brushed his straight red hair smoothly back from his
+forehead, giving himself easily that extremely grave and trust-inspiring
+air which distinguishes many Scotchmen, and supports their solid
+qualities, while it seems to deny the possibility of any adventurous and
+romantic tendency.
+
+At that hour nobody was about the house, and Dalrymple, stick in hand,
+sallied forth upon his expedition, looking for all the world as though
+he were going to church in Edinburgh instead of meditating an entrance
+into an Italian convent. He had said nothing more to the doctor on the
+subject. The people in the streets had most of them seen him often and
+knew him by name, and it did not occur to any one to wonder why a
+foreigner should wear one sort of coat rather than another, when he took
+his walks abroad. He walked leisurely; for the sky had cleared, and the
+sun was hot. Moreover, he followed the longer road in order to keep his
+shoes clean, instead of climbing up the narrow and muddy lane in which
+Sor Tommaso had been attacked. He reached the convent door at last,
+brushed a few specks of dust from his coat, settled his high collar and
+the broad black cravat which was then taking the place of the stock, and
+rang the bell with one steady pull. There was, perhaps, no occasion for
+nervousness. At all events, Dalrymple was as deliberate in his movements
+and as calm in all respects as he had ever been in his life. Only, just
+after he had pulled the weather-beaten bell-chain, a half-humorous smile
+bent his even lips and was gone again in a moment.
+
+There was the usual slapping and shuffling of slippers in the vaulted
+archway within, but as it was now day, the loophole was opened
+immediately, and the portress came alone. Dalrymple explained in
+strangely accented but good Italian that Sor Tommaso had met with an
+accident in the night; that he, Angus Dalrymple, was a friend of the
+doctor's and a doctor himself, and had undertaken all of Sor Tommaso's
+duties, and, finally, that he begged the portress to find Sister Maria
+Addolorata, to repeat his story, and to offer his humble services in
+the cause of the abbess's recovery. All of which the veiled nun within
+heard patiently to the end.
+
+"I will speak to Sister Maria Addolorata," she said. "Have the goodness
+to wait."
+
+"Outside?" inquired Dalrymple, as the little shutter of the loophole was
+almost closed.
+
+"Of course," answered the nun, opening it again, and shutting it as soon
+as she had spoken.
+
+Dalrymple waited a long time in the blazing sun. The main entrance of
+the convent faced to the southeast, and it was not yet midday. He grew
+hot, after his walk, and softly wiped his forehead, and carefully folded
+his handkerchief again before returning it to his pocket. At last he
+heard the sound of steps again, and in a few seconds the loophole was
+once more opened.
+
+"Sister Maria Addolorata will speak with you," said the portress's
+voice, as he approached his face to the little grating.
+
+He felt an odd little thrill of pleasant surprise. But so far as seeing
+anything was concerned, he was disappointed. Instead of one veiled nun,
+there were now two veiled nuns.
+
+"Madam," he began, "my friend Doctor Tommaso Taddei has met with an
+accident which prevents him from leaving his bed." And he went on to
+repeat all that he had told the portress, with such further
+explanations as he deemed necessary and persuasive.
+
+While he spoke, Maria Addolorata drew back a little into the deeper
+shadow away from the loophole. Her veil hung over her eyes, and the
+folds were drawn across her mouth, but she gradually raised her head,
+throwing it back until she could see Dalrymple's face from beneath the
+edge of the black material. In so doing she unconsciously uncovered her
+mouth. The Scotchman saw a good part of her features, and gazed intently
+at what he saw, rightly judging that as the sun was behind him, she
+could hardly be sure whether he were looking at her or not.
+
+As for her, she was doubtless inspired by a natural curiosity, but at
+the same time she understood the gravity of the case and wished to form
+an opinion as to the advisability of admitting the stranger. A glance
+told her that Dalrymple was a gentleman, and she was reassured by the
+gravity of his voice and by the fact that he was evidently acquainted
+with the abbess's condition, and must, therefore, be a friend of Sor
+Tommaso. When he had finished speaking, she immediately looked down
+again, and seemed to be hesitating.
+
+"Open the door, Sister Filomena," she said at last.
+
+The portress shook her head almost imperceptibly as she obeyed, but she
+said nothing. The whole affair was in her eyes exceedingly irregular.
+Maria Addolorata should have retired to the little room adjoining the
+convent parlour, and separated from it by a double grating, and
+Dalrymple should have been admitted to the parlour itself, and they
+should have said what they had to say to one another through the bars,
+in the presence of the portress. But Maria Addolorata was the abbess's
+niece. The abbess was too ill to give orders--too ill even to speak, it
+was rumoured. In a few days Maria Addolorata might be 'Her most Reverend
+Excellency.' Meanwhile she was mistress of the situation, and it was
+safer to obey her. Moreover, the portress was only a lay sister, an old
+and ignorant creature, accustomed to do what she was told to do by the
+ladies of the convent.
+
+Dalrymple took off his hat and stooped low to enter through the small
+side-door. As soon as he had passed the threshold, he stood up to his
+height and then made a low bow to Maria Addolorata, whose veil now quite
+covered her eyes and prevented her from seeing him,--a fact which he
+realized immediately.
+
+"Give warning to the sisters, Sister Filomena," said Maria Addolorata to
+the portress, who nodded respectfully and walked away into the gloom
+under the arches, leaving the nun and Dalrymple together by the door.
+
+"It is necessary to give warning," she explained, "lest you should meet
+any of the sisters unveiled in the corridors, and they should be
+scandalized."
+
+Dalrymple again bowed gravely and stood still, his eyes fixed upon Maria
+Addolorata's veiled head, but wandering now and then to her heavy but
+beautifully shaped white hands, which she held carelessly clasped before
+her and holding the end of the great rosary of brown beads which hung
+from her side. He thought he had never seen such hands before. They were
+high-bred, and yet at the same time there was a strongly material
+attraction about them.
+
+He did not know what to say, and as nothing seemed to be expected of
+him, he kept silence for some time. At last Maria Addolorata, as though
+impatient at the long absence of the portress, tapped the pavement
+softly with her sandal slipper, and turned her head in the direction of
+the arches as though to listen for approaching footsteps.
+
+"I hope that the abbess is no worse than when Doctor Taddei saw her last
+night," observed Dalrymple.
+
+"Her most reverend excellency," answered Maria Addolorata, with a little
+emphasis, as though to teach him the proper mode of addressing the
+abbess, "is suffering. She has had a bad night."
+
+"I shall hope to be allowed to give some advice to her most reverend
+excellency," said Dalrymple, to show that he had understood the hint.
+
+"She will not allow you to see her. But you shall come with me to the
+antechamber, and I will speak with her and tell you what she says."
+
+"I shall be greatly obliged, and will do my best to give good advice
+without seeing the patient."
+
+Another pause followed, during which neither moved. Then Maria
+Addolorata spoke again, further reassured, perhaps, by Dalrymple's quiet
+and professional tone. She had too lately left the world to have lost
+the habit of making conversation to break an awkward silence. Years of
+seclusion, too, instead of making her shy and silent, had given her
+something of the ease and coolness of a married woman. This was natural
+enough, considering that she was born of worldly people and had acquired
+the manners of the world in her own home, in childhood.
+
+"You are an Englishman, I presume, Signor Doctor?" she observed, in a
+tone of interrogation.
+
+"A Scotchman, Madam," answered Dalrymple, correcting her and drawing
+himself up a little. "My name is Angus Dalrymple."
+
+"It is the same--an Englishman or a Scotchman," said the nun.
+
+"Pardon me, Madam, we consider that there is a great difference. The
+Scotch are chiefly Celts. Englishmen are Anglo-Saxons."
+
+"But you are all Protestants. It is therefore the same for us."
+
+Dalrymple feared a discussion of the question of religion. He did not
+answer the nun's last remark, but bowed politely. She, of course, could
+not see the inclination he made.
+
+"You say nothing," she said presently. "Are you a Protestant?"
+
+"Yes, Madam."
+
+"It is a pity!" said Maria Addolorata. "May God send you light."
+
+"Thank you, Madam."
+
+Maria Addolorata smiled under her veil at the polite simplicity of the
+reply. She had met Englishmen in Rome.
+
+"It is no longer customary to address us as 'Madam,'" she answered, a
+moment later. "It is more usual to speak to us as 'Sister' or 'Reverend
+Sister'--or 'Sister Maria.' I am Sister Maria Addolorata. But you know
+it, for you sent your message to me."
+
+"Doctor Taddei told me."
+
+At this point the portress appeared in the distance, and Maria
+Addolorata, hearing footsteps, turned her head from Dalrymple, raising
+her veil a little, so that she could recognize the lay sister without
+showing her face to the young man.
+
+"Let us go," she said, dropping her veil again, and beginning to walk
+on. "The sisters are warned."
+
+Dalrymple followed her in silence and at a respectful distance,
+congratulating himself upon his extraordinary good fortune in having got
+so far on the first attempt, and inwardly praying that Sor Tommaso's
+wounds might take a considerable time in healing. It had all come about
+so naturally that he had lost the sensation of doing something
+adventurous which had at first taken possession of him, and he now
+regarded everything as possible, even to being invited to a friendly cup
+of tea in Sister Maria Addolorata's sitting-room; for he imagined her as
+having a sitting-room and as drinking tea there in a semi-luxurious
+privacy. The idea would have amused an Italian of those days, when tea
+was looked upon as medicine.
+
+They reached the end of the last corridor. Dalrymple, like Sor Tommaso,
+was admitted to the antechamber, while the portress waited outside to
+conduct him back again. But Maria did not take him into the abbess's
+parlour, into which she went at once, closing the door behind her.
+Dalrymple sat down upon a carved wooden box-bench, and waited. The nun
+was gone a long time.
+
+"I have kept you waiting," she said, as she entered the little room
+again.
+
+"My time is altogether at your service, Sister Maria Addolorata," he
+answered, rising quickly. "How is her most reverend excellency?"
+
+"Very ill. I do not know what to say. She will not hear of seeing you.
+I fear she will not live long, for she can hardly breathe."
+
+"Does she cough?"
+
+"Not much. Not so much as last night. She complains that she cannot draw
+her breath and that her lungs feel full of something."
+
+The case was evidently serious, and Dalrymple, who was a physician by
+nature, proceeded to extract as much information as he could from the
+nun, who did her best to answer all his questions clearly. The long
+conversation, with its little restraints and its many attempts at a
+mutual understanding, did more to accustom Maria Addolorata to
+Dalrymple's presence and personality than any number of polite speeches
+on his part could have done. There is an unavoidable tendency to
+intimacy between any two people who are together engaged in taking care
+of a sick person.
+
+"I can give you directions and good advice," said Dalrymple, at last.
+"But it can never be the same as though I could see the patient myself.
+Is there no possible means of obtaining her consent? She may die for the
+want of just such advice as I can only give after seeing her. Would not
+her brother, his Eminence the Cardinal, perhaps recommend her to let me
+visit her once?"
+
+"That is an idea," answered the nun, quickly. "My uncle is a man of
+broad views. I have heard it said in Rome. I could write to him that
+Doctor Taddei is unable to come, and that a celebrated foreign physician
+is here--"
+
+"Not celebrated," interrupted Dalrymple, with his literal Scotch
+veracity.
+
+"What difference can it make?" uttered Maria Addolorata, moving her
+shoulders a little impatiently. "He will be the more ready to use his
+influence, for he is much attached to my aunt. Then, if he can persuade
+her, I can send down the gardener to the town for you this afternoon. It
+may not be too late."
+
+"I see that you have some confidence in me," said Dalrymple. "I am of a
+newer school than Doctor Taddei. If you will follow my directions, I
+will almost promise that her most reverend excellency shall not die
+before to-morrow."
+
+He smiled now, as he gave the abbess her full title, for he began to
+feel as though he had known Maria Addolorata for a long time, though he
+had only had one glimpse of her eyes, just when she had raised her head
+to get a look at him through the loophole of the gate. But he had not
+forgotten them, and he felt that he knew them.
+
+"I will do all you tell me," she answered quietly.
+
+Dalrymple had some English medicines with him on his travels, and not
+knowing what might be required of him at the convent, he had brought
+with him a couple of tiny bottles.
+
+"This when she coughs--ten drops," he said, handing the bottles to the
+nun. "And five drops of this once an hour, until her chest feels freer."
+
+He gave her minute directions, as far as he could, about the general
+treatment of the patient, which Maria repeated and got by heart.
+
+"I will let you know before twenty-three o'clock what the cardinal says
+to the plan," she said. "In this way you will be able to come up by
+daylight."
+
+As Dalrymple took his leave, he held out his hand, forgetting that he
+was in Italy.
+
+"It is not our custom," said Maria Addolorata, thrusting each of her own
+hands into the opposite sleeve.
+
+But there was nothing cold in her tone. On the contrary, Dalrymple
+fancied that she was almost on the point of laughing at that moment, and
+he blushed at his awkwardness. But she could not see his face.
+
+"Your most humble servant," he said, bowing to her.
+
+"Good day, Signor Doctor," she answered, through the open door, as the
+portress jingled her keys and prepared to follow Dalrymple.
+
+So he took his departure, not without much satisfaction at the result of
+his first attempt.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII.
+
+
+SOR TOMMASO recovered but slowly, though his injuries were of themselves
+not dangerous. His complexion was apoplectic and gouty, he was no longer
+young, and before forty-eight hours had gone by his wounds were
+decidedly inflamed and he had a little fever. At the same time he was by
+no means a courageous man, and he was ready to cry out that he was dead,
+whenever he felt himself worse. Besides this, he lost his temper several
+times daily with Dalrymple, who resolutely refused to bleed him, and he
+insisted upon eating and drinking more than was good for him, at a time
+when if he had been his own patient he would have enforced starvation as
+necessary to recovery.
+
+Meanwhile the cardinal had exerted his influence with his sister, the
+abbess, and had so far succeeded that Dalrymple, who went every day to
+the convent, was now made to stand with his back to the abbess's open
+door, in order that he might at least ask her questions and hear her own
+answers. Many an old Italian doctor can tell of even stranger and more
+absurd precautions observed by the nuns of those days. As soon as the
+oral examination was over, Maria Addolorata shut the door and came out
+into the parlour, where Dalrymple finished his visit, prolonging it in
+conversation with her by every means he could devise.
+
+Though encumbered with a little of the northern shyness, Dalrymple was
+not diffident. There is a great difference between shyness and
+diffidence. Diffidence distrusts itself; shyness distrusts the mere
+outward impression made on others. At this time Dalrymple had no object
+beyond enjoying the pleasure of talking with Maria Addolorata, and no
+hope beyond that of some day seeing her face without the veil. As for
+her voice, his present position as doctor to the convent made it foolish
+for him to run the risk of being caught listening for her songs behind
+the garden wall. But he had not forgotten what Annetta had told him, and
+Maria Addolorata's soft intonations and liquid depths of tone in
+speaking led him to believe that the peasant girl had not exaggerated
+the nun's gift of singing.
+
+One day, after he had seen her and talked with her more than half a
+dozen times, he approached the subject, merely for the sake of
+conversation, saying that he had been told of her beautiful voice by
+people who had heard her across the garden.
+
+"It is true," she answered simply. "I have a good voice. But it is
+forbidden here to sing except in church," she added with a sigh. "And
+now that my aunt is ill, I would not displease her for anything."
+
+"That is natural," said Dalrymple. "But I would give anything in the
+world to hear you."
+
+"In church you can hear me. The church is open on Sundays at the
+Benediction service. We are behind the altar in the choir, of course.
+But perhaps you would know my voice from the rest because it is deeper."
+
+"I should know it in a hundred thousand," asseverated the Scotchman,
+with warmth.
+
+"That would be a great many--a whole choir of angels!" And the nun
+laughed softly, as she sometimes did, now that she knew him so much
+better.
+
+There was something warm and caressing in her laughter, short and low as
+it was, that made Dalrymple look at those full white hands of hers and
+wonder whether they might not be warm and caressing too.
+
+"Will you sing a little louder than the rest next Sunday afternoon,
+Sister Maria?" he asked. "I will be in the church."
+
+"That would be a great sin," she answered, but not very gravely.
+
+"Why?"
+
+"Because I should have to be thinking about you instead of about the
+holy service. Do you not know that? But nothing is sinful according to
+you Protestants, I suppose. At all events, come to the church."
+
+"Do you think we are all devils, Sister Maria?" asked Dalrymple, with a
+smile.
+
+"More or less." She laughed again. "They say in the town that you have a
+compact with the devil."
+
+"Do you hear what is said in the town?"
+
+"Sometimes. The gardener brings the gossip and tells it to the cook. Or
+Sora Nanna tells it to me when she brings the linen. There are a
+thousand ways. The people think we know nothing because they never see
+us. But we hear all that goes on."
+
+Dalrymple said nothing in answer for some time. Then he spoke suddenly
+and rather hoarsely.
+
+"Shall I never see you, Sister Maria?" he asked.
+
+"Me? But you see me every day--"
+
+"Yes,--but your face, without the veil."
+
+Maria Addolorata shook her head.
+
+"It is against all rules," she answered.
+
+"Is it not against all rules that we should sit here and make
+conversation every day for half an hour?"
+
+"Yes--I suppose it is. But you are here as a doctor to take care of my
+aunt," she added quickly. "That makes it right. You are not a man. You
+are a doctor."
+
+"Oh,--I understand." Dalrymple laughed a little. "Then I am never to see
+your beautiful face?"
+
+"How do you know it is beautiful, since you have never seen it?"
+
+"From your beautiful hands," answered the young man, promptly.
+
+"Oh!" Maria Addolorata glanced at her hands and then, with a movement
+which might have been quicker, concealed them in her sleeves.
+
+"It is a sin to hide what God has made beautiful," said Dalrymple.
+
+"If I have anything about me that is beautiful, it is for God's glory
+that I hide it," answered Maria, with real gravity this time.
+
+Dalrymple understood that he had gone a little too far, though he did
+not exactly regret it, for the next words she spoke showed him that she
+was not really offended. Nevertheless, in order to exhibit a proper
+amount of contrition he took his leave with a little more formality than
+usual on this particular occasion. Possibly she was willing to show that
+she forgave him, for she hesitated a moment just before opening the
+door, and then, to his great surprise, held out her hand to him.
+
+"It is your custom," she said, just touching his eagerly outstretched
+fingers. "But you must not look at it," she added, drawing it back
+quickly and hiding it in her sleeve with another low laugh. And she
+began to shut the door almost before he had quite gone through.
+
+Dalrymple walked more slowly on that day, as he descended through the
+steep and narrow streets, and though he was surefooted by nature and
+habit, he almost stumbled once or twice on his way down, because,
+somehow, though his eyes looked towards his feet, he did not see exactly
+where he was going.
+
+There is no necessity for analyzing his sensations. It is enough to say
+at once that he was beginning to be really in love with Maria
+Addolorata, and that he denied the fact to himself stoutly, though it
+forced itself upon him with every step which took him further from the
+convent. He felt on that day a strong premonitory symptom in the shape
+of a logical objection, as it were, to his returning again to see the
+nun. The objection was the evident and total futility of the almost
+intimate intercourse into which the two were gliding. The day must soon
+come when the abbess would no longer need his assistance. In all
+probability she would recover, for the more alarming symptoms had
+disappeared, and she showed signs of regaining her strength by slow
+degrees. It was quite clear to Dalrymple that, after her ultimate
+recovery, his chance of seeing and talking with Maria Addolorata would
+be gone forever. Sor Tommaso, indeed, recovered but slowly. Of the two
+his case was the worse, for fever had set in on the third day and had
+not left him yet, so that he assured Dalrymple almost hourly that his
+last moment was at hand. But he also was sure to get well, in the
+Scotchman's opinion, and the latter knew well enough that his own
+temporary privileges as physician to the convent would be withdrawn from
+him as soon as the Subiaco doctor should be able to climb the hill.
+
+It was all, therefore, but a brief incident in his life, which could not
+possibly have any continuation hereafter. He tried in vain to form plans
+and create reasons for seeing Maria Addolorata even once a month for
+some time to come, but his ingenuity failed him altogether, and he grew
+angry with himself for desiring what was manifestly impossible.
+
+With true masculine inconsequence, so soon as he was displeased with
+himself he visited his displeasure upon the object that attracted him,
+and on the earliest possible occasion, on their very next meeting. He
+assumed an air of coldness and reserve such as he had certainly not
+thought necessary to put on at his first visit. Almost without any
+preliminary words of courtesy, and without any attempt to prolong the
+short conversation which always took place before he was made to stand
+with his back to the abbess's open door, he coldly inquired about the
+good lady's condition during the past night, and made one or two
+observations thereon with a brevity almost amounting to curtness.
+
+Maria Addolorata was surprised; but as her face was covered, and her
+hands were quietly folded before her, Dalrymple could not see that his
+behaviour had any effect upon her. She did not answer his last remark at
+all, but quietly bowed her head.
+
+Then followed the usual serio-comic scene, during which Dalrymple stood
+turned away from the open door, asking questions of the sick woman, and
+listening attentively for her low-spoken answers. To tell the truth, he
+judged of her condition more from the sound of her voice than from
+anything else. He had also taught Maria Addolorata how to feel the
+pulse; and she counted the beats while he looked at his watch. His chief
+anxiety was now for the action of the heart, which had been weakened by
+a lifetime of unhealthy living, by food inadequate in quality, even when
+sufficient in quantity, by confinement within doors, and lack of
+life-giving sunshine, and by all those many causes which tend to reduce
+the vitality of a cloistered nun.
+
+When the comedy was over, Maria Addolorata shut the door as usual; and
+she and Dalrymple were alone together in the abbess's parlour, as they
+were every day. The abbess herself could hear that they were talking,
+but she naturally supposed that they were discussing the details of her
+condition; and as she felt that she was really recovering, so far as
+she could judge, and as almost every day, after Dalrymple had gone,
+Maria Addolorata had some new direction of his to carry out, the elder
+lady's suspicions were not aroused. On the contrary, her confidence in
+the Scotch doctor grew from day to day; and in the long hours during
+which she lay thinking over her state and its circumstances, she made
+plans for his conversion, in which her brother, the cardinal, bore a
+principal part. She was grateful to Dalrymple, and it seemed to her that
+the most proper way of showing her gratitude would be to save his soul,
+a point of view unusual in the ordinary relations of life.
+
+On this particular day, Maria Addolorata shut the door, and came forward
+into the parlour as usual. As usual, too, she sat down in the abbess's
+own big easy-chair, expecting that Dalrymple would seat himself opposite
+to her. But he remained standing, with the evident intention of going
+away in a few moments. He said a few words about the patient, gave one
+or two directions, and then stood still in silence for a moment.
+
+Maria Addolorata lifted her head a little, but not enough to show him
+more than an inch of her face.
+
+"Have I displeased you, Signor Doctor?" she asked, in her deep, warm
+voice. "Have I not carried out your orders?"
+
+"On the contrary," answered Dalrymple, with a stiffness which he
+resented in himself. "It is impossible to be more conscientious than you
+always are."
+
+Seeing that he still remained standing, the nun rose to her feet, and
+waited for him to go. She believed that she was far too proud to detain
+him, if he wished to shorten the meeting. But something hurt her, which
+she could not understand.
+
+Dalrymple hesitated a moment, and his lips parted as though he were
+about to speak. The silence was prolonged only for a moment or two.
+
+"Good morning, Sister Maria Addolorata," he said suddenly, and bowed.
+
+"Good morning, Signor Doctor," answered the nun.
+
+She bent her head very slightly, but a keener observer than Dalrymple
+was, just then, would have noticed that as she did so, her shoulders
+moved forward a little, as though her breast were contracted by some
+sudden little pain. Dalrymple did not see it. He bowed again, let
+himself out, and closed the door softly behind him.
+
+When he was gone, Maria Addolorata sat down in the big easy-chair again,
+and uncovered her face, doubling her veil back upon her head, and
+withdrawing the thick folds from her chin and mouth. Her features were
+very pale, as she sat staring at the sky through the window, and her
+eyes fixed themselves in that look which was peculiar to her. Her full
+white hands strained upon each other a little, bringing the colour to
+the tips of her fingers. During some minutes she did not move. Then she
+heard her aunt's voice calling to her hoarsely. She rose at once, and
+went into the bedroom. The abbess's pale face was very thin and yellow
+now, as it lay upon the white pillow; the coverlet was drawn up to her
+chin, and a grimly carved black crucifix hung directly above her head.
+
+"The doctor did not stay long to-day," she said, in a hollow tone.
+
+"No, mother," answered the young nun. "He thinks you are doing very
+well. He wishes you to eat a wing of roast chicken."
+
+"If I could have a little salad," said the abbess. "Maria," she added
+suddenly, "you are careful to keep your face covered when you are in the
+next room, are you not?"
+
+"Always."
+
+"You generally do not raise your veil until you come into this room,
+after the doctor is gone," said the elder lady.
+
+"He went so soon, to-day," answered Maria Addolorata, with perfectly
+innocent truth. "I stayed a moment in the parlour, thinking over his
+directions, and I lifted my veil when I was alone. It is close to-day."
+
+"Go into the garden, and walk a little," said the abbess. "It will do
+you good. You are pale."
+
+If she had felt even a faint uneasiness about her niece's conduct, it
+was removed by the latter's manner.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII.
+
+
+ONCE more Dalrymple was sitting over his supper at the table in the
+vaulted room on the ground floor which Stefanone used as a wine shop. To
+tell the truth, it was very superior to the ordinary wine shops of
+Subiaco and had an exceptional reputation. The common people never came
+there, because Stefanone did not sell his cheap wine at retail, but sent
+it all to Rome, or took it thither himself for the sake of getting a
+higher price for it. He always said that he did not keep an inn, and
+perhaps as much on account of his relations with Gigetto's family, he
+assumed as far as possible the position of a wine-dealer rather than
+that of a wine-seller. The distinction, in Italian mountain towns, is
+very marked.
+
+"They can have a measure of the best, if they care to pay for it," he
+said. "If they wish a mouthful of food, there is what there is. But I am
+not the village host, and Nanna is not a wine-shop cook, to fry tripe
+and peel onions for Titius and Caius."
+
+The old Roman expression, denoting generally the average public,
+survives still in polite society, and Stefanone had caught it from Sor
+Tommaso.
+
+Dalrymple was sitting as usual over his supper, by the light of the
+triple-beaked brass lamp, his measure of wine beside him, and a
+beefsteak, which on this occasion was really of beef, before him.
+Stefanone was absent in Rome, with a load of wine. Sora Nanna sat on
+Dalrymple's right, industriously knitting in Italian fashion, one of the
+needles stuck into and supported by a wooden sheath thrust into her
+waist-band, while she worked off the stitches with the others. Annetta
+sat opposite the Scotchman, but a little on one side of the lamp, so
+that she could see his face.
+
+"Mother," she said suddenly, without lifting her chin from the hand in
+which it rested, "you do not know anything! This Signor Englishman is
+making love with a nun in the convent! Eh--what do you think of it? Only
+this was wanting. A little more and the lightning will fall upon the
+convent! These Protestants! Oh, these blessed Protestants! They respect
+nothing, not even the saints!"
+
+"My daughter! what are you saying?"
+
+Sora Nanna's fingers did not pause in their work, nor did her eyes look
+up, but the deep furrow showed itself in her thick peasant's forehead,
+and her coarse, hard lips twitched clumsily with the beginning of a
+smile.
+
+"What am I saying? The truth. Ask rather of the Signore whether it is
+not true."
+
+"It is silly," said Dalrymple, growing unnaturally red, and looking up
+sharply at Annetta, before he took his next mouthful.
+
+"Look at him, mother!" laughed the girl. "He is red, red--he seems to me
+a boiled shrimp. Eh, this time I have guessed it! And as for Sister
+Maria Addolorata, she no longer sees with her eyes! To-day, when you
+were carrying in the baskets, you and the other women who went with us,
+I asked her whether the abbess was satisfied with the new doctor, and
+she answered that he was a very wise man, much wiser than Sor Tommaso.
+So I told her that it was a pity, because Sor Tommaso was getting well
+and would not allow the English doctor to come instead of him much
+longer. Then she looked at me. By Bacchus, I was afraid. Certain eyes!
+Not even a cat when you take away her kittens! A little more and she
+would have eaten me. And then her face made itself of marble--like that
+face of a woman that is built into the fountain in the piazza.
+Arch-priest! What a face!"
+
+The girl stared hard at Dalrymple, and her mouth laughed wickedly at his
+evident embarrassment, while there was something very different from
+laughter in her eyes. During the long speech, Sora Nanna had stopped
+knitting, and she looked from her daughter to the Scotchman with a sort
+of half-stupid, half-cunning curiosity.
+
+"But these are sins!" she exclaimed at last.
+
+"And what does it matter?" asked the girl. "Does he go to confession? So
+what does it matter? He keeps the account himself, of his sins. I should
+not like to have them on my shoulders. But as for Sister Maria
+Addolorata--oh, she! I told you that she sinned in her throat. Well, the
+sin is ready, now. What is she waiting for? For the abbess to die? Or
+for Sor Tommaso to get well? Then she will not see the Signor Englishman
+any more. It would be better for her. When she does not see him any
+more, she will knead her pillow with tears, and make her bread of it, to
+bite and eat. Good appetite, Sister Maria!"
+
+"You talk, you talk, and you conclude nothing," observed Sora Nanna.
+"You have certain thoughts in your head! And you do not let the Signore
+say even a word."
+
+"What can he say? He will say that it is not true. But then, who will
+believe him? I should like to see them a little together. I am sure that
+she shows him her face, and that it is 'Signor Doctor' here, and 'Dear
+Signor Doctor' there, and a thousand gentlenesses. Tell the truth,
+Signore. She shows you her face."
+
+"No," said Dalrymple, who had regained his self-possession. "She never
+shows me her face."
+
+"What a shame for a Carmelite nun to show her face to a man!" cried the
+girl.
+
+"But I tell you she is always veiled to her chin," insisted Dalrymple,
+with perfect truth.
+
+"Eh! It is you who say so!" retorted Annetta. "But then, what can it
+matter to me? Make love with a nun, if it goes, Signore. Youth is a
+flower--when it is withered, it is hay, and the beasts eat it."
+
+"This is true," said Sora Nanna, returning to her knitting. "But do not
+pay attention to her, Signore. She is stupid. She does not know what she
+says. Eat, drink, and manage your own affairs. It is better. What can a
+child understand? It is like a little dog that sees and barks, without
+understanding. But you are a much instructed man and have been round the
+whole world. Therefore you know many things. It seems natural."
+
+Though Dalrymple was not diffident, as has been said, he was far from
+vain, on the whole, and in particular he had none of that contemptible
+vanity which makes a man readily believe that every woman he meets is in
+love with him. He had not the slightest idea at that time that Annetta,
+the peasant girl, looked upon him with anything more than the curiosity
+and vague interest usually bestowed on a foreigner in Italy.
+
+He was annoyed, however, by what she said this evening, though he was
+also secretly surprised and delighted. The contradiction is a common
+one. The miser is half mad with joy on discovering that he has much
+more than he supposed, and bitterly resents, at the same time, any
+notice which may be taken of the fact by others.
+
+Annetta did not enjoy his discomfiture and evident embarrassment, for
+she was far more deeply hurt herself than she realized, and every word
+she had spoken about Maria Addolorata had hurt her, though she had taken
+a sort of vague delight in teasing Dalrymple. She relapsed into silence
+now, alternately wishing that he loved her, and then, that she might
+kill him. If she could not have his heart, she would be satisfied with
+his blood. There was a passionate animal longing in the instinct to have
+him for herself, even dead, rather than that any other woman should get
+his love.
+
+Dalrymple was aware only that the girl's words had annoyed him, while
+inwardly conscious that if what she said were true, the truth would make
+a difference in his life. He showed no inclination to talk any more, and
+finished his supper in a rather morose silence, turning to his book as
+soon as he had done. Then Gigetto came in with his guitar and sang and
+talked with the two women.
+
+But he was restless that night, and did not fall asleep until the moon
+had set and his window grew dark. And even in his dreams he was restless
+still, so that when he awoke in the morning he said to himself that he
+had been foolish in his behaviour towards Maria Addolorata on the
+previous day. He felt tired, too, and his colour was less brilliant
+than usual. It was Sunday, and he remembered that if he chose he could
+go in the afternoon to the Benediction in the convent church and hear
+Maria's voice perhaps. But at the usual hour, just before noon, he went
+to make his visit to the abbess.
+
+It was his intention to forget his stiff manner, and to behave as he had
+always behaved until yesterday. Strange to say, however, he felt a
+constraint coming upon him as soon as he was in the nun's presence. She
+received him as usual, there was the usual comic scene at the abbess's
+door, and, as every day, the two were alone together after her door was
+shut.
+
+"Are you ill?" asked Maria Addolorata, after a moment's silence which,
+short as it was, both felt to be awkward.
+
+Dalrymple was taken by surprise. The tone in which she had spoken was
+cold and distant rather than expressive of any concern for his welfare,
+but he did not think of that. He only realized that his manner must seem
+to her very unusual, since she asked such a question. An Italian would
+have observed that his own face was pale, and would have told her that
+he was dying of love.
+
+"No, I am not ill," answered the Scotchman, simply, and in his most
+natural tone of voice.
+
+"Then what is the matter with you since yesterday?" asked Maria
+Addolorata, less coldly, and as though she were secretly amused.
+
+"There is nothing the matter--at least, nothing that I could explain to
+you."
+
+She sat down in the big easy-chair and, as formerly, he took his seat
+opposite to her.
+
+"There is something," she insisted, speaking thoughtfully. "You cannot
+deceive a woman, Signor Doctor."
+
+Dalrymple smiled and looked at her veiled head.
+
+"You said the other day that I was not a man, but a doctor," he
+answered. "I suppose I might answer that you are not a woman, but a
+nun."
+
+"And is not a nun a woman?" asked Maria Addolorata, and he knew that she
+was smiling, too.
+
+"You would not forgive me if I answered you," he said.
+
+"Who knows? I might be obliged to, since I am obliged to meet you every
+day. It may be a sin, but I am curious."
+
+"Shall I tell you?"
+
+As though instinctively, Maria was silent for a moment, and turned her
+veiled face towards the abbess's door. But Dalrymple needed no such
+warning to lower his voice.
+
+"Tell me," she said, and under her veil she could feel that her eyes
+were growing deep and the pupils wide and dark, and she knew that she
+had done wrong.
+
+"How should I know whether you are a saint or only a woman, since I have
+never seen your face?" he asked. "I shall never know--for in a few days
+Doctor Taddei will be well again, and you will not need my services."
+
+He saw the quick tightening of one hand upon the other, and the slight
+start of the head, and in a flash he knew that all Annetta had told him
+was true. The silence that followed seemed longer than the awkward pause
+which had preceded the conversation.
+
+"It cannot be so soon," she said in a very low tone.
+
+"It may be to-morrow," he answered, and to his own astonishment his
+voice almost broke in his throat, and he felt that his own hands were
+twisting each other, as though he were in pain. "I shall die without
+seeing you," he added almost roughly.
+
+Again there was a short silence in the still room.
+
+Suddenly, with quick movements of both hands at once, Maria Addolorata
+threw back the veil from her face, and drew away the folds that covered
+her mouth.
+
+"There, see me!" she exclaimed. "Look at me well this once!"
+
+Her face was as white as marble, and her dark eyes had a wild and
+startled look in them, as though she saw the world for the first time.
+A ringlet of red-gold hair had escaped from the bands of white that
+crossed her forehead in an even line and were drawn down straight on
+either side, for in the quick movement she had made she had loosened the
+pin that held them together under her chin, and had freed the dazzling
+throat down to the high collar.
+
+[Illustration: "She had covered her face with the veil."--Vol. I., p.
+126.]
+
+Dalrymple's pale, bright blue eyes caught fire, and he looked at her
+with all his being, at her face, her throat, her eyes, the ringlet of
+her hair. He breathed audibly, with parted lips, between his clenched
+teeth.
+
+Gradually, as he looked, he saw the red blush rise from the throat to
+the cheeks, from the cheeks to the forehead, and the marble grew more
+beautiful with womanly life. Then, all at once, he saw the hot tears
+welling up in her eyes, and in an instant the vision was gone. With a
+passionate movement she had covered her face with the veil, and throwing
+herself sideways against the high back of the chair, she pressed the
+dark stuff still closer to her eyes and mouth and cheeks. Her whole body
+shook convulsively, and a moment later she was sobbing, not audibly, but
+visibly, as though her heart were breaking.
+
+Dalrymple was again taken by surprise. He had been so completely lost in
+the utterly selfish contemplation of her beauty that he had been very
+far from realizing what she herself must have felt as soon as she
+appreciated what she had done. He at once accused himself of having
+looked too rudely at her, but at the same time he was himself too much
+disturbed to argue the matter. Quite instinctively he rose to his feet
+and tried to take one of her hands from her veil, touching it
+comfortingly. But she made a wild gesture, as though to drive him away.
+
+"Go!" she cried in a low and broken voice, between her sobs. "Go! Go
+quickly!"
+
+She could not say more for her sobbing, but he did not obey her. He only
+drew back a little and watched her, all his blood on fire from the touch
+of her soft white hand.
+
+She stifled her sobs in her veil, and gradually grew more calm. She even
+arranged the veil itself a little better, her face still turned away
+towards the back of the chair.
+
+"Maria! Maria!" The abbess's voice was calling her, hoarsely and almost
+desperately, from the next room.
+
+She started and sat up straight, listening. Then the cry was heard
+again, more desperate, less loud. With a quick skill which seemed
+marvellous in Dalrymple's eyes, Maria adjusted her veil almost before
+she had sprung to her feet.
+
+"Wait!" she said. "Something is the matter!"
+
+She was at the bedroom door in an instant, and in an instant more she
+was at her aunt's bedside.
+
+"Maria--I am dying," said the abbess's voice faintly, as she felt the
+nun's arm under her head.
+
+Dalrymple heard the words, and did not hesitate as he hastily felt for
+something in his pocket.
+
+"Come!" cried Maria Addolorata.
+
+But he was already there, on the other side of the bed, pouring
+something between the sick lady's lips.
+
+It was fortunate that he was there at that moment. He had indeed
+anticipated the possibility of a sudden failure in the action of the
+heart, and he never came to the convent without a small supply of a
+powerful stimulant of his own invention. The liquid, however, was of
+such a nature that he did not like to leave the use of it to Maria
+Addolorata's discretion, for he was aware that she might easily be
+mistaken in the symptoms of the collapse which would really require its
+use.
+
+The abbess swallowed a sufficient quantity of it, and Dalrymple allowed
+her head to lie again upon the pillow. She looked almost as though she
+were dead. Her eyes were turned up, and her jaw had dropped. Maria
+Addolorata believed that all was over.
+
+"She is dead," she said. "Let us leave her in peace."
+
+It is a very ancient custom among Italians to withdraw as soon as a
+dying person is unconscious, if not even before the supreme moment.
+
+"She will probably live through this," answered Dalrymple, shaking his
+head.
+
+Neither he nor the nun spoke again for a long time. Little by little,
+the abbess revived under the influence of the stimulant, the heart beat
+less faintly, and the mouth slowly closed, while the eyelids shut
+themselves tightly over the upturned eyes. The normal regular breathing
+began again, and the crisis was over.
+
+"It is passed," said Dalrymple. "It will not come again to-day. We can
+leave her now, for she will sleep."
+
+"Yes," said the abbess herself. "Let me sleep." Her voice was faint, but
+the words were distinctly articulated.
+
+Then she opened her eyes and looked about her quite naturally. Her
+glance rested on Dalrymple's face. Suddenly realizing that she was not
+veiled, she drew the coverlet up over her face. It is a peculiarity of
+such cases, that the patient returns almost immediately to ordinary
+consciousness when the moment of danger is past.
+
+"Go!" she said, with more energy than might have been expected. "This is
+a religious house. You must not be here."
+
+Dalrymple retired into the parlour again, shutting the door behind him,
+and waited for Maria Addolorata, for it was now indispensable that he
+should give her directions for the night. During the few minutes which
+passed while he was alone, he stood looking out of the window. The
+excitement of the last half-hour had cut off from his present state of
+mind the emotion he had felt before the abbess's cry for help, but had
+not decreased the impression it had left. While he was helping the sick
+lady there had not been one instant in which he had not felt that there
+was more than the life of a half-saintly old woman in the balance, and
+that her death meant the end of his meetings with Maria Addolorata.
+Annetta's words came back to him, 'she will knead her pillow with tears
+and make her bread of it.'
+
+Several minutes passed, and the door opened softly and closed again.
+Maria Addolorata came up to him, where he stood by the window. She did
+not speak for a moment, but he saw that her hand was pressed to her
+side.
+
+"I have spent a bad half-hour," she said at last, with something like a
+gasp.
+
+"It is the worst half-hour I ever spent in my life," answered Dalrymple.
+"I thought it was all over," he added.
+
+"Yes," she said, "I thought it was all over."
+
+He could hear his heart beating in his ears. He could almost hear hers.
+His hand went out toward her, cold and unsteady, but it fell to his side
+again almost instantly. But for the heart-beats, it seemed to him that
+there was an appalling stillness in the air of the quiet room. His
+manly face grew very pale. He slowly bit his lip and looked out of the
+window. An enormous temptation was upon him. He knew that if she moved
+to leave his side he should take her and hold her. There was a tiny drop
+of blood on his lip now. Something in him made him hope against himself
+that she would speak, that she would say some insignificant dry words.
+But every inch of his strong fibre and every ounce of his hot blood
+hoped that she would move, instead of speaking.
+
+She sighed, and the sigh was broken by a quick-drawn breath. Slowly
+Dalrymple turned his white face and gleaming eyes to her veiled head.
+Still she neither spoke nor moved. He, in memory, saw her face, her
+mouth, and her eyes through the thick stuff that hid them. The silence
+became awful to him. His hands opened and shut convulsively.
+
+She heard his breath and she saw the uncertain shadow of his hand,
+moving on the black and white squares of the pavement. She made a
+slight, short movement towards him and then stepped suddenly back,
+overcoming the temptation to go to him.
+
+"No!"
+
+He uttered the single word with a low, fierce cry. In an instant his
+arms were around her, pressing her, lifting her, straining her, almost
+bruising her. In an instant his lips were kissing a face whiter than his
+own, eyes that flamed like summer lightning between his kisses, lips
+crushed and hurt by his, but still not kissed enough, hands that were
+raised to resist, but lingered to be kissed in turn, lest anything
+should be lost.
+
+A little splintering crash, the sound of a glass falling upon a stone
+floor in the next room, broke the stillness. Dalrymple's arms relaxed,
+and the two stood for one moment facing one another, pale, with fire in
+their eyes and hearts beating more loudly than before. Dalrymple raised
+his hand to his forehead, as though he were dazed, and made an uncertain
+step in the direction of the door. Maria raised her white hands towards
+him, and her eyelids drooped, even while she looked into his face.
+
+He kissed her once more with a kiss in which all other kisses seemed to
+meet and live and die a lingering, sweet death. She sank into the deep
+old easy-chair, and when she looked up, he was gone.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX.
+
+
+IT rained during the afternoon, and Dalrymple sat in his small
+laboratory, among his books and the simple apparatus he used for his
+experiments. His little window was closed, and the southwest wind drove
+the shower against the clouded panes of glass, so that the rain came
+through the ill-fitted strips of lead which joined them, and ran down in
+small streams to the channel in the stone sill, whence the water found
+its way out through a hole running through the wall. He sat in his
+rush-bottomed chair, sideways by the deal table, one long leg crossed
+over the other. His hand lay on an open book, and his fingers
+occasionally tapped the page impatiently, while his eyes were fixed on
+the window, watching the driving rain.
+
+He was not thinking, for he could not think. Over and over again the
+scene of the morning came back to him and sent the hot blood rushing to
+his throat. He tried to reflect, indeed, and to see whether what he had
+done was to have any consequences for him, or was to be left behind in
+his life, like a lovely view seen from a carriage window on a swift
+journey, gone before it is half seen, and never to be seen again,
+except in dreams. But he was utterly unable to look forward and reason
+about the future. Everything dragged him back, up the steep ascent to
+the convent, through the arched ways and vaulted corridors, to the room
+in which he had passed the supreme moments of his life. The only
+distinct impression of the future was the strong desire to feel again
+what he had felt that day; to feel it again and again, and always, as
+long as feeling could last; to stretch out his hands and take, to close
+them and hold, to make his, indubitably, what had been but questionably
+his for an instant, to get the one thing worth having, for himself, and
+only for himself. For the passion of a strong man is loving and taking,
+and the passion of a good woman is loving and giving. Dalrymple reasoned
+well enough, later,--too well, perhaps,--but during those hours he spent
+alone on that day, there was no power of reasoning in him. The world was
+the woman he loved, and the world's orbit was but the circle of his
+clasping arms. Beyond them was chaos, without form and void, clouded as
+the rain-streaked panes of his little window.
+
+He looked at his watch more than once. At last he rose, threw a cloak
+over his shoulders and went out, locking the door of the little
+laboratory behind him as he always did, and thrusting the unwieldy key
+into his pocket.
+
+He climbed the hill to the convent, taking the short cut through the
+narrow lanes. The rain had almost ceased, and the wet mist that blew
+round the corners of the dark houses was pleasant in his face. But he
+scarcely knew what he saw and felt on his way. He reached the convent
+church and went in, and stood by one of the pillars near the door.
+
+It was a small church, built with a great choir for the nuns behind the
+high altar; from each side of the latter a high wooden screen extended
+to the walls, completely cutting off the space. It was dark, too,
+especially in such weather, and almost deserted, save for a number of
+old women who knelt on the damp marble pavement, some leaning against
+the backs of chairs, some resting one arm upon the plastered bases of
+the yellow marble columns. There were many lights on the high altar. Two
+acolytes, rough-headed boys of Subiaco, knelt within the altar rail,
+dressed in black cassocks and clean linen cottas. Two priests and a
+young deacon sat side by side on the right of the altar, with small
+black books in their hands. The nuns were chanting, unseen in the choir.
+No one noticed Dalrymple, wrapped in his cloak, as he leaned against the
+pillar near the door. His head was a little inclined, involuntarily
+respectful to ceremonies he neither believed in nor understood, but
+which had in them the imposing element of devout earnestness. Yet his
+eyes were raised and looked up from under his brows, steadily and
+watchfully, for he knew that Maria Addolorata was behind the screen, and
+from the first moment of entering the church it seemed to him that he
+could distinguish her voice from the rest.
+
+He knew that it was hers, though he had never heard her sing. There was
+in all those sweet, colourless tones one tone that made ringing
+harmonies in his strong heart. Amongst all those mingling accents, there
+was one accent that touched his soul. Amidst the echoes that died softly
+away under the dim arches, there was one echo that died not, but rang on
+and on in his ears. There was a voice not like other voices there, nor
+like any he had ever heard. Many were strong and sweet; this one was not
+sweet and strong only, but alive with a divine life, winged with divine
+wings, essential of immortality, touching beyond tears, passionate as
+the living, breathing, sighing, dying world, grand as a flood of light,
+sad as the twilight of gods, full as a great water swinging to the tide
+of the summer's moon, fine-drawn as star-rays--a voice of gold.
+
+As Dalrymple stood there in the shadow, he heard it singing to him and
+telling him all that he had not been told in words, all that he felt,
+and more also. For there was in it the passion of the woman, and the
+passionate remorse of the nun, the towering love of Maria Braccio,
+woman and princess, and the deep despair of Maria Addolorata, nun and
+sinner, unfaithful spouse of the Lord Christ, accused and self-accusing,
+self-wronged, self-judged, but condemned of God and foretasting the
+ultimate tragedy that is eternal--the tragedy of supreme hell.
+
+The man who stood there knew that it was his doing, and the burden of
+his deeds bowed him bodily as he stood. But still he listened, and, as
+she sung, he watched her lips in the dark, inner mirror of sin's memory,
+and they drew him on.
+
+Little by little, he heard only her voice, and the others chanted but
+faintly as from an infinite distance. And then, not in his thought, but
+in deed, she was singing alone, and the words of 'O Salutaris Hostia,'
+sounded in the dim church as they had never sounded before, nor could
+ever sound again, the appeal of a lost soul's agony to God, the glory of
+golden voice, the accent of transcendent genius, the passion, the
+strength, the despair, of an ancient race.
+
+In the dark church the coarse, sad peasant women bowed themselves upon
+the pavement. One of them sobbed aloud and beat her breast. Angus
+Dalrymple kneeled upon one knee and pressed his brow against the foot of
+the pillar, kneeling neither to God, nor to the Sacred Host, nor to
+man's belief in Heaven or Hell, neither praying nor blaspheming,
+neither hoping nor dreading, but spell-bound upon a wrack of torture
+that was heart-breaking delight, his senses torn and strained to the
+utmost of his strong endurance, to the very scream of passion, his soul
+crucified upon the exquisite loveliness of his sin.
+
+Then all was still for an instant. Again there was a sound of voices, as
+the nuns sang in chorus the 'Tantum Ergo.' But the voice of voices was
+silent among them. The solemn Benediction blessed the just and the
+unjust alike. The short verses and responses of the priests broke the
+air that still seemed alive and trembling.
+
+Dalrymple rose slowly, and wrapped his cloak about him. Above the
+footsteps of the women going out of the church, he could hear the soft
+sound of all the nuns moving together as they left the choir. He knew
+that she was with them, and he stood motionless in his place till
+silence descended as a curtain between him and what had been. Then, with
+bent head, he went out into the rain that poured through the dim
+twilight.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X.
+
+
+THEY were together on the following day. The abbess was better, and as
+yet there had been no return of the syncope which Dalrymple dreaded.
+
+Contrary to her habit, Maria Addolorata sat on a high chair by the
+table, her head veiled and turned away, her chin supported in her hand.
+Dalrymple was seated not far from her, leaning forward, and trying to
+see her face, silent, and in a dangerous mood. She had refused to let
+him come near her, and even to raise her veil. When she spoke, her voice
+was full of a profound sadness that irritated him instead of touching
+him, for his nerves were strung to passion and out of tune with regret.
+
+"The sin of it; the deadly sin!" she said.
+
+"There is no sin in it," he answered; but she shook her veiled head.
+
+And there was silence again, as on the day before, but the stillness was
+of another kind. It was not the awful lull which goes before the
+bursting of the storm, when the very air seems to start at the fall of a
+leaf for fear lest it be already the thunder-clap. It was more like the
+noiseless rising of the hungry flood that creeps up round the doomed
+house, wherein is desperate, starving life, higher and higher, inch by
+inch--the flood of rising fate.
+
+"You say that there is no sin in it," she said, after a time. "You say
+it, but you do not think it. You are a man--you have honour to lose--you
+understand that, at least--"
+
+"You are a woman, and you have humanity's right to be free. It is an
+honourable right. You gave it up when you took that veil, not knowing
+what it was that you gave up. You have done no wrong. You have done
+nothing that any loving maiden need be ashamed of. I kissed you, for you
+could not help yourself. That is the monstrous crime which you say is to
+be punished with eternal damnation. It is monstrous that you should
+think so. It is blasphemy to say that God made woman to lead a life of
+suffering and daily misery, chained to a cross which it is agony to look
+at, and shame to break from."
+
+"Go--leave me. You are tempting me again." She spoke away from him, not
+changing her position.
+
+"If truth is temptation, I am tempting you, for I am showing you the
+truth. The truth is this. When you were almost a child they began to
+bend you and break you in the way they meant you to grow. You bent, but
+you were not broken. Your nature is too strong. There is a life of your
+own in you. It was against your will, and when you were just grown up,
+they buried you, your beauty, your youth, your fresh young heart, your
+voice and your genius--for it is nothing less. It was all done with
+deliberate intention for the glory of your family, blasphemously
+asserted to be the glory of God. It was pressed upon you, before you
+knew what you were doing, and made pleasant to you before you knew what
+it all meant. Your cross was cushioned for you and your crown of thorns
+was gilded. They made the seat under the canopy seem a seat in heaven.
+They even made you believe that the management of two or three score
+suffering women was government and power. It seemed a great thing to be
+abbess, did it not?"
+
+Maria Addolorata bent her veiled head slowly twice or three times, in a
+heavy-hearted way.
+
+"They made you believe all that," continued Dalrymple, with cold
+earnestness, "and much more besides--a great deal of which I know
+little, I suppose--the life to come, and saintship, and the glories of
+heaven. You have found out what it is all worth. We have found it out
+together. And they frightened you with hell. Do you know what hell is? A
+life without love, when one knows what love can mean. I am not eloquent;
+I wish I were. But I am plain, and I can tell you the truth."
+
+"It is not the truth," answered the nun, slowly. "You tell me it is, to
+tempt me. I cannot drive you away by force. Will you not go? I cannot
+cry out for help--it would ruin me and you. Will you not leave me? But
+for God's grace, I am at your mercy, and there is little grace for me, a
+sinner."
+
+"No, I will not go away," said Dalrymple, and it seemed to Maria that
+his voice was the voice of her fate.
+
+"Then God have mercy!" she cried, in a low tone, and as her head sank
+forward, it was her forehead that rested in her right hand, instead of
+her chin.
+
+"Love is more merciful than God," he answered.
+
+There was a sudden softness in his voice which she had never heard, not
+even yesterday. Rising, he stole near to her, and standing, bent down
+and leaned upon the table by her side and spoke close to her ear. But he
+did not touch her. She could feel his breath through her veil when he
+spoke again. It was vital and fierce, and softly hot, like the breathing
+of a powerful wild beast.
+
+"You are my God," he said. "I worship you, and adore you. But I must
+have you for mine always. I would rather kill you, and have no God, than
+lose you alive. Come with me. You are free. You can get through the
+garden at night--with good horses we can reach the sea to-morrow. There
+is an English ship of war at anchor in Civita Vecchia. The officers are
+my friends. Before to-morrow night we can be safe--married--happy. No
+one will know--no one will follow us. Maria--come--come--come!"
+
+His voice sank to a vibrating whisper as he repeated the word again and
+again, closer and closer to her ear. Her hands had dropped from her
+forehead and lay upon the table. With bent head she listened.
+
+"Come, my darling," he continued, fast and low. "I have a beautiful
+home, my father's home, my mother's--your laws and vows are nothing to
+them. You shall be honoured, loved--ah, dear! adored, worshipped--you do
+not know what we will do for you, to fill your life with sweet things.
+All your life, Maria, from to-morrow. Instead of pain and penance and
+everlasting suffering and weariness, you shall have all that the world
+holds of love and peace and flowers. And you shall sing your whole heart
+out when you will, and have music to play with from year's beginning to
+year's end and year's end again. Sweet, let me tell you how I love
+you--how you are alive in every drop of my blood, beating through me
+like living fire, through heart and soul and head and hand--"
+
+With a quick movement she pressed her palms against her veil upon her
+ears to shut out the sound of his words. She rocked herself a little, as
+though the pain were almost greater than she could bear. But his hands
+moved too, stealthily, strongly, as a tiger's velvet feet, with a
+vibration all through them, to the very ends of his fingers. For he was
+in earnest. And the arm went softly round her, and closed gently upon
+her as her figure swayed in her chair; and the other sought hers, and
+found it cold as ice and trembling, and not strong to stop her hearing.
+And again she listened.
+
+Wild and incoherent words fell from his lips, hot and low, with no
+reason in them but the overwhelming reason of love itself. For he was
+not an eloquent man, and now he took no thought of what he said. He was
+far too natural to be eloquent, and far too deeply stirred to care for
+the shape his love took in speech. There was in his words the strong
+rush of out-bursting truth which even the worst passion has when it is
+real to the roots. Words terrible and gentle, blasphemous and devout,
+wove themselves into a new language such as Maria Addolorata had never
+heard, nor dared to think of hearing. But he dared everything, to tell
+her, to hold her, against God and devil, heaven and earth, and all
+mankind. And he promised all he had, and all that was not his to promise
+nor to give, rending her beliefs to shreds, trampling on the broken
+fragments of all she had worshipped, tearing her chains link from link
+and scattering them like straw down the storm of passionate contempt.
+And then, again, pouring out love, and more love, and love again, as a
+stream of liquid fire let loose to flood all it meets with dazzling
+destruction and hot death.
+
+It is not every woman that knows what it is to be so loved and to listen
+to such words, so spoken. Those who have heard and felt can understand,
+but not the rest. Gradually as he spoke, her veiled face was drawn
+toward his; gradually her hand raised the thick veil and drew it back;
+and again a little, and the hand that had struggled long and silently
+against his, lay still at last, and the face that had appealed in vain
+to Heaven, hid itself against the heart of the strong man.
+
+"The Lord have mercy upon my sinful soul!" she softly prayed.
+
+"I love you!" whispered Dalrymple, folding her to him with both his
+arms, and pressing his lips to her head. "That is all the world holds.
+That is all the Heaven there is, and we have it for our own."
+
+But presently she drew back from him, clinging to him with her hands as
+though to hold him, and yet separating from him and looking up into his
+face.
+
+"And to-morrow?" she said, with a despairing question in her tone.
+
+"We will go away to-night," he answered, "and to-morrow will be ours,
+too, and all the to-morrows after that."
+
+But she shook her head, and her hands loosened their hold upon his arms,
+still lingering on his sleeves.
+
+"And leave her to die?" she asked, with a quick glance at the abbess's
+door.
+
+Then she looked at him, with something of sudden fear as she met his
+eyes again. And almost instantly she turned from him, and threw herself
+forward upon the table as she sat.
+
+"The sin, the deadly sin!" she moaned. "Oh, the horror of it all--the
+sin, the shame, the disgrace! That is the worst to bear--the shame! The
+undying shame of it!"
+
+Dalrymple's brows bent themselves in a heavy frown, for he was in no
+temper to be thwarted, desperate as the risk might be. For himself, he
+knew that he was setting his life on the chances, if she consented, and
+that life would not be worth having if she refused. He knew well enough
+that they must almost certainly be pursued, and that there would be
+little hesitation about shooting him or cutting his throat if they were
+caught and if he resisted, as he knew that he should. He had been in
+love with her for days. The last twenty-four hours had made him
+desperate. And a desperate man is not to be played with, more especially
+if he chance to have any Highland blood in his veins.
+
+"What do you believe in most?" he asked suddenly and almost brutally.
+
+She turned, startled, and looked him in the face.
+
+"Because, if you believe in God, as I suppose you do, I take God to
+witness that I shall be a dead man this night, unless you promise to go
+with me."
+
+She stared, and turned white to the lips, as he had never seen her turn
+pale before. She leaned forward, gazing into his eyes and breathing
+hard.
+
+"You do not mean that," she said, as though trying hard to convince
+herself.
+
+"I mean it," he answered slowly, pale himself, and knowing what he said.
+
+She leaned nearer to him and took his arms with her hands, for she could
+not speak. The terrible question was in his eyes.
+
+"You would kill yourself, if I refused--if I would not go with you?"
+Still she could not believe him.
+
+"Yes," he answered.
+
+Once more the room was very still, as the two looked into one another's
+eyes. But Maria Addolorata said nothing. The frown deepened on
+Dalrymple's face, and his strong mouth was drawn, as a man draws in his
+lips at the moment of meeting death.
+
+"Good-bye," he said, gently loosening himself from her hold.
+
+Her hands dropped and she turned half round, following him as he went
+towards the door. His hand was almost on the latch. He did not turn.
+But as he heard her swift feet behind him, he bent his head a little.
+Her arms went round his throat, reaching up to his great height.
+
+"No! No!" she cried, drawing his head down to her.
+
+But he took her by the wrists and held her away from him at his arms'
+length.
+
+"Are you in earnest?" he asked fiercely. "If you play with me any more,
+you shall die, too."
+
+"But not to-day!" she answered imploringly. "Not to-night! Give me
+time--a day--a little while--"
+
+"To lose you? No. I have been near losing you. I know what it means.
+Make up your mind. Yes, or no."
+
+"To-night? But how? There is not time--these clothes I wear--"
+
+She turned her head distractedly to one side and the other as she spoke,
+while he held her wrists. Dalrymple saw that there was reason in the
+objections she made. So dangerous a flight could not be undertaken
+without some preparation. He loosed her hands and began to pace the
+room, concentrating his mind upon the details. She watched him in
+silence, leaning against the back of the easy-chair. Then he stopped
+just before her.
+
+"My cloak would come down to your feet," he said, measuring her height
+with his eyes. "I have a plaid which would cover your head. Once on
+horseback, no one would notice anything. Can you ride?"
+
+"No. I never learned."
+
+"That is unlucky. But we can manage it. The main thing would be to get a
+long start if possible--that you should not be missed--to get away just
+at the beginning of the longest time during which the nuns would not
+expect to see you. Where is your own room? Is it near this?"
+
+Maria Addolorata told him, and explained the position of the balcony
+with the steps leading down into the garden. He asked her who kept the
+key of the postern. It was in the possession of the gardener, who took
+it away with him at night, but the lock was on the inside, and
+uncovered, as old Italian locks are. By raising the curved spring one
+could push back the bolt. There was a handle on the latter, for that
+purpose. There would be no difficulty about getting out, nor about
+letting Dalrymple in, provided that the night were dark.
+
+"The moon is almost full," said Dalrymple, thoughtfully, and he began to
+walk up and down again. "Never mind. It must be to-morrow night. In your
+dark dress, when the sisters are asleep, if you keep in the shadow along
+the wall, there is not the slightest risk. I will be waiting for you on
+the other side of the gate with my cloak and plaid. I will have the
+horses ready, a little higher up. There is a good mule path which goes
+down into the valley on that side. You have only to reach the gate and
+let yourself out. It is very easy. Tell me at what time to be waiting."
+
+Maria leaned heavily upon the chair, with bent head.
+
+"I cannot do it--oh, I cannot!" she said despairingly. "The shame of it!
+To be the talk of Rome--the scandal of the day--a disgrace to my father
+and mother!"
+
+Dalrymple frowned, and biting his lip, he struck his clenched fist
+softly with the palm of his hand, making a few quick steps backward and
+forward. He stopped suddenly and looked at her with dangerous eyes.
+
+"I have told you," he said. "I will not repeat it. You must choose."
+
+"Oh, you cannot be in earnest--"
+
+"You shall see. It is plain enough," he added, with an accent of scorn.
+"You are more afraid of a little talk and gossip in Rome, than of being
+told to-morrow morning that I died in the night. That is Italian
+courage, I suppose."
+
+She hung her head for a moment. Then, as she heard his footsteps, she
+threw her veil back and saw that he was going towards the door without a
+word.
+
+"You are cruel," she said, half catching her breath. "You know that you
+make me suffer--that I cannot live without you."
+
+"I shall certainly not live without you," he answered. "I mean to have
+you at any price, or I will die in the attempt to get you."
+
+The words have a melodramatic look on paper. But he spoke them not only
+with his lips, but with his whole self. They were not out of keeping
+with his nature. There is no more desperate blood in the world's veins
+than that of the Celt when he is driven to bay or exasperated by
+passion. In him the reckless fatalism of the Asiatic is blended with the
+cool daring of the northerner.
+
+Maria Addolorata had little experience of the world or of men, but she
+had the hereditary instincts of her sex, and as she looked at Dalrymple
+she recognized in him the man who would do what he said, or forfeit his
+life in trying to do it. There is no mistaking the truth about such men,
+at such moments.
+
+"I believe you would," she said, and she felt pride in saying it.
+
+Her own life was in the balance. She bent her head again. Her temples
+were throbbing, and it was hard to think at all connectedly.
+
+"I want your answer," he said, still standing near the door. "Yes or
+no--for to-morrow night?"
+
+"I cannot live without you," she answered slowly, and still looking
+down. "I must go."
+
+But she did not meet his eyes, for she knew that she was wavering still,
+and almost as uncertain as before. All at once Dalrymple's manner
+changed. He came quietly to her side and took one of her hands, which
+hung idly over the back of the chair, in both of his.
+
+"You must be in earnest, as I am, my dear," he said, very calmly and
+gently. "You must not play with a man's life and heart, as though they
+were worth nothing but play. You called me cruel, dear, a moment ago.
+But you are more cruel than I, for I do not hesitate."
+
+"I must go," she repeated, still avoiding his look. "Yes, I must go. I
+should die without you."
+
+"But to-morrow when I come, you will hesitate again," he said, still
+speaking very quietly. "I must be sure. You must give me some promise,
+something more than you have given me yet."
+
+She looked up with startled eyes.
+
+"You do not believe me?" she asked. "What shall I do? I--I promise! You
+yourself have never said that you promised."
+
+"Does it need that?" He pressed the hand he held, with softly increasing
+strength, between his palms.
+
+"No," she answered, looking at him. "I can see it. You will do what you
+say. I have promised, too."
+
+He gazed incredulously into her face.
+
+"Do you doubt me?" she asked.
+
+"Have I not reason to doubt? You change your mind easily. I do not blame
+you. But how am I to believe?"
+
+She grew impatient of his unbelief. Yet as he pressed her hand, the
+power he had over her increased with every second.
+
+"But I will, I will!" she cried, in a low voice. "And still you doubt--I
+see it in your eyes. Have I not promised? What more can I do?"
+
+"I do not know," he answered. "But you must make me believe you." The
+strength of his eyes seemed to be forcing something from her.
+
+"I say it--I promise it--I swear it! Do I not love you? Am I not giving
+my soul for you? Have I not given it already? What more can I do or
+say?"
+
+"I do not know," he answered a second time, holding her with his eyes.
+"I must believe you before I go."
+
+He spoke honestly and earnestly, not meaning to exasperate her,
+searching in her look for what was unmistakably in his own. His hands
+shook, not weakly, as they held hers. His piercing eyes seemed to see
+through and through her. She trembled all over, and the colour rose to
+her face, more in despair of convincing him than in a blush of shame.
+
+"Believe me!" she said, imperiously, and her eyelids contracted with the
+effort of her will.
+
+But he said nothing. She felt that he was immeasurably stronger than
+she. But just then, he was not more desperate. There was a short,
+intense silence. Her face grew pale and was set with the fatal look she
+sometimes had.
+
+"I pledge you with my blood!" she said suddenly.
+
+Her eyes did not waver from his, but she wrenched her right hand from
+him, and before he could take it again, her even teeth had met in the
+flesh. The bright scarlet drops rose high and broke, and trickled in
+vivid stripes across her hand as she held it before his face. Her own
+was very white, but without a trace of pain. Something in the fierce
+action appealed strongly to the fiery Celtic nature of the man. His
+features relaxed instantly.
+
+"I believe you," he said, and she knew it as his arms went round her;
+and the pain of the wound made his kisses sweeter.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI.
+
+
+WHEN Dalrymple left Maria on that day, he returned as usual to
+Stefanone's house. Sora Nanna was alone, for Stefanone was still absent
+in Rome, and Annetta had gone on the previous day with a number of women
+to the fair at Civitella San Sisto, which took place on Sunday. She was
+expected to return on Monday afternoon. It is usual enough for a party
+of women, with two or three men, to go to the fairs in neighbouring
+towns and to spend the night with the friends of some one of the
+company. It was more common still, in those days.
+
+Sora Nanna gave Dalrymple his dinner and kept him company for a while.
+But he was gloomy and preoccupied, and before long she retired to the
+regions of the laundry, which was installed in a long low building that
+ran out into the vegetable garden at the back of the house. Monday was
+generally the day for ironing the heavy linen of the convent, which was
+taken up on Tuesdays in the huge baskets carried by four women, slung to
+a pole which rested on their shoulders in the old primitive fashion,
+just as litters are still carried in many parts of Asia. It had
+occurred more than once to Dalrymple, during the last two days, that he
+could hide almost anything he chose in one of these baskets, which were
+always delivered directly to Maria Addolorata and which she was at
+liberty to unpack in the privacy of the linen room if she chose.
+
+He thought of this again as he sat over his dinner, and heard the
+endless song of the women, far off, at their work. He knew the habits of
+the house thoroughly and all the customs regarding the carrying up of
+the baskets, and he remembered that several of them would surely be
+taken to the convent on the morrow. He thought that if he could procure
+some more suitable clothes for Maria to wear, this would be a safe means
+of conveying them to her. She could put them on in her cell, just before
+the hour at which she was to expect him, so that there would be no time
+lost and the danger of detection during their flight would be greatly
+diminished. But there were all sorts of difficulties in the way, and he
+realized them one by one, until he almost abandoned the scheme in favour
+of the cloak and plaid which he had first proposed.
+
+He pushed back his chair and went upstairs to his own room. The
+impression made upon him by Maria Addolorata, when she had bitten her
+hand, had been a strong one, but the man's nature, though not exactly
+distrustful, was melancholic and pessimistic. Two hours and more had
+passed since they had been together, and things had a different look. He
+realized more clearly the strength of the ties which bound Maria to her
+convent life, and the effort it must be to her to break them. He
+remembered the arguments he had used, and he saw that they had been
+those of passion rather than of reason. Their effect could not be
+lasting, when he himself was not there to lend them his words and the
+persuasion of his strength. Maria would repent of her promise, and there
+was nothing to bind her to it. Hitherto there had been no risk, no
+common danger. By a chain of natural circumstances he had made his way
+into a most extraordinary position, but it was in her power, in a moment
+of repentance, to force him from it. While the abbess was ill, Maria was
+virtually mistress of the convent. At a word from her the doors might be
+shut in his face. She might promise again, and bite her hand again, but
+when it came to his waiting outside the garden gate, she might be seized
+by a fit of repentance, and he might wait till morning.
+
+As he sat in his room he realized all this, and more, for he knew that
+on calm reflexion he meant to do what he had that morning threatened in
+his haste. He had never been attached to life for its own sake.
+Melancholic men often are not. He had many times thought over the
+subject of suicide with a sort of grim interest in it, which indicated
+the direction his temper would take if he were ever absolutely defeated
+in a matter which he had at heart.
+
+Nothing he had ever felt in his life had taken hold of him as his love
+for Maria Addolorata, for he had never really been in love before and he
+had completely abandoned himself to it, as such a man was sure to do in
+such surroundings. She was beautiful, but that was not all. Since he had
+heard her sing, he knew that her voice and her rare talent together were
+genius and nothing less. But that was far from being all. She was of his
+own class, and he had been seeing her daily, when the peasant women
+amongst whom he lived were little more than good-natured animals; but
+even that was not all. He was at that time of life when a man's
+character is apt to take a violent and sudden turn in its ultimate
+direction, when the forces that have been growing show themselves all at
+once, when passion, having appealed as yet but to the man, has climbed
+and is within reach of his soul, to take hold of it and twist it, or to
+be finally conquered, perhaps, in a holy life. But Dalrymple was very
+far from being the kind of man who could have taken refuge against
+himself in higher things. At a time when materialism was beginning to
+seem a great thing, he was a strong materialist in scientific
+questions. He grasped what he could see and held it, but what he could
+not see had no existence for him. Nothing transcendental attracted him
+beyond the sphere of mathematics. Yet he had not the materialist's
+temperament, for the Highland blood in his veins brought strong fancies
+and sudden passions to his head and heart, such as his chemistry could
+not explain; and when the brain burned and the heart beat fast, it meant
+doing or dying with him, as with many a Scotchman before and since. Life
+had never seemed to be worth much in his eyes, compared with a thing he
+wanted.
+
+He sat still and thought the matter over, and considered the question of
+death, for a few short minutes. There was not a trace of philosophical
+speculation in his reflexions, or they would have lasted longer. He
+merely desired to be sure, with that curious Scotch caution, of his own
+intentions, in order not to be obliged to think the matter over again at
+the last minute.
+
+He had drunk a measure of strong wine with his dinner, as usual. To-day
+it increased the gloom of his temper, and the pessimistic view he took.
+In less than a quarter of an hour he had made up his mind that if Maria
+Addolorata repented at a late hour and refused to leave the convent, he
+would make an attempt to carry her away by force. If he failed, and
+found himself shut off from all possibility of intercourse with her,
+life would not be worth living, and he would throw it away. When strong
+men are in that frame of mind, they generally accomplish what they have
+in view. Moreover, it is a great mistake to think that the people who
+think and talk of suicide will not take their own lives. On the
+contrary, statistics show that it is more often those who speak of it
+the most frequently, who ultimately make away with themselves. The mere
+fact of contemplating and discussing death familiarizes man with it till
+he does not even attribute to it its true value, which is little enough,
+as most of us know. Dalrymple was in earnest, and he knew it.
+
+He rose from his chair and unlocked his little laboratory. Among many
+other things upon the long table there was a plain English oak box,
+filled with small stoppered bottles, each having a label upon it with
+the name of the contents written in his own hand. Some were merely
+medicines, which he carried with him in case his services should ever be
+required, as had happened at the present time. Others were chemicals
+which he used in his experiments, such as he could not easily have
+procured in Italy, outside of the great cities. One even contained the
+common spirits of camphor, of which he had once given Annetta a
+teaspoonful when she had complained of a chill and sickness. One,
+however, was more than half full of a solution of hydrocyanide of
+potassium, a liquid little less suddenly and surely fatal than the
+prussic acid which enters into its composition.
+
+He took out this bottle and held it up to the light. The liquid was
+clear and transparent as water. He watched it curiously as he made it
+run up to the neck and back again. It might have been taken for pure
+alcohol, being absolutely colourless.
+
+"It would not take much of that," he said to himself, with a grim smile.
+
+His meditations were interrupted by the voice of Sora Nanna, who had
+opened his bedroom door without ceremony and stood calling to him. He
+came forward hastily from the laboratory and went up to her.
+
+"You do not know!" she cried, laughing and holding up a letter.
+"Stefanone has written to me from Rome! To me! Who the devil knows what
+he says? I do not understand anything of it. Who should teach me to
+read? He takes me for a priest, that I should know how to read!"
+
+Dalrymple laughed a little as he took the letter. He picked up his hat
+from a chair, for he meant to go out and spend the afternoon alone upon
+the hillside.
+
+"We will read it downstairs," he said. "I am going for a walk."
+
+He read it to her in the common room on the ground floor. It was a
+letter dictated by Stefanone to a public scribe, instructing his wife to
+tell Gigetto that she must send another load of wine to Rome as soon as
+possible, as the price was good in the market. Stefanone would remain in
+the city till it came, and sell it before returning.
+
+"These husbands!" exclaimed Sora Nanna, with a grin. "What they will not
+do! They go, riding, riding, and they come back when it seems good to
+them. Who tells me what he does in Rome? Rome is great."
+
+Dalrymple laughed, put on his hat and went off, leaving Sora Nanna to
+find Gigetto and give the necessary directions.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII.
+
+
+GIGETTO had refused to accompany Annetta and her party to the fair at
+Civitella San Sisto. He had been to Rome several times, and was far too
+fine a young gentleman to divert himself in such a very primitive place.
+He preferred to spend his leisure hours, which were very many, in
+elegant idleness, according to his lights, between the tobacconist's,
+the chemist's shop, which was the resort of all the superior men of the
+place after four o'clock in the afternoon, and the abundant, though not
+very refined table which was spread twice daily in his father's house.
+Civitella wine, Civitella fireworks, and especially Civitella girls,
+were quite beneath his notice. As for Annetta, he looked upon her with
+something like contempt, though he had a high respect for the fortune
+which must one day be hers. She was to be a necessary encumbrance of his
+future life, and for the present he meant to see as little of her as was
+conveniently possible without relinquishing his claims to her hand. She
+had admired him, in a way, until the arrival of Dalrymple, and he felt a
+little irritation at the Scotchman's presence in the house, so that he
+occasionally frightened Sora Nanna by talking of waiting for him with a
+gun at the corner of the forest. It produced a good impression, he
+thought, to show from time to time that he was not without jealousy. But
+as for going with her on such an expedition as a visit to a country
+fair, it was not to be expected of him.
+
+Nevertheless, Annetta had enjoyed herself thoroughly with her
+companions, and was very glad that Gigetto had not been at her elbow
+with his city notions of propriety, which he applied to her, but made as
+elastic as he pleased for himself. She had been to high mass in the
+village church, crowded to suffocation, she had walked up and down the
+main street half the afternoon, arm in arm with the other girls,
+giggling and showing off her handsome costume to the poorer natives of
+the little place, and smiling wickedly at the handsome youths who stood
+idly in groups at the corners of the streets. She had dined sumptuously,
+and had made her eyes sparkle like rather vulgar little stars by
+drinking a glass of strong old white wine to the health and speedy
+marriage of all the other girls. She had gone out with them at dusk, and
+had watched the pretty fireworks in the small piazza, and had wandered
+on with them afterwards in the moonlight to the ruin of the Cyclopean
+fortress which overlooks the two valleys. Then back to the house of her
+friends, who kept the principal inn, and more tough chicken and tender
+salad and red wine for supper. And on the next day they had all gone
+down to the meagre vineyards, half way to San Vito and just below the
+thick chestnut woods which belong to the Marchese and feudal lord of
+that ancient town. And there amongst the showers of reddening vine
+leaves, she had helped to gather the last grapes of the year, with song
+and jest and laughter. At noon they climbed the hill again in the
+October sun, and dined upon the remains of the previous day's feast;
+then, singing still, they had started on their homeward downward way,
+happy and not half tired yet when they reached Subiaco in the evening
+glow.
+
+They came trooping through the town to the little piazza in which the
+doctor's house was situated. They separated here, some to go up to the
+higher part, while others were to go down in the same direction as
+Annetta. The girl looked up at the doctor's windows, and her small eyes
+flashed viciously. It would be a pleasant ending to the two days'
+holiday to have a look at her work. Now that he was getting well, as
+Dalrymple told her, she was glad that she had not killed him. It was an
+even greater satisfaction to have almost frightened the old coward to
+death. She had been uneasy about the question of confession.
+
+"By Bacchus," she laughed, "I will go and see Sor Tommaso. They say he
+is better."
+
+So she took leave of her companions and entered the narrow door, and
+climbed the short flight of dark steps and knocked. The doctor's
+sleeping-room opened directly upon the staircase. He used the room on
+the ground floor as an office and dining-room, his old peasant
+woman-servant slept in the attic, and the other two rooms were let by
+the year. It was a very small house.
+
+The old woman, whose name was Serafina, opened the bedroom door and
+thrust out her head, covered with a dark and threadbare shawl. There was
+a sibylline gloom about her withered face, as though she had lived a
+lifetime in the face of a horror to come.
+
+"What do you want?" she croaked roughly, and not opening the door any
+wider.
+
+"Eh! What do I want? I am the Annetta of Stefanone, and I have come to
+pay a visit to this dear doctor, because they say that he is better, God
+bless him."
+
+"Oh! I did not recognize you," said the old woman. "I will ask."
+
+Still holding the door almost closed, she drew in her head and spoke
+with Sor Tommaso. Annetta could hear his answer.
+
+"Of course!" he said, in a voice still weak, but singularly oily with
+the politeness of his intention. "Let her favour us!"
+
+The door was opened, and Annetta went in. Sor Tommaso was sitting up
+near the window, in a deep easy-chair covered with ragged green damask.
+The girl was surprised by his pallor, as compared with his formerly
+rubicund complexion. Peasant-like, she glanced about the room to judge
+of its contents before she spoke.
+
+"How are you, dear Sor Tommaso?" she asked after the short pause. "Eh,
+what we have suffered for you, all of us! Who was this barbarian who
+wished to send you to Paradise?"
+
+"Who knows?" returned Sor Tommaso, with amazing blandness. "I trust that
+he may be forgiven as I forgive him."
+
+"What it is to be a wise man!" exclaimed Annetta, with affected
+admiration. "To have such sentiments! It is a beautiful thing. And how
+do you feel now, dear Sor Tommaso? Are you getting your strength again?
+They took your blood, those cowardly murderers! You must make it again."
+
+Their eyes met, and each knew that the other knew and understood. Sor
+Tommaso smiled gently. The savage girl's mouth twitched as though she
+should have liked to laugh.
+
+"Little by little; who goes slowly goes safely," answered the doctor. "I
+am an old man, you must know."
+
+"Old!" Annetta was glad of the opportunity to laugh at last. "Old? Eh,
+on Sunday, when you have on those new black trousers of yours that are
+tight, tight--you seem to me a boy as young as Gigetto. For my part, I
+should prefer you. You are more serious. Gigetto! What must I say? He is
+handsome, he may be good, but he has not a head. There is nothing in
+that pumpkin."
+
+"Blood of youth," answered Sor Tommaso. "It must boil. It must fling its
+chains about. Afterwards it begins to know the chains. Little by little
+it accustoms itself to them. Then it is quiet, quiet, as we old ones
+are. Sit down, my daughter. Serafina! A chair--the one that is not lame.
+These chairs remember the blessed soul of mamma," added Sor Tommaso, in
+explanation of their weakness.
+
+"Requiesca'!" exclaimed Annetta, sitting down.
+
+"Amen," responded Sor Tommaso. "You are so beautiful to-day," he
+continued, looking at her flowered bodice and new apron; "where have you
+been?"
+
+"Where should I go? To Civitella. There was the fair. We ate certain
+chickens--tough! But the air of the mountain consumes. There were also
+fireworks."
+
+"What? Have you walked?" asked Sor Tommaso.
+
+"Even with two legs one can walk," laughed the girl. "But of course a
+beast is better with four. The beasts had all gone to Tivoli with wine
+for Rome. They had not come back yesterday morning. Therefore with
+these two feet I walked. I and many others, girls like me. It is true
+that I am half dead."
+
+"You are fresher than lettuce," observed Sor Tommaso. "And then you have
+climbed up my stairs. This is a true Christian act. God return it to
+you. I am alone all day."
+
+"But the Englishman comes to see you," said Annetta, indifferently.
+
+"The Englishman, yes. He comes. More or less, he has almost cured me.
+But then, for his conversation, I say nothing!"
+
+"Meanwhile he is also curing the abbess. He has a fortunate hand. There
+death, here death--he makes them all alive. Where is death, now? Here,
+perhaps? Hidden in some corner, or under the bed? He has certain
+medicines, that Englishman! Medicines that you do not even dream of.
+Strong! It is I that tell you. Sometimes, the whole house smells of
+them. Death could not resist them a moment. They drive even the flies
+out of the windows. The Englishman gave me some once. I had been in the
+sun and had drunk a gallon of cold water, foolish as I was. I was
+thirsty, as I am now. Well, he gave me a spoonful of something like
+water, mixed in water. I do not tell you anything. At first it burned
+me. Arch-priest, it burned! Then, not even a minute, and I had Paradise
+in my body. And so it passed."
+
+"Who knows? A cordial, perhaps," observed Sor Tommaso, thoughtfully. "I
+have such cordials, too."
+
+"I do not doubt it," answered the girl, suspiciously. "But I would
+rather not taste them. I feel quite well."
+
+It crossed her mind that in return for three knife-thrusts, Sor Tommaso
+would probably not miss so good a chance of paying her with a glass of
+poison. She would certainly have done as much herself, had she been in
+his place.
+
+"Who thought of offering you cordials!" replied the doctor, with a
+polite laugh. "I said it to say it. But if you are thirsty, command me.
+There is water and good wine. They are the best cordials."
+
+"Eh, a little water. I do not refuse. As for the wine, no. I thank you
+the same. I am fasting and have walked. After supper, at home, I will
+drink."
+
+"Serafina!" cried Sor Tommaso, and the old sibyl immediately appeared
+from the stairs, whither she had discreetly retired to wait during
+Annetta's visit. "Bring water, and that bottle of my wine from
+downstairs. You know, the bottle of old wine of Stefanone's that was
+opened."
+
+"No, no. I want no wine," said Annetta, quickly.
+
+"Bring it all the same. Perhaps she will do us the honour to drink it."
+
+Serafina nodded, and her bare feet were heard on the stone steps as she
+descended.
+
+"It is bad to drink pure water when one is very thirsty," said Sor
+Tommaso. "It cramps the stomach. A little wine gives the stomach
+strength. But it is best to eat. If you will eat, there are fresh
+jumbles. I also eat them."
+
+"I thank you the same," answered Annetta. "I wish only water. It is a
+long way from Civitella, and there is no good spring. There is the brook
+that runs out of the pond at the foot of the last hill. But it is heavy
+water, full of stuff."
+
+Serafina came back, bringing two heavy tumblers of pressed glass on a
+little black japanned tray, with a decanter of cold water. In her other
+hand she carried two bottles, one half full of wine, the other
+containing the white and sugary syrup of peach kernels of which Italians
+are so fond.
+
+"I brought this also," she said, holding up the bottle as she set down
+the tray. "Perhaps it is better."
+
+"Yes," said Sor Tommaso, nodding in approbation. "It is better."
+
+"You will drink a little orgeat?" asked the old woman, in a tone of
+persuasion, and mixing it in the glass.
+
+"Water, simply water," said Annetta, who was still suspicious. "Give me
+water in the other glass."
+
+"But I have mixed already in both," answered Serafina. "Eh, you will
+drink it. You will not make an old woman like me go all the way down the
+stairs again. But then, it is good. It is I that tell you. I made it
+myself, yesterday morning, for the doctor, to refresh his blood a
+little."
+
+Annetta had risen to her feet and was watching the glasses, as the old
+woman stirred the white syrup in the water with an old-fashioned,
+long-handled spoon. She did not wish to seem absurdly suspicious, and
+yet she distrusted her enemy. She took one of the glasses, went to his
+side, and held it to his lips as one gives an invalid drink.
+
+"After you," he said, with a polite smile, but raising his hand to take
+the glass.
+
+"Sick people first, well people afterwards," answered Annetta, smiling
+too, but watching him intently.
+
+He had satisfied himself that she really suspected foul play, for he
+knew the peasants well, and was only a degree removed from them himself.
+He at once dismissed her suspicions by drinking half the tumbler at a
+draught. She immediately took the other and emptied it eagerly, as she
+was really very thirsty.
+
+"A little more?" suggested Serafina, in her croaking voice.
+
+"No," interposed Sor Tommaso. "It might hurt her--so much at once."
+
+But Annetta filled the tumbler with pure water, and emptied it again.
+
+"At last!" she exclaimed with a sigh of satisfaction. "What thirst! I
+seemed to have eaten ashes! And now I thank you, Sor Tommaso, and I am
+going home; for it is Ave Maria, and I do not wish to make a bad meeting
+in the dark as happened to you. Ugly assassins! I will never forgive
+them, never! What am I to say at home? That you will come to supper one
+of these days?"
+
+"Eh, if God wills," answered the doctor. "I will be accompanied by
+Serafina."
+
+"I!" exclaimed the old woman. "I am afraid even of a cat! What could I
+do for you?"
+
+"Company is always company," said Sor Tommaso, wisely. "Where one would
+not go, two go bravely. Good evening, my beautiful daughter," he added,
+looking up at Annetta. "The Madonna go with you."
+
+"Thank you, and good evening," answered the girl, dropping half a
+courtsey, with a vicious twinkle in her little eyes.
+
+She turned, and was out of the room in a moment. On the way home through
+the narrow streets in the evening glow, she sang snatches of song to
+herself, and thought of all she had said to Sor Tommaso, and of all he
+had said to her, and of how much afraid he was of her father's knife.
+For otherwise, as she knew, he would have had her arrested.
+
+Suddenly, at the last turning she stopped and turned very pale, clasping
+both hands upon her bodice.
+
+"Assassin!" she groaned, grinding her short white teeth. "_He_ has
+poisoned me, after all! An evil death to him and all his house!
+Assassin!"
+
+She forgot that she had experienced precisely the same sensations once
+before, when she had been overheated and had swallowed too much cold
+water.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII.
+
+
+WITH slow steps, and pressing her clasped hands to her bodice, the girl
+reached the door of her father's house at dusk. She knew that he was
+away, and that as she had not come home earlier her mother would be in
+the lower regions preparing Dalrymple's supper for him. The door which
+gave access to the staircase from the street was still open, and she was
+almost sure of being able to reach her own room unobserved, unless she
+chanced to come upon Dalrymple himself on the stairs. Just then she
+would rather have met him than her mother. She was in great pain, and it
+would have been hard to explain to Sora Nanna that she believed herself
+to have been deliberately poisoned.
+
+She crept noiselessly up the stairs, which were almost dark, and she
+came to Dalrymple's door which faced the first landing. She paused and
+hesitated, leaning against the wall. He was a wise man in her opinion,
+and would of course understand her symptoms at once. But then, as she
+was poisoned, he could do nothing for her. If that were true, her next
+thought told her that Sor Tommaso must have poisoned himself. He would
+not do that. She had never heard of antidotes; for though poisoning was
+traditionally familiar to her and the people of her class, it was very
+uncommon. Yet her sharpened wit told her that if Sor Tommaso had
+swallowed the stuff, as he had done, with a smile, he had means at his
+disposal for counteracting it--some medicine which he had doubtless
+taken as soon as she had left him. But if he had medicine to save from
+poison, Dalrymple, who was a far wiser man, must have such medicines,
+too, and even better ones. This reflexion decided her. She was close to
+his door. It was probable that he would be in his room at that hour. She
+was in fear of her life, and she knocked.
+
+But Dalrymple had not come back. He had gone for a long walk alone in
+the hills, had climbed higher as the sun sank lower, and was belated in
+steep paths along which even his mountain-trained feet trod with some
+caution. He was too familiar with the country to lose his way, but he by
+no means found the shortest way there was, nor was he especially anxious
+to do so. The hours would pass sooner in walking than in sitting over
+his books under the flaring little flames of the three brass beaks.
+
+Annetta saw that there was no light in the room, for the hole through
+which the latch-string hung was worn wide with use. She felt dizzy, too,
+and the knife-like pain ran through her so that she bent herself. She
+knew that Dalrymple kept his medicines locked up in the laboratory, and
+that she could not get at them, though she would have had little
+hesitation in swallowing anything she found, in the simple certainty
+that all his medicines must be good in themselves, and therefore
+life-saving and good for her. But he was out, and she was sure that
+there could be nothing in the bedroom. She had herself too often looked
+into every corner when she watered and swept the brick floor each
+morning, and put things in order according to her primitive ideas.
+
+She then and there lost her hold upon life. She was poisoned, and must
+die. She was as sure of it as the Chinaman who has seen an eagle, and
+who, recognizing that his hour is come, calmly lies down and breathes
+his last by the mere suspension of volition. In old countries the lower
+orders, as a rule, have but a low vitality. It may be truer to say that
+the vital volition is weak. Let the learned settle the definition. The
+fact is easily accounted for. During generations upon generations the
+majority of European agricultural populations live upon vegetable food,
+like the majority of Eastern Asiatics, and with the same result. Hard
+labour produces hard muscles, but vegetable food yields a low vital
+tension, so to say. Soldiers know it well enough. The pale-faced city
+clerk who eats meat twice a day will out-fight and out-last and
+out-starve the burly labourer whose big thews and sinews are mostly
+compounded of potatoes, corn, and water.
+
+The girl crept up the stairs stealthily to her lonely little room, and
+lay down to die upon her bed, as though that were the only thing to be
+done under the circumstances. It never occurred to her to go to her
+mother and tell her what had happened and what she suspected, any more
+than it had suggested itself to Sor Tommaso to lay information against
+her for having stabbed him. If her father had been at home, she might
+perhaps have gone to him and told him with her dying breath that the
+doctor had killed her, and that Stefanone must avenge her. But he was
+away. She was stronger than her mother and had always dominated her. She
+knew also that if she complained, Sora Nanna would raise such a scream
+as would bring half Subiaco running to the house. The girl's animal
+instinct was to die alone, and quietly. So she made no sound, and lay
+upon her bed writhing in pain and holding her sides with all her might,
+but with close-set teeth and silent lips.
+
+Looked at from the point of view of fact, it was all ridiculous enough.
+The girl had been all day in the hot autumn sun, had eaten a quantity of
+over-ripe figs and grapes, which might have upset the digestion of an
+ostrich, had tired even her strong limbs with the final walk home, and
+had then, at Sor Tommaso's house, swallowed nearly a quart of ice-cold
+water. It was not surprising that she should be very ill. It was not
+even strange that the theory of poison should suggest itself. To her it
+was tragedy, and meant nothing less than death, when she lay down upon
+her bed.
+
+Between the spasms all sorts of things passed through her mind, when her
+head lay still upon the pillow. Chiefly and particularly her thoughts
+were filled with hatred of Sor Tommaso, and a sort of doglike longing to
+see Dalrymple's face before she died. She was still fascinated by the
+vision of his red hair and bright blue eyes which came back to her
+vividly, with the careless smile his hard face had for her
+half-childish, half-malicious sayings. And with the thought of him came
+also jealousy of Maria Addolorata, and another hatred which was deeper
+and stronger and more vengeful than any she owed Sor Tommaso. She felt,
+rather than understood, that Dalrymple loved the nun with all his heart.
+She had spoken of her to him and had watched his face, and had seen the
+quick, savage glare of his eyes, though his voice had only expressed his
+annoyance. As the vision of him rose before her, she saw him as he had
+been when the angry blush had overspread his face to the roots of his
+hair.
+
+The image fixed itself. In the dim shadow behind it, she saw the face of
+Maria Addolorata like a death-mask, and those strange, deep eyes of the
+nun's looking scornfully at her over the man's shoulder, though she
+forgot him in the woman's deadly fascination. She stared, unable to
+close her lids, as it seemed to her, though she longed to shut out the
+sight. Then a dull noise seemed to be in her ears, a noise that was not
+a sound, but the stunning effect on her brain of a sound not heard but
+imagined. There were great circles of light around the nun's head, which
+cut through Dalrymple's face and then hid it. They were like glories,
+like the halos about the heads of saints. Annetta was angry with them,
+for she was sure that Maria Addolorata was bad, and sinned in her
+throat.
+
+"An evil death on you and all your house!" cried the angry peasant girl,
+in a low voice.
+
+"Death!" She could not tell whence the echo came back to her, in a tone
+strange to her ears--for it was her own, perhaps.
+
+She was startled. The vision vanished, and she sat up on her bed with a
+quick movement, suddenly wide awake. The pain must have passed. No--it
+came again, but with far less keenness. She felt her face with her
+hands, and laughed softly, for she knew that she was alive. It was
+night, and she must have lain some time there all alone, for there was a
+silvery, misty something through the darkness, the white dawn of
+moonrise, which is not like the dawn of day, nor like the departing
+twilight. As she sat up she saw the outline of the hills, jagged against
+the crosses of the lead-joined panes in the window. There was the
+moon-dawn sending up its soft radiance to the sky. A little longer she
+watched, and a single bright point sent one level ray straight into her
+face. A moment more and the room was flooded with light so that she
+could see the smallest objects distinctly.
+
+"But I am alive!" she exclaimed in a soft, glad tone. "The brigand only
+did me a spite. He was afraid to kill me."
+
+The pain seized her again, less sharp than before, but keen enough to
+stir her anger. She still sat up, but bent forward, clasping her bodice.
+In the moonlight she could see her heavy shoes on her feet sticking up
+before her. Realizing that it was a disgraceful thing to lie down with
+them on, she sprang off the bed, and began to dust the coverlet with her
+hand. The pain passed.
+
+After all, she reflected, she had swallowed a quantity of cold water at
+Sor Tommaso's, whether the first glass had contained any poison or not.
+She had not forgotten, either, that the same thing had once happened to
+her before, and that Dalrymple had made it pass with a spoonful of
+something that had stung her mouth and throat, but which had afterwards
+warmed her and cured her. She felt chilly now, and she wished that she
+had some of that same stinging, warming stuff.
+
+Something moved, somewhere in the house. The girl listened intently for
+a moment. Probably Dalrymple had come back and was moving about in his
+room, washing his hands, as he always did before supper, and taking off
+his heavy boots. His room was immediately under hers, facing in the same
+direction. She went towards the door, intending to go down at once and
+ask him for some of his medicine. By this time she was persuaded that
+she was not in any danger, and her common-sense told her that she had
+merely made herself momentarily ill with too many grapes, too much cold
+water, and too long exposure to the sun. She did not care to let her
+mother know anything about it, for Sora Nanna would scold her. It would
+be a simple matter to catch the Scotchman at his door, to get what she
+wanted from him with an easily given promise of secrecy, and then to
+come downstairs as though nothing had happened.
+
+Annetta only hesitated a moment, and then went out into the dark
+staircase, and crept down, as she had crept up, feeling her way at the
+turnings, by the wall. She reached the door, and was surprised to see
+that there was no light within--none of that yellow light which a lamp
+makes, but only the grey glimmer of the moonlight through the shadow,
+creeping out by the hole of the latch-string. Her ears had deceived
+her, and Dalrymple was not there. Nevertheless she believed that he was.
+The moonlight would be in his room as it was in hers, just overhead, and
+he might not have taken the trouble to light his lamp. It was very
+probable. She tapped softly, but there was no answer. She was afraid
+that her mother might come up the stairs and hear her speaking through
+the door, as though by stealth. She put her lips close to the hole of
+the latch and whistled softly. Her whistle was broken by her own smile
+as she fancied that Dalrymple might start at the unexpected sound.
+
+But there was no response. Growing bolder, she called him gently.
+
+"Signor! Are you there?"
+
+There was no answer. Just then, as she stooped, the pain ran through her
+once more. She was so sure that she had heard him that she was convinced
+he must be within, very probably in his little laboratory beyond the
+bedroom. The pain hurt her, and he had the medicine. Very naturally she
+pulled the string and pushed the door open.
+
+He was not there. The moonlight flooded everything, and the whitewashed
+walls reflected it, so that the place was as bright as day. The first
+object that met her eyes was a small bottle standing near the edge of
+the table in the middle of the room, where Dalrymple had carelessly set
+it down in the afternoon when Sora Nanna had called him to read her
+letter. It was directly in the line of the moon's rays, and the stopper
+gleamed like a little star.
+
+Annetta started with joy as she saw it. It was the very bottle from
+which he had given her the camphor, less than a month ago--the same in
+size, in its transparent contents, in its label. It might have deceived
+a keener eye than hers.
+
+The door of the laboratory stood open, as he had left it, being at the
+time preoccupied and careless. She only stopped a moment to assure
+herself that the bottle was the right one, reflecting that he had
+perhaps felt ill and had taken some of it himself. She went on and
+looked into the little room.
+
+"Signore!" she called softly. But there was no answer.
+
+It was clear that Dalrymple was either still out, or was downstairs at
+his supper, with her mother. He might be out, however. It was quite
+possible, on such a fine evening, for he was irregular in his hours. He
+would not like it if he came in suddenly and found her meddling with his
+belongings. She crossed the room again and softly shut the door. At
+least, if he came, she would not be found with the bottle in her hand.
+She could give an excuse.
+
+It was all so natural. It was the same bottle. She knew the right
+quantity, for she had the peasant's memory for such detail. There was a
+glass and a decanter of water on a white plate on the table. She had no
+spoon, but that did not matter. She took out the stopper with her strong
+fingers, though it stuck a little. The pain ran through her again as she
+poured some of the contents into the tumbler, and it made her hand shake
+so that she poured out a little more than necessary. But it did not
+matter. She filled it up with water, held the glass up to the moonlight,
+and drank it at a draught, and set the empty tumbler upon the table
+again.
+
+Instantly her features changed. She felt as though she were struck
+through head and heart and body with red-hot steel. Maria Addolorata's
+death-mask rose before her in the moonlight.
+
+"An evil death on you and all your house!" she tried to say.
+
+But the words were not out of her mouth before she shivered, caught
+herself by the table, sank down, and lay stone dead upon the brick
+floor.
+
+There was no noise. Dying, she thought she screamed, but only the
+faintest moan had passed her lips.
+
+The door was shut, and the quiet moonlight floated in and silvered her
+dark, dead face.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV.
+
+
+AT moonrise on that evening, Maria Addolorata was standing at the open
+door of her cell, watching the dark clouds in the west, as they caught
+the light one by one, edge by edge. The black shadow of the convent
+covered all the garden still, and one passing could hardly have seen her
+as she stood there. Her veil was raised, and the cold mountain breeze
+chilled her cheeks. But she did not feel it, for she had been long by
+the abbess's bedside, and then long, again, in the close choir of the
+church, and her head was hot and aching.
+
+To her, as she looked towards the western mountains and watched the
+piling clouds, and felt the cool, damp wind, it seemed as though there
+were something strangely tragic in the air that night. The wind whistled
+now and then through the cracks of the convent windows and over the
+crenellations of the old walls, as Death's scythe might whistle if he
+were mowing down men with a right good will, heaps upon heaps of slain.
+The old bell struck the hour, sullenly, with a dead thud in the air
+after each stroke, as a bell tolls for a burial. The very clouds were
+black and silver in the sky, like a funeral pall.
+
+Maria Addolorata leaned against the door-post and looked out, her hand
+white in the shadow against the dark wood, her face whiter still. But on
+her hand there were two marks, visible even in the dimness. They would
+have been red in the day, and the place hurt her from time to time, for
+she had bitten it savagely. It was her pledge, and the pain of it
+reminded her of what she had promised to do.
+
+She needed the reminder; for now that he was not near her, the enormous
+crime stood out, black and lofty as death itself. It was different when
+Dalrymple was at her side. His violent vitality dragged hers into
+action, dragged, drove it, and goaded it, as unwilling soldiers have
+been driven into battle in barbarous armies. Then the fatality seemed
+irresistible, then the dangers seemed small, and the burning red shame
+was pale and weak. Those bony young hands of his had strength in them
+for two, his gleaming eyes burnt out the resistance in hers, and lighted
+them with their own glow. The hearty recklessness of his unbelief drove
+through and through her composite faith, and riddled it with loopholes
+for her soul's escape. Then the reality of her passion made her nobler
+love mad to be free, and to break through the solid walls in which it
+had been born and had grown too strong. When his love was there, hers
+matched itself with his, to smite fortune in the face, to dare and
+out-dare heaven and hell for love's sake, with him, the bursting blood
+made iron of her hand, tingling to buffet coward fate's pale mouth. Then
+she was strong above women; then she was brave as brave men; then,
+having promised, to keep was but the natural hold of will, to die was
+but to dare one little adversary more.
+
+But she was alone now, and thinking, as she looked out into the tragic
+night, and watched the blackness of the monumental clouds. She did not
+return to her former self, as some women do when the goad leaves the
+heart in peace for a moment. She did not say to herself that she would
+order the convent gate to be shut on Angus Dalrymple forever, and
+herself go back to the close choir, to sit in her seat amongst the rest,
+and sing holy songs with the others, restfully unhappy as many of them
+were. She knew far too well how strongly her heart could beat, and how
+icy cold her hands could grow when love was near her. Yet she shuddered
+with horror at what she had promised to do. She would struggle to the
+last, but she must yield when she heard his voice, and felt his hand, at
+the very last moment, when they should be at the garden gate, he drawing
+her on, she looking back.
+
+It was perjury and sacrilege, and earthly shame, and eternal damnation.
+Nothing less. And the words had full and deadly meaning for her. It
+mattered little that he should think differently, being of another
+faith, or rather, of no faith at all. It was all true to her. It was not
+risk; it was certainty. What forgiveness had earth or heaven for a
+faithless nun? He talked of marriage, and he would marry her according
+to a rite that had a meaning in his eyes. Heaven would not divorce the
+sworn and plighted spouse of Christ to be the earthly wife of Angus
+Dalrymple.
+
+Visions of eternal torment rose in her mind, a tangible searing hell
+alive with flame and devils, a sea of liquid fire, an ocean of boiling
+pitch, Satan commanding in the midst, and a myriad of fiends working his
+tormenting will.
+
+Her pale lips curled scornfully in the dark. Those were not the terrors
+that frightened her, nor the horrors from which she shrank. There was a
+question which was not to be answered by her own soul in damnation or
+salvation, but by the lips of men hereafter--the question of the honour
+of her name. The traditions of the good old barons were not dead in that
+day, nor are they all dead yet. Many a Braccio had done evil deeds in
+his or her day, and one, at least, had evil deeds to do after Maria
+Addolorata had been laid in her grave. But sin was one thing, and
+dishonour was quite another, even in the eyes of the nun of Subiaco. For
+her sins she could and must answer with the weal or woe of her own
+soul. But her dishonour would be upon her father and her mother and upon
+all her race. Nor was there any dishonour deeper, more deadly, or more
+lasting than that brought upon a stainless name by a faithless nun.
+Maria Braccio hesitated at disgrace, while Maria Addolorata smiled at
+perdition. It was not the first time that honour had taken God's part
+against the devil in the history of her family.
+
+That was the great obstacle of all, and she knew it now. She was able to
+face all consequences but that, terrible as they might be. The barrier
+was there, the traditional old belief in honour as first, and above
+every consideration. They had played upon that very belief, when, at the
+last, she had hesitated to take the veil. She had gone so far, they had
+told her, that it would be cowardly and dishonourable to turn back at
+the last minute. The same argument existed now. Then, she would at least
+have had human right and ecclesiastical law on her side, if she had
+refused to become a nun. Now, all was against her. Then, she would have
+had to face but the condemning opinion of a few who spoke of implied
+obligation. Now, she must stand up and be ashamed before the whole
+world. There would be a horrible publicity about it. She was too high
+born not to feel that all the world in which she should ever move was as
+one great family. Dalrymple might promise her honour and respect, and
+the affection of his own father and mother for the love of her parents,
+a home, respected wifehood, and all the rest. With his strength, he
+might impose her upon his family, and they might treat her as he should
+dictate, for he was a strong and dominant man. But in their hearts,
+Protestants, English people, foreigners as they were to her race, even
+they could not tell themselves honestly that it was not a shameful thing
+to break such vows as hers, shameful and nothing less. And if, for a
+moment, he were not there to hold them in his check, she should see it
+in their faces, and she must hang her head, for she could have nothing
+to answer. For him, she must not only sacrifice her soul, wrench out her
+faith, break her promise to God, and her vows to the Church. She must
+give herself to public, earthly shame, for his sake.
+
+It was too much. She could bear anything but that. Rather than endure
+that, it was better to die.
+
+The black clouds rose higher in the west, and the gloomy air blew upon
+her face. Her head was no longer hot, for a chilly horror had come upon
+her, like the shadow of something unspeakably awful, close at hand.
+Suddenly, she was afraid to be alone. A bat, lured by the second
+twilight of the moon's rising, whirled down from above, with softly
+flapping wings, and almost brushed her face. She drew back quickly into
+the doorway. It was a very tragic night, she thought. She shut the door,
+and groped her way out beyond her cell to the corridor, dimly
+illuminated by a single light hanging from the vault by a running cord.
+She entered the abbess's apartment. One of the sisters had taken her
+place, but Maria Addolorata sent her away by a gesture, and sat down by
+the bedside.
+
+The old lady was either asleep, or did not notice her niece's coming.
+Her face was grey as ashes, and upturned in the shadow. Upon the stone
+floor stood the primitive Italian night-light, a wick supported in a
+triangular bit of tin by three little corks in oil floating on water in
+a tumbler. The light was very clear and steady, though there was little
+of it, and to Maria, who had been long in comparative darkness, the room
+seemed bright enough. There was little furniture besides the plain bed,
+a little table, a couple of chairs, and a tall, dark wardrobe. A grim
+crucifix hung above the abbess's head, on the white wall, the work of an
+age in which horror was familiar to the eye, and needed exaggeration to
+teach hardened humanity.
+
+Maria was too much occupied with her own thoughts to notice the sick
+woman's condition at once. Besides, during the last two days there had
+been no return of the syncope, and the abbess had seemed to be improving
+steadily. She breathed rather heavily and seemed to be asleep.
+
+Gradually, however, as the nun sat motionless beside her and as the
+storm of thought subsided, she became aware that all was not right. Her
+aunt's face was unnaturally grey, the breathing was unusually slow and
+heavy. When the breath was drawn in, the thin nostrils flattened
+themselves strangely on each side, and the features had a peaked look.
+Maria rose and felt the pulse. It was fluttering, and not always
+perceptible.
+
+At first Maria's attention to these facts was only mechanical. Then,
+with a sudden sinking at her own heart, she realized what they might
+mean--another crisis like the one in which the abbess had so narrowly
+escaped death. It was true that on that occasion she had called for help
+more than once, showing that she had felt herself to be sinking. At
+present she seemed to be unconscious, which, if anything, was a worse
+feature.
+
+Maria drew a long breath and held it, biting her lips, as people do in
+moments of suspense, doubt, and anxiety. It was as though fate had
+thrust the great decision onward at the last moment. The life that hung
+in the balance before her eyes meant the possibility of waiting, with
+the feeble consolation of being yet undecided.
+
+She stood as still as a statue, her face like a mask, her hand on the
+unconscious woman's wrist. The stimulant which Dalrymple had shown her
+how to use was at hand--the glass with which to administer it. It would
+prolong life. It might save it.
+
+Should she give it? The seconds ran to minutes, and the dreadful
+question was unanswered. If the abbess died, as die she almost certainly
+must within half an hour, if the medicine were not given to her--if she
+died, Maria would call the sisters, the portress would be instructed,
+and when Dalrymple came on the morrow, he would be told that all was
+over, and that he was no longer needed. Nothing could be more sure. He
+might do his utmost. He could not enter the convent again.
+
+In a quick vision, as she stood stone-still, Maria saw herself alone in
+the chapel by night, prostrate, repentant, washing the altar steps with
+tears, forgiven of God, since God could still forgive her, honoured on
+earth as before, since none but the silent confessor could ever know
+what she had done, still less what she had meant to do. Her sorrow would
+be real, overwhelming, able to move Heaven to mercy, her penance
+true-hearted and severe as she deserved. Her name would be unspotted and
+unblemished.
+
+It would be so easy, if she had not to see him again. How could she
+resist him, if he could so much as touch her hand? But if she were
+defended from him, she could bury his love and pray for him in the
+memory of the thing dead. All that, if she but let that heavy breathing
+go on a little longer, if she did not raise her hand and set a glass to
+those grey, parted lips.
+
+They were parted now. The laboured breath was drawn through the teeth.
+The eyelids were a little raised, and showed but the white of the
+upturned eyes.
+
+Maria stared fixedly into the pinched face, and a new horror came upon
+her.
+
+It was murder she was doing. Nothing less. The power to save was there,
+and she would not use it. No--it could not be murder--it was not
+possible that she could do murder.
+
+Still with wide eyes she stared. Surely the heavy breath had come more
+quickly a moment ago. It seemed an age between each rise and fall of the
+coverlet. There was a ghastly whistling sound of it between the teeth.
+
+It was slower still. The eyelids were gradually opening--the blind white
+was horrible to see. Each breath was a convulsion that shook the frail
+body.
+
+It was murder. Her hand shot out like lightning and seized the small
+bottle. Let anything come,--love, shame, heaven, damnation; it should
+not be murder.
+
+She forced the unstoppered bottle into the dying woman's mouth with a
+desperate hand. The next breath was drawn with a choking effort. The
+whole body stirred. The thin hand appeared, grasped the coverlet with
+distorting energy, and then lay almost still, twitching convulsively
+second by second. Still Maria tried wildly to pour more of the stimulant
+between the set teeth. When they parted, no breath came, and the fingers
+only moved once more, for the very last time.
+
+It was not murder, but it was death. The wasted old woman had outlived
+by two or three hours the strong, young peasant girl, and fate had laid
+her hand heavily upon the life of Maria Addolorata.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XV.
+
+
+WHEN Dalrymple came home that evening, he found his supper already on
+the table and half cold. Sora Nanna was busier than her daughter, and
+less patient of the Scotchman's irregularities. If he could not come
+home at a reasonable hour, he must not expect her to keep everything
+waiting for him.
+
+He sat down to the table without even going upstairs as usual to wash
+his hands, simply because the cooked meat would be cold and greasy if he
+let it stand five minutes longer. Being once seated in his place, he did
+not move for a long time. Sora Nanna came in more than once. She was
+very much preoccupied about the load of wine which her husband had
+ordered to be sent, and which, if possible, she meant to send off before
+morning, for she did not wish him to be absent in Rome with money in his
+pocket a day longer than necessary.
+
+Gloomy and preoccupied, without even a book before him, Dalrymple sat
+with his back to the wall, drinking his wine in silence, and staring at
+the lamp. Sora Nanna asked him whether he had seen Annetta. He shook
+his head without speaking. The woman observed that the girls were quite
+capable of spending a second night at Civitella to prolong the
+festivities. Dalrymple nodded, not caring at all.
+
+Annetta being absent, Gigetto had not thought it necessary to put in an
+appearance. But Sora Nanna wished to see him again about the wine. With
+a grin, she asked Dalrymple whether he would keep house if she went out
+for half an hour. Again he nodded in silence. He heard her lock from the
+inside the door which opened from the staircase upon the street, for it
+was already late. Then she came through the common room again, with her
+overskirt over her head, went out, and left the door ajar. Dalrymple was
+alone in the house, unaware that Annetta was lying dead on the floor of
+his room upstairs.
+
+Sora Nanna had not been gone a quarter of an hour when a boy came in
+from the street. Dalrymple knew him, for he was the son of the convent
+gardener.
+
+The lad said that Dalrymple was wanted immediately, as the abbess was
+very ill. That was all he knew. He was rather a dull boy, and he
+repeated mechanically what he had been told. The Scotchman started and
+was about to speak, when he checked himself. He asked the boy two or
+three questions, in the hope of getting more accurate information, but
+could only elicit a repetition of the message. He was wanted
+immediately, as the abbess was very ill.
+
+He covered his eyes with his hand for a few seconds. In a flash he saw
+that if he were ever to carry off Maria Addolorata, it must be to-night.
+The chances were a hundred to one that if there were another crisis, the
+abbess would be dead before he could reach the convent. Once dead, there
+was no knowing what might happen in the confusion that would ensue, and
+during the elaborate funeral ceremonies. The man had that daring temper
+that rises at obstacles as an eagle at a crag, without the slightest
+hesitation. When he dropped his hand upon the table he had made up his
+mind.
+
+It was generally easy to get a good mule at any hour of the night in
+Subiaco. The mules were in their stables then. In the daytime it would
+have been very doubtful, when most of them were away in the vineyards,
+or carrying loads to the neighbouring towns. The convent gardener, who
+was well-to-do in the world, had a very good mule, as Dalrymple knew,
+and its stable was half-way up the ascent. The boy could saddle it with
+the pack-saddle without any difficulty, and meet him anywhere he chose.
+Dalrymple's reputation was excellent as a liberal foreigner who paid
+well, and the gardener would not blame the boy for saddling the mule
+without leave.
+
+In a few words Dalrymple explained what he wanted, and to help the lad's
+understanding he gave him some coppers which filled the little fellow
+with energy and delight. The boy was to be at the top of the mule path
+leading down from above the convent to the valley in half an hour.
+Dalrymple told him that he wished to go to Tivoli, and that the boy
+could come with him if he chose, after the visit to the abbess was over.
+The boy ran away to saddle the mule.
+
+Dalrymple rose quickly, and shut the street door in order to take the
+lamp with him to his room, and not to leave the house open with no light
+in it. The case was urgent. He went upstairs, carrying the lamp, and
+opened the door of his quarters. Instantly he recognized the faint,
+sickly odour of hydrocyanide of potassium, and remembered that he had
+left the bottle with the solution on his table that afternoon in his
+hurry. Then he looked down and saw a white face upon the floor, and the
+flowered bodice and smart skirt of the peasant girl.
+
+He had solid nerves, and possessed that perfect indifference to death as
+a phenomenon which most medical men acquire in the dissecting-room. But
+he was shocked when, bending down, and setting the lamp upon the floor,
+he saw in a few seconds that Annetta had been dead some time. He even
+shook his head a little, very slowly, which meant a great deal for his
+hard nature. Glancing at the unstoppered bottle and at the empty glass,
+side by side on the table, he understood at once that the girl,
+intentionally or by mistake, had swallowed enough of the poison to kill
+half-a-dozen strong men. He remembered instantly how he had once given
+her spirits of camphor when she had felt ill, and he understood all the
+circumstances in a moment, almost as though he had seen them.
+
+Scarcely thinking of what he was doing, though with an effort which any
+one who has attempted to lift a dead body from the ground will
+understand, he took up the lifeless girl, stiff and stark as she was,
+and laid her upon his own bed. It was a mere instinct of humanity. Then
+he went back and took the lamp and held it near her face, and shook his
+head again, thoughtfully. A word of pity escaped his lips, spoken very
+low.
+
+He set the lamp down on the floor by the bedside, for there was no small
+table near. There never is, in peasants' houses. He began to walk up and
+down the room, thinking over the situation, which was grave enough.
+
+Suddenly he smelt the acrid odour of burning cotton. He turned quickly,
+and saw that he had placed the three-beaked lamp so near to the bed that
+the overhanging coverlet was directly above one of the flames, and was
+already smouldering. He smothered it with the stuff itself between his
+hands, brought the lamp into the laboratory, and set it upon the table.
+
+Then, realizing that his own case was urgent, he began to make his
+preparations. He took a clean bottle and poured thirty-five drops of
+laudanum into it, put in the stopper, and thrust it into his pocket.
+Unlocking another box, he took out some papers and a canvas bag of gold,
+such as bankers used to give travellers in those times when it was
+necessary to take a large supply of cash for a journey. He threw on his
+cloak, took his plaid over one arm and went back into his bedroom,
+carrying the lamp in the other hand. Then he hesitated, sniffing the air
+and the smell of the burnt cotton. Suddenly an idea seemed to cross his
+mind, for he put down the lamp and dropped his plaid upon a chair. He
+stood still a moment longer, looking at the dead girl as she lay on the
+bed, biting his lip thoughtfully, and nodding his head once or twice. He
+made a step towards the bed, then hesitated once more, and then made up
+his mind.
+
+He went back to the bedside, and stooping a little lifted the body on
+his arms as though judging of its weight and of his power to carry it.
+His first instinct had been to lock the door of the room behind him, and
+to go up to the convent, leaving the dead girl where she was, whether he
+were destined to come back that night, or never. A moment's reflection
+had told him that if he did so he must certainly be accused of having
+poisoned her. He meant, if it were possible, to take Maria Addolorata on
+board of the English man-of-war at Civita Vecchia within twenty-four
+hours. So far as the carrying off of a nun was concerned, he would be
+safe on the ship; but if he were accused of murder, no matter how
+falsely, the captain would have a right to refuse his protection, even
+though he was Dalrymple's friend. A little chain of circumstances had
+led him to form a plan, in a flash, which, if successfully carried out,
+would account both for the disappearance of Annetta herself, and of
+Maria Addolorata as well.
+
+His eyelids contracted slightly, and his great jaw set itself with the
+determination to overcome all obstacles. In a few seconds he had
+divested the dead girl of her heavy bodice and skirt and carpet apron
+and heavy shoes. He rolled the things into a bundle, tossed them into
+the laboratory, locked the door of the latter, and stuck the key into
+his pocket. He carefully stopped the bottle containing the remainder of
+the prussiate of potassium, and took that also. Then he rolled the body
+up carefully in his great plaid, mummy-like, and tied the ends of the
+shawl with shoe-laces which he had among his things. He drew his soft
+hat firmly down upon his forehead, and threw his cloak over his left
+shoulder. He lifted the body off the bed. It was so stark that it stood
+upright beside him. With his right arm round its waist, he raised it so
+high that he could walk freely, and he drew his wide cloak over it as
+well as he could, and freed his left hand. He grasped the lamp as he
+passed the table, listened at the door, though he knew that the house
+was locked below, and he cautiously and with difficulty descended the
+stairs.
+
+Just inside the street door of the staircase there was a niche, as there
+is in almost all old Italian houses. He set the body in it, and went
+into the common room with the lamp. Taking the bottle with the laudanum
+in it from his pocket, he filled it more than half full of aniseed
+cordial, of which a decanter stood with other liquors upon a sideboard,
+as usual in such places. He returned it to his pocket, and listened
+again. Then he assured himself that he had all he needed--the bottle,
+money, his cloak, and a short, broad knife which he always took with him
+on his walks, more for the sake of cutting a loaf of bread if he stopped
+for refreshment than for any other purpose. His passport he had taken
+with his few other valuable papers from the box.
+
+He left the lamp on the table, and unlocked the street door, though he
+did not pull it open. Brave as he was, his heart beat fast, for it was
+the first decisive moment. If Sora Nanna should come home within the
+next sixty seconds, there would be trouble. But there was no sound.
+
+In the dark he went back to the door of the staircase, unlocked it, and
+opened it wide, looking out. The heavy clouds had so darkened the
+moonlight that he could hardly see. But the street was quiet, for it was
+late, and there were no watchmen in Subiaco at that time. A moment
+later, the door was closed behind him, and he was disappearing round the
+dark corner with Annetta's body in his arms, all wrapped with himself in
+his great cloak.
+
+It was a long and terrible climb. A weaker man would have fainted or
+given it up long before Dalrymple set his foot firmly upon the narrow
+beaten path which ran along between the garden wall at the back of the
+convent, and the precipitous descent on his left. The sweat ran down
+over his hard, pale face in the dark, as he shook off his cloak and laid
+down his ghastly burden under the deep shadow of the low postern. He
+shook his big shoulders and wiped his brow, and stretched out his long
+arms, doubling them and stretching them again, for they were benumbed
+and asleep with the protracted effort. But so far it was done, and no
+one had met him. There had been little chance of that, but he was glad,
+all the same. And if, down at the house, any one went to his room,
+nothing would be found. He had the key of the little laboratory in his
+pocket. It would be long before they broke down the door and found
+Annetta's skirt and bodice and shoes wrapped together in a corner.
+
+He went on up the ascent five minutes further, walking as though on air
+now that he carried no weight in his arms. At the top of the mule path
+the lad was already waiting for him with the mule. He told the little
+fellow that he might have to wait half an hour longer, as he must go
+into the convent to see the abbess before starting for Tivoli. He bid
+him tie the mule by the halter to the low branch of an overhanging
+fig-tree, and sit down to wait.
+
+"It is a cool night," said Dalrymple, though he was hot enough himself.
+"Drink this, my boy."
+
+He gave him the little bottle of aniseed, opening it as he did so. The
+boy smelt it and knew that it was good, for it is a common drink in the
+mountains. He drank half of it, pouring it into his mouth with a
+gurgling sound.
+
+"Drink it all," said Dalrymple. "I brought it for you."
+
+The boy did not hesitate, but drained it to the last drop, and handed
+the bottle back without a word. Dalrymple made him sit down near the
+mule's head, well aside from the path, in case any one should pass. He
+knew that between the unaccustomed dose of spirits and the thirty-five
+drops of opium, the lad would be sound asleep before long. For the rest,
+there was nothing to be done but to trust to luck. He had done the
+impossible already, so far as physical effort was concerned, but Fortune
+must not thwart him at the end. If she did, he had in his other pocket
+enough left of what had killed Annetta to settle his own affairs
+forever, and he might need it. At that moment he was absolutely
+desperate. It would be ill for any one who crossed his path that night.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI.
+
+
+DALRYMPLE wrapped his cloak about him once more, as he turned away, and
+retraced his steps by the garden wall. He glanced at the long dark thing
+that lay in the shadow of the postern, as he went by. It was not
+probable that it would be noticed, even if any one should pass that way,
+which was unlikely, between ten o'clock at night and three in the
+morning. He went on without stopping, and in three or four minutes he
+had gone round the convent to the main entrance, next to the church. He
+rang the bell. The portress was expecting him, and he was admitted
+without a word.
+
+He found Maria Addolorata in the antechamber of the abbess's apartment,
+veiled, and standing with folded hands in the middle of the little hall.
+She must have heard the distant clang of the bell, for she was evidently
+waiting for him.
+
+"Am I in time?" he asked in a tone of anxiety.
+
+She shook her head slowly.
+
+"Is she dead?"
+
+"She was dead before I sent for you," answered Maria Addolorata, in a
+low and almost solemn tone. "No one knows it yet."
+
+"I feared so," said Dalrymple.
+
+He made a step towards the door of the parlour, naturally expecting that
+Maria would speak with him there, as usual. But she stepped back and
+placed herself in his way.
+
+"No," she said briefly.
+
+"Why not?" he asked in quick surprise.
+
+She raised her finger to her veiled lips, and then pointed to the other
+door, to warn him that the portress was there and was almost within
+hearing. With quick suspicion he understood that she was keeping him in
+the antechamber to defend herself, that she had not been able to resist
+the desire to see him once more, and that she intended this to be their
+last meeting.
+
+"Maria," he began, but he only pronounced her name, and stopped short,
+for a great fear took him by the throat.
+
+"Yes," she answered, in her calm, low voice. "I have made up my mind. I
+will not go. God will perhaps forgive me what I have done. I will pray
+for forgiveness. But I will not do more evil. I will not bring shame
+upon my father's house, even for love of you."
+
+Her voice trembled a little at the last words. Even veiled as she was,
+the vital magnetism of the man was creeping upon her already. She had
+resolved that she would see him once more, that she would tell him the
+plain truth that was right, that she would bid him farewell, and
+promise to pray for him, as she must pray for herself. But she had sworn
+to herself that she would not speak of love. Yet with the first words
+she spoke, the word and the vibration of love had come too. Her hands
+disappeared in her sleeves, and her nails pressed the flesh in the
+determination to be strong. She little guessed the tremendous argument
+he had in store.
+
+"It is hard to speak here," he said. "Let us go into the parlour."
+
+She shook her head, and again moved backwards a step, so that her
+shoulders were almost against the door.
+
+"You must say what you have to say here," she answered after a moment's
+pause, and she felt strong again. "For my part, I have spoken. May God
+forget me in my utmost need if I go with you."
+
+Dalrymple seemed little moved by the solemn invocation. It meant little
+enough to him.
+
+"I must tell you a short story," he replied quietly. "Unless I tell you,
+you cannot understand. I have set my life upon your love, and I have
+gone so far that I cannot save my life except by you--my life and my
+honour. Will you listen to me?"
+
+She nodded, and he heard her draw a quick breath. Then he began his
+story, putting it together clearly, from the facts he knew, in very few
+words. He told her how Annetta must have mistaken the bottle on his
+table for camphor, and how he had found her dead. Nothing would save him
+from the accusation of having murdered the girl but the absolute
+disappearance of her body. Maria shuddered and turned her head quickly
+when he told her that the body was lying under the postern arch behind
+the garden wall. He told her, too, that the boy was by this time asleep
+beside the mule on the path beyond. Then he told her of his plan, which
+was short, desperate, and masterly.
+
+"You must tell no one that the abbess is dead," he said. "Go out through
+your cell into the garden, as soon as I am gone, and when I tap at the
+postern open the door. Leave a lamp in your cell. I will do the rest."
+
+"What will you do?" asked Maria, in a low and wondering tone.
+
+"You must lock the door of your cell on the inside and leave the lamp
+there," said Dalrymple. "You will wait for me in the garden by the gate.
+I will carry the poor girl's body in and lay it in your bed. Then I will
+set fire to the bed itself. Of course there is an under-mattress of
+maize leaves--there always is. I will leave the lamp standing on the
+floor by the bedside. I will shut the door and come out to you, and I
+can manage to slip the bolt of the garden gate from the outside by
+propping up the spring from within. You shall see."
+
+"It is horrible!" gasped Maria. "And I do not see--"
+
+"It is simple, and nothing else can save my life. Your cell is of course
+a mere stone vault, and the fire cannot spread. The sisters are asleep,
+except the portress, who will be far away. Long before they break down
+your door, the body will be charred by the fire beyond all recognition.
+They will see the lamp standing close by, and will suppose that you lay
+down to rest, leaving the lamp close to you--too close; that the abbess
+died while you were asleep, and that you had caught fire before you
+waked; that you were burned to death, in fact. The body will be buried
+as yours, and you will be legally dead. Consequently there will not be
+the slightest suspicion upon your good name. As for me, it will be
+supposed that I have procured other clothes for Annetta, thrown hers
+into the laboratory and carried her off. In due time I will send her
+father a large sum of money without comment. If you refuse, I must
+either be arrested, convicted, and sentenced to death for the murder of
+a girl who killed herself without my knowledge, or, as is probable, I
+shall go out now, sit down in a quiet place, and be found dead in the
+morning. It is certain death to me in either case. It would be
+absolutely impossible for me to get rid of the dead body without
+arousing suspicion. If it is wrong to save oneself by burning a dead
+body, it is not a great wrong, and I take it upon myself. It is the only
+wrong in the matter, unless it is wrong to love you and to be willing to
+die for you. Do you understand me?"
+
+Leaning back against the door of the parlour, Maria Addolorata had
+almost unconsciously lifted her veil and was gazing into his eyes. The
+plan was horrible, but she could not help admiring the man's strength
+and daring. In his voice, even when he told her that he loved her, there
+was that quiet courage which imposes itself upon men and women alike.
+The whole situation was as clear as day to her in a moment, for all his
+calculations were absolutely correct,--the fire-proof vault of the cell,
+the certainty that the body would be taken for hers, above all, the
+assurance of her own supposed death, with the utter freedom from
+suspicion which it would mean for her ever afterwards. Was she not to be
+buried with Christian burial, mourned as dead, and freed in one hour
+from all the consequences of her life? It was masterly, though there was
+a horror in it.
+
+She loved him more than her own soul. It was the fear of bringing shame
+upon her father and mother that had held her, far more than any
+spiritual dread. It was not strange that she should waver again when he
+had unfolded his scheme.
+
+She turned, opened the door, and led him into the parlour, where the
+silver lamp was burning brightly.
+
+"You must tell it all again," she said, still standing. "I must be quite
+sure that I understand."
+
+He knew well enough that she had finally yielded, since she went so far.
+In his mind he quickly ran over the details of the plan once more, and
+mentally settled what still remained to be decided. But since she wished
+it, he went over all he had said already. Being able to speak in his
+natural voice without fear of being overheard by the portress, and
+feeling sure of the result, he spoke far more easily and more
+eloquently. Before he had finished he was holding her hand in his, and
+she was gazing intently into his eyes.
+
+"It is life or death for me," he said, when he had told her everything.
+"Which shall it be?"
+
+She was silent for a moment. Then her strong mouth smiled strangely.
+
+"It shall be life for you, if I lose my soul for it," she said.
+
+She felt the quick thrill and pressure of his hand, and all the man's
+tremendous energy was alive again.
+
+"Then let us do it quickly," he answered. "I will go out with the
+portress. Go to your cell before we reach the end of the corridor, and
+shut the door with some noise. She will remember it afterwards. Wait at
+the garden gate till I tap softly, and leave the rest to me. There is no
+danger. Do not be afraid."
+
+"Afraid!" she exclaimed proudly. "How little you know me! It never was
+fear that held me. Besides--with you!"
+
+The two last words told him more than all she had ever said before, and
+for the first time he wholly trusted her. Besides, it was to be only for
+a few minutes, while he went out by the front gate and walked round to
+the back of the convent. The plan was so well conceived that it could
+not fail when put into execution.
+
+They shook hands, as two people who have agreed to do a desperate deed,
+each for the other's sake. Then as their grasp loosened, Dalrymple
+turned towards the door, but turned again almost instantly and took her
+in his arms, and kissed her as men kiss women they love when their lives
+are in the balance. Then he went out, passed through the antechamber,
+and found the portress waiting for him as usual. She took up her little
+lamp and led the way in silence. A moment later he heard Maria come out
+and enter her cell, closing the door loudly behind her.
+
+"Her most reverend excellency is in no danger now," he said to the
+portress, with Scotch veracity.
+
+"Sister Maria Addolorata may then rest a little," answered the lay
+sister, who rarely spoke.
+
+"Precisely so," said Dalrymple, drily.
+
+Five minutes later he was at the garden gate, tapping softly.
+Immediately the door yielded to his gentle pressure, for Maria had
+already unfastened the lock within.
+
+"Stand aside a little," said Dalrymple, in a whisper. "You need not
+see--it is not a pretty sight. Keep the door shut till I come back.
+Where is your cell?"
+
+She pointed to a door that was open above the level of the garden. A
+little light came out. With womanly caution she had set the lamp in the
+corner behind the door when she had opened it, so as to show as little
+as possible from without.
+
+She turned her head away as he passed her with his heavy burden,
+treading softly upon the hard, dry ground. But he was not half across
+the garden before she looked after him. She could not help it. The dark
+thing he carried in his arms attracted her, and a shudder ran through
+her. She closed the gate, and stood with her hand on the lock.
+
+It seemed to her that he was gone an interminable time. Though the moon
+was now high, the clouds were so black that the garden was almost quite
+dark. Suddenly she heard his step, and he was nearer than she thought.
+
+"It is burning well," he said with grim brevity.
+
+He stooped and looked closely in the dimness at the old-fashioned lock.
+It was made as he supposed and could be easily slipped from without. He
+found a pebble under his foot, raised the spring, and placed the small
+stone under it, after examining the position of the cracks in the wood,
+which were many.
+
+"There is plenty of time, now," he said, and he gently pushed her out
+upon the narrow walk, drawing the door after him.
+
+With his big knife, working through the widest crack he teazed the bolt
+into the socket. Then with his shoulder he softly shook the whole door.
+He heard the spring fall into its place, as the pebble dropped upon the
+dry ground.
+
+"No human being can suspect that the door has been opened," he said.
+
+He wrapped her in his long cloak, standing beside her under the wall.
+Very gently he pushed the veil and bands away from her golden hair. She
+helped him, and he kissed the soft locks. Then about her head he laid
+his plaid in folds and drew it forward over her shoulders. She let him
+do it, not realizing what service the shawl had but lately done.
+
+They walked forward. The boy was fast asleep and did not move. The mule
+stamped a little as they came up. Dalrymple lifted Maria upon the
+pack-saddle, sideways, and stretched the packing-cords behind her back.
+
+"Hold on," he said. "I will lead the mule."
+
+[Illustration: "An evil death on you!"--Vol. I., p. 218.]
+
+So it was all over, and the deed was done, for good or evil. But it was
+for evil, for it was a bad deed.
+
+To the last, fortune favoured Dalrymple and Maria, and everything took
+place after their flight just as the strong man had anticipated. Not a
+trace of the truth was left behind. Early in the morning the abbess was
+found dead, and in the little cell near by, upon the still smouldering
+remains of the mattress, lay the charred and burned form of a woman. In
+Stefanone's house, the little bundle of clothes in the locked laboratory
+was all that was left of Annetta. All Subiaco said that the Englishman
+had carried off the peasant girl to his own country.
+
+Up at the convent the nuns buried the abbess in great state, with
+catafalque and canopy, with hundreds of wax candles and endless funeral
+singing. They buried also another body with less magnificence, but with
+more pomp than would have been bestowed upon any of the other sisters,
+and not long afterwards a marble tablet in the wall of the church set
+forth in short good Latin sentences, how the Sister Maria Addolorata, of
+many virtues, had been burned to death in her bed on the eve of the
+feast of Saint Luke the Evangelist, and all good Christians were
+enjoined to pray for her soul--which indeed was in need of their
+prayers.
+
+Stefanone returned from Rome, but it was a sad home-coming when he
+found that his daughter was gone, and unconsciously he repeated the very
+words she had last spoken when she was dying in Dalrymple's room all
+alone.
+
+"An evil death on you and all your house!" he said, shaking his fist at
+the door of the room.
+
+And Stefanone swore within himself solemnly that the Englishman should
+pay the price. And he and his paid it in full, and more also, after
+years had passed, even to generations then unborn.
+
+This is the first act, as it were, of all the story, and between this
+one and the beginning of the next a few years must pass quickly, if not
+altogether in silence.
+
+
+
+
+PART II.
+
+
+_GLORIA DALRYMPLE._
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII.
+
+
+IN the year 1861 Donna Francesca Campodonico was already a widow. Her
+husband, Don Girolamo Campodonico, had died within two years of their
+marriage, which had been one of interest and convenience so far as he
+had been concerned, for Donna Francesca was rich, whereas he had been
+but a younger son and poor. His elder brother was the Duca di Norba, the
+father of another Girolamo, who succeeded him many years later, of
+Gianforte Campodonico, and of the beautiful Bianca, in whose short, sad
+life Pietro Ghisleri afterwards held so large a part. But of these
+latter persons, some were then not yet born, and others were in their
+infancy, so that they play no part in this portion of the present
+history.
+
+Donna Francesca was of the great Braccio family, the last of a
+collateral branch. She had inherited a very considerable estate, which,
+if she had no descendants, was to revert to the Princes of Gerano. She
+had married Don Girolamo in obedience to her guardians' advice, but not
+at all against her will, and she had become deeply attached to him
+during the short two years of their married life. He had never been
+strong, since his childhood, his constitution having been permanently
+injured by a violent attack of malarious fever when he had been a mere
+boy. A second fever, even more severe than the first, caught on a
+shooting expedition near Fiumicino, had killed him, and Donna Francesca
+was left a childless widow, in full possession of her own fortune and of
+a little more in the shape of a small jointure. It was thought that she
+would marry again before very long, but it was too soon to expect this
+as yet.
+
+Among her possessions as the last of her branch of the Braccio family,
+of which the main line, however, was sufficiently well represented, was
+the small but beautiful palace in which she now lived alone. It was
+situated between the Capitoline Hill and the Tiber, surrounded on three
+sides by dark and narrow streets, but facing a small square in which
+there was an ancient church. When it is said that the palace was a small
+one, its dimensions are compared with the great Roman palaces, more than
+one of which could easily lodge a thousand persons. It was built on the
+same general plan as most of them, with a ground floor having heavily
+barred windows; a state apartment in the first story, with three stone
+balconies on the front; a very low second story above that, but not
+coextensive with it, because two of the great state rooms were higher
+than the rest and had clere-story windows; and last of all, a third
+story consisting of much higher rooms than the second, and having a
+spacious attic under the sloping roof, which was, of course, covered
+with red tiles in the old fashion. The palace, at that time known as the
+Palazzo, or 'Palazzetto,' Borgia, was externally a very good specimen of
+Renascence architecture of the period when the florid, 'barocco' style
+had not yet got the upper hand in Rome. The great arched entrance for
+carriages was well proportioned, the stone carvings were severe rather
+than graceful, the cornices had great nobility both of proportion and
+design. The lower story was built of rough-faced blocks of travertine
+stone, above which the masonry was smooth. The whole palace was of that
+warm, time-toned colour, which travertine takes with age, and which is,
+therefore, peculiar to old Roman buildings.
+
+Within, though it could not be said that any part had exactly fallen to
+decay, there were many rooms which had been long disused, in which the
+old frescoes and architectural designs in grey and white, and bits of
+bold perspective painted in the vaults and embrasures, were almost
+obliterated by time, and in which such furniture as there was could not
+survive much longer. About one-half of the state apartment, comprising,
+perhaps, fifteen or twenty rooms, large and small, had been occupied by
+Donna Francesca and her husband, and she now lived in them alone. In
+that part of the palace there was a sort of quiet and stately luxury,
+the result of her own taste, which was strongly opposed to the gaudy
+fashions then introduced from Paris at the height of the Second Empire's
+importance. Girolamo Campodonico had been aware that his young wife's
+judgment was far better than his own in artistic matters, and had left
+all such questions entirely to her.
+
+She had taken much pleasure in unearthing from attics and disused rooms
+all such objects as possessed any intrinsic artistic value, such as old
+carved furniture, tapestries, and the like. Whatever she found worth
+keeping she had caused to be restored just so far as to be useful, and
+she had known how to supply the deficiencies with modern material in
+such a way as not to destroy the harmony of the whole.
+
+It should be sufficiently clear from these facts that Donna Francesca
+Campodonico was a woman of taste and culture, in the modern sense.
+Indeed, the satisfaction of her tastes occupied a much more important
+place in her existence than her social obligations, and had a far
+greater influence upon her subsequent life. Her favourite scheme was to
+make her palace at all points as complete within as its architect had
+made it outside, and she had it in her power to succeed in doing so. She
+was not, as some might think, a great exception in those days. Within
+the narrow limits of a certain class, in which the hereditary
+possession of masterpieces has established artistic intelligence as a
+stamp of caste, no people, until recently, have had a better taste than
+the Italians; as no people, beyond these limits, have ever had a worse.
+There was nothing very unusual in Donna Francesca's views, except her
+constant and industrious energy in carrying them out. Even this might be
+attributed to the fact that she had inherited a beautiful but
+dilapidated palace, which she was desirous of improving until, on a
+small scale, it should be like the houses of the great old families,
+such as the Saracinesca, the Savelli, the Frangipani, and her own near
+relatives, the Princes of Gerano.
+
+She had an invaluable ally in her artistic enterprises in the person of
+an artist, who, in a sort of way, was considered as belonging to Casa
+Braccio, though his extraordinary talent had raised him far above the
+position of a dependent of the family, in which he had been born as the
+son of the steward of the ancient castle and estate of Gerano. As
+constantly happened in those days, the clever boy had been noticed by
+the Prince,--or, perhaps, thrust into notice by his father, who was
+reasonably proud of him. The lad had been taken out of his surroundings
+and thoroughly educated for the priesthood in Rome, but by the time he
+had attained to the age necessary for ordination, his artistic gifts had
+developed to such an extent that in spite of his father's
+disappointment, even the old Prince--the brother of Sister Maria
+Addolorata--advised Angelo Reanda to give up the Church, and to devote
+himself altogether to painting.
+
+Young Reanda had been glad enough of the change in his prospects. Many
+eminent Italians have begun life in a similar way. Cardinal Antonelli
+was not the only one, for there have been Italian prime ministers as
+well as dignitaries of the Church, whose origin was as humble and who
+owed their subsequent distinction to the kindly interest bestowed on
+them by nobles on whose estates their parents were mere peasants, very
+far inferior in station to Angelo Reanda's father, a man of a certain
+education, occupying a position of trust and importance.
+
+Nor was Reanda's priestly education anything but an advantage to him, so
+far as his career was concerned, however much it had raised him above
+the class in which he had been born. So far as latinity and rhetoric
+were to be counted he was better educated than his father's master; for
+with the same advantages he had greater talents, greater originality,
+and greater industry. As an artist, his mental culture made him the
+intellectual superior of most of his contemporaries. As a man, ten years
+of close association with the sons of gentlemen had easily enough made a
+gentleman of one whose instincts were naturally as refined as his
+character was sensitive and upright.
+
+Donna Francesca, as the last of her branch of the family and an orphan
+at an early age, had of course been brought up in the house of her
+relatives of Gerano, and from her childhood had known Reanda's father,
+and Angelo himself, who was fully ten years older than she. Some of his
+first paintings had been done in the great Braccio palace, and many a
+time, as a mere girl, she had watched him at his work, perched upon a
+scaffolding, as he decorated the vault of the main hall. She could not
+remember the time when she had not heard him spoken of as a young
+genius, and she could distinctly recall the discussion which had taken
+place when his fate had been decided for him, and when he had been at
+last told that he might become an artist if he chose. At that time she
+had looked upon him with a sort of wondering admiration in which there
+was much real friendly feeling, and as she grew up and saw what he could
+do, and learned to appreciate it, she silently determined that he should
+one day help her to restore the dilapidated Palazzetto Borgia, where her
+father and mother had died in her infancy, and which she loved with that
+sort of tender attachment which children brought up by distant relations
+often feel for whatever has belonged to their own dimly remembered
+parents.
+
+There was a natural intimacy between the young girl and the artist. Long
+ago she had played at ball with him in the great courtyard of the Gerano
+castle, when he had been at home for his holidays, wearing a black
+cassock and a three-cornered hat, like a young priest. Then, all at
+once, instead of a priest he had been a painter, dressed like other men
+and working in the house in which she lived. She had played with his
+colours, had scrawled with his charcoals upon the white plastered walls,
+had asked him questions, and had talked with him about the famous
+pictures in the Braccio gallery. And all this had happened not once, but
+many times in the course of years. Then she had unfolded to him her
+schemes about her own little palace, and he had promised to help her, by
+and bye, half jesting, half in earnest. She would give him rooms in the
+upper story to live in, she said, disposing of everything beforehand. He
+should be close to his work, and have it under his hand always until it
+was finished. And when there was no more to do, he might still live
+there and have his studio at the top of the old house, with an entrance
+of his own, leading by a narrow staircase to one of the dark streets at
+the back. She had noticed all sorts of peculiarities of the building in
+her occasional visits to it with the governess,--as, for instance, that
+there was a convenient interior staircase leading from the great hall to
+the upper story, by a door once painted like the wall, and hard to
+find, but now hanging on its hinges and hideously apparent. The great
+hall must all be painted again, and Angelo could live overhead and come
+down to his work by those steps. With childish pleasure she praised her
+own ingenuity in so arranging matters beforehand. Angelo was to help her
+in all she did, until the Palazzetto Borgia should be as beautiful as
+the Palazzo Braccio itself, though of course it was much smaller. Then
+she scrawled on the walls again, trying to explain to him, in childishly
+futile sketches, her ideas of decoration, and he would come down from
+his scaffold and do his best with a few broad lines to show her what she
+had really imagined, till she clapped her small, dusty hands with
+delight and was ultimately carried off by her governess to be made
+presentable for her daily drive in the Villa Borghese with the Princess
+of Gerano.
+
+As a girl Francesca had the rare gift of seeing clearly in her mind what
+she wanted, and at last she had found herself possessed of the power to
+carry out her intentions. As a matter of course she had taken Reanda
+into her confidence as her chief helper, and the intimacy which dated
+from her childhood had continued on very much the same footing. His
+talent had grown and been consolidated by ten years of good work, and
+she, as a young married woman, had understood what she had meant when
+she had been a child. Reanda was now admittedly, in his department, the
+first painter in Rome, and that was fame in those days. His high
+education and general knowledge of all artistic matters made him an
+interesting companion in such work as Francesca had undertaken, and he
+had, moreover, a personal charm of manner and voice which had always
+attracted her.
+
+No one, perhaps, would have called him a handsome man, and at this time
+he was no longer in his first youth. He was tall, thin, and very dark,
+though his black beard had touches of a deep gold-brown colour in it,
+which contrasted a little with his dusky complexion. He had a sad face,
+with deep, lustreless, thoughtful eyes, which seemed to peer inward
+rather than outward. In the olive skin there were heavy brown shadows,
+and the bony prominence of the brow left hollows at the temples, from
+which the fine black hair grew with a backward turn which gave something
+unusual to his expression. The aquiline nose which characterizes so many
+Roman faces, was thin and delicate, with sensitive nostrils that often
+moved when he was speaking. The eyebrows were irregular and thick,
+extending in a dark down beyond the lower angles of the forehead, and
+almost meeting between the eyes; but the somewhat gloomy expression
+which this gave him was modified by a certain sensitive grace of the
+mouth, little hidden by the thin black moustache or by the beard, which
+did not grow up to the lower lip, though it was thick and silky from the
+chin downwards.
+
+It was a thoughtful face, but there was creative power in the high
+forehead, as there was direct energy in the long arms and lean, nervous
+hands. Donna Francesca liked to watch him at his work, as she had
+watched him when she was a little girl. Now and then, but very rarely,
+the lustreless eyes lighted up, just before he put in some steady,
+determining stroke which brought out the meaning of the design. There
+was a quick fire in them then, at the instant when the main idea was
+outwardly expressed, and if she spoke to him inadvertently at such a
+moment, he never answered her at once, and sometimes forgot to answer
+her at all. For his art was always first with him. She knew it, and she
+liked him the better for it.
+
+The intimacy between the great lady and the artist was, indeed, founded
+upon this devotion of his to his painting, but it was sustained by a
+sort of community of interests extending far back into darker ages, when
+his forefathers had been bondsmen to her ancestors in the days of
+serfdom. He had grown up with the clearly defined sensation of belonging
+with, if not to, the house of Braccio. His father had been a trusty and
+trusted dependent of the family, and he had imbibed as a mere child its
+hereditary likes and dislikes, its traditions wise and foolish,
+together with an indomitable pride in its high fortunes and position in
+the world. And Francesca herself was a true Braccio, though she was
+descended from a collateral branch, and, next to the Prince of Gerano,
+had been to Reanda by far the most important person bearing the name.
+She had admired him when she had been a child, had encouraged him as she
+grew up, and now she provided his genius with employment, and gave him
+her friendship as a solace and delight both in work and idleness. It is
+said that only Italians can be admitted to such a position with the
+certainty that they will not under any circumstances presume upon it. To
+Angelo Reanda it meant much more than to most men who could have been
+placed as he was. His genius raised him far above the class in which he
+had been born, and his education, with his natural and acquired
+refinement, placed him on a higher level than the majority of other
+Roman artists, who, in the Rome of that day, inhabited a Bohemia of
+their own which has completely disappeared. Their ideas and
+conversation, when they were serious, interested him, but their manners
+were not his, and their gaiety was frankly distasteful to him. He
+associated with them as an artist, but not as a companion, and he
+particularly disliked their wives and daughters, who, in their turn,
+found him too 'serious' for their society, to use the time-honoured
+Italian expression. Nevertheless, his natural gentleness of disposition
+made him treat them all alike with quiet courtesy, and when, as often
+happened, he was obliged to be in their company, he honestly endeavoured
+to be one of them as far as he could.
+
+On the other hand, he had no footing in the society to which Francesca
+belonged, but for which she cared so little. There were, indeed, one or
+two houses where he was received, as he was at Casa Braccio, in a manner
+which, for the very reason that it was familiar, proved his social
+inferiority--where he addressed the head of the house as 'Excellency'
+and was called 'Reanda' by everybody, elders and juniors alike, where he
+was appreciated as an artist, respected as a man, and welcomed
+occasionally as a guest when no other outsider was present, but where he
+was not looked upon as a personage to be invited even with the great
+throng on state occasions. He was as far from receiving such cold
+acknowledgments of social existence as those who received them and
+nothing else were distantly removed from intimacy on an equal footing.
+
+He did not complain of such treatment, nor even inwardly resent it. The
+friendliness shown him was as real as the kindness he had received
+throughout his early youth from the Prince of Gerano, and he was not the
+man to undervalue it because he had not a drop of gentle blood in his
+veins. But his refined nature craved refined intercourse, and preferred
+solitude to what he could get in any lower sphere. The desire for the
+atmosphere of the uppermost class, rather than the mere wish to appear
+as one of its members, often belongs to the artistic temperament, and
+many artists are unjustly disliked by their fellows and pointed at as
+snobs because they prefer, as an atmosphere, inane elegance to inelegant
+intellectuality. It is often forgotten by those who calumniate them that
+hereditary elegance, no matter how empty-headed, is the result of an
+hereditary cultivation of what is thought beautiful, and that the
+vainest, silliest woman who dresses well by instinct is an artist in her
+way.
+
+In Francesca Campodonico there was much more than such superficial
+taste, and in her Reanda found the only true companion he had ever
+known. He might have been for twenty years the intimate friend of all
+Roman society without meeting such another, and he knew it, and
+appreciated his good fortune. For he was not naturally a dissatisfied
+man, nor at all given to complain of his lot. Few men are, who have
+active, creative genius, and whose profession gives them all the scope
+they need. Of late years, too, Francesca had treated him with a sort of
+deference which he got from no one else in the world. He realized that
+she did, without attempting to account for the fact, which, indeed,
+depended on something past his comprehension.
+
+He felt for her something like veneration. The word does not express
+exactly the attitude of his mind towards her, but no other defines his
+position so well. He was not in love with her in the Italian sense of
+the expression, for he did not conceive it possible that she should ever
+love him, whereas he told himself that he might possibly marry, if he
+found a wife to his taste, and be in love with his wife without in the
+least infringing upon his devotion to Donna Francesca.
+
+That she was young and lovely, if not beautiful, he saw and knew. He
+even admitted unconsciously that if she had been an old woman he could
+not have 'venerated' her as he did, though veneration, as such, is the
+due of the old rather than of the young. Her spiritual eyes and virginal
+face were often before him in his dreams and waking thoughts. There was
+a maidenlike modesty, as it were, even about her graceful bodily self,
+which belonged, in his imagination, to a saint upon an altar, rather
+than to a statue upon a pedestal. There was something in the sweep of
+her soft dark brown hair which suggested that it would be sacrilege and
+violence for a man's hand to touch it. There was a dewy delicacy on her
+young lips, as though they could kiss nothing more earthly than a newly
+opened flower, already above the earth, but not yet touched by the sun.
+There was a thoughtful turn of modelling in the smooth, white forehead,
+which it was utterly beyond Reanda's art to reproduce, often as he had
+tried. He thought a great sculptor might succeed, and it was the one
+thing which made him sometimes wish that he had taken the chisel for his
+tool, instead of the brush.
+
+She was never considered one of the great beauties of Rome. She had not
+the magnificent presence and colouring of her kinswoman, Maria
+Addolorata, whose tragic death in the convent of Subiaco--a fictitious
+tragedy accepted as real by all Roman society--had given her a special
+place in the history of the Braccio family. She had not the dark and
+queenly splendour of Corona d'Astradente, her contemporary and the most
+beautiful woman of her time. But she had, for those who loved her,
+something which was quite her own and which placed her beyond them in
+some ways and, in any case, out of competition for the homage received
+by the great beauties. No one recognized this more fully than Angelo
+Reanda, and he would as soon have thought of being in love with her, as
+men love women, as he would have imagined that his father, for instance,
+could have loved Maria Addolorata, the Carmelite nun.
+
+The one human point in his devoted adoration lay in his terror lest
+Francesca Campodonico should die young and leave him to grow old without
+her. He sometimes told her so.
+
+"You should marry," she answered one day, when they were together in the
+great hall which he was decorating.
+
+She was still dressed in black, and as she spoke, he turned and saw the
+outline of her small pure face against the high back of the old chair in
+which she was sitting. It was so white just then that he fancied he saw
+in it that fatal look which belonged to some of the Braccio family, and
+which was always spoken of as having been one of Maria Addolorata's
+chief characteristics. He looked at her long and sadly, leaning against
+an upright of his scaffolding as he stood on the floor near her, holding
+his brushes in his hand.
+
+"I do not think I shall ever marry," he answered at last, looking down
+and idly mixing two colours on his palette.
+
+"Why not?" she asked quickly. "I have heard you say that you might, some
+day."
+
+"Some day, some day--and then, all at once, the 'some day' is past, and
+is not any more in the future. Why should I marry? I am well enough as I
+am; there would only be unhappiness."
+
+"Do you think that every one who marries must be unhappy?" she asked.
+"You are cynical. I did not know it."
+
+"No. I am not cynical. I say it only of myself. There are many reasons.
+I could not marry such a woman as I should wish to have for my wife.
+You must surely understand that. It is very easy to understand."
+
+He made as though he would go up the ladder to his little platform and
+continue his work. But she stopped him.
+
+"What is the use of hurting your eyes?" she asked. "It is late, and the
+light is bad. Besides, I am not so sure that I understand what you mean,
+though you say that it is so easy. We have never talked about it much."
+
+He laid his palette and brushes upon a ragged straw chair and sat down
+upon another, not far from her. There was no other furniture in the
+great vaulted hall, and the brick pavement was bare, and splashed in
+many places with white plaster. Fresco-painting can only be done upon
+stucco just laid on, while it is still moist, and a mason came early
+every day and prepared as much of the wall as Reanda could cover before
+night. If he did not paint over the whole surface, the remainder was
+chipped away and freshly laid over on the following morning.
+
+The evening light already reddened the tall western windows, for it was
+autumn, and the days were shortening quickly. Reanda knew that he could
+not do much more, and sat down, to answer Francesca's question, if he
+could.
+
+"I am not a gentleman, as you understand the word," he said slowly. "And
+yet I am certainly not of the class to which my father belonged. My
+position is not defined. I could not marry a woman of your class, and I
+should not care to marry one of any other. That is all. Is it not
+clear?"
+
+"Yes," answered Francesca. "It is clear enough. But--"
+
+She checked herself, and he looked into her face, expecting her to
+continue. But she said nothing more.
+
+"You were going to find an objection to what I said," he observed.
+
+"No; I was not. I will say it, for you will understand me. What you tell
+me is true enough, and I am sorry that it should be so. Is it not to
+some extent my fault?"
+
+"Your fault?" cried Reanda, leaning forward and looking into her eyes.
+"How? I do not understand."
+
+"I blame myself," answered Francesca, quietly. "I have kept you out of
+the world, perhaps, and in many ways. Here you live, day after day, as
+though nothing else existed for you. In the morning, long before I am
+awake, you come down your staircase through that door, and go up that
+ladder, and work, and work, and work, all day long, until it is dark, as
+you have worked to-day, and yesterday, and for months. And when you
+might and should be out of doors, or associating with other people, as
+just now, I sit and talk to you and take up all your leisure time. It
+is wrong. You ought to see more of other men and women. Do men of genius
+never marry? It seems to me absurd!"
+
+"Genius!" exclaimed Reanda, shaking his head sadly. "Do not use the word
+of me."
+
+"I will do as other people do," answered Francesca. "But that is not the
+question. The truth is that you live pent up in this old house, like a
+bird in a cage. I want you to spread your wings."
+
+"To go away for a time?" asked Reanda, anxiously.
+
+"I did not say that. Perhaps I should. Yes, if you could enjoy a
+journey, go away--for a time."
+
+She spoke with some hesitation and rather nervously, for he had said
+more than she had meant to propose.
+
+"Just to make a change," she added, after a moment's pause, as he said
+nothing. "You ought to see more of other people, as I said. You ought to
+mix with the world. You ought at least to offer yourself the chance of
+marrying, even if you think that you might not find a wife to your
+taste."
+
+"If I do not find one here--" He did not complete the sentence, but
+smiled a little.
+
+"Must you marry a Roman princess?" she asked. "What should you say to a
+foreigner? Is that impossible, too?"
+
+"It would matter little where she came from, if I wished to marry her,"
+he answered. "But I like my life as it is. Why should I try to change
+it? I am happy as I am. I work, and I enjoy working. I work for you, and
+you are satisfied. It seems to me that there is nothing more to be said.
+Why are you so anxious that I should marry?"
+
+Donna Francesca laughed softly, but without much mirth.
+
+"Because I think that in some way it is my fault if you have not
+married," she said. "And besides, I was thinking of a young girl whom I
+met, or rather, saw, the other day, and who might please you. She has
+the most beautiful voice in the world, I think. She could make her
+fortune as a singer, and I believe she wishes to try it. But her father
+objects. They are foreigners--English or Scotch--it is the same. She is
+a mere child, they say, but she seems to be quite grown up. There is
+something strange about them. He is a man of science, I am told, but I
+fancy he is one of those English enthusiasts about Italian liberty. His
+name is Dalrymple."
+
+"What a name!" Reanda laughed. "I suppose they have come to spend the
+winter in Rome," he added.
+
+"Not at all. I hear that they have lived here for years. But one never
+meets the foreigners, unless they wish to be in society. His wife died
+young, they say, and this girl is his only daughter. I wish you could
+hear her sing!"
+
+"For that matter, I wish I might," said Reanda, who was passionately
+fond of music.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII.
+
+
+SEVENTEEN years had scored their account on Angus Dalrymple's hard face,
+and one great sorrow had set an even deeper mark upon him--a sorrow so
+deep and so overwhelming that none had ever dared to speak of it to him.
+And he was not the man to bear any affliction resignedly, to feed on
+memory, and find rest in the dreams of what had been. Sullenly and
+fiercely rebellious against his fate, he went down life, rather than
+through it, savage and silent, for the most part, Nero-like in his wish
+that he could end the world at a single blow, himself and all that
+lived. Yet it was characteristic of the man that he had not chosen
+suicide as a means of escape, as he would have done in his earlier
+years, if Maria Addolorata had failed him. It seemed cowardly now, and
+he had never done anything cowardly in his life. Through his grief the
+sense of responsibility had remained with him, and had kept him alive.
+He looked upon his existence not as a state from which he had a right to
+escape, but as a personal enemy to be fought with, to be despised, to be
+ill-treated barbarously, perhaps, but still as an enemy to murder whom
+in cold blood would be an act of cowardice.
+
+There was little more than the mere sense of the responsibility, for he
+did little enough to fulfil his obligations. His wife had borne him a
+daughter, but it was not in Angus Dalrymple's nature to substitute one
+being in his heart for another. He could not love the girl simply
+because her mother was dead. He could only spoil her, with a rough idea
+that she should be spared all suffering as much as possible, but that if
+he gave her what she wanted, he had done all that could be expected of
+him. For the rest, he lived his own life.
+
+He had a good intelligence and superior gifts, together with
+considerable powers of intellectual acquisition. He had believed in his
+youth that he was destined to make great discoveries, and his papers
+afterwards showed that he was really on the track of great and new
+things. But with his bereavement, all ambition as well as all curiosity
+disappeared in one day from his character. Since then he had never gone
+back to his studies, which disgusted him and seemed stale and flat. He
+grew rudely dogmatical when scientific matters were discussed before
+him, as he had become rough, tyrannical, and almost violent in his
+ordinary dealings with the world, whenever he found any opposition to
+his opinions or his will. The only exception he made was in his
+treatment of his daughter, whom he indulged in every way except in her
+desire to be a public singer. It seemed to him that to give her
+everything she wanted was to fulfil all his obligations to her; in the
+one question of appearing on the stage he was inflexible. He simply
+refused to hear of it, rarely giving her any reasons beyond the ordinary
+ones which present themselves in such cases, and which were far from
+answering the impulse of the girl's genius.
+
+They had called her Gloria in the days of their passionate happiness.
+The sentimental name had meant a great deal to them, for Dalrymple had
+at that time developed that sort of uncouth sentimentality which is in
+strong men like a fungus on an oak, and disgusts them afterwards unless
+they are able to forget it. The two had felt that the glory of life was
+in the child, and they had named her for it, as it were.
+
+Years afterwards Dalrymple brought the little girl to Rome, drawn back
+irresistibly to the place by that physical association of impressions
+which moves such men strongly. They had remained, keeping from year to
+year a lodging Dalrymple had hired, at first hired for a few months. He
+never went to Subiaco.
+
+He gave Gloria teachers, the best that could be found, and there were
+good instructors in those days when people were willing to take time in
+learning. In music she had her mother's voice and talent. Her father
+gave her a musician's opportunities, and it was no wonder that she
+should dream of conquering Europe from behind the footlights as Grisi
+had done, and as Patti was just about to do in her turn.
+
+She and her father spoke English together, but Gloria was bilingual, as
+children of mixed marriages often are, speaking English and Italian with
+equal ease. Dalrymple found a respectable middle-aged German governess
+who came daily and spent most of the day with Gloria, teaching her and
+walking with her--worshipping her, too, with that curious faculty for
+idealizing the very human, which belongs to German governesses when they
+like their pupils.
+
+Dalrymple led his own life. Had he chosen to mix in Roman society, he
+would have been well received, as a member of a great Scotch family and
+not very far removed from the head of his house. No one of his relatives
+had ever known the truth about his wife except his father, who had died
+with the secret, and it was not likely that any one should ask
+questions. If any one did, he would certainly not satisfy such
+curiosity. But he cared little for society, and spent his time either
+alone with books and wine, or in occasional excursions into the artist
+world, where his eccentricities excited little remark, and where he met
+men who secretly sympathized with the Italian revolutionary movement,
+and dabbled in conspiracies which rather amused than disquieted the
+papal government.
+
+Though Gloria was at that time but little more than sixteen years of
+age, her father took her with him to little informal parties at the
+studios or even at the houses of artists, where there was often good
+music, and clever if not serious conversation. The conventionalities of
+age were little regarded in such circles. Gloria appeared, too, much
+older than she really was, and her marvellous voice made her a centre of
+attraction at an age when most young girls are altogether in the
+background. Dalrymple never objected to her singing on such occasions,
+and he invariably listened with closed eyes and folded hands, as though
+he were assisting at a religious service. Her voice was like her
+mother's, excepting that it was pitched higher, and had all the compass
+and power necessary for a great soprano. Dalrymple's almost devout
+attitude when Gloria was singing was the only allusion, if one may call
+it so, which he ever made to his dead wife's existence, and no one who
+watched him knew what it meant. But he was often more silent than usual
+after she had sung, and he sometimes went off by himself afterwards and
+sat for hours in one of the old wine cellars near the Capitol, drinking
+gloomily of the oldest and strongest he could find. For he drank more or
+less perpetually in the evening, and wine made him melancholic and
+morose, though it did not seem to affect him otherwise. Little by
+little, however, it was dulling the early keenness of his intellect,
+though it hardly touched his constitution at all. He was lean and bony
+still, as in the old days, but paler in the face, and he had allowed his
+red beard to grow. It was streaked with grey, and there were small,
+nervous lines about his eyes, as well as deep furrows on his forehead
+and face.
+
+Dalrymple had found in the artist world a man who was something of a
+companion to him at times,--a very young man, whom he could not
+understand, though his own dogmatic temper made him as a rule believe
+that he understood most things and most men. But this particular
+individual alternately puzzled, delighted, and irritated the nervous
+Scotchman.
+
+They had made acquaintance at an artists' supper in the previous year,
+had afterwards met accidentally at the bookseller's in the Piazza di
+Spagna, where they both went from time to time to look at the English
+newspapers, and little by little they had fallen into the habit of
+meeting there of a morning, and of strolling in the direction of
+Dalrymple's lodging afterwards. At last Dalrymple had asked his
+companion to come in and look at a book, and so the acquaintance had
+grown. Gloria watched the young stranger, and at first she disliked
+him.
+
+The aforesaid bookseller dealt, and deals still, in photographs and
+prints, as well as in foreign and Italian books. At the present time his
+establishment is distinctively a Roman Catholic one. In those days it
+was almost the only one of its kind, and was patronized alike by Romans
+and foreigners. Even Donna Francesca Campodonico went there from time to
+time for a book on art or an engraving which she and Reanda needed for
+their work. They occasionally walked all the way from the Palazzetto
+Borgia to the Piazza di Spagna together in the morning. When they had
+found what they wanted, Donna Francesca generally drove home in a cab,
+and Reanda went to his midday meal before returning. For the line of his
+intimacy with her was drawn at this point. He had never sat down at the
+same table with her, and he never expected to do so. As the two stood to
+one another at present, though Francesca would willingly have asked him
+to breakfast, she would have hesitated to do so, merely because the
+first invitation would inevitably call attention to the fact that the
+line had been drawn somewhere, whereas both were willing to believe that
+it had never existed at all. Under any pressure of necessity she would
+have driven with him in a cab, but not in her own carriage. They both
+knew it, and by tacit consent never allowed such unknown possibilities
+to suggest themselves. But in the mornings, there was nothing to
+prevent their walking together as far as the Piazza di Spagna, or
+anywhere else.
+
+They went to the bookseller's one day soon after the conversation which
+had led Francesca to mention the Dalrymples. As they walked along the
+east side of the great square, they saw two men before them.
+
+"There goes the Gladiator," said Reanda to his companion, suddenly.
+"There is no mistaking his walk, even at this distance."
+
+"What do you mean?" asked Francesca. "Unless I am mistaken, the man who
+is a little the taller, the one in the rough English clothes, is Mr.
+Dalrymple. I spoke of him the other day, you know."
+
+"Oh! Is that he? The other has a still more extraordinary name. He is
+Paul Griggs. He is the son of an American consul who died in Civita
+Vecchia twenty years ago, and left him a sort of waif, for he had no
+money and apparently no relatives. Somehow he has grown up, Heaven knows
+how, and gets a living by journalism. I believe he was at sea for some
+years as a boy. He is really as much Italian as American. I have met him
+with artists and literary people."
+
+"Why do you call him the Gladiator?" asked Francesca, with some
+interest.
+
+"It is a nickname he has got. Cotogni, the sculptor, was in despair for
+a model last year. Griggs and two or three other men were in the
+studio, and somebody suggested that Griggs was very near the standard of
+the ancients in his proportions. They persuaded him to let them measure
+him. You know that in the 'Canons' of proportion, the Borghese
+Gladiator--the one in the Louvre--is given as the best example of an
+athlete. They measured Griggs then and there, and found that he was at
+all points the exact living image of the statue. The name has stuck to
+him. You see what a fellow he is, and how he walks."
+
+"Yes, he looks strong," said Francesca, watching the man with natural
+curiosity.
+
+The young American was a little shorter than Dalrymple, but evidently
+better proportioned. No one could fail to notice the vast breadth of
+shoulder, the firm, columnar throat, and the small athlete's head with
+close-set ears. He moved without any of that swinging motion of the
+upper part of the body which is natural to many strong men and was
+noticeable in Dalrymple, but there was something peculiar in his walk,
+almost undefinable, but conveying the idea of very great strength with
+very great elasticity.
+
+"But he is an ugly man," observed Reanda, almost immediately. "Ugly, but
+not repulsive. You will see, if he turns his head. His face is like a
+mask. It is not the face you would expect with such a body."
+
+"How curious!" exclaimed Francesca, rather idly, for her interest in
+Paul Griggs was almost exhausted.
+
+They went on along the crowded pavement. When they reached the
+bookseller's and went in, they saw that the two men were there before
+them, looking over the foreign papers, which were neatly arranged on a
+little table apart. Dalrymple looked up and recognized Francesca, to
+whom he had been introduced at a small concert given for a charity in a
+private house, on which occasion Gloria had sung. He lifted his hat from
+his head and laid it down upon the newspapers, when Francesca rather
+unexpectedly held out her hand to him in English fashion. He had left a
+card at her house on the day after their meeting, but as she was alone
+in the world, she had no means of returning the civility.
+
+"It would give me great pleasure if you would bring your daughter to see
+me," she said graciously.
+
+"You are very kind," answered Dalrymple, his steely blue eyes
+scrutinizing her pure young features.
+
+She only glanced at him, for she was suddenly conscious that his
+companion was looking at her. He, too, had laid down his hat, and she
+instantly understood what Reanda had meant by comparing his face to a
+mask. The features were certainly very far from handsome. If they were
+redeemed at all, it was by the very deep-set eyes, which gazed into
+hers in a strangely steady way, as though the lids never could droop
+from under the heavy overhanging brow, and then, still unwinking, turned
+in another direction. The man's complexion was of that perfectly even
+but almost sallow colour which often belongs to very strong melancholic
+temperaments. His face was clean-shaven and unnaturally square and
+expressionless, excepting for such life as there was in the deep eyes.
+Dark, straight, closely cut hair grew thick and smooth as a priest's
+skull-cap, low on the forehead and far forward at the temples. The level
+mouth, firmly closed, divided the lower part of the face like the scar
+of a straight sabre-cut. The nose was very thick between the eyes,
+relatively long, with unusually broad nostrils which ran upward from the
+point to the lean cheeks. The man wore very dark clothes of extreme
+simplicity, and at a time when pins and chains were much in fashion, he
+had not anything visible about him of gold or silver. He wore his watch
+on a short, doubled piece of black silk braid slipped through his
+buttonhole. He dressed almost as though he were in mourning.
+
+Francesca unconsciously looked at him so intently for a moment that
+Dalrymple thought it natural to introduce him, fancying that she might
+have heard of him and might wish to know him out of curiosity.
+
+"May I introduce Mr. Griggs?" he said, with the stiff inclination which
+was a part of his manner.
+
+Griggs bowed, and Donna Francesca bent her head a little. Reanda came up
+and shook hands with the American, and Francesca introduced the artist
+to Dalrymple.
+
+"I have long wished to have the pleasure of knowing you, Signor Reanda,"
+said the latter. "We have many mutual acquaintances among the artists
+here. I may say that I am a great admirer of your work, and my daughter,
+too, for that matter."
+
+Reanda said something civil as his hand parted from the Scotchman's.
+Francesca saw an opportunity of bringing Reanda and Gloria together.
+
+"As you like Signor Reanda's painting so much," she said to Dalrymple,
+"will you not bring your daughter this afternoon to see the frescoes he
+is doing in my house? You know the Palazzetto? Of course--you left a
+card, but I had no one to return it," she added rather sadly. "Will you
+also come, Mr. Griggs?" she asked, turning to the American. "It will
+give me much pleasure, and I see you know Signor Reanda. This afternoon,
+if you like, at any time after four o'clock."
+
+Both Dalrymple and Griggs secretly wondered a little at receiving such
+an invitation from a Roman lady whom the one had met but once before,
+and to whom the other had but just been introduced. But they bowed their
+thanks, and promised to come.
+
+After a few more words they separated, Francesca and Reanda to pick out
+the engraving they wanted, and the other two men to return to their
+newspapers. By and bye Francesca passed them again, on her way out.
+
+"I shall expect you after four o'clock," she said, nodding graciously as
+she went by.
+
+Dalrymple looked after her, till she had left the shop.
+
+"That woman is not like other women, I think," he said thoughtfully, to
+his companion.
+
+The mask-like face turned itself deliberately towards him, with shadowy,
+unwinking eyes.
+
+"No," answered Griggs, and he slowly took up his paper again.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIX.
+
+
+DONNA FRANCESCA received her three guests in the drawing-room, on the
+side of the house which she inhabited. Reanda was at his work in the
+great hall.
+
+Gloria entered first, followed closely by her father, and Francesca was
+dazzled by the young girl's brilliancy of colour and expression, though
+she had seen her once before. As she came in, the afternoon sun streamed
+upon her face and turned her auburn hair to red gold, and gleamed upon
+her small white teeth as her strong lips parted to speak the first
+words. She was tall and supple, graceful as a panther, and her voice
+rang and whispered and rang again in quick changes of tone, like a
+waterfall in the woods in summer. With much of her mother's beauty, she
+had inherited from her father the violent vitality of his youth. Yet she
+was not noisy, though her manners were not like Francesca's. Her voice
+rippled and rang, but she did not speak too loud. She moved swiftly and
+surely, but not with rude haste. Nevertheless, it seemed to Francesca
+that there must be some exaggeration somewhere. The elder woman at
+first set it down as a remnant of schoolgirl shyness, and then at once
+felt that she was mistaken, because there was not the smallest
+awkwardness nor lack of self-possession about it. The contrast between
+the young girl and Paul Griggs was so striking as to be almost violent.
+He was cold and funereal in his leonine strength, and his face was more
+like a mask than ever as he bowed and sat down in silence. When he did
+not remind her of a gladiator, he made her think of a black lion with a
+strange, human face, and eyes that were not exactly human, though they
+did not remind her of any animal's eyes which she had ever seen.
+
+As for Dalrymple, she thought that he was singularly haggard and worn
+for a man apparently only in middle age. There was a certain imposing
+air about him, which she liked. Besides, she rarely met foreigners, and
+they interested her. She noticed that both men wore black coats and
+carried their tall hats in their hands. They were therefore not artists,
+nor to be classed with artists. She was still young enough to judge them
+to some extent by details, to which people attached a good deal more
+importance at that time than at present. She made up her mind in the
+course of the next few minutes that both Dalrymple and Griggs belonged
+to her own class, though she did not ask herself where the young
+American had got his manners. But somehow, though Gloria fascinated her
+eyes and her ears, she set down the girl as being inferior to her
+father. She wondered whether Gloria's mother had not been an actress;
+which was a curious reflexion, considering that the dead woman had been
+of her own house and name.
+
+After exchanging a few words with her guests, Francesca suggested that
+they should cross to the other side and see the frescoes, adding that
+Reanda was probably still at work.
+
+"You know him, Mr. Griggs?" she said, as they all rose to leave the
+room.
+
+"Yes," he answered, "as one man knows another."
+
+"What does that mean?" asked Francesca, moving towards the door to lead
+the way.
+
+"It does not mean much," replied the young man, with curious ambiguity.
+
+He was very gentle in his manner, and spoke in a low voice and rather
+diffidently. She looked at him as though mentally determining to renew
+the question at some other time. Her first impression was that of a sort
+of duality about the man, as she found the possibility of a double
+meaning in his answer. His magnificent frame seemed to belong to one
+person, his voice and manner to another. Both might be good in their
+way, but her curiosity was excited by the side which was the less
+apparent.
+
+They all went through the house till they came to a door which divided
+the inhabited part from the hall in which Reanda was working. She
+knocked gently upon it with her knuckles, and then smiled as she saw
+Gloria looking at her.
+
+"We keep it locked," she said. "The masons come in the morning to lay on
+the stucco. One never trusts those people. Signor Reanda keeps the key
+of this door."
+
+The artist opened from within, and stood aside to let the party pass. He
+started perceptibly when he first saw Gloria. As a boy he had seen Maria
+Braccio more than once before she had entered the convent, and he was
+struck by the girl's strong resemblance to her. Francesca, following
+Gloria, saw his movement of surprise, and attributed it merely to
+admiration or astonishment such as she had felt herself a quarter of an
+hour earlier. She smiled a little as she went by, and Reanda knew that
+the smile was for him because he had shown surprise. He understood the
+misinterpretation, and resented it a little.
+
+But she knew Reanda well, and before ten minutes had passed she had
+convinced herself that he was repelled rather than attracted by the
+young girl, in spite of the latter's undisguised admiration of his work.
+It was not mere unintelligent enthusiasm, either, and he might well have
+been pleased and flattered by her unaffected praise.
+
+She was interested, too, in the technical mechanics of fresco-painting,
+which she had never before been able to see at close quarters.
+Everything interested Gloria, and especially everything connected with
+art. As soon as they had all spoken their first words of compliment and
+appreciation, she entered into conversation with the painter, asking him
+all sorts of questions, and listening earnestly to what he said, until
+he realized that she was certainly not assuming an appearance of
+admiration for the sake of flattering him.
+
+Meanwhile Francesca talked with Griggs, and Dalrymple, having gone
+slowly round the hall alone after all the others, came and stood beside
+the two and watched Francesca, occasionally offering a rather dry remark
+in a somewhat absent-minded way. It was all rather commonplace and
+decidedly quiet, and he was not much amused, though from time to time he
+seemed to become absorbed in studying Francesca's face, as though he saw
+something there which was past his comprehension. She noticed that he
+watched her, and felt a little uncomfortable under his steely blue eyes,
+so that she turned her head and talked more with Griggs than with him.
+Remembering what Reanda had told her of the young man's origin, she did
+not like to ask him the common questions about residence in Rome and his
+liking for Italy. She was self-possessed and ready enough at
+conversation, and she chose to talk of general subjects. They talked in
+Italian, of course. Dalrymple, as of old, spoke fluently, but with a
+strange accent. Any one would have taken Paul Griggs for a Roman. At
+last, almost in spite of herself, she made a remark about his speech.
+
+"I was born here," answered Griggs. "It is much more remarkable that
+Miss Dalrymple should speak Italian as she does, having been born in
+Scotland."
+
+"Are you talking about me?" asked the young girl, turning her head
+quickly, though she was standing with Reanda at some distance from the
+others.
+
+"I was speaking of your accent in Italian," said Griggs.
+
+"Is there anything wrong about it?" asked Gloria, with an anxiety that
+seemed exaggerated.
+
+"On the contrary," answered Donna Francesca, "Mr. Griggs was telling me
+how perfectly you speak. But I had noticed it."
+
+"Oh! I thought Mr. Griggs was finding fault," answered Gloria, turning
+to Reanda again.
+
+Dalrymple looked at his daughter as though he were annoyed. The eyes of
+Francesca and Griggs met for a moment. All three were aware that they
+resented the young girl's quick question as one which they themselves
+would not have asked in her place, had they accidentally heard their
+names mentioned in a distant conversation. But Francesca instantly went
+on with the subject.
+
+"To us Italians," she said, "it seems incredible that any one should
+speak our language and English equally well. It is as though you were
+two persons, Mr. Griggs," she added, smiling at the covered expression
+of her thought about him.
+
+"I sometimes think so myself," answered Griggs, with one of his steady
+looks. "In a way, every one must have a sort of duality--a good and evil
+principle."
+
+"God and the devil," suggested Francesca, simply.
+
+"Body and soul would do, I suppose. The one is always in slavery to the
+other. The result is a sinner or a saint, as the case may be. One never
+can tell," he added more carelessly. "I am not sure that it matters. But
+one can see it. The battle is fought in the face."
+
+"I do not understand. What battle?"
+
+"The battle between body and soul. The face tells which way the fight is
+going."
+
+She looked at his own, and she felt that she could not tell. But to a
+certain extent she understood him.
+
+"Griggs is full of theories," observed Dalrymple. "Gloria, come down!"
+he cried in English, suddenly.
+
+Gloria, intent upon understanding how fresco-painting was done, was
+boldly mounting the steps of the ladder towards the top of the little
+scaffolding, which might have been fourteen feet high. For the vault
+had long been finished, and Reanda was painting the walls.
+
+"Nonsense, papa!" answered the young girl, also in English. "There's no
+danger at all."
+
+"Well--don't break your neck," said Dalrymple. "I wish you would come
+down, though."
+
+Francesca was surprised at his indifference, and at his daughter's calm
+disregard of his authority. Timid, too, as most Italian women of higher
+rank, she watched the girl nervously. Griggs raised his eyes without
+lifting his head.
+
+"Gloria is rather wild," said Dalrymple, in a sort of apology. "I hope
+you will forgive her--she is so much interested."
+
+"Oh--if she wishes to see, let her go, of course," answered Francesca,
+concealing a little nervous irritation she felt.
+
+A moment later Gloria and Reanda were on the small platform, on one side
+of which only there was a hand rail. It had been made for him, and his
+head was steady even at a much greater elevation. He was pointing out to
+her the way in which the colours slowly changed as the stucco dried from
+day to day, and explaining how it was impossible to see the effect of
+what was done until all was completely dry. The others continued to talk
+below, but Griggs glanced up from time to time, and Francesca's eyes
+followed his. Dalrymple had become indifferent, allowing his daughter
+to do what she pleased, as usual.
+
+When Gloria had seen all she wished to see, she turned with a quick
+movement to come down again, and on turning, she found herself much
+nearer to the edge than she had expected. She was bending forwards a
+little, and Griggs saw at once that she must lose her balance, unless
+Reanda caught her from behind. But she made no sound, and turned very
+white as she swayed a little, trying to throw herself back.
+
+With a swift movement that was gentle but irresistible, Griggs pushed
+Francesca back, keeping his eyes on the girl above. It all happened in
+an instant.
+
+"Jump!" he cried, in a voice of command.
+
+She had felt that she must spring or fall, and her body was already
+overbalanced as she threw herself off, instinctively gathering her skirt
+with her hands. Dalrymple turned as pale as she. If she struck the bare
+brick floor, she could scarcely escape serious injury. But she did not
+reach it, for Paul Griggs caught her in his arms, swayed with her
+weight, then stood as steady as a rock, and set her gently upon her
+feet, beside her father.
+
+"Maria Santissima!" cried Francesca, terrified, though instantly
+relieved, and dimly understanding the stupendous feat of bodily strength
+which had just been done before her eyes.
+
+Above, Reanda leaned upon the single rail of the scaffolding with
+wide-staring eyes. Gloria was faint with the shock of fear, and grasped
+her father's arm.
+
+"You ought to be ashamed of yourself!" he said roughly, in English, but
+in a low voice. "You probably owe your life to Mr. Griggs," he added,
+immediately regaining his self-possession.
+
+Griggs alone seemed wholly unmoved by what had happened. Gloria had held
+one of her gloves loosely in her hand, and it had fallen to the ground
+as she sprang. He picked it up and handed it to her with a curious
+gentleness.
+
+"It must be yours, Miss Dalrymple," he said.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XX.
+
+
+IT was late before Reanda and Donna Francesca were alone together on
+that afternoon. When the first surprise and shock of Gloria's accident
+had passed, Francesca would not allow Dalrymple to take her away at
+once, as he seemed anxious to do. The girl was not in the least hurt,
+but she was still dazed and frightened. Francesca took them all back to
+the drawing-room and insisted upon giving them tea, because they were
+foreigners, and Gloria, she said, must naturally need something to
+restore her nerves. Roman tea, thirty years ago, was a strange and
+uncertain beverage, as both Gloria and her father knew, but they drank
+what Francesca gave them, and at last went away with many apologies for
+the disturbance they had made. To tell the truth, Francesca was glad
+when they were gone and she was at liberty to return to the hall where
+Reanda was still at work. She found him nervous and irritated. He came
+down from the scaffolding as soon as he heard her open the door. Neither
+spoke until she had seated herself in her accustomed chair, with a very
+frank sigh of relief.
+
+"I am very grateful to you, Donna Francesca," said Reanda, twisting his
+beard round his long, thin fingers, as he glanced at her and then
+surveyed his work.
+
+"It was your fault," she answered, tapping the worm-eaten arms of the
+old chair with both her white hands, for she herself was still annoyed
+and irritated. "Do not make me responsible for the girl's folly."
+
+"Responsibility! May that never be!" exclaimed the artist, in the common
+Italian phrase, but with a little irony. "But as for the responsibility,
+I do not know whose it was. It was certainly not I who invited the young
+lady to go up the ladder."
+
+"Well, it was her fault. Besides, the absent are always wrong. But she
+is handsome, is she not?"
+
+Reanda shrugged his thin shoulders, and looked critically at his hands,
+which were smeared with paint.
+
+"Very handsome," he said indifferently. "But it is a beauty that says
+nothing to me. One must be young to like that kind of beauty. She is a
+beautiful storm, that young lady. For one who seeks peace--" He shrugged
+his shoulders again. "And then, her manners! I do not understand
+English, but I know that her father was telling her to come down, and
+yet she went up. I do not know what education these foreigners have.
+Instruction, yes, as much as you please; but education, no. They have no
+more than barbarians. The father says, 'You must not do that.' And the
+daughter does it. What education is that? Of course, if they were
+friends of yours, I should not say it."
+
+"Nevertheless that girl is very handsome," insisted Francesca. "She has
+the Venetian colouring. Titian would have painted her just as she is,
+without changing anything."
+
+"Beauty, beauty!" exclaimed Reanda, impatiently. "Of course, it is
+beauty! Food for the brush, that says nothing to the heart. The devil
+can also take the shape of a beautiful woman. That is it. There is
+something in that young lady's face--how shall I say? It pleases
+me--little! You must forgive me, princess. My nerves are shaken. Divine
+goodness! To see a young girl flying through the air like Simon Magus!
+It was enough!"
+
+Francesca laughed gently. Reanda shook his head with slow
+disapprobation, and frowned.
+
+"I say the truth," he said. "There is something--I cannot explain. But I
+can show you," he added quickly.
+
+He took up his palette and brushes from the chair on which they lay, and
+reached the white plastered wall in two steps.
+
+"Paint her," said Francesca, to encourage him.
+
+"Yes, I will show her to you--as I think she is," he answered.
+
+He closed his eyes for a moment, calling up the image before him, then
+went back to the chair and took a quantity of colour from a tube which
+lay, with half-a-dozen others, in the hollow of the rush seat. They were
+not the colours he used for fresco-painting, but had been left there
+when he had made a sketch of a head two or three days previously. In a
+moment he was before the wall again. It was roughly plastered from the
+floor to the lower line of the frescoes. With a long, coarse brush he
+began to sketch a gigantic head of a woman. The oil paint lay well on
+the rough, dry surface. He worked in great strokes at the full length of
+his arm.
+
+"Make her beautiful, at least," said Francesca, watching him.
+
+"Oh, yes--very beautiful," he answered.
+
+He worked rapidly for a few minutes, smiling, as his hand moved, but not
+pleasantly. Francesca thought there was an evil look in his face which
+she had never seen there before, and that his smile was wicked and
+spiteful.
+
+"But you are painting a sunset!" she cried suddenly.
+
+"A sunset? That is her hair. It is red, and she has much of it. Wait a
+little."
+
+And he went on. It was certainly something like a sunset, the bright,
+waving streamers of the clouds flying far to right and left, and
+blending away to the neutral tint of the dry plaster as though to a grey
+sky.
+
+"Yes, but it is still a sunset," said Francesca. "I have seen it like
+that from the Campagna in winter."
+
+"She is not 'Gloria' for nothing," answered Reanda. "I am making her
+glorious. You shall see."
+
+Suddenly, with another tone, he brought out the main features of the
+striking face, by throwing in strong shadows from the flaming hair.
+Francesca became more interested. The head was colossal, extraordinary,
+almost unearthly; the expression was strange.
+
+"What a monster!" exclaimed Francesca at last, as he stood aside, still
+touching the enormous sketch here and there with his long brush, at
+arm's length. "It is terrible," she added, in a lower tone.
+
+"Truth is always terrible," answered Reanda. "But you cannot say that it
+is not like her."
+
+"Horribly like. It is diabolical!"
+
+"And yet it is a beautiful head," said the artist. "Perhaps you are too
+near." He himself crossed the hall, and then turned round to look at his
+work. "It is better from here," he said. "Will you come?"
+
+She went to his side. The huge face and wildly streaming hair stood out
+as though in three dimensions from the wall. The great, strong mouth
+smiled at her with a smile that was at once evil and sad and fatal. The
+strange eyes looked her through and through from beneath the vast brow.
+
+"It is diabolical, satanical!" she responded, under her breath.
+
+Reanda still smiled wickedly and watched her. The face seemed to grow
+and grow till it filled the whole range of vision. The dark eyes
+flashed; the lips trembled; the flaming hair quivered and waved and
+curled up like snakes that darted hither and thither. Yet it was
+horribly like Gloria, and the fresh, rich oil colours gave it her
+startling and vivid brilliancy.
+
+It was the sudden and enormous expression of a man of genius, strung and
+stung, till irritation had to find its explosion through the one art of
+which he was absolute master--in a fearful caricature exaggerating
+beauty itself to the bounds of the devilish.
+
+"I cannot bear it!" cried Francesca.
+
+She snatched the big brush from his hand, and, running lightly across
+the room, dashed the colour left in it across the face in all
+directions, over the eyes and the mouth, and through the long red hair.
+In ten seconds nothing remained but confused daubs and splashes of
+brilliant paint.
+
+"There!" cried Francesca. "And I wish I had never seen it!"
+
+Still holding the brush in her hand, she turned her back to the
+obliterated sketch and faced Reanda, with a look of girlish defiance and
+satisfaction. His face was grave now, but he seemed pleased with what he
+had done.
+
+"It makes no difference," he said. "You will never forget it."
+
+He felt that he was revenged for the smile she had bestowed upon his
+apparent surprise at Gloria's beauty, when she had followed the girl
+into the hall, and had seen him start. He could not conceal his triumph.
+
+"That is the young lady whom you thought I might wish to marry," he
+said. "You know me little after so many years, Donna Francesca. You have
+bestowed much kindness upon a man whom you do not know."
+
+"My dear Reanda, who can understand you? But as for kindness, do not let
+me hear the word between you and me. It has no meaning. We are always
+good friends, as we were when I was a little girl and used to play with
+your paints. You have given me far more than I can ever repay you for,
+in your works. I do not flatter you, my friend. Cupid and Psyche, there
+in your frescoes, will outlive me and be famous when I am forgotten--yet
+they are mine, are they not? And you gave them to me."
+
+The sweet young face turned to him with an unaffected, grateful smile.
+His sad features softened all at once.
+
+"Ah, Donna Francesca," he said gently, "you have given me something
+better than Cupid and Psyche, for your gift will live forever in
+heaven."
+
+She looked thoughtfully into his eyes, but with a sort of question in
+her own.
+
+"Your dear friendship," he added, bending his head a little. Then he
+laughed suddenly. "Do not give me a wife," he concluded.
+
+"And you, Reanda--do not make wicked caricatures of women you have only
+seen once! Besides, I go back to it again. I saw you start when she
+passed you at the door. You were surprised at her beauty. You must admit
+that. And then, because you are irritated with her, you take a brush and
+daub that monstrous thing upon the wall! It is a shame!"
+
+"I started, yes. It was not because she struck me as beautiful. It was
+something much more strange. Do you know? She is the very portrait of
+Donna Maria, who was in the Carmelite convent at Subiaco, and who was
+burned to death. I have often told you that I remembered having seen her
+when I was a boy, both at Gerano and at the Palazzo Braccio, before she
+took the veil. There is a little difference in the colouring, I think,
+and much in the expression. But the rest--it is the image!"
+
+Francesca, who could not remember her ill-fated kinswoman, was not much
+impressed by Reanda's statement.
+
+"It makes your caricature all the worse," she answered, "since it was
+also a caricature of that holy woman. As for the resemblance, after all
+these years, it is a mere impression. Who knows? It may be. There is no
+portrait of Sister Maria Addolorata."
+
+"Oh, but I remember well!" insisted Reanda.
+
+"Well, it concludes nothing, after all," returned Francesca, with much
+logic. "It does not make a fiend of the poor nun, who is an angel by
+this time, and it does not make Miss Dalrymple less beautiful. And now,
+Signor Painter," she added, with another girlish laugh, "if we have
+quarrelled enough to restore your nerves, I am going out. It is almost
+dark, and I have to go to the Austrian Embassy before dinner, and the
+carriage has been waiting for an hour."
+
+"You, princess!" exclaimed Reanda, in surprise; for she had not begun to
+go into the world yet since her husband's death.
+
+"It is not a reception. We are to meet there about arranging another of
+those charity concerts for the deaf and dumb."
+
+"I might have known," answered the painter. "As for me, I shall go to
+the theatre to-night. There is the Trovatore."
+
+"That is a new thing for you, too. But I am glad. Amuse yourself, and
+tell me about the singing to-morrow. Remember to lock the door and take
+the key. I do not trust the masons in the morning."
+
+"Do I ever forget?" asked Reanda. "But I will lock it now, as you go
+out; for it is late, and I shall go upstairs."
+
+"Good night," said Francesca, as she turned to leave the room.
+
+"And you forgive the caricature?" asked Reanda, holding the door open
+for her to pass.
+
+"I would forgive you many things," she answered, smiling as she went
+by.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXI.
+
+
+IN those days the Trovatore was not an old-fashioned opera. It was not
+'threshed-out,' to borrow the vigorous German phrase. Wagner had not
+eclipsed melody with 'tone-poetry,' nor made men feel more than they
+could hear. Many of the great things of this century-ending had not been
+done then, nor even dreamed of, and even musicians listened to the
+Trovatore with pleasure, not dreaming of the untried strength that lay
+waiting in Verdi's vast reserve. It was then the music of youth. To us
+it seems but the music of childhood. Many of us cannot listen to
+Manrico's death-song from the tower without hearing the grind-organ upon
+which its passion has grown so pathetically poor. But one could
+understand that music. The mere statement that it was comprehensible
+raises a smile to-day. It appealed to simple feelings. We are no longer
+satisfied with such simplicity, and even long for powers that do not
+appeal, but twist us with something stronger than our hardened selves,
+until we ourselves appeal to the unknown, in a sort of despairing
+ecstasy of unsatisfied delight, asking of possibility to stretch itself
+out to the impossible. We are in a strange phase of development. We see
+the elaborately artificial world-scape painted by Science on the curtain
+close before our eyes, but our restless hands are thrust through it and
+beyond, opening eagerly and shutting on nothing, though we know that
+something is there.
+
+Angelo Reanda was passionately fond of what was called music in Italy
+more than thirty years ago. He had the true ear and the facile memory
+for melody common to Italians, who are a singing people, if not a
+musical race, and which constituted a talent for music when music was
+considered to be a succession of sounds rather than a series of sensuous
+impressions. He could listen to an opera, understand it without thought,
+enjoy it simply, and remember it without difficulty, like thousands of
+other Romans. Most of us would willingly go back to such childlike
+amusements if we could. A few possess the power even now, and are looked
+upon with friendly contempt by their more cultured, and therefore more
+tortured, musical acquaintances, whose dream it is to be torn to very
+rags in the delirium of orchestral passion.
+
+Reanda went to the Apollo Theatre in search of merely pleasurable
+sensations, and he got exactly what he wanted. The old house was
+brilliant even in those days, less with light than with jewels, it is
+true, but perhaps that illumination was as good as any other. The Roman
+ladies and the ladies of the great embassies used then to sit through
+the whole evening in their boxes, and it was the privilege, as it is
+still in Rome, of the men in the stalls and pit to stand up between the
+acts and admire them and their diamonds as much as they pleased. The
+light was dim enough, compared with what we have nowadays; for gas was
+but just introduced in a few of the principal streets, and the lamps in
+the huge chandelier at the Apollo, and in the brackets around the house,
+were filled with the olive oil which to-day dresses the world's salad.
+But it was a soft warm light, with rich yellow in it, which penetrated
+the shadows and beautified all it touched.
+
+Reanda, like the others, stood up and looked about him after the first
+act. His eyes were instantly arrested by Gloria's splendid hair, which
+caught the light from above. She was seated in the front of a box on the
+third tier, the second row of boxes being almost exclusively reserved in
+those days. Dalrymple was beside his daughter, and the dark, still face
+of Paul Griggs was just visible in the shadow.
+
+Gloria saw the artist almost immediately, for he could not help looking
+at her curiously, comparing her face with the mad sketch he had made on
+the wall. She nodded to him, and then spoke to her father, evidently
+calling his attention to Reanda, for Dalrymple looked down at once, and
+also nodded, while Griggs leaned forward a little and stared vacantly
+into the pit.
+
+"It is an obsession to-day," said Reanda to himself, reflecting that
+though the girl lived in Rome he had never noticed her before, and had
+now seen her twice on the same day.
+
+He mentally added the reflexion that she must have good nerves, and that
+most young girls would be at home with a headache after such a narrow
+escape as hers. She was quite as handsome as he had thought, however,
+and even more so, now that he saw her in her girlish evening gown, which
+was just a little open at the throat, and without even the simplest of
+ornaments. The white material and the shadow around and behind her threw
+her head into strong relief.
+
+The curtain went up again, and Reanda sat down and watched the
+performance and listened to the simple, stirring melodies. But he was
+uncomfortably conscious that Gloria was looking at the back of his head
+from her box. Nervous people know the unpleasant sensation which such a
+delusion can produce. Reanda moved uneasily in his seat, and looked
+round more than once, just far enough to catch sight of Gloria's hair
+without looking up into her eyes.
+
+His thoughts were disturbed, and he recalled vividly the face of the
+dead nun, which he had seen long ago. The resemblance was certainly
+strong. Maria Addolorata had sometimes had a strange expression which
+was quite her own, and which he had not yet seen in Gloria. But he felt
+that he should see it some day. He was sure of it, so sure that he had
+thrown its full force into the sketch on the wall, knowing that it would
+startle Donna Francesca. It was not possible that two women should be so
+much alike and yet that one of them should never have that look. Perhaps
+Gloria had it now and was staring at the back of his head.
+
+An unaccountable nervousness took possession of the sensitive man, and
+he suffered as he sat there. After the curtain dropped he rose and left
+the theatre without looking up, and crossed the narrow street to a
+little coffee shop familiar to him for many years. He drank a cup of
+coffee, broke off the end of a thin black Roman cigar, and smoked for a
+few minutes before he returned.
+
+Gloria had not moved, but Griggs was either gone or had retired further
+back into the shadow. Dalrymple was leaning back in his chair, bony and
+haggard, one of his great hands hanging listlessly over the front of the
+box. Reanda sat down again, and determined that he would not turn round
+before the end of the act. But it was of no use. He irritated his
+neighbours on each side by his restlessness, and his forehead was moist
+as though he were suffering great pain. Again he faced about and stared
+upwards at the box. Gloria, to his surprise, was not looking at him, but
+in the shadow he met the inscrutable eyes of Paul Griggs, fixed upon him
+as though they would never look away. But he cared very little whether
+Griggs looked at him or not. He faced the stage again and was more
+quiet.
+
+It was a good performance, and he began to be glad that he had come. The
+singers were young, the audience was inclined to applaud, and everything
+went smoothly. Reanda thought the soprano rather weak in the great tower
+scene.
+
+          "Calpesta il mio cadavere, ma salva il Trovator!"
+
+she sang in great ascending intervals.
+
+Reanda sighed, for she made no impression on him, and he remembered that
+he had been deeply impressed, even thrilled, when he had first heard the
+phrase. He had realized the situation then and had felt with Leonora.
+Perhaps he had grown too old to feel that sort of young emotion any
+more. He sighed regretfully as he rose from his seat. Looking up once
+more, he saw that Gloria was putting on her cloak, her back turned to
+the theatre. He waited a moment and then moved on with the crowd, to get
+his coat from the cloak-room.
+
+He went out and walked slowly up the Via di Tordinona. It was a dark
+and narrow street in those days. The great old-fashioned lanterns were
+swung up with their oil lamps in them, by long levers held in place by
+chains locked to the wall. Here and there over a low door a red light
+showed that wine was sold in a basement which was almost a cellar. The
+crowd from the theatre hurried along close by the walls, in constant
+danger from the big coaches that dashed past, bringing the Roman ladies
+home, for all had to pass through that narrow street. Landaus were not
+yet invented, and the heavy carriages rumbled loudly through the
+darkness, over the small paving-stones. But the people on foot were used
+to them, and stood pressed against the walls as they went by, or grouped
+for a moment on the low doorsteps of the dark houses.
+
+Reanda went with the rest. He might have gone the other way, by the
+Banchi Vecchi, from the bridge of Sant' Angelo, and it would have been
+nearer, but he had a curious fancy that the Dalrymples might walk home,
+and that he might see Gloria again. Though it was not yet winter, the
+night was bright and cold, and it was pleasant to walk. The regular
+season at the Apollo Theatre did not begin until Christmas, but there
+were often good companies there at other times of the year.
+
+The artist walked on, glancing at the groups he passed in the dim
+street, but neither pausing nor hurrying. He meant to let fate have her
+own way with him that night.
+
+Fate was not far off. He had gone on some distance, and the crowd had
+dispersed in various directions, till he was almost alone as he emerged
+into the open space where the Via del Clementino intersects the Ripetta.
+At that moment he heard a wild and thrilling burst of song.
+
+          "Calpesta il mio cadavere, ma salva il Trovator!"
+
+The great soprano rang out upon the midnight silence, like the voice of
+a despairing archangel, and there was nothing more.
+
+"Hush!" exclaimed a man's voice energetically.
+
+Two or three windows were opened high up, for no one had ever heard such
+a woman's voice in the streets before. Reanda peered before him through
+the gloom, saw three people standing at the next corner, and hastened
+his long steps. An instinct he could not explain told him that Gloria
+had sung the short strain, which had left him cold and indifferent when
+he had heard it in the theatre. He was neither now, and he was possessed
+by the desire to be sure that it had been she.
+
+He was not mistaken. Griggs had recognized him first, and they had
+waited for him at the corner.
+
+"It is an unexpected pleasure to meet twice in the same day," said
+Reanda.
+
+"The pleasure is ours," answered Dalrymple, in the correct phrase, but
+with his peculiar accent. "I suppose you heard my daughter's screams,"
+he added drily. "She was explaining to us how a particular phrase should
+be sung."
+
+"Was I not right?" asked Gloria, quickly appealing to Reanda with the
+certainty of support.
+
+"A thousand times right," he answered. "How could one be wrong with such
+a voice?"
+
+Gloria was pleased, and they all walked on together till they reached
+the door of Dalrymple's lodging.
+
+"Come in and have supper with us," said the Scotchman, who seemed to be
+less gloomy than usual. "I suppose you live in our neighbourhood?"
+
+"No. In the Palazzetto Borgia, where I work."
+
+"This is not exactly on your way home, then," observed Gloria. "You may
+as well rest and refresh yourself."
+
+Reanda accepted the invitation, wondering inwardly at the assurance of
+the foreign girl. With her Italian speech she should have had Italian
+manners, he thought. The three men all carried tapers, as was then
+customary, and they all lit them before they ascended the dark
+staircase.
+
+"This is an illumination," said Dalrymple, looking back as he led the
+way.
+
+Gloria stopped suddenly, and looked round. She was following her father,
+and Reanda came after her, Griggs being the last.
+
+"One, two, three," she counted, and her eyes met Reanda's.
+
+Without the slightest hesitation, she blew out the taper he held in his
+hand. But, for one instant, he had seen in her face the expression of
+the dead nun, distinct in the clear light, and close to his eyes.
+
+"Why did you do that?" asked Dalrymple, who had turned his head again,
+as the taper was extinguished.
+
+"Three lights mean death," said Gloria, promptly; and she laughed, as
+she went quickly up the steps.
+
+"It is true," answered Reanda, in a low voice, as he followed her; and
+it occurred to him that in a flash he had seen death written in the
+brilliant young face.
+
+Ten minutes later, they were seated around the table in the Dalrymples'
+small dining-room. Reanda noticed that everything he saw there evidently
+belonged to the hired lodging, from the old-fashioned Italian silver
+forks, battered and crooked at the prongs, to the heavy cut-glass
+decanters, stained with age and use, at the neck, and between the
+diamond-shaped cuttings. There was supper enough for half-a-dozen
+people, however, and an extraordinary quantity of wine. Dalrymple
+swallowed a big tumbler of it before he ate anything. Paul Griggs filled
+his glass to the brim, and looked at it. He had hardly spoken since
+Reanda had joined the party.
+
+The artist made an effort to be agreeable, feeling that the invitation
+had been a very friendly one, considering the slight acquaintance he had
+with the Dalrymples, an acquaintance not yet twenty-four hours old.
+Presently he asked Gloria if she had felt no ill effects from her
+extraordinary accident in the afternoon.
+
+"I had not thought about it again," she answered. "I have thought of
+nothing but your painting all the evening, until that woman sang that
+phrase as though she were asking the Conte di Luna for more strawberries
+and cream."
+
+She laughed, but her eyes were fixed on his face.
+
+          "'Un altro po' di fravole, e dammi crema ancor,'"
+
+she sang softly, in the Roman dialect.
+
+Then she laughed again, and Reanda smiled at the absurd words--"A few
+more strawberries, and give me some more cream." But even the few notes,
+a lazy parody of the prima donna's singing of the phrase, charmed his
+simple love of melody.
+
+"Don't look so grim, papa," she said in English. "Nobody can hear me
+here, you know."
+
+"I should not think anybody would wish to," answered the Scotchman; but
+he spoke in Italian, in consideration of his guest, who did not
+understand English.
+
+"I do not know why you are always so angry if I sing anything foolish,"
+said the young girl, going back to Italian. "One cannot be always
+serious. But I was talking about your frescoes, Signor Reanda. I have
+thought of nothing else."
+
+Again her eyes met the artist's, but fell before his. He was too great a
+painter not to know the value of such flattering speeches in general,
+and in a way he was inclined to resent the girl's boldness. But at the
+same time, it was hard to believe that she was not really in earnest,
+for she had that power of sudden gravity which lends great weight to
+little speeches. In spite of himself, and perhaps rightly, he believed
+her. Paul Griggs did not, and he watched her curiously.
+
+"Why do you look at me like that?" she asked, turning upon him with a
+little show of temper.
+
+"If your father will allow me to say so, you are the object most worth
+looking at in the room," answered the young man, calmly.
+
+"You will make her vain with your pretty speeches, Griggs," said
+Dalrymple.
+
+"I doubt that," answered Griggs.
+
+He relapsed into silence, and drained a big tumbler of wine. Reanda
+suspected, with a shrewd intuition, that the American admired Gloria,
+but that she did not like him much.
+
+"Miss Dalrymple is doing her best to make me vain with her praise," said
+Reanda.
+
+"I never flattered any one in my life," answered Gloria. "Signor Reanda
+is the greatest painter in Italy. Everybody says so. It would be foolish
+of me to even pretend that after seeing him at work I had thought of
+anything else. We have all said, this evening, that the frescoes were
+wonderful, and that no one, not even Raphael, who did the same thing,
+has ever had a more beautiful idea of the history of Cupid and Psyche.
+Why should we not tell the truth, just because he happens to be here?
+How illogical you are!"
+
+"I believe I excepted Raphael," said Dalrymple, with his national
+accuracy. "But Signor Reanda will not quarrel with me on that account, I
+am sure."
+
+"But I did not except Raphael, nor any one," persisted Gloria, before
+Reanda could speak.
+
+"Really, Signorina, though I am mortal and susceptible, you go a little
+too far. Flattery is not appreciation, you know."
+
+"It is not flattery," she answered, and the colour rose in her face. "I
+am quite in earnest. Nobody ever painted anything better than your Cupid
+and Psyche. Raphael's is dull and uninteresting compared with it."
+
+"I blush, but I cannot accept so much," said the Italian, smiling
+politely, but still trying to discover whether she meant what she said
+or not.
+
+In spite of himself, as before, he continued to believe her, though his
+judgment told him that hers could not be worth much. But he was pleased
+to have made such an impression, and by quick degrees his prejudice
+against her began to disappear. What had seemed like boldness in her no
+longer shocked him, and he described it to himself as the innocent
+frankness of a foreign girl. It was not possible that any one so like
+the dead Maria Braccio could be vulgar or bold. From that moment he
+began to rank Gloria as belonging to the higher sphere from which his
+birth excluded him. It was a curious and quick transition, and he would
+not have admitted that it was due to her exaggerated praise of his work.
+Strange as it must seem to those not familiar with the almost impassable
+barriers of old Italian society, Reanda had that evening, for the first
+time in his life, the sensation of being liked, admired, and talked with
+by a woman of Francesca Campodonico's class; stranger still, it was one
+of the most delicious sensations he had ever experienced. Yet the woman
+in question was but a girl not yet seventeen years old. Before he rose
+to go home, he unconsciously resented Griggs's silent admiration for
+Gloria. To the average Italian, such silence is a sign that a man is in
+love, and Reanda was the more attracted to Gloria because she treated
+Griggs with such perfect indifference.
+
+It was nearly one o'clock when he lighted his taper to descend the
+stairs. Griggs was also ready to go. It was a relief to know that he was
+not going to stay behind and talk with Gloria. They went down in
+silence.
+
+"I wanted to ask you a question," said the American, as they came out
+upon the street, and blew out their tapers. "We live in opposite
+directions, so I must ask it now. Should you mind, if I wrote an article
+on your frescoes for a London paper?"
+
+"Mind!" exclaimed the artist, with a sudden revulsion of feeling in
+favour of the journalist. "I should be delighted--flattered."
+
+"No," said Griggs, coldly. "I shall not write as Miss Dalrymple talks.
+But I shall try and do you justice, and that is a good deal, when one is
+a serious artist, as you are."
+
+Reanda was struck by the cool moderation of the words, which expressed
+his own modest judgment of himself almost too exactly to be agreeable
+after Gloria's unlimited praise. He thanked Griggs warmly, however, and
+they shook hands before they parted.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXII.
+
+THREE months passed, and Reanda was intimate with the Dalrymples. It was
+natural enough, considering the circumstances. They lived much alone,
+and Reanda was like them in this respect, for he rarely went where he
+was obliged to talk. During the day he saw much of Donna Francesca, but
+when it grew dark in the early afternoons of midwinter, the artist was
+thrown upon his own resources. In former years he had now and then done
+as many of the other artists did, and had sometimes for a month or two
+spent most of his evenings at the eating-house where he dined, in
+company with half-a-dozen others who frequented the same establishment.
+Each dropped in, at any hour that chanced to suit him, ate his supper,
+pushed back his chair, and joined in the general conversation, smoking,
+and drinking coffee or a little wine, until it was time to go home.
+There were grey-headed painters who had hardly been absent more than a
+few days in five and twenty years from their accustomed tables at such
+places as the Falcone, the Gabbione, or the Genio. But Reanda had never
+joined in any of these little circles for longer than a month or two,
+by which time he had exhausted the stock of his companions' ideas, and
+returned to solitude and his own thoughts. For he had something which
+they had not, besides his greater talent, his broader intelligence, and
+his deeper artistic insight. Donna Francesca's refining influence
+exerted itself continually upon him, and made much of the common
+conversation tiresome or disagreeable to him. A man whose existence is
+penetrated by the presence of a rarely refined woman seldom cares much
+for the daily society of men. He prefers to be alone, when he cannot be
+with her.
+
+Reanda believed that what he felt for Francesca was a devoted and almost
+devout friendship. The fact that before many weeks had passed after his
+first meeting with Gloria he was perceptibly in love with the girl,
+while he felt not the smallest change in his relations with Donna
+Francesca, satisfactorily proved to him that he was right. It would not
+have been like an Italian and a Latin to compare his feelings for the
+two women by imaginary tests, as, for instance, by asking himself for
+which of the two he would make the greater sacrifice. He took it for
+granted that the one sentiment was friendship and the other love, and he
+acted accordingly.
+
+He was distrustful, indeed, and very suspicious, but not of himself.
+Gloria treated him too well. Her eyes told him more than he felt able to
+believe. It was not natural that a girl so young and fresh and
+beautiful, with the world before her, should fall in love with a man of
+his age. That, at least, was what he thought. But the fact that it was
+unnatural did not prevent it from taking place.
+
+Reanda ignored certain points of great importance. In the first place,
+Gloria had not really the world before her. Her little sphere was
+closely limited by her father's morose selfishness, which led him to
+keep her in Rome because he liked the place himself, and to keep away
+from his countrymen, whom he detested as heartily as Britons living
+abroad sometimes do. On the other hand, a vague dread lest the story of
+his marriage might some day come to the light kept him away from Roman
+society. He had fallen back upon artistic Bohemia for such company as he
+wanted, which was little enough, and as his child grew up he had not
+understood that she was developing early and coming to womanhood while
+she was still under the care of the governess he had provided. He had
+not even made any plans for her future, for he did not love her, though
+he indulged her as a selfish and easy means of fulfilling his paternal
+obligations. It was to get rid of her importunity that he began to take
+her to the houses of some of the married artists when she was only
+sixteen years old, though she looked at least two years older.
+
+But in such society as that, Reanda was easily first, apart from the
+talent which placed him at the head of the whole artistic profession. He
+had been brought up, taught, and educated among gentlemen, sons of one
+of the oldest and most fastidious aristocracies in Europe, and he had
+their manners, their speech, their quiet air of superiority, and
+especially that exterior gentleness and modesty of demeanour which most
+touches some women. In Gloria's opinion, he even had much of their
+appearance, being tall, thin, and dark. Accustomed as she was to living
+with her father, who was gloomy and morose, and to seeing much of Paul
+Griggs, whose powers of silence were phenomenal at that time, Reanda's
+easy grace of conversation charmed and flattered her. He was, by many
+degrees, the superior in talent, in charm, in learning, to any one she
+had ever met, and it must not be forgotten that although he was twenty
+years older than she, he was not yet forty, and that, as he had not a
+grey hair in his head, he could still pass for a young man, though his
+grave disposition made him feel older than he was. Of the three
+melancholic men in whose society she chiefly lived, her father was
+selfish and morose; Griggs was gentle, but silent and incomprehensible,
+though he exerted an undoubted influence over her; Reanda alone, though
+naturally melancholy, was at once gentle, companionable, and talkative
+with her.
+
+Dalrymple accepted the intimacy with indifference and even with a
+certain satisfaction. In his reflexions, he characterized Reanda as a
+rare combination of the great artist and the gentleman. Since Gloria had
+known him she had grown more quiet. She admired him and imitated his
+manner. It was a good thing. He was glad, too, that Reanda was not
+married, for it would have been a nuisance, thought Dalrymple, to have
+the man's wife always about and expecting to be amused.
+
+It began to occur to him that Reanda might be falling in love with
+Gloria, and he did not resent the idea. In fact, though at first sight
+it should have seemed strange to an Englishman, he looked upon the idea
+with favour. He wished to live out his life in Italy, for he had got
+that fierce affection for the country which has overcome and bound many
+northern men, from Sir John Hawkwood to Landor and Browning. Though he
+did not love Gloria, he was attached to her in his own way, and did not
+wish to lose sight of her altogether. But, in consequence of his own
+irregular marriage, he could not marry her to a man of his own rank in
+Rome, who would not fail to make inquiries about her mother. It was most
+natural that he should look upon such a man as Reanda with favour.
+Reanda had many good qualities. Dalrymple's judgment was generally keen
+enough about people, and he had understood that such a woman as Donna
+Francesca Campodonico would certainly not make a personal friend of a
+painter, and allow him to occupy rooms in her palace, unless his
+character were altogether above suspicion.
+
+Gloria was, of course, too young to be married yet, though she seemed to
+be so entirely grown up and altogether a woman. In this respect
+Dalrymple was not prejudiced. His own mother had been married at the age
+of seventeen, and he had lived long in Italy, where early marriages were
+common enough. There could certainly be no serious objection to the
+match on that score, when another year should have passed.
+
+Dalrymple's only anxiety about his daughter concerned her strong
+inclination to be a public singer. The prejudice was by no means
+extraordinary, and as a Scotchman, it had even more weight with him than
+it could have had, for instance, with an Italian. Reanda entirely agreed
+with him on this point, and when Gloria spoke of it, he never failed to
+draw a lively picture of the drawbacks attending stage life. The artist
+spoke very strongly, for one of Gloria's earliest and chiefest
+attractions in his eyes had been the certainty he felt that she belonged
+to Francesca's class. For that reason her flattering admiration had
+brought with it a peculiar savour, especially delightful to the taste of
+a man of humble origin. Dalrymple did not understand that, but he knew
+that if Gloria married the great painter, the latter would effectually
+keep her from the stage.
+
+As for Griggs, the Scotchman was well aware that the poor young
+journalist might easily fall in love with the beautiful girl. But this
+did not deter him at all from having Griggs constantly at the house.
+Griggs was the only man he had ever met who did not bore him, who could
+be silent for an hour at a time, who could swallow as much strong wine
+as he without the slightest apparent effect upon his manner, who
+understood all he said, though sometimes saying things which he could
+not understand--in short, Griggs was a necessity to him. The young man
+was perhaps aware of the fact, and he found Dalrymple congenial to his
+own temper; but he was as excessively proud as he was extremely poor, at
+that time, and he managed to refuse the greater part of the hospitality
+offered to him, simply because he could not return it. It was very
+rarely that he accepted an invitation to a meal, though he now generally
+came in the evening, besides meeting Dalrymple almost every morning when
+they went to the bookseller's together.
+
+He puzzled the Scotchman strangely. He was an odd combination of a
+thinker and an athlete, half literary man, half gladiator. The common
+phrase 'an old head on young shoulders' described him as well as any
+phrase could. The shoulders were perhaps the more remarkable, but the
+head was not to be despised. A man who could break a horseshoe and tear
+in two a pack of cards, and who spent his spare time in studying Hegel
+and Kant, when he was not writing political correspondence for
+newspapers, deserved to be considered an exception. He seemed to have no
+material wants, and yet he had the animal power of enjoying material
+things even in excess, which is rare. He had a couple of rooms in the
+Via della Frezza, between the Corso and the Ripetta, where he lived in a
+rather mysterious way, though he made no secret about it. Occasionally
+an acquaintance climbed the steep stairs, but no one ever got him to
+open the door nor to give any sign that he was at home, if he were
+within. A one-eyed cobbler acted as porter downstairs, from morning till
+night, astride upon his bench and ever at work, an ill-savoured old pipe
+in his mouth.
+
+"You may try," he answered, when any one asked for Griggs. "Who knows?
+Perhaps Sor Paolo will open. Try a little, if you have patience."
+
+Patience being exhausted, the visitor came down the five flights again,
+and remonstrated with the cobbler.
+
+"I did not say anything," he would reply, in a cloud of smoke. "Many
+have tried. I told you to try. Am I to tell you that no one has ever
+got in? Why? To disoblige you? If you want anything of Sor Paolo, say
+it to me. Or come again."
+
+"But he will not open," objected the visitor.
+
+"Oh, that is true," returned the man of one eye. "But if you wish to
+try, I am not here to hinder you. This is the truth."
+
+Now and then, some one more inquisitive suggested that there might be a
+lady in the question. The one eye then fixed itself in a vacant stare.
+
+"Females?" the cobbler would exclaim. "Not even cats. What passes
+through your head? He is alone always. If you do not believe me, you can
+try. I do not say Sor Paolo will not open the door. A door is a door, to
+be opened."
+
+"But since I have tried!"
+
+"And I, what can I do? You have come, you have seen, you have knocked,
+and no one has opened. May the Madonna accompany you! I can do nothing."
+
+So even the most importunate of visitors departed at last. But Griggs
+had taken Dalrymple up to his lodgings more than once, and they had sat
+there for an hour talking over books. Dalrymple observed, indeed, that
+Griggs was more inclined to talk in his own rooms than anywhere else,
+and that his manner then changed so much as to make him almost seem to
+be a different man. There was a look of interest in the stony mask, and
+there was a light in the deep-set eyes which neither wine nor wit could
+bring there at other times. The man wore his armour against the world,
+as it were, a tough shell made up of a poor man's pride, and solid with
+that sense of absolute physical superiority which is an element in the
+character of strong men, and which the Scotchman understood. He himself
+had been of the strong, but not always the strongest. Paul Griggs had
+never yet been matched by any man since he had first got his growth. He
+was the equal of many in intellect, but his bodily strength was not
+equalled by any in his youth and manhood. The secret of his one
+well-hidden vanity lay in that. His moral power showed itself in his
+assumed modesty about it, for it was almost impossible to prevail upon
+him to make exhibition of it. Gloria alone seemed able to induce him,
+for her especial amusement, to break a silver dollar with his fingers,
+or tear a pack of cards, and then only in the presence of her father or
+Reanda, but never before other people.
+
+"You are the strongest man in the world, are you not?" she asked him
+once.
+
+"Yes," he answered. "I probably am, if it is I. I am vain of it, but not
+proud of it. That makes me think sometimes that I am two men in one.
+That might account for it, you know."
+
+"What nonsense!" Gloria laughed.
+
+"Is it? I daresay it is." And he relapsed into indifference, so far as
+she could see.
+
+"What is the other man like?" she asked. "Not the strong man of the two,
+but the other?"
+
+"He is a good man. The strong man is bad. They fight, and the result is
+insignificance. Some day one of the two will get the better of the
+other."
+
+"What will happen then?" she asked lightly, and still inclined to laugh.
+
+"One or the other, or both, will die, I suppose," he answered.
+
+"How very unpleasant!"
+
+She did not at all understand what he meant. At the same time she could
+not help feeling that he was eminently a man to whom she would turn in
+danger or trouble. Girl though she was, she could not mistake his great
+admiration of her, and by degrees, as the winter wore on, she trusted
+him more, though he still repelled her a little, for his saturnine calm
+was opposed to her violent vitality, as a black rock to a tawny torrent.
+Griggs had neither the manner nor the temper which wins women's hearts
+as a rule. Such men are sometimes loved by women when their sorrow has
+chained them to the rock of horror, and grief insatiable tears out their
+broken hearts. But in their strength they are not loved. They cannot
+give themselves yet, for their strength hinders them, and women think
+them miserly of words and of love's little coin of change. If they get
+love at last, it is as the pity which the unhurt weak feel for the
+ruined strong.
+
+Gloria was not above irritating Griggs occasionally, when the fancy took
+her to seek amusement in that way. She knew how to do it, and he rarely
+turned upon her, even in the most gentle way.
+
+"We are good friends, are we not?" she asked one day, when it was
+raining and he was alone with her, waiting for her father to come in.
+
+"I hope so," he answered, turning his impassive face slowly towards her.
+
+"Then you ought to be much nicer to me," she said.
+
+"I am as nice as I know how to be," replied Griggs, with fixed eyes.
+"What shall I do?"
+
+"That is it. You ought to know. You could talk and say pleasant things,
+for instance. Don't you admit that you are very dull to-day?"
+
+"I admit it. I regret it, and I wish I were not."
+
+"You need not be. I am sure you can talk very well, when you please. You
+are not exactly funny at any time, but to-day you are funereal. You
+remind me of those big black horses they use for hearses, you know."
+
+"Thank you, thank you," said Griggs, quietly, repeating the words
+without emphasis.
+
+"I don't like you!" she exclaimed petulantly, but with a little laugh.
+
+"I know that," he answered. "But I like you very much. We were probably
+meant to differ."
+
+"Then you might amuse me. It's awfully dull when it rains. Pull the
+house down, or tear up silver scudi, or something."
+
+"I am not Samson, and I am not a clown," observed Griggs, coldly.
+
+"I shall never like you if you are so disagreeable," said Gloria, taking
+up a book, and settling herself to read.
+
+"I am afraid you never will," answered Griggs, following her example.
+
+A few minutes passed in silence. Then Gloria looked up suddenly.
+
+"Mr. Griggs?"
+
+"Yes?"
+
+"I did not mean to be horrid."
+
+"No, of course not."
+
+"Because, if I were ever in trouble, you know--I should come straight to
+you."
+
+"Thank you," he answered very gently. "But I hope you will never be in
+trouble. If you ever should be--" He stopped.
+
+"Well?"
+
+"I do not think you would find anybody who would try harder to help
+you," he said simply.
+
+She wished that his voice would tremble, or that he would put out his
+hand towards her, or show something a little more like emotion. But she
+had to be satisfied.
+
+"Would it be the good man or the bad man that would help me?" she
+asked, remembering the former conversation.
+
+"Both," answered Griggs, without hesitation.
+
+"I am not sure that I might not like the bad man better," said Gloria,
+almost to herself.
+
+"Is Reanda a bad man?" inquired Griggs, slowly, and looking for the
+blush in her face.
+
+"Why?" But she blushed, as he expected.
+
+"Because you like him better than me."
+
+"You are quite different. It is of no use to talk about it, and I want
+to read."
+
+She turned from him and buried herself in her book, but she moved
+restlessly two or three times, and it was some minutes before the
+heightened colour disappeared from her face.
+
+She was very girlish still, and when she had irritated Griggs as far as
+such a man was capable of irritation, she preferred to refuse battle
+rather than deal with the difficulty she had created. But Griggs
+understood, and amongst his still small sufferings he often felt the
+little, dull, hopeless pang which tells a man that he is unlovable.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIII.
+
+
+VERY late, one night in the Carnival season, Paul Griggs was walking the
+streets alone. His sufferings were no longer so small as they had been,
+and the bitterness of solitude was congenial to him.
+
+He had been at the house of a Spanish artist, where there had been
+dancing and music and supper and improvised tableaux. Gloria and her
+father and Reanda had all been there, too, and something had happened
+which had stirred the depths of the young man's slow temper. He hated to
+make an exhibition of himself, and much against his will he had been
+exhibited, as it were, to help the gaiety of the entertainment. Cotogni,
+the great sculptor, had suggested that Griggs should appear as Samson,
+asleep with his head on Delilah's knee, and bound by her with cords
+which he should seem to break as the Philistines rushed in. He had
+refused flatly, again and again, till all the noisy party caught the
+idea and forced him to it.
+
+They had dressed him in silk draperies, his mighty arms bare almost to
+the shoulder, and they had given him a long, dark, theatrical wig. They
+had bound his arms and chest with cords, and had made him lie down and
+pretend to be asleep at the feet of the artist's beautiful wife. They
+had made slipping knots in the cords, so that he could easily wrench
+them loose. Then the curtain had been drawn aside, and there had been a
+pause as the tableau was shown. All at once a mob of artists, draped
+hastily in anything they could lay their hands upon, and with all manner
+of helmets on their heads from the Spaniard's collection, had rushed in.
+
+"The Philistines are upon thee!" cried Delilah in a piercing voice.
+
+He sprang to his feet, his legs being free, and he struggled with the
+cords. The knots would not slip as they were meant to do. The situation
+lasted several seconds, and was ridiculous enough.
+
+People began to laugh.
+
+"Cut off his hair!" cried one.
+
+"Of what use was the wig?" laughed another, and every one tittered.
+
+Griggs could hear Gloria's clear, high laugh above the rest. His blood
+slowly rose in his throat. But no one pulled the curtain across. The
+Philistines, young artists, mad with Carnival, improvised a very
+eccentric dance of triumph, and the laughter increased.
+
+Griggs looked at the cords. Then his mask-like face turned slowly to the
+audience. Only the great veins swelled suddenly at his temples, while
+every one watched him in the general amusement. Suddenly his eyes
+flashed, and he drew a deep breath, for he was angry. In an instant
+there was dead silence in the room. A moment later one of the cords,
+drawn tight round his chest, over the silk robe, snapped like a thread,
+then another, and then a third. Then in a sort of frenzy of anger he
+savagely broke the whole cord into pieces with his hands, tossing the
+bits contemptuously upon the floor. His face was as white as a dead
+man's.
+
+A roar of applause broke the silence when the guests realized what he
+had done. The artists seized him and carried him high in procession
+round the room, the women threw flowers at him, and some one struck up a
+triumphal march on the piano. It was an ovation. Half an hour later,
+dressed again in his ordinary clothes, he found himself next to Gloria.
+
+"You told me the other day that you were not Samson," she said. "You see
+you can be when you choose."
+
+"No," answered Griggs, coldly; "I am a clown."
+
+What she had said was natural enough, but somehow the satisfaction of
+his bodily vanity had stung his moral pride beyond endurance. It seemed
+a despicable thing to be as vain as he was of a gift for which he had
+not paid any price. Deep down, too, he felt bitterly that he had never
+received the slightest praise for any thought of his which he had
+written down and sent to that cauldron of the English daily press in
+which all individual right to distinction disappears, with all claim to
+praise, from written matter, however good it be. He worked, he read, he
+studied, he wrote late, and rose early to observe. But his natural gift
+was to be a mountebank, a clown, a circus Hercules. By stiffening one of
+his senseless arms he could bring down roars of applause. By years of
+bitter labour with his pen he earned the barest living. The muscles that
+a porter might have, offered him opulence, because it was tougher by a
+few degrees than the flesh of other men. The knowledge he had striven
+for just kept him above absolute want.
+
+He slipped away from the gay party as soon as he could. His last glance
+round the room showed him Angelo Reanda and Gloria, sitting in a corner
+apart. The girl's face was grave. There was a gentle and happy light in
+the artist's eyes which Griggs had never seen. That also was the strong
+man's portion.
+
+Wrathfully he strode away from the house, under the dim oil lamps, an
+unlighted cigar between his teeth, his soft felt hat drawn over his
+eyes. He crossed the city towards the Pantheon and the Piazza Navona,
+his cigar still unlighted.
+
+The streets were alive, though it was very late. There was more freedom
+to be gay and more hope of being simply happy in those days. Many men
+and women wandered about in bands of ten or a dozen, singing in soft
+voices, above which now and then rose a few ringing tenor notes. There
+was laughter everywhere in the air; tambourines drummed and thumped and
+jingled, guitars twanged, and mandolines tinkled and quavered. From a
+dark lane somewhere off the broader thoroughfare, a single voice sang
+out in serenade. The Corso was bright with unusual lights, and strewn
+with the birdseed and plaster-of-Paris 'confetti,' with yellow sand and
+sprigs of box leaves, and withering flowers, and there was about all the
+neighbourhood that peculiar smell of plaster and crushed flower-stalks
+which belonged then to the street carnival of Rome. Further on, in the
+dim quarters by the Tiber, the wine shops were all crowded, and men
+stood and drank outside on the pavement, and paid, and went laughing on,
+laughing and singing, singing and laughing, through the night.
+
+Griggs felt the penetrating loneliness of him who cannot laugh amidst
+laughter, and it was congenial to him. He had always been alone, and he
+felt that the world held no companion for him. There was satisfaction in
+knowing that no one could ever guess what went on between his heart and
+his head.
+
+He wandered on with the same even, untiring stride, for a long time,
+through the dark and winding ways, from the Pantheon through the old
+city, through Piazza Paganica and Costaguti to Piazza Montanara, where
+the carters and carriers congregate from the country. There, in the
+middle of the three-cornered open space, a flag in the paving marked the
+spot on which men used to be put to death. To-night even the carriers
+were making merry. Griggs was thirsty, and paused at the door of a wine
+shop. Though it was winter, men were sitting outside, for there was no
+more room within. A flaring torch of pitched rope was stuck in an iron
+ring, and shed an uncertain, smoky light upon the men's faces. A drawer
+in an apron brought Griggs a glass, and he drank standing.
+
+"It makes no difference," said a rough voice in the little crowd. "They
+may cut off my head there on the paving-stone. They would do me a
+favour. If I find him, I kill him. An evil death on him and all his
+house!"
+
+Griggs looked at the speaker without surprise, for he had often heard
+such things said. He saw an iron-grey man in good peasant's clothes of
+dark blue with broad silver buttons, a man with a true Roman face, a
+small aquiline nose, and keen, dark eyes. He turned away, and began to
+retrace his steps.
+
+In half an hour he was at the door of the old Falcone inn, gone now like
+many relics of that day. It stood in the Piazza of Saint Eustace near
+the Pantheon, and in its time was the best of the old-fashioned
+eating-houses. Griggs felt suddenly hungry. He had walked seven or eight
+miles since he had left the party. He entered, and passed through the
+crowded rooms below and up the narrow steps to a small upper chamber,
+where he hoped to be alone. But there, also, every seat was taken.
+
+To his surprise Dalrymple and Reanda were at the table furthest from
+him, in earnest conversation, with a measure of wine between them.
+Griggs had never seen the Italian there before, but the latter caught
+sight of him as he stood in the door, and rose to his feet, making a
+sign which meant that he was going away, and that the chair was vacant.
+Griggs came forward, and looked into his face as they met. There was the
+same gentle and happy light in Reanda's eyes which had been there when
+he was sitting with Gloria in the corner of the Spanish artist's
+drawing-room. Then Griggs understood and knew the truth, and guessed the
+meaning of the unaccustomed pressure of the hand as Reanda greeted him
+without speaking, and hurriedly went out.
+
+Dalrymple had seen Griggs coming and was already calling to a man in a
+spotless white jacket for another glass and more wine. The Scotchman's
+bony face was haggard, but there was a little colour in his cheeks, and
+he seemed pleased.
+
+"Sit down, Griggs," he said. "There are no more chairs, so we can keep
+the table to ourselves. I hope you are half as thirsty as I am."
+
+"Rather more than half," answered the other, and he drank eagerly. "Give
+me some more, please," he said, holding out his glass.
+
+"I see that you are in the right humour to hear good news," said the
+Scot. "Reanda is to marry my daughter in the summer."
+
+"I congratulate you all three," said Griggs, slowly, for he had known
+what was coming. "Let us drink the health of the couple."
+
+"By all means," answered Dalrymple, filling again. "By all means let us
+drink. I could not swallow that sweet stuff at Mendoza's. This is
+better. By all means let us drink as much as we can."
+
+"That might mean a good deal," said Griggs, quickly, and he drained a
+third glass. "Were you ever drunk, Dalrymple?" he inquired gravely.
+
+"No. I never was," answered the Scotchman.
+
+"Nor I. This seems a fitting occasion for trying an experiment. We might
+try to get drunk."
+
+"By all means, let us try," replied Dalrymple. "I have my doubts about
+the possibility of the thing, however."
+
+"So have I."
+
+They sat opposite to one another in silence for some minutes, each
+satisfied that the other was in earnest. Dalrymple solemnly filled the
+glasses and then leaned back in his chair.
+
+"You did not seem much surprised by what I told you," he observed at
+last. "I suppose you expected it."
+
+"Yes. It seemed natural enough, though it is not always the natural
+things that happen."
+
+"I think they are suited to marry. Of course, Reanda is very much older,
+but he is comparatively a young man still."
+
+"Comparatively. He will make a better husband for having had experience,
+I daresay."
+
+"That depends on what experience he has had. When I first saw him I
+thought he was in love with Donna Francesca. It would have been like an
+artist. They are mostly fools. But I was mistaken. He worships at a
+distance."
+
+"And she preserves the distance," Griggs remarked. "You are not drinking
+fair. My glass is empty."
+
+Dalrymple finished his and refilled both.
+
+"I have been here some time," he observed, half apologetically. "But as
+I was saying--or rather, as you were saying--Donna Francesca preserves
+the distance. These Italians do that admirably. They know the difference
+between intimacy and familiarity."
+
+"That is a nice distinction," said Griggs. "I will use it in my next
+letter. No. Donna Francesca could never be familiar with any one. They
+learn it when they are young, I suppose, and it becomes a
+race-characteristic."
+
+"What?" asked Dalrymple, abruptly.
+
+"A certain graceful loftiness," answered the younger man.
+
+The Scotchman's wrinkled eyelids contracted, and he was silent for a few
+moments.
+
+"A certain graceful loftiness," he repeated slowly. "Yes, perhaps so. A
+certain graceful loftiness."
+
+"You seem struck by the expression," said Griggs.
+
+"I am. Drink, man, drink!" added Dalrymple, suddenly, in a different
+tone. "There's no time to be lost if we mean to drink enough to hurt us
+before those beggars go to bed."
+
+"Never fear. They will be up all night. Not that it is a reason for
+wasting time, as you say."
+
+He drank his glass and watched Dalrymple as the latter did likewise,
+with that deliberate intention which few but Scotchmen can maintain on
+such occasions. The wine might have been poured into a quicksand, for
+any effect it had as yet produced.
+
+"Those race-characteristics of families are very curious," continued
+Griggs, thoughtfully.
+
+"Are they?" Dalrymple looked at him suspiciously.
+
+"Very. Especially voices. They run in families, like resemblance of
+features."
+
+"So they do," answered the other, thoughtfully. "So they do."
+
+He had of late years got into the habit of often repeating such short
+phrases, in an absent-minded way.
+
+"Yes," said Griggs. "I noticed Donna Francesca's voice, the first time I
+ever heard it. It is one of those voices which must be inherited. I am
+sure that all her family have spoken as she does. It reminds me of
+something--of some one--"
+
+Dalrymple raised his eyes suddenly again, as though he were irritated.
+
+"I say," he began, interrupting his companion. "Do you feel anything?
+Anything queer in your head?"
+
+"No. Why?"
+
+"You are talking rather disconnectedly, that is all."
+
+"Am I? It did not strike me that I was incoherent. Probably one half of
+me was asleep while the other was talking." He laughed drily, and drank
+again. "No," he said thoughtfully, as he set down his glass. "I feel
+nothing unusual in my head. It would be odd if I did, considering that
+we have only just begun."
+
+"So I thought," answered Dalrymple.
+
+He ordered more wine and relapsed into silence. Neither spoke again for
+a long time.
+
+"There goes another bottle," said Dalrymple, at last, as he drained the
+last drops from the flagon measure. "Drink a little faster. This is slow
+work. We know the old road well enough."
+
+"You are not inclined to give up the attempt, are you?" inquired Griggs,
+whose still face showed no change. "Is it fair to eat? I am hungry."
+
+"Certainly. Eat as much as you like."
+
+Griggs ordered something, which was brought after considerable delay,
+and he began to eat.
+
+"We are not loquacious over our cups," remarked Dalrymple. "Should you
+mind telling me why you are anxious to get drunk to-night for the first
+time in your life?"
+
+"I might ask you the same question," answered Griggs, cautiously.
+
+"Merely because you proposed it. It struck me as a perfectly new idea. I
+have not much to amuse me, you know, and I shall have less when my
+daughter leaves me. It would be an amusement to lose one's head in some
+way."
+
+"In such a way as to be able to get it back, you mean. I was walking
+this evening after the party, and I came to the Piazza Montanara. There
+is a big flagstone there on which people used to leave their heads for
+good."
+
+"Yes. I have seen it. You cannot tell me much about Rome which I do not
+know."
+
+"There were a lot of carriers drinking close by. It was rather grim, I
+thought. An old fellow there had a spite against somebody. You know how
+they talk. 'They may cut off my head there on the paving-stone,' the man
+said. 'If I find him, I kill him. An evil death on him and all his
+house!' You have heard that sort of thing. But the fellow seemed to be
+very much in earnest."
+
+"He will probably kill his man," said Dalrymple.
+
+Suddenly his big, loose shoulders shook a little, and he shivered. He
+glanced towards the window, suspecting that it might be open.
+
+"Are you cold?" asked Griggs, carelessly.
+
+"Cold? No. Some one was walking over my grave, as they say. If we varied
+the entertainment with something stronger, we should get on faster,
+though."
+
+"No," said Griggs. "I refuse to mix things. This may be the longer way,
+but it is the safer."
+
+And he drank again.
+
+"He was a man from Tivoli, or Subiaco," he remarked presently. "He spoke
+with that accent."
+
+"I daresay," answered Dalrymple, who looked down into his glass at that
+moment, so that his face was in shadow.
+
+Just then four men who had occupied a table near the door rose and went
+out. It was late, even for a night in Carnival.
+
+"I hope they are not going to leave us all to ourselves," said
+Dalrymple. "The place will be shut up, and we need at least two hours
+more."
+
+"At least," assented Paul Griggs. "But they expect to be open all night.
+I think there is time."
+
+The men at the other tables showed no signs of moving. They sat quietly
+in their places, drinking steadily, by sips. Some of them were eating
+roasted chestnuts, and all were talking more or less in low tones.
+Occasionally one voice or another rose above the rest in an exclamation,
+but instantly subsided again. Italians of that class are rarely noisy,
+for though the Romans drink deep, they generally have strong heads, and
+would be ashamed of growing excited over their wine.
+
+The air was heavy, for several men were smoking strong cigars. The
+vaulted chamber was lighted by a single large oil lamp with a reflector,
+hung by a cord from the intersection of the cross-arches. The floor was
+of glazed white tiles, and the single window had curtains of Turkey red.
+It was all very clean and respectable and well kept, even at that
+crowded season, but the air was heavy with wine and tobacco, and the
+smell of cooked food,--a peculiar atmosphere in which the old-fashioned
+Roman delighted to sit for hours on holidays.
+
+Dalrymple looked about him, moving his pale blue eyes without turning
+his head. The colour had deepened a little on his prominent cheek bones,
+and his eyes were less bright than usual. But his red hair, growing
+sandy with grey, was brushed smoothly back, and his evening dress was
+unruffled. He and Griggs were so evidently gentlemen, that some of the
+Italians at the other tables glanced at them occasionally in quiet
+surprise, not that they should be there, but that they should remain so
+long, and so constantly renew their order for another bottle of wine.
+
+Giulio, the stout, dark drawer in a spotless jacket, moved about
+silently and quickly. One of the Italians glanced at Griggs and
+Dalrymple and then at the waiter, who also glanced at them quickly and
+then shrugged his shoulders almost perceptibly. Dalrymple saw both
+glances, and his eyes lighted up.
+
+"I believe that fellow is laughing at us," he said to Griggs.
+
+"There is nothing to laugh at," answered the latter, unmoved. "But of
+course, if you think so, throw him downstairs."
+
+Dalrymple laughed drily.
+
+"There is a certain calmness about the suggestion," he said. "It has a
+good, old-fashioned ring to it. You are not a very civilized young man,
+considering your intellectual attainments."
+
+"I grew up at sea and before the mast. That may account for it."
+
+"You seem to have crammed a good deal into a short life," observed
+Dalrymple. "It must have been a classic ship, where they taught Greek
+and Latin."
+
+"The captain used to call her his Ship of Fools. As a matter of fact, it
+was rather classic, as you say. The old man taught us navigation and
+Greek verse by turns for five years. He was a university man with a
+passion for literature, but I never knew a better sailor. He put me
+ashore when I was seventeen with pretty nearly the whole of my five
+years' pay in my pocket, and he made me promise that I would go to
+college and stay as long as my money held out. I got through somehow,
+but I am not sure that I bless him. He is afloat still, and I write to
+him now and then."
+
+"An Englishman, I suppose?"
+
+"No. An American."
+
+"What strange people you Americans are!" exclaimed Dalrymple, and he
+drank again. "You take up a profession, and you wear it for a bit, like
+a coat, and then change it for another," he added, setting down his
+empty glass.
+
+"Very much like you Scotch," answered Griggs. "I have heard you say that
+you were a doctor once."
+
+"A doctor--yes--in a way, for the sake of being a man of science, or
+believing myself to be one. My family was opposed to it," he continued
+thoughtfully. "My father told me it was his sincere belief that science
+did not stand in need of any help from me. He said I was more likely to
+need the help of science, like other lunatics. I will not say that he
+was not right."
+
+He laughed a little and filled his glass.
+
+"Poor Dalrymple!" he exclaimed softly, still smiling.
+
+Paul Griggs raised his slow eyes to his companion's face.
+
+"It never struck me that you were much to be pitied," he observed.
+
+"No, no. Perhaps not. But I will venture to say that the point is
+debatable, and could be argued. 'To be, or not to be' is a question
+admirably calculated to draw out the resources of the intellect in
+argument, if you are inclined for that sort of diversion. It is a very
+good thing, a very good thing for a man to consider and weigh that
+question while he is young. Before he goes to sleep, you know, Griggs,
+before he goes to sleep."
+
+"'For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come--'" Griggs quoted,
+and stopped.
+
+"'When we have shuffled off this mortal coil.' You do not know your
+Shakespeare, young man."
+
+"'Must give us pause,'" continued Griggs. "I was thinking of the dreams,
+not of the rest."
+
+
+[Illustration:
+
+          "Fire and sleet and candle-light;
+             And Christ receive thy soul."
+
+--Vol. I., p. 324.]
+
+"Dreams? Yes. There will be dreams there. Dreams, and other
+things--'this ae night of all.' Not that my reason admits that they can
+be more than dreams, you know, Griggs. Reason says 'to sleep--no more.'
+And fancy says 'perchance to dream.' Well, well, it will be a long
+dream, that's all."
+
+"Yes. We shall be dead a long time. Better drink now." And Griggs drank.
+
+          "'Fire and sleet and candle-light,
+              And Christ receive thy soul;'"
+
+said Dalrymple, with a far-away look in his pale eyes. "Do you know the
+Lyke-Wake Dirge, Griggs? It is a grand dirge. Hark to the swing of it.
+
+          "'This ae night, this ae night,
+             Every night and all,
+           Fire and sleet and candle-light,
+             And Christ receive thy soul.'"
+
+He repeated the strange words in a dull, matter-of-fact way, with a
+Scotch accent rarely perceptible in his conversation. Griggs listened.
+He had heard the dirge before, with all its many stanzas, and it had
+always had an odd fascination for him. He said nothing.
+
+"It bodes no good to be singing a dirge at a betrothal," said the
+Scotchman, suddenly. "Drink, man, drink! Drink till the blue devils fly
+away. Drink--
+
+          "'Till a' the seas gang dry, my love,
+              Till a' the seas gang dry.'
+
+Not that it is in the disposition of the Italian inn-keeper to give us
+time for that," he added drily. "As I was saying, I am of a melancholic
+temper. Not that I take you for a gay man yourself, Griggs. Drink a
+little more. It is my opinion that a little more will produce an
+agreeable impression upon you, my young friend. Drink a little more. You
+are too grave for so very young a man. I should not wish to be
+indiscreet, but I might almost take you for a man in love, if I did not
+know you better. Were you ever in love, Griggs?"
+
+"Yes," answered Griggs, quietly. "And you, Dalrymple? Were you never in
+love?"
+
+Dalrymple's loosely hung shoulders started suddenly, and his pale blue
+eyes set themselves steadily to look at Griggs. The red brows were
+shaggy, and there was a bright red spot on each cheek bone. He did not
+answer his companion's question, though his lips moved once or twice as
+though he were about to speak. They seemed unable to form words, and no
+sound came from them.
+
+His anger was near, perhaps, and with another man it might have broken
+out. But the pale and stony face opposite him, and the deep, still eyes,
+exercised a quieting influence, and whatever words rose to his lips were
+never spoken. Griggs understood that he had touched the dead body of a
+great passion, sacred in its death as it must have been overwhelming in
+its life. He struck another subject immediately, and pretended not to
+have noticed Dalrymple's expression.
+
+"I like your queer old Scotch ballads," he said, humouring the man's
+previous tendency to quote poetry.
+
+"There's a lot of life in them still," answered Dalrymple, absently
+twisting his empty glass.
+
+Griggs filled it for him, and they both drank. Little by little the
+Italians had begun to go away. Giulio, the fat, white-jacketed drawer,
+sat nodding in a corner, and the light from the high lamp gleamed on his
+smooth black hair as his head fell forward.
+
+"There is a sincere vitality in our Scotch poets," said Dalrymple, as
+though not satisfied with the short answer he had given. "There is a
+very notable power of active living exhibited in their somewhat
+irregular versification, and in the concatenation of their
+ratiocinations regarding the three principal actions of the early
+Scottish life, which I take to have been birth, stealing, and a violent
+death."
+
+"'But of these three charity is the greatest,'" observed Griggs, with
+something like a laugh, for he saw that Dalrymple was beginning to make
+long sentences, which is a bad sign for a Scotchman's sobriety.
+
+"No," answered Dalrymple, with much gravity. "There I venture--indeed, I
+claim the right--to differ with you. For the Scotchman is hospitable,
+but not charitable. The process of the Scotch mind is unitary, if you
+will allow me to coin a word for which I will pay with my glass."
+
+And he forthwith fulfilled the obligation in a deep draught. Setting
+down the tumbler, he leaned back in his chair and looked slowly round
+the room. His lips moved. Griggs could just distinguish the last lines
+of another old ballad.
+
+          "'Night and day on me she cries,
+            And I am weary of the skies
+            Since--'"
+
+He broke off and shook himself nervously, and looked at Griggs, as
+though wondering whether the latter had heard.
+
+"This wine is good," he said, rousing himself. "Let us have some more.
+Giulio!"
+
+The fat waiter awoke instantly at the call, looked, nodded, went out,
+and returned immediately with another bottle.
+
+"Is this the sixth or the seventh?" asked Dalrymple, slowly.
+
+"Eight with Signor Reanda's," answered the man. "But Signor Reanda paid
+for his as he went out. You have therefore seven. It might be enough."
+Giulio smiled.
+
+"Bring seven more, Giulio," said the Scotchman, gravely. "It will save
+you six journeys."
+
+"Does the Signore speak in earnest?" asked the servant, and he glanced
+at Griggs, who was impassive as marble.
+
+"You flatter yourself," said Dalrymple, impressively, to the man, "if
+you imagine that I would make even a bad joke to amuse you. Bring seven
+bottles." Giulio departed.
+
+"That is a Homeric order," observed Griggs.
+
+"I think--in fact, I am almost sure--that seven bottles more will
+produce an impression upon one of us. But I have a decidedly melancholic
+disposition, and I accustomed myself to Italian wine when I was very
+young. Melancholy people can drink more than others. Besides, what does
+such a bottle hold? I will show you. A tumbler to you, and one to me.
+Drink; you shall see."
+
+He emptied his glass and poured the remainder of the bottle into it.
+
+"Do you see? Half a tumbler. Two and a half are a bottle. Seven bottles
+are seventeen and a half glasses. What is that for you or me in a long
+evening? My blue devils are large. It would take an ocean to float them
+all. I insist upon going to bed in a good humour to-night, for once, in
+honour of my daughter's engagement. By the bye, Griggs, what do you
+think of Reanda?"
+
+"He is a first-rate artist. I like him very well."
+
+"A good man, eh? Well, well--from the point of view of discretion,
+Griggs, I am doing right. But then, as you may very wisely object,
+discretion is only a point of view. The important thing is the view, and
+not the point. Here comes Ganymede with the seven vials of wrath! Put
+them on the table, Giulio," he said, as the fat waiter came noiselessly
+up, carrying the bottles by the necks between his fingers, three in one
+hand and four in the other. "They make a fine show, all together," he
+observed thoughtfully, with his bony head a little on one side.
+
+"And may God bless you!" said Giulio, solemnly. "If you do not die
+to-night, you will never die again."
+
+"I regard it as improbable that we shall die more than once," answered
+Dalrymple. "I believe," he said, turning to Griggs, "that when men are
+drunk they make mistakes about money. We will pay now, while we are
+sober."
+
+Griggs insisted on paying his share. They settled, and Giulio went away
+happy.
+
+The two strong men sat opposite to each other, under the high lamp in
+the small room, drinking on and on. There was something terrifying in
+the Scotchman's determination to lose his senses--something grimly
+horrible in the younger man's marble impassiveness, as he swallowed
+glass for glass in time with his companion. His face grew paler still,
+and colder, but there was a far-off gleaming in the shadowy eyes, like
+the glimmer of a light over a lonely plain through the dark.
+Dalrymple's spirits did not rise, but he talked more and more, and his
+sentences became long and involved, and sometimes had no conclusion. The
+wine was telling on him at last. He had never been so strong as Griggs,
+at his best, and he was no match for him now. The younger man's
+strangely dual nature seemed to place his head beyond anything which
+could affect his senses.
+
+Dalrymple talked on and on, rambling from one subject to another, and
+not waiting for any answer when he asked a question. He quoted long
+ballads and long passages from Shakespeare, and then turned suddenly off
+upon a scientific subject, until some word of his own suggested another
+quotation.
+
+Griggs sat quietly in his seat, drinking as steadily, but paying little
+attention now to what the Scotchman said. Something had got hold of his
+heart, and was grinding it like grain between the millstones, grinding
+it to dust and ashes. He knew that he could not sleep that night. He
+might as well drink, for it could not hurt him. Nothing material had
+power to hurt him, it seemed. He felt the pain of longing for the
+utterly unattainable, knowing that it was beyond him forever. The
+widowhood of the unsatisfied is hell, compared with the bereavement of
+complete possession. He had not so much as told Gloria that he had loved
+her. How could he, being but one degree above a beggar? The unspoken
+words burned furrows in his heart, as molten metal scores smoking
+channels in living flesh. Gloria would laugh, if she knew. The torture
+made his face white. There was the scorn of himself with it, because a
+mere child could hurt him almost to death, and that made it worse. A
+mere child, barely out of the schoolroom, petulant, spoiled, selfish!
+
+But she had the glory of heaven in her voice, and in her face the fatal
+beauty of her dead mother's deadly sin. He need not have despised
+himself for loving her. Her whole being appealed to that in man to which
+no woman ever appealed in vain since the first Adam sold heaven to Satan
+for woman's love.
+
+Dalrymple, leaning on his elbow, one hand in his streaked beard, the
+other grasping his glass, talked on and quoted more and more.
+
+          "'The flame took fast upon her cheek,
+              Took fast upon her chin,
+            Took fast upon her fair body
+              Because of her deadly sin.'"
+
+His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper at the last words, and suddenly,
+regardless of his companion, his hand covered his eyes, and his long
+fingers strained desperately on his bony forehead. Griggs watched him,
+thinking that he was drunk at last.
+
+"Because of her deadly sin," he repeated slowly, and the tone changed.
+"There is no sin in it!" he cried suddenly, in a low voice, that had a
+distant, ghostly ring in it.
+
+He looked up, and his eyes were changed, and Griggs knew that they no
+longer saw him.
+
+"Stiff," he said softly. "Quite stiff. Dead two or three hours, I
+daresay. It stands up on its feet beside me--certainly dead two or three
+hours."
+
+He nodded wisely to himself twice, and then spoke again in the same
+far-off tone, gazing past Griggs, at the wall.
+
+"The clothes-basket is a silly idea. Besides, I should lose the night.
+Rather carry it myself--wrap it up in the plaid. She'll never know, when
+she has it on her head. Who cares?"
+
+A long silence followed. One hand grasped the empty glass. The other lay
+motionless on the table. The blue eyes, with widely dilated pupils,
+stared at the wall, never blinking nor turning. But in the face there
+was the drawn expression of a bodily effort. Presently Griggs saw the
+fine beads of perspiration on the great forehead. Then the voice spoke
+again, but in Italian this time.
+
+"You had better look away while I go by. It is not a pretty sight. No,"
+he continued, changing to English, "not at all a pretty sight. Stiff as
+a board still."
+
+The unwinking eyes dilated. The bright colour was gone from the cheek
+bones.
+
+"It burns very well," he said again in Italian. The whole face quivered
+and the hard lips softened and kissed the air. "It is golden--I can see
+it in the dark--but I must cover it, darling. Quick--this way. At last!
+No--you cannot see the fire, but it is burning well, I am sure. Hold on!
+Hold the pommel of the saddle with both hands--so!"
+
+The voice ceased. Griggs began to understand. He touched Dalrymple's
+sleeve, leaning across the table.
+
+"I say!" he called softly. "Dalrymple!"
+
+The Scotchman started violently, and the pupils of his eyes contracted.
+The empty glass in his right hand rattled on the hard wood. Then he
+smiled vaguely at Griggs.
+
+"By Jove!" he exclaimed in his natural voice. "I think I must have been
+napping--'Sleep'ry Sim of the Lamb-hill, and snoring Jock of
+Suport-mill!' By Jove, Griggs, we have got near the point at last. One
+bottle left, eh? The seventh.
+
+          "'Then up and gat the seventh o' them,
+            And never a word spake he;
+            But he has striped his bright brown brand--'
+
+The rest has no bearing upon the subject," he concluded, filling both
+glasses. "Griggs," he said, before he drank, "I am afraid this settles
+the matter."
+
+"I am afraid it does," said Griggs.
+
+"Yes. I had hopes a little while ago, which appeared well founded. But
+that unfortunate little nap has sent me back to the starting-point. I
+should have to begin all over again. It is very late, I fancy. Let us
+drink this last glass to our own two selves, and then give it up."
+
+Something had certainly sobered the Scotchman again, or at least cleared
+his head, for he had not been drunk in the ordinary sense of the word.
+
+"It cannot be said that we have not given the thing a fair trial," said
+Griggs, gloomily. "I shall certainly not take the trouble to try it
+again."
+
+Nevertheless he looked at his companion curiously, as they both rose to
+their feet together. Dalrymple doubled his long arms as he stood up and
+stretched them out.
+
+"It is curious," he said. "I feel as though I had been carrying a heavy
+weight in my arms. I did once, for some distance," he added
+thoughtfully, "and I remember the sensation."
+
+"Very odd," said Griggs, lighting a cigar.
+
+Giulio, sitting outside, half asleep, woke up as he heard the steady
+tread of the two strong men go by.
+
+"If you do not die to-night, you will never die again!" he said, half
+aloud, as he rose to go in and clear the room where the guests had been
+sitting.
+
+
+END OF VOL. I.
+
+
+
+
+CASA BRACCIO
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration: "As he stood there repeating the name."--Vol. II., p.
+331.]
+
+
+
+
+CASA BRACCIO
+
+BY
+
+F. MARION CRAWFORD
+
+AUTHOR OF "SARACINESCA," "PIETRO GHISLERI," ETC.
+
+IN TWO VOLUMES
+
+VOL. II.
+
+_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY A. CASTAIGNE_
+
+                 =New York=
+              MACMILLAN AND CO.
+                 AND LONDON
+                    1895
+
+          _All rights reserved_
+
+
+
+          COPYRIGHT, 1894,
+          BY F. MARION CRAWFORD.
+
+          =Norwood Press=
+          J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith
+          Norwood Mass. U.S.A.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS.
+
+
+          PART II.--_Continued._
+          GLORIA DALRYMPLE                   1
+
+          PART III.
+          DONNA FRANCESCA CAMPODONICO      227
+
+
+
+
+LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
+
+
+VOL. II.
+
+                                                   PAGE
+          "Gloria--forgive me!"                      50
+
+          Stefanone and Gloria                      100
+
+          "The horror of poverty smote him"         123
+
+          "Let us not speak of the dead"            203
+
+          "The last great, true note died away"     219
+
+          "As he stood there repeating the name"    331
+
+
+
+
+Part II.--_Continued._
+
+_GLORIA DALRYMPLE._
+
+
+
+
+CASA BRACCIO.
+
+PART II.--_Continued._
+
+_GLORIA DALRYMPLE._
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIV.
+
+
+DURING the first few months of their marriage Reanda and Gloria believed
+themselves happy, and really were, since there is no true criterion of
+man's happiness but his own belief in it. They took a small furnished
+apartment at the corner of the Macel de' Corvi, with an iron balcony
+overlooking the Forum of Trajan. They would have had no difficulty in
+obtaining other rooms adjoining the two Reanda had so long occupied in
+the Palazzetto Borgia, but Gloria was opposed to the arrangement, and
+Reanda did not insist upon it. The Forum of Trajan was within a
+convenient distance of the palace, and he went daily to his work.
+
+"Besides," said Gloria, "you will not always be painting frescoes for
+Donna Francesca. I want you to paint a great picture, and send it to
+Paris and get a medal."
+
+She was ambitious for him, and dreamed of his winning world-wide fame.
+She loved him, and she felt that Francesca had caged him, as Francesca
+herself had once felt. She wished to remove him altogether from the
+latter's influence, both because she was frankly jealous of his
+friendship for the older woman, and wished to have him quite to herself,
+and also in the belief that he could do greater things if he were
+altogether freed from the task of decorating the palace, which had kept
+him far too long in one limited sequence of production. There was,
+moreover, a selfish consideration of vanity in her view, closely linked
+with her unbounded admiration for her husband. She knew that she was
+beautiful, and she wished his greatest work to be a painting of herself.
+
+Gloria, however, wished also to take a position in Roman society, and
+the only person who could help her and her husband to cross the line was
+Francesca Campodonico. It was therefore impossible for Gloria to break
+up the intimacy altogether, however much she might wish to do so.
+Meanwhile, too, Reanda had not finished his frescoes.
+
+Soon after the marriage, which took place in the summer, Dalrymple left
+Rome, intending to be absent but a few months in Scotland, where his
+presence was necessary on account of certain family affairs and
+arrangements consequent upon the death of Lord Redin, the head of his
+branch of the Dalrymples, and of Lord Redin's son only a few weeks
+later, whereby the title went to an aged great-uncle of Angus
+Dalrymple's, who was unmarried, so that Dalrymple's only brother became
+the next heir.
+
+Gloria was therefore quite alone with her husband. Paul Griggs had also
+left Rome for a time on business connected with his journalistic career.
+He had in reality been unwilling to expose himself to the unnecessary
+suffering of witnessing Gloria's happiness, and had taken the earliest
+opportunity of going away. Gloria herself was at first pleased by his
+departure. Later, however, she wished that he would come back. She had
+no one to whom she could turn when she was in need of any advice on
+matters which Reanda could not or would not decide.
+
+Reanda himself was at first as absolutely happy as he had expected to
+be, and Francesca Campodonico congratulated herself on having brought
+about a perfectly successful match. While he continued to work at the
+Palazzetto Borgia, the two were often together for hours, as in former
+times. Gloria had at first come regularly in the course of the morning
+and sat in the hall while her husband was painting, but she had found it
+a monotonous affair after a while. Reanda could not talk perpetually.
+More than once, indeed, he introduced his wife's face amongst the many
+he painted, and she was pleased, though not satisfied. He could not make
+her one of the central figures which appeared throughout the series,
+because the greater part of the work was done already, and it was
+necessary to preserve the continuity of each resemblance. Gloria wished
+to be the first everywhere, though she did not say so.
+
+Little by little, she came less regularly in the mornings. She either
+stayed at home and studied seriously the soprano parts of the great
+operas then fashionable, or invented small errands which kept her out of
+doors. She sometimes met Reanda when he left the palace, and they walked
+home together to their midday breakfast.
+
+Little by little, also, Francesca fell into the habit of visiting Reanda
+in the great hall at hours when she was sure that Gloria would not be
+there. It was not that she disliked to see them together, but rather
+because she felt that Gloria was secretly antagonistic. There was a
+small, perpetual, unexpressed hostility in Gloria's manner which could
+not escape so sensitive a woman as Francesca. Reanda felt it, too, but
+said nothing. He was almost foolishly in love with his wife, and he was
+devotedly attached to Francesca herself. For the present he was very
+simple in his dealings with himself, and he quietly shut his eyes to the
+possibility of a disagreement between the two women, though he felt
+that it was in the air.
+
+Instead of diminishing with his marriage, the obligations under which he
+was placed towards Donna Francesca were constantly increasing. She saw
+and understood his wife's social ambition, and gave herself trouble to
+satisfy it. Reanda felt this keenly, and while his gratitude increased,
+he inwardly wished that each kindness might be the last. But Gloria had
+the ambition and the right to be received in society on a footing of
+equality, and no one but Francesca Campodonico could then give her what
+she wanted.
+
+She did not obtain what is commonly called social success, though many
+people received her and her husband during the following winter. She got
+admiration in plenty, and she herself believed that it was friendship.
+Of the two, Reanda, who had no social ambition at all, was by far the
+more popular. He was, as ever, quiet and unassuming, as became a man of
+his extraordinary talent. He so evidently preferred in society to talk
+with intelligent people rather than to make himself agreeable to the
+very great, that the very great tried to attract him to themselves, in
+order to appear intelligent in the eyes of others. They altogether
+forgot that he was the son of the steward of Gerano, though he sometimes
+spoke unaffectedly of his boyhood.
+
+But Gloria reminded people too often that she had a right to be where
+she was, as the daughter of Angus Dalrymple, who might some day be Lord
+Redin. Fortunately for her, no one knew that Dalrymple had begun life as
+a doctor, and very far from such prospects as now seemed quite within
+the bounds of realization. But even as the possible Lord Redin, her
+father's existence did not interest the Romans at all. They were not
+accustomed to people who thought it necessary to justify their social
+position by allusions to their parentage, and since Francesca
+Campodonico had assured them that Dalrymple was a gentleman, they had no
+further questions to ask, and raised their eyebrows when Gloria
+volunteered information on the subject of her ancestors. They listened
+politely, and turned the subject as soon as they could, because it bored
+them.
+
+But the admiration she got was genuine of its kind, as admiration and as
+nothing else. Her magnificent voice was useful to ancient and charitable
+princesses who wished to give concerts for the benefit of the deserving
+poor, but her face disturbed the hearts of those excellent ladies who
+had unmarried sons, and of other excellent ladies who had gay husbands.
+Her beauty and her voice together were a danger, and must be admired
+from a distance. Gloria and her husband were asked to many houses on
+important occasions. Gloria went to see the princesses and duchesses,
+and found them at home. Their cards appeared regularly at the small
+house in the Macel de' Corvi, but there was always a mystery as to how
+they got there, for the princesses and the duchesses themselves did not
+appear, except once or twice when Francesca Campodonico brought one of
+her friends with her, gently insisting that there should be a proper
+call. Gloria understood, and said bitter things about society when she
+was alone, and by degrees she began to say them to her husband.
+
+"These Romans!" she exclaimed at last. "They believe that there is
+nobody like themselves!"
+
+Angelo Reanda's face had a pained look, as he laid his long thin hand
+upon hers.
+
+"My dear," he said gently. "You have married an artist. What would you
+have? I am sure, people have received us very well."
+
+"Very well! Of course--as though we had not the right to be received
+well. But, Angelo--do not say such things--that I have married an
+artist--"
+
+"It is quite true," he answered, with a smile. "I work with my hands.
+They do not. There is the difference."
+
+"But you are the greatest artist in the world!" she cried
+enthusiastically, throwing her arms round his neck, and kissing him
+again and again. "It is ridiculous. In any other city, in London, in
+Paris, people would run after you, people would not be able to do
+enough for you. But it is not you; it is I. They do not like me, Angelo,
+I know that they do not like me! They want me at their big parties, and
+they want me to sing for them--but that is all. Not one of them wants me
+for a friend. I am so lonely, Angelo."
+
+Her eyes filled with tears, and he tried to comfort her.
+
+"What does it matter, my heart?" he asked, soothingly. "We have each
+other, have we not? I, who adore you, and you, who love me--"
+
+"Love you? I worship you! That is why I wish you to have everything the
+world holds, everything at your feet."
+
+"But I am quite satisfied," objected Reanda, with unwise truth. "Do not
+think of me."
+
+She loved him, but she wished to put upon him some of her uncontrollable
+longing for social success, in order to justify herself. To please her,
+he should have joined in her complaint. Her tears dried suddenly, and
+her eyes flashed.
+
+"I will think of you!" she cried. "I have nothing else to think of. You
+shall have it all, everything--they shall know what a man you are!"
+
+"An artist, my dear, an artist. A little better than some, a little less
+good than others. What can society do for me?"
+
+She sighed, and the colour deepened a little in her cheeks. But she hid
+her annoyance, for she loved him with a love at once passionate and
+intentional, compounded of reality and of a strong inborn desire for
+emotion, a desire closely connected with her longing for the life of the
+stage, but now suddenly thrown with full force into the channel of her
+actual life.
+
+Reanda began to understand that his wife was not happy, and the
+certainty reacted strongly upon him. He became more sad and abstracted
+from day to day, when he was not with her. He longed, as only a man of
+such a nature can long, for a friend in whom he could confide, and of
+whom he could ask advice. He had such a friend, indeed, in Francesca
+Campodonico, but he was too proud to turn to her, and too deeply
+conscious that she had done all she could to give Gloria the social
+position the latter coveted.
+
+Francesca, on her side, was not slow to notice that something was
+radically wrong. Reanda's manner had changed by degrees since his
+marriage. His pride made him more formal with the woman to whom he owed
+so much, and she felt that she could do nothing to break down the
+barrier which was slowly rising between them. She suffered, in her way,
+for she was far more sincerely attached to the man than she recognized,
+or perhaps would have been willing to recognize, when she allowed
+herself to look the situation fairly in the face. For months she
+struggled against anything which could make her regret the marriage she
+had made. But at last she admitted the fact that she regretted it, for
+it thrust itself upon her and embittered her own life. Then she became
+conscious in her heart of a silent and growing enmity for Gloria, and of
+a profound pity for Angelo Reanda. Being ashamed of the enmity, as
+something both sinful in her eyes, and beneath the nobility of her
+nature, she expressed it, if that were expression, by allowing her pity
+for the man to assert itself as it would. That, she told herself, was a
+form of charity, and could not be wrong, however she looked at it.
+
+All mention of Gloria vanished from her conversation with Reanda when
+they were alone together. At such times she did her best to amuse him,
+to interest him, and to take him out of himself. At first she had little
+success. He answered her, and sometimes even entered into an argument
+with her, but as soon as the subject dropped, she saw the look of
+harassed preoccupation returning in his face. So far as his work was
+concerned, what he did was as good as ever. Francesca thought it was
+even better. But otherwise he was a changed man.
+
+In the course of the winter Paul Griggs returned. One day Francesca was
+sitting in the hall with Reanda, when a servant announced that Griggs
+had asked to see her. She glanced at Reanda's face, and instantly
+decided to receive the American alone in the drawing-room, on the other
+side of the house.
+
+"Why do you not receive him here?" asked Reanda, carelessly.
+
+"Because--" she hesitated. "I should rather see him in the
+drawing-room," she added a moment later, without giving any further
+explanation.
+
+Griggs told her that he had come back to stay through the year and
+perhaps longer. She took a kindly interest in the young man, and was
+glad to hear that he had improved his position and prospects during his
+absence. He rarely found sympathy anywhere, and indeed needed very
+little of it. But he was capable of impulse, and he had long ago decided
+that Francesca was good, discreet, and kind. He answered her questions
+readily enough, and his still face warmed a little while she talked with
+him. She, on her part, could not help being interested in the lonely,
+hard-working man who never seemed to need help of any kind, and was
+climbing through life by the strength of his own hands. There was about
+him at that time an air of reserved power which interested though it did
+not attract those who knew him.
+
+Suddenly he asked about Gloria and her husband. There was an odd
+abruptness in the question, and a hard little laugh, quite unnecessary,
+accompanied it. Francesca noted the change of manner, and remembered
+how she had at first conceived the impression that Griggs admired
+Gloria, but that Gloria was repelled by him.
+
+"I suppose they are radiantly happy," he said.
+
+Francesca hesitated, being truthful by nature, as well as loyal. There
+was no reason why Griggs should not ask her the question, which was
+natural enough, but she had many reasons for not wishing to answer it.
+
+"Are they not happy?" he asked quickly, as her silence roused his
+suspicions.
+
+"I have never heard anything to the contrary," answered Francesca,
+dangerously accurate in the statement.
+
+"Oh!" Griggs uttered the ejaculation in a thoughtful tone, but said no
+more.
+
+"I hope I have not given you the impression that there is anything
+wrong," said Francesca, showing her anxiety too much.
+
+"I saw Dalrymple in England," answered Griggs, with ready tact. "He
+seems very well satisfied with the match. By the bye, I daresay you have
+heard that Dalrymple stands a good chance of dying a peer, if he ever
+dies at all. With his constitution that is doubtful."
+
+And he went on to explain to Francesca the matter of the Redin title,
+and that as Dalrymple's elder brother, though married, was childless,
+he himself would probably come into it some day. Then Griggs took his
+leave without mentioning Reanda or Gloria again. But Francesca was aware
+that she had betrayed Reanda's unhappiness to a man who had admired
+Gloria, and had probably loved her before her marriage. She afterwards
+blamed herself bitterly and very unjustly for what she had done.
+
+Griggs went away, and called soon afterwards at the small house in the
+Macel de' Corvi. He found Gloria alone, and she was glad to see him. She
+told him that Reanda would also be delighted to hear of his return.
+Griggs, who wrote about everything which gave him an opportunity of
+using his very various knowledge, wrote also upon art, and besides the
+first article he had written about Reanda, more than a year previously,
+had, since then, frequently made allusion to the artist's great talent
+in his newspaper correspondence. Reanda was therefore under an
+obligation to the journalist, and Gloria herself was grateful. Moreover,
+Englishmen who came to Rome had frequently been to see Reanda's work in
+consequence of the articles. One old gentleman had tried to induce the
+artist to paint a picture for him, but had met with a refusal, on the
+ground that the work at the Palazzetto Borgia would occupy at least
+another year. The Englishman said he should come back and try again.
+
+Between Griggs and Gloria there was the sort of friendly confidence
+which could not but exist under the circumstances. She had known him
+long, and he had been her father's only friend in Rome. She remembered
+him from the time when she had been a mere child, before her sudden
+transition to womanhood. She trusted him. She understood perfectly well
+that he loved her, but she believed that she had it in her power to keep
+his love as completely in the background as he himself had kept it
+hitherto. Her instinct told her also that Griggs might be a strong ally
+in a moment of difficulty. His reserved strength impressed her even more
+than it impressed Francesca Campodonico. She received him gladly, and
+told him to come again.
+
+He came, and she asked him to dinner, feeling sure that Reanda would
+wish to see him. He accepted the first invitation and another which
+followed before long. By insensible degrees, during the winter, Griggs
+became very intimate at the house, as he had been formerly at
+Dalrymple's lodgings.
+
+"That young man loves you, my dear," said Reanda, one day in the
+following spring, with a smile which showed how little anxiety he felt.
+
+Gloria laughed gaily, and patted her husband's hand.
+
+"What men like that call love!" she answered. "Besides--a journalist!
+And hideous as he is!"
+
+"He certainly has not a handsome face," laughed Reanda. "I am not
+jealous," he added, with sudden gravity. "The man has done much for my
+reputation, too, and I know what I owe him. I have good reason for
+wishing to treat him well, and I am all the more pleased, if you find
+him agreeable."
+
+He made the rather formal speech in a decidedly formal tone, and with
+the unconscious intention of justifying himself in some way, though he
+was far too simple by nature to suspect himself of any complicated
+motive. She looked at him, but did not quite understand.
+
+"You surely do not suppose that I ever cared for him!" she said, readily
+suspecting that he suspected her.
+
+He started perceptibly, and looked into her eyes. She was very truly in
+earnest, but her exaggerated self-consciousness had given her tone a
+colour which he did not recognize. Some seconds passed before he
+answered her. Then the gentle light came into his face as he realized
+how much he loved her.
+
+"How foolish you are, love!" he exclaimed. "But Griggs is younger than
+I--it would not be so very unnatural if you had cared for him."
+
+She broke out passionately.
+
+"Younger than you! So am I, much younger than you! But you are young,
+too. I will not have you suggest that you are not young. Of course you
+are. You are unkind, besides. As though it could make the slightest
+difference to me, if you were a hundred years old! But you do not
+understand what my love for you is. You will never understand it. I wish
+I loved you less; I should be happier than I am."
+
+He drew her to him, reluctant, and the pained look which Francesca knew
+so well came into his face.
+
+"Are you unhappy, my heart?" he asked gently. "What is it, dear? Tell
+me!"
+
+She was nervous, and the confession or complaint had been unintentional
+and the result of irritation more than of anything else. The fact that
+he had taken it up made matters much worse. She was in that state in
+which such a woman will make a mountain of a molehill rather than forego
+the sympathy which her constitution needs in a larger measure than her
+small sufferings can possibly claim.
+
+"Oh, so unhappy!" she cried softly, hiding her face against his coat,
+and glad to feel the tears in her eyes.
+
+"But what is it?" he asked very kindly, smoothing her auburn hair with
+one hand, while the other pressed her to him.
+
+As he looked over her head at the wall, his face showed both pain and
+perplexity. He had not the least idea what to do, except to humour her
+as much as he could.
+
+"I am so lonely, sometimes," she moaned. "The days are so long."
+
+"And yet you do not come and sit with me in the mornings, as you used to
+do at first." There was an accent of regret in his voice.
+
+"She is always there," said Gloria, pressing her face closer to his
+coat.
+
+"Indeed she is not!" he cried, and she could feel the little breath of
+indignation he drew. "I am a great deal alone."
+
+"Not half as much as I am."
+
+"But what can I do?" he asked, in despair. "It is my work. It is her
+palace. You are free to come and go as you will, and if you will not
+come--"
+
+"I know, I know," she answered, still clinging to him. "You will say it
+is my fault. It is just like a man. And yet I know that you are there,
+hour after hour, with her, and she is young and beautiful. And she loves
+you--oh, I know she loves you!"
+
+Reanda began to lose patience.
+
+"How absurd!" he exclaimed. "It is ridiculous. It is an insult to Donna
+Francesca to say that she is in love with me."
+
+"It is true." Gloria suddenly raised her head and drew back from him a
+very little. "I am a woman," she said. "I know and I understand. She
+meant to sacrifice herself and make you happy, by marrying you to me,
+and now she regrets it. It is enough to see her. She follows you with
+her eyes as you move, and there is a look in them--"
+
+Reanda laughed, with an effort.
+
+"It is altogether too absurd!" he said. "I do not know what to say. I
+can only laugh."
+
+"Because you know it is true," answered Gloria. "It is for your sake
+that she has done it all, that she makes such a pretence of being
+friendly to me, that she pushes us into society, and brings her friends
+here to see me. They never come unless she brings them," she added
+bitterly. "There is no fear of that. The Duchess of Astrardente would
+not have her black horses seen standing in the Macel de' Corvi, unless
+Donna Francesca made her do it and came with her."
+
+"Why not?" asked Reanda, simply, for his Italian mind did not grasp the
+false shame which Gloria felt in living in a rather humble
+neighbourhood.
+
+"She would not have people know that she had friends living in such a
+place," Gloria answered.
+
+Unwittingly she had dealt Reanda a deadly thrust.
+
+He had fallen in love with her and had married her on the understanding
+with himself, so to say, that she was in all respects as much a great
+lady as Donna Francesca herself, and he had taken it for granted that
+she must be above such pettiness. The lodging was extremely good and had
+the advantage of being very conveniently situated for his work. It had
+never struck him that because it was in an unfashionable position,
+Gloria could imagine that the people she knew would hesitate to come and
+see her. Since their marriage she had done and said many little things
+which had shaken his belief in the thoroughness of her refinement. She
+had suddenly destroyed that belief now, by a single foolish speech. It
+would be hard to build it up again.
+
+Like many men of genius he could not forgive his own mistake, and Gloria
+was involved in this one. Moreover, as an Italian, he fancied that she
+secretly suspected him of meanness, and when Italians are not mean,
+there is nothing which they resent more than being thought to be so. He
+had plenty of money, for he had always lived very simply before his
+marriage, and Dalrymple gave Gloria an allowance.
+
+His tone changed, when he answered her, but she was far from suspecting
+what she had done.
+
+"We will get another apartment at once," he said quietly.
+
+"No," she answered at once, protesting, "you must not do anything of the
+kind! What an idea! To change our home merely because it is not on the
+Corso or the Piazza di Venezia!"
+
+"You would prefer the Corso?" inquired Angelo. "That is natural. It is
+more gay."
+
+The reflexion that the view of the deserted Forum of Trajan was dull
+suggested itself to him as a Roman, knowing the predilection of Roman
+women of the middle class for looking out of the window.
+
+"It is ridiculous!" cried Gloria. "You must not think of it.
+Besides--the expense--"
+
+"The expense does not enter into the question, my dear," he answered,
+having fully made up his mind. "You shall not live in a place to which
+you think your friends may hesitate to come."
+
+"Friends! They are not my friends, and they never mean to be," she
+replied more hotly. "Why should I care whether they will take the
+trouble to come and see me or not? Let them stay away, if I am not good
+enough for them. Tell Donna Francesca not to bring them--not to come
+herself any more. I hate to feel that she is thrusting me down the
+throat of a society that does not want me! She only does it to put me
+under an obligation to her. I am sure she talks about me behind my back
+and says horrid things--"
+
+"You are very unjust," said Reanda, hurt by the vulgarity of the speech
+and deeply wounded in his own pride.
+
+"You defend her! You see!" And the colour rose in Gloria's cheeks.
+
+"She has done nothing that needs defence. She has acted always with the
+greatest kindness to me and to us. You have no right to suppose that she
+says unkind things of you when you are not present. I cannot imagine
+what has come over you to-day. It must be the weather. It is sirocco."
+
+Gloria turned away angrily, thinking that he was laughing at her,
+whereas the suggestion about the weather was a perfectly natural one in
+Rome, where the southeast wind has an undoubted effect upon the human
+temper.
+
+But the seeds of much discussion were sown on that close spring
+afternoon. Reanda was singularly tenacious of small purposes, as he was
+of great ideas where his art was concerned, and his nature though gentle
+was unforgiving, not out of hardness, but because he was so sensitive
+that his illusions were easy to destroy.
+
+He went out and forthwith began to search for an apartment of which his
+wife should have no cause to complain. In the course of a week he found
+what he wanted. It was a part of the second floor of one of the palaces
+on the Corso, not far from the Piazza di Venezia. It was partially
+furnished, and without speaking to Gloria he had it made comfortable
+within a few days. When it was ready, he gave her short warning that
+they were to move immediately.
+
+Strange to say, Gloria was very much displeased, and did not conceal her
+annoyance. She really liked the small house in the Macel de' Corvi, and
+resented the way in which her husband had taken her remarks about the
+situation. To tell the truth, Reanda had deceived himself with the idea
+that she would be delighted at the change, and had spent money rather
+lavishly, in the hope of giving her a pleasant surprise. He was
+proportionately disappointed by her unexpected displeasure.
+
+"What was the use of spending so much money?" she asked, with a
+discontented face. "People will not come to see us because we live in a
+fine house."
+
+"I did not take the house with that intention, my dear," said Reanda,
+gently, but wounded and repelled by the remark and the tone.
+
+"Well then, we might have stayed where we were," she answered. "It was
+much cheaper, and there was more sun for the winter."
+
+"But this is gayer," objected Reanda. "You have the Corso under the
+window."
+
+"As though I looked out of the window!" exclaimed Gloria, scornfully.
+"It was so nice--our little place there."
+
+"You are hard to please, my dear," said the artist, coldly.
+
+Then she saw that she had hurt him, which she had not meant to do. Her
+own nature was self-conscious and greedy of emotion, but not sensitive.
+She threw her arms round him, and kissed him and thanked him.
+
+But Reanda was not satisfied. Day by day when Francesca looked at him,
+she saw the harassed expression deepening in his face, and she felt that
+every furrow was scored in her own heart. And she, in her turn, grew
+very grave and thoughtful.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXV.
+
+
+PAUL GRIGGS was a man compounded of dominant qualities and dormant
+contradictions of them which threatened at any moment to become dominant
+in their turn for a time. He himself almost believed that he had two
+separate individualities, if not two distinct minds.
+
+It may be doubted whether it can be good for any man to dwell long upon
+such an idea in connexion with himself, however distinctly he may see in
+others the foundation of truth on which it rests. To Griggs, however, it
+presented itself so clearly that he found it impossible not to take it
+into consideration in the more important actions of his life. The two
+men were very sharply distinguished in his thoughts. The one man would
+do what the other would not. The other could think thoughts above the
+comprehension of the first.
+
+The one was material, keen, strong, passionate, and selfish;
+pre-eminently adapted for hard work; conscientious in the force of its
+instinct to carry out everything undertaken by it to the very end, and
+judging that whatever it undertook was good and worth finishing; having
+something of the nature of a strong piece of clockwork which being
+wound up must run to the utmost limit before stopping, whether regulated
+to move fast or slow, with a fateful certainty independent of will;
+possessed of such uncommon strength as to make it dangerous if opposed
+while moving, and at the same time having an extraordinary inertia when
+not wound up to do a certain piece of work; self-reliant to a fault, as
+the lion is self-reliant in the superiority of physical endowment;
+gentle when not opposed, because almost incapable of action without a
+determinate object and aim; but developing an irresistible momentum when
+the inertia was overcome; thorough, in the sense in which the tide is
+thorough, in rising evenly and all at the same time, and as ruthless as
+the tide because it was that part of the whole man which was a result,
+and which, therefore, when once set in motion was almost beyond his
+control; reasonable only because, as a result, it followed its causes
+logically, and required a real cause to move it at first.
+
+The other man in him was very different, almost wholly independent of
+the first, and very generally in direct conflict with it, at that time.
+It was an imaginative and meditative personality, easily deceived into
+assuming a false premise, but logical beyond all liability to deception
+when reasoning from anything it had accepted. Its processes were
+intuitively correct and almost instantaneous, while its assumptions
+were arbitrary in the extreme. It might begin to act at any point
+whatsoever, and unlike the material man, which required a will to move
+it at first, it struck spontaneously with the directness of straight
+lightning from one point to another, never misled in its path, though
+often fatally mistaken in the value of the points themselves.
+
+Most men who have thought much, wisely or foolishly, and who have seen
+much, good or bad, are more or less conscious of their two
+individualities. Idle and thoughtless people are not, as a rule. With
+Griggs, the two were singularly distinct and independent. Sometimes it
+seemed to him that he sat in judgment, as a third person, between them.
+At other moments he felt himself wholly identified with the one and
+painfully aware of the opposition of the other. The imaginative part of
+him despised the material part for its pride of life and lust of living.
+The material part laughed to scorn the imaginative one for its false
+assumptions and unfounded beliefs. When he could abstract himself from
+both, he looked upon the intuitive personality as being himself in every
+true sense of the word, and upon the material man as a monstrous
+overgrowth and encumbrance upon his more spiritual self.
+
+When he began to love Gloria Dalrymple, she appealed to both sides of
+his nature. For once, the spiritual instinct coincided with the
+direction given to the material man by a very earthly passion.
+
+The cause of this was plain enough and altogether simple. The spiritual
+instinct had taken the lead. He had known Gloria before she had been a
+woman to be loved. The maiden genius of the girl had spoken to the
+higher man from a sphere above material things, and had created in him
+one of those assumed premises for subsequent spiritual intuition from
+which he derived almost the only happiness he knew. Then, all at once,
+the woman had sprung into existence, and her young beauty had addressed
+itself to the young gladiator with overwhelming force. The woman
+fascinated him, and the angelic being his imagination had assumed in the
+child still enchanted him.
+
+He was not like Reanda; for his sensitiveness was one-sided, and
+therefore only half vulnerable. Gloria's faults were insignificant
+accidents of a general perfectness, the result of having arbitrarily
+assumed a perfect personality. They could not make the path of his
+spiritual intuitive love waver, and they produced no effect at all
+against his direct material passion. To destroy the prime beautiful
+illusion, something must take place which would upset the mistaken
+assumption from a point beyond it, so to say. As for the earthly part of
+his love, it was so strong that it might well stand alone, even if the
+other should disappear altogether.
+
+Then came honour, and the semi-religious morality of the man, defending
+the woman against him, for the sake of the angel he saw through her.
+Chief of all, in her defence, stood his own conviction that she did not
+love him, and never would, nor ever could. To all intents and purposes,
+too, he had been her father's friend, though between the two men there
+had been little but the similarity of their gloomy characters. It was
+the will of the material man to be governed, and as no outward influence
+set it in motion, it remained inert, in unstable equilibrium, as a vast
+boulder may lie for ages on the very edge of a precipice, ready but not
+inclined to fall. There was fatality in its stillness, and in the
+certainty that if moved it must crash through everything it met.
+
+Gloria had not the least understanding of the real man. She thought
+about him often during the months which followed his return, and a week
+rarely passed in which she did not see him two or three times. Her
+thoughts of him were too ignorant to be confused. She was conscious,
+rather than aware, that he loved her, but it seemed quite natural to
+her, at her age, that he should never express his love by any word or
+deed.
+
+But she compared him with her husband, innocently and unconsciously, in
+matters where comparison was almost unavoidable. His leonine strength of
+body impressed her strongly, and she felt his presence in the room,
+even when she was not looking at him. Reanda was physically a weak and
+nervous man. When he was painting, the movements of his hand seemed to
+be independent of his will and guided by a superior unseen power, rather
+than directed by his judgment and will. Paul Griggs never made the
+slightest movement which did not strike Gloria as the expression of his
+will to accomplish something. He was wonderfully skilful with his hands.
+Whatever he meant to do, his fingers did, forthwith, unhesitatingly. His
+mental processes were similar, so far as she could see. If she asked him
+a question, he answered it categorically and clearly, if he were able.
+If not, he said so, and relapsed into silence, studying the problem, or
+trying to force his memory to recall a lost item. Reanda, on the other
+hand, answered most questions with the expression of a vague opinion,
+often right, but apparently not founded on anything particular. The
+accuracy of Griggs sometimes irritated the artist perceptibly, in
+conversation; but he took an interest in what Griggs wrote, and made
+Gloria translate many of the articles to him, reading aloud in Italian
+from the English. Strange to say, they pleased him for the very
+qualities which he disliked in the man's talk. The Italian mind, when it
+has developed favourably, is inclined to specialism rather than to
+generalization, and Griggs wrote of many things as though he were a
+specialist. He had enormous industry and great mechanical power of
+handling language.
+
+"I have no genius," he said one day to Gloria, when she had been
+admiring something he had written, and using the extravagant terms of
+praise which rose easily to her lips. "Your husband has genius, but I
+have none. Some day I shall astonish you all by doing something very
+remarkable. But it will not be a work of genius."
+
+It was in the late autumn days, more than a year and a half after
+Gloria's marriage. The southeast wind was blowing down the Corso, and
+the pavements were yellow and sticky with the moistened sand-blast from
+the African desert. The grains of sand are really found in the air at
+such times. It is said that the undoubted effect of the sirocco on the
+temper of Southern Italy is due to the irritation caused by inhaling the
+fine particles with the breath. Something there is in that especial
+wind, which changes the tempers of men and women very suddenly and
+strangely.
+
+Gloria and her companion were seated in the drawing-room that afternoon,
+and the window was open. The wind stirred the white curtains, and now
+and then blew them inward and twisted them round the inner ones, which
+were of a dark grey stuff with broad brown velvet bands, in a fashion
+then new. Gloria had been singing, and sat leaning sideways on the desk
+of the grand piano. A tall red Bohemian glass stood beside the music on
+one of the little sliding shelves meant for the candles, and there were
+a few flowers in it, fresh an hour ago, but now already half withered
+and drooping under the poisonous breath of the southeast. The warm damp
+breeze came in gusts, and stirred the fading leaves and Gloria's auburn
+hair, and the sheet of music upright on the desk. Griggs sat in a low
+chair not far from her, his still face turned towards her, his shadowy
+eyes fixed on her features, his sinewy hands clasped round his crossed
+knees. The nature of the great athlete showed itself even in repose--the
+broad dark throat set deep in the chest, the square solidity of the
+shoulders, the great curved lines along the straightened arms, the
+small, compact head, with its close, dark hair, bent somewhat forward in
+the general relaxation of the resting muscles. In his complete
+immobility there was the certainty of instant leaping and flash-like
+motion which one feels rather than sees in the sleeping lion.
+
+Gloria looked at him thoughtfully with half-closed lids.
+
+"I shall surprise you all," he repeated slowly, "but it will not be
+genius."
+
+"You will not surprise me," Gloria answered, still meeting his eyes. "As
+for genius, what is it?"
+
+"It is what you have when you sing," said Griggs. "It is what Reanda has
+when he paints."
+
+"Then why not what you do when you write?"
+
+"The difference is simple enough. Reanda does things well because he
+cannot help it. When I do a thing well it is because I work so hard at
+it that the thing cannot help being done by me. Do you understand?"
+
+"I always understand what you tell me. You put things so clearly. Yes, I
+think I understand you better than you understand yourself."
+
+Griggs looked down at his hands and was silent for a moment.
+Mechanically he moved his thumb from side to side and watched the knot
+of muscle between it and the forefinger, as it swelled and disappeared
+with each contraction.
+
+"Perhaps you do understand me. Perhaps you do," he said at last. "I have
+known you a long time. It must be four years, at least--ever since I
+first came here to work. It has been a long piece of life."
+
+"Indeed it has," Gloria answered, and a moment later she sighed.
+
+The wind blew the sheet of music against her. She folded it impatiently,
+threw it aside and resumed her position, resting one elbow on the narrow
+desk. The silence lasted several seconds, and the white curtains flapped
+softly against the heavy ones.
+
+"I wonder whether you understand my life at all," she said presently.
+
+"I am not sure that I do. It is a strange life, in some ways--like
+yourself."
+
+"Am I strange?"
+
+"Very."
+
+"What makes you think so?"
+
+Again he was silent for a time. His face was very still. It would have
+been impossible to guess from it that he felt any emotion at the moment.
+
+"Do you like compliments?" he asked abruptly.
+
+"That depends upon whether I consider them compliments or not," she
+answered, with a little laugh.
+
+"You are a very perfect woman in very imperfect surroundings," said
+Griggs.
+
+"That is not a compliment to the surroundings, at all events. I do not
+know whether to laugh or not. Shall I?"
+
+"If you will. I like to hear you laugh."
+
+"You should hear me cry!" And she laughed again at herself.
+
+"God forbid!" he said gravely.
+
+"I do sometimes," she answered, and her face grew suddenly sad, as he
+watched her.
+
+He felt a quick pain for her in his heart.
+
+"I am sorry you have told me so," he said. "I do not like to think of
+it. Why should you cry? What have you to cry for?"
+
+"What should you think?" she asked lightly, though no smile came with
+the words.
+
+"I cannot guess. Tell me. Is it because you still wish to be a singer?
+Is that it?"
+
+"No. That is not it."
+
+"Then I cannot guess." He looked for the answer in her face. "Will you
+tell me?" he asked after a pause.
+
+"Of what use could it be?" Her eyes met his for a moment, the lids fell,
+and she turned away. "Will you shut the window?" she said suddenly. "The
+wind blows the things about. Besides, it is getting late."
+
+He rose and went to the window. She watched him as he shut it, turning
+his back to her, so that his figure stood out distinct and black against
+the light. She realized what a man he was. With those arms and those
+shoulders he could do anything, as he had once caught her in the air and
+saved her life, and then, again, as he had broken the cords that night
+at Mendoza's house. There was nothing physical which such a man could
+not do. He was something on which to rely in her limited life, an
+absolute contrast to her husband, whose vagueness irritated her, while
+his deadness of sensibility, where she had wrung his sensitiveness too
+far, humiliated her in her own eyes. She had kept her secret long, she
+thought, though she had kept it for the simple reason that she had no
+one in whom to confide.
+
+Griggs came back from the window and sat down near her again in the low
+chair, looking up into her face.
+
+"Mr. Griggs," she said, turning from his eyes and looking into the
+piano, "you asked me a question just now. I should like to answer it, if
+I were quite sure of you."
+
+"Are you not sure of me?" he asked. "I think you might be, by this time.
+We were just saying that we had known each other so long."
+
+"Yes. But--all sorts of things have happened in that time, you know. I
+am not the same as I was when I first knew you."
+
+"No. You are married. That is one great difference."
+
+"Too great," said she. "Honestly, do you think me improved since my
+marriage?"
+
+"Improved? No. Why should you improve? You are just what you were meant
+to be, as you always were."
+
+"I know. You called me a perfect woman a little while ago, and you said
+my surroundings were imperfect. You must have meant that they did not
+suit me, or that I did not suit them. Which was it?"
+
+"They ought to suit you," said Griggs. "If they do not, it is not your
+fault."
+
+"But I might have done something to make them suit me. I sometimes think
+that I have not treated them properly."
+
+"Why should you blame yourself? You did not make them, and they cannot
+unmake you. You have a right to be yourself. Everybody has. It is the
+first right. Your surroundings owe you more than you owe to them,
+because you are what you are, and they are not what they ought to be.
+Let them bear the blame. As for not treating them properly, no one could
+accuse you of that."
+
+"I do not know--some one might. People are so strange, sometimes."
+
+She stopped, and he answered nothing. Looking down into the open piano,
+she idly watched the hammers move as she pressed the keys softly with
+one hand.
+
+"Some people are just like this," she said, smiling, and repeating the
+action. "If you touch them in a certain way, they answer. If you press
+them gently, they do not understand. Do you see? The hammer comes just
+up to the string, and then falls back again without making any noise. I
+suppose those are my surroundings. Sometimes they answer me, and
+sometimes they do not. I like things I can be sure of."
+
+"And by things you mean people," suggested Griggs.
+
+"Of course."
+
+"And by your surroundings you mean--what?"
+
+"You know," she answered in a low voice, turning her face still further
+away from him.
+
+"Reanda?"
+
+She hesitated for a moment, knowing that her answer must have weight on
+the man.
+
+"I suppose so," she said at last. "I ought not to say so--ought I? Tell
+me the truth."
+
+"The truth is, you are unhappy," he answered slowly. "There is no reason
+why you should not tell me so. Perhaps I might help you, if you would
+let me."
+
+He almost regretted that he had said so much, little as it was. But she
+had wished him to say it, and more, also. Still turning from him, she
+rested her chin in her hand. His face was still, but there was the
+beginning of an expression in it which she had never seen. Now that the
+window was shut it was very quiet in the room, and the air was strangely
+heavy and soft and dim. Now and then the panes rattled a little. Griggs
+looked at the graceful figure as Gloria sat thinking what she should
+say. He followed the lines till his eyes rested on what he could see of
+her averted face. Then he felt something like a sharp, quick blow at his
+temples, and the blood rose hot to his throat. At the same instant came
+the bitter little pang he had known long, telling him that she had never
+loved him and never could.
+
+"Are you really my friend?" she asked softly.
+
+"Yes." The word almost choked him, for there was not room for it and for
+the rest.
+
+She turned quietly and surveyed the marble mask with curious inquiry.
+
+"Why do you say it like that," she asked; "as though you would rather
+not? Do you grudge it?"
+
+"No." He spoke barely above his breath.
+
+"How you say it!" she exclaimed, with a little laugh that could not
+laugh itself out, for there was a strange tension in the air, and on her
+and on him. "You might say it better," she added, the pupils of her eyes
+dilating a little so that the room looked suddenly larger and less
+distinct.
+
+She knew the sensation of coming emotion, and she loved it. She had
+never thought before that she could get it by talking with Paul Griggs.
+He did not answer her.
+
+"Perhaps you meant it," she said presently. "I hardly know. Did you?"
+
+"Please be reasonable," said Griggs, indistinctly, and his hands gripped
+each other on his knee.
+
+"How oddly you talk!" she exclaimed. "What have I said that was
+unreasonable?"
+
+She felt that the emotion she had expected was slipping from her, and
+her nerves unconsciously resented the disappointment. She was out of
+temper in an instant.
+
+"You cannot understand," he answered. "There is no reason why you
+should. Forgive me. I am nervous to-day."
+
+"You? Nervous?" She laughed again, with a little scorn. "You are not
+capable of being nervous."
+
+She was dimly conscious that she was provoking him to something, she
+knew not what, and that he was resisting her. He did not answer her last
+words. She went back to the starting-point again, dropping her voice to
+a sadder key.
+
+"Honestly, will you be my friend?" she asked, with a gentle smile.
+
+"Heart and soul--and hand, too, if you want it," he said, for he had
+recovered his speech. "Tell me what the trouble is. If I can, I will
+take you out of it."
+
+It was rather an odd speech, and she was struck by the turn of the
+phrase, which expressed more strength than doubt of power to do anything
+he undertook.
+
+"I believe you could," she said, looking at him. "You are so strong. You
+could do anything."
+
+"Things are never so hard as they look, if one is willing to risk
+everything," he answered. "And when one has nothing to lose," he added,
+as an after-thought.
+
+She sighed, and turned away again, half satisfied.
+
+"There is nothing to risk," she said. "It is not a case of danger. And
+you cannot take my trouble and tear it up like a pack of cards with
+those hands of yours. I wish you could. I am unhappy--yes, I have told
+you so. But what can you do to help me? You cannot make my surroundings
+what they are not, you know."
+
+"No--I cannot change your husband," said Griggs.
+
+She started a little, but still looked away.
+
+"No. You cannot make him love me," she said, softly and sadly.
+
+The big hands lost their hold on one another, and the deep eyes opened a
+little wider. But she was not watching him.
+
+"Do you mean to say--" He stopped.
+
+She slowly bent her head twice, but said nothing.
+
+"Reanda does not love you?" he said, in wondering interrogation. "Why--I
+thought--" He hesitated.
+
+"He cares no more for me than--that!" The hand that stretched towards
+him across the open piano tapped the polished wood once, and sharply.
+
+"Are you in serious earnest?" asked Griggs, bending forward, as though
+to catch her first look when she should turn.
+
+"Does any one jest about such things?" He could just see that her lips
+curled a little as she spoke.
+
+"And you--you love him still?" he asked, with pressing voice.
+
+"Yes--I love him. The more fool I."
+
+The words did not grate on him, as they would have jarred on her
+husband's ear. The myth he had imagined made perfections of the woman's
+faults.
+
+"It is a pity," he said, resting his forehead in his hand. "It is a
+deadly pity."
+
+Then she turned at last and saw his attitude.
+
+"You see," she said. "There is nothing to be done. Is there? You know my
+story now. I have married a man I worship, and he does not care for me.
+Take it and twist it as you may, it comes to that and nothing else. You
+can pity me, but you cannot help me. I must bear it as well as I can,
+and as long as I must. It will end some day--or I will make it end."
+
+"For God's sake do not talk like that!"
+
+"How should I talk? What should I say? Is it of any use to speak to him?
+Do you think I have not begged him, implored him, besought him, almost
+on my knees, to give up that work and do other things?"
+
+Griggs looked straight into her eyes a moment and then almost understood
+what she meant.
+
+"You mean that he--that when he is painting there--" He hesitated.
+
+"Of course. All day long. All the bitter live-long day! They sit there
+together on pretence of talking about it. You know--you can guess at
+least--it is the old, old story, and I have to suffer for it. She could
+not marry him--because she is a princess and he an artist--good enough
+for me--God knows, I love him! Too good for her, ten thousand times too
+good! But yet not good enough for her to marry! He needed a wife, and
+she brought us together, and I suppose he told her that I should do very
+well for the purpose. I was a good subject. I fell in love with
+him--that was what they wanted. A wife for her favourite! O God! When I
+think of it--"
+
+She stopped suddenly and buried her face in both her hands, as she
+leaned upon the piano.
+
+"It is not to be believed!" The strong man's voice vibrated with the
+rising storm of anger.
+
+She looked up again with flashing eyes and pale cheeks.
+
+"No!" she cried. "It is not to be believed! But you see it now. You see
+what it all is, and how my life is wrecked and ruined before it is half
+begun. It would be bad enough if I had married him for his fame, for his
+face, for his money, for anything he has or could have. But I married
+him because I loved him with all my soul, and worshipped him and
+everything he did."
+
+"I know. We all saw it."
+
+"Of course--was it anything to hide? And I thought he loved me, too. Do
+you know?" She grew more calm. "At first I used to go and sit in the
+hall when he was at work. Then he grew silent, and I felt that he did
+not want me. I thought it was because he was such a great artist, and
+could not talk and work, and wanted to be alone. So I stayed away. Then,
+once, I went there, and she was there, sitting in that great chair--it
+shows off the innocence of her white face, you know! The innocence of
+it!" Gloria laughed bitterly. "They were talking when I came, and they
+stopped as soon as the door opened. I am sure they were talking about
+me. Then they seemed dreadfully uncomfortable, and she went away. After
+that I went several times. Once or twice she came in while I was there.
+Then she did not come any more. He must have told her, of course. He
+kept looking at the door, though, as if he expected her at any moment.
+But she never came again in those days. I could not bear it--his trying
+to talk to me, and evidently wishing all the time that she would come. I
+gave up going altogether at last. What could I do? It was unbearable. It
+was more than flesh and blood could stand."
+
+"I do not wonder that you hate her," said Griggs. "I have often thought
+you did."
+
+Gloria smiled sadly.
+
+"Yes," she answered. "I hate her with all my heart. She has robbed me of
+the only thing I ever had worth having--if I ever had it. I sometimes
+wonder--or rather, no. I do not wonder, for I know the truth well
+enough. I have been over and over it again and again in the night. He
+never loved me. He never could love any one but her. He knew her long
+ago, and has loved her all his life. Why should he put me in her place?
+He admired me. I was a beautiful plaything--no, not beautiful--" She
+paused.
+
+"You are the most beautiful woman in the world," said Paul Griggs, with
+deep conviction.
+
+He saw the blush of pleasure in her face, saw the fluttering of the
+lids. But he neither knew that she had meant him to say it, nor did he
+judge of the vast gulf her mind must have instantaneously bridged, from
+the outpouring of her fancied injuries and of her hatred for Francesca
+Campodonico, to the unconcealable satisfaction his words gave her.
+
+"I have heard him say that, too," she answered a moment later. "But he
+did not mean it. He never meant anything he said to me--not one word of
+it all. You do not know what that means," she went on, working herself
+back into a sort of despairing anger again. "You do not know. To have
+built one's whole life on one thing, as I did! To have believed only one
+thing, as I did! To find that it is all gone, all untrue, all a wretched
+piece of acting--oh, you do not know! That woman's face haunts me in the
+dark--she is always there, with him, wherever I look, as they are
+together now at her house. Do you understand? Do you know what I feel?
+You pity me--but do you know? Oh, I have longed for some one--I have
+wished I had a dog to listen to me--sometimes--it is so hard to be
+alone--so very hard--"
+
+She broke off suddenly and hid her face again.
+
+"You are not alone. You have me--if you will have me."
+
+Before he had finished speaking the few words, the first sob broke,
+violent, real, uncontrollable. Then came the next, and then the storm of
+tears. Griggs rose instinctively and came to her side. He leaned heavily
+on the piano, bending down a little, helpless, as some men are at such
+moments. She did not notice him, and her sobs filled the still room. As
+he stood over her he could see the bright tears falling upon the black
+and white ivory keys. He laid his trembling hand upon her shoulder. He
+could hardly draw his breath for the sight of her suffering.
+
+"Don't--don't," he said, almost pathetic in his lack of eloquence when
+he thought he most needed it.
+
+One of her hot hands, all wet with tears, went suddenly to her shoulder,
+and grasped his that lay there, with a convulsive pressure, seeming to
+draw him down as she bowed herself almost to the keyboard in her agony
+of weeping. Then, without thought, his other hand, cold as ice, was
+under her throat, bringing her head gently back upon his arm, till the
+white face was turned up to his. Sob by sob, more distantly, the tempest
+subsided, but still the great tears swelled the heavy lids and ran down
+across her face upon his wrist. Then the wet, dark eyes opened and
+looked up to his, above her head.
+
+"Be my friend!" she said softly, and her fingers pressed his very
+gently.
+
+He looked down into her eyes for one moment, and then the passion in him
+got the mastery of his honourable soul.
+
+"How can I?" he cried in a broken, choking voice. "I love you!"
+
+In an instant he was standing up, lifting her high from the floor, and
+the lips that had perhaps never kissed for love before, were pressed
+upon hers. What chance had she, a woman, in those resistless arms of
+his? In her face was the still, fateful look of the dead nun, rising
+from the far grave of a buried tragedy.
+
+In his uncontrollable passion he crushed her to him, holding her up like
+a child. She struggled and freed her hands and pressed them both upon
+his two eyes.
+
+"Please--please!" she cried.
+
+There was a pitiful ring in the tone, like the bleating of a frightened
+lamb. He hurt her too, for he was overstrong when he was thoughtless.
+
+She cried out to him to let her go. But as she hung there, it was not
+all fear that she felt. There came with it an uncertain, half-delirious
+thrill of delight. To feel herself but a feather to his huge strength,
+swung, tossed, kissed, crushed, as he would. There was fear already,
+there was all her innocent maidenlike resistance, beating against him
+with might and anger, there was the feminine sense of injury by
+outrageous violence; but with it all there was also the natural woman's
+delight in the main strength of the natural man, that could kill her in
+an instant if he chose, but that could lift her to itself as a little
+child and surround her and protect her against the whole world.
+
+"Please--please!" she cried again, covering his fierce eyes and white
+face with her hands and trying to push him away. The tone was pathetic
+in its appeal, and it touched him. His arms relaxed, tightened again
+with a sort of spasm, and then she found herself beside him on her feet.
+A long silence followed.
+
+Gloria sank into a chair, glanced at him and saw that his face was
+turned away, looked down again and then watched him. His chest heaved
+once or twice, as though he had run a short sharp race. One hand grasped
+the back of a chair as he stood up. All at once, without looking at her,
+he went to the window and stood there, looking out, but seeing nothing.
+The soft damp wind made the panes of glass rattle. Still neither broke
+the silence. Then he came to her and stood before her, looking down,
+and she looked down, too, and would not see him. She was more afraid of
+him now than when he had lifted her from her feet, and her heart beat
+fast. She wondered what he would say, for she supposed that he meant to
+ask her forgiveness, and she was right.
+
+[Illustration: "Gloria--forgive me!"--Vol. II., p. 50.]
+
+"Gloria--forgive me," he said.
+
+She looked up, a little fear of him still in her face.
+
+"How can I?" she asked, but in her voice there was forgiveness already.
+
+Her womanly instinct, though she was so young, told her that the fault
+was hers, and that considering the provocation it was not a great
+one--what were a few kisses, even such kisses as his, in a lifetime? And
+she had tempted him beyond all bounds and repented of it. Before the
+storm she had raised in him, her fancied woes sank away and seemed
+infinitely small. She knew that she had worked herself up to emotion and
+tears, though not half sure of what she was saying, that she had
+exaggerated all she knew and suggested all she did not know, that she
+had almost been acting a part to satisfy something in her which she
+could not understand. And by her acting she had roused the savage truth
+in her very face and it had swept down everything before it. She had not
+guessed such possibilities. Before the tempest of his love all she had
+ever felt or dreamed of feeling seemed colourless and cold. She
+dreaded to rouse it again, and yet she could never forget the instant
+thrill that had quivered through her when he had lifted her from her
+feet.
+
+When she had answered him with her question, he stood still in silence
+for a moment. She was too perfect in his eyes for him to cast the blame
+upon her, yet he knew that it had not been all his fault. And in the
+lower man was the mad triumph of having kissed her and of having told
+her, once for all, the whole meaning of his being. She looked down, and
+he could not see her eyes. There was no chair near. To see her face he
+dropped upon his knee and lightly touched her hands that lay idly in her
+lap. She started, fearing another outbreak.
+
+"Please--please!" he said softly, using the very word she had used to
+him.
+
+"Yes--but--" She hesitated and then raised her eyes.
+
+The mask of his face was all softened, and his lips trembled a little.
+His hands quivered, too, as they touched hers.
+
+"Please!" he repeated. "I promise. Indeed, I promise. Forgive me."
+
+She smiled, all at once, dreamily. All his emotion, and her desire for
+it, were gone.
+
+"I asked you to be my friend," she said. "I meant it, you know. How
+could you? It was not kind."
+
+"No--but forgive me," he insisted in a pleading tone.
+
+"I suppose I must," she said at last. "But I shall never feel sure of
+you again. How can I?"
+
+"I promise. You will believe me, not to-day, perhaps, nor to-morrow, but
+soon. I will be just what I have always been. I will never do anything
+to offend you again."
+
+"You promise me that? Solemnly?" She still smiled.
+
+"Yes. It is a promise. I will keep it. I will be your friend always.
+Give me something to do for you. It will make it easier."
+
+"What can I ask you to do? I shall never dare to speak to you about my
+life again."
+
+"I think you will, when you see that I am just as I used to be. And you
+forgive me, quite?"
+
+"Yes. I must. We must forget to-day. It must be as though it had never
+happened. Will you forget it?"
+
+"I will try." But of that he knew the utter impossibility.
+
+"If you try, you can succeed. Now get up. Be reasonable."
+
+He took her hand in both of his. She made a movement to withdraw it, and
+then submitted. He barely touched it with his lips and rose to his feet
+instantly.
+
+"Thank you," she said simply.
+
+She had never had such a mastery of charm over him as at that moment.
+But his mood was changed, and there was no breaking out of the other man
+in him, though he felt again the quick sharp throb in the temples, and
+the rising blood at his throat. The higher self was dominant once more,
+and the features was as still as a statue's.
+
+He took leave of her very quickly and went out into the damp street and
+faced the gusty southeast wind.
+
+When he was gone, she rose and went to the window with a listless step,
+and gazed idly through the glass at the long row of windows in the
+palace opposite, and then went back and sank down, as though very weary,
+upon a sofa far from the light. There was a dazed, wondering look in her
+face and she sat very still for a long time, till it began to grow dark.
+In the dusk she rose and went to the piano and sang softly to herself.
+Her voice never swelled to a full note, and the chords which her fingers
+sought were low and gentle and dreamy.
+
+While she was singing, the door opened noiselessly, and Reanda came in
+and stood beside her. She broke off and looked up, a little startled.
+The same wondering, half-dazed look was in her face. Her husband bent
+down and kissed her, and she kissed him silently.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVI.
+
+
+DONNA FRANCESCA had put off her mourning, and went into the world again
+during that winter. The world said that she might marry if she so
+pleased, and was somewhat inclined to wonder that she did not. She could
+have made a brilliant match if she had chosen. But instead, though she
+appeared everywhere where society was congregated together, she showed a
+tendency to religion which surprised her friends.
+
+A tendency to religion existed in the Braccio family, together with
+various other tendencies not at all in harmony with it, nor otherwise
+edifying. Those other tendencies seemed to be absent in Francesca, and
+little by little her acquaintances began to speak of her as a devout
+person. The Prince of Gerano even hinted that she might some day be an
+abbess in the Carmelite Convent at Subiaco, as many a lady of the great
+house had been before her. But Francesca was not prepared to withdraw
+from the world altogether, though at the present time she was very
+unhappy.
+
+She suspected herself of a great sin, besides reproaching herself
+bitterly with many of her deeds which deserved no blame at all. Yet she
+was by no means morbid, nor naturally inclined to perpetual
+self-examination. On the contrary, she had always been willing to accept
+life as a simple affair which could not offer any difficulties provided
+that one were what she meant by "good"--that is, honest in word and
+deed, and scrupulous in doing thoroughly and with right intention those
+things which her religion required of her, but in which only she herself
+could judge of her own sincerity.
+
+Of late, however, she had felt that there was something very wrong in
+all her recent life. The certainty of it dawned by degrees, and then
+burst upon her suddenly one day when she was with Reanda.
+
+She had long ago noticed the change in his manner, the harassed look,
+and the sad ring in his voice, and for a time his suffering was her
+sorrow, and there was a painful pleasure in being able to feel for him
+with all her heart. He had gone through a phase which had lasted many
+months, and the change was great between his former and his present
+self. He had suffered, but indifference was creeping upon him. It was
+clear enough. Nothing interested him but his art, and perhaps her own
+conversation, though even that seemed doubtful to her.
+
+They were alone together on a winter's afternoon in the great hall. The
+work was almost done, and they had been talking of the more mechanical
+decorations, and of the style of the furniture.
+
+"It is a big place," said Francesca, "but I mean to fill it. I like
+large rooms, and when it is finished, I will take up my quarters here,
+and call it my boudoir."
+
+She smiled at the idea. The hall was at least fifty feet long by thirty
+wide.
+
+"All the women I know have wretched little sitting-rooms in which they
+can hardly turn round," she said. "I will have all the space I like, and
+all the air and all the light. Besides, I shall always have the dear
+Cupid and Psyche, to remind me of you."
+
+She spoke the last words with the simplicity of absolute innocence.
+
+"And me?" he asked, as innocently and simply as she. "What will you do
+with me?"
+
+"Whatever you like," she said, taking it quite for granted, as he did,
+that he was to work for her all his life. "You can have a studio in the
+house, just as it used to be, if you please. And you can paint the great
+canvas for the ceiling of the dining-room. Or shall I restore the old
+chapel? Which should you rather do--oil-painting, or fresco?"
+
+"You would not want the altar piece which I should paint," he said, with
+sudden sadness.
+
+"Santa Francesca?" she asked. "It would have to be Santa Francesca. The
+chapel is dedicated to her. You could make a beautiful picture of her--a
+portrait, perhaps--" she stopped.
+
+"Of yourself? Yes, I could do that," he answered quickly.
+
+"No," she said, and hesitated. "Of your wife," she added rather
+abruptly.
+
+He started and looked at her, and she was sorry that she had spoken.
+Gloria's beautiful face had risen in her mind, and it had seemed
+generous to suggest the idea. Finding a difficulty in telling him, she
+had thought it her duty to be frank.
+
+He laughed harshly before he answered her.
+
+"No," he said. "Certainly not a portrait of my wife. Not even to please
+you. And that is saying much."
+
+He spoke very bitterly. In the few words, he poured out the pent-up
+suffering of many months. Francesca turned pale.
+
+"I know, and it is my fault," she said in a low voice.
+
+"Your fault? No! But it is not mine."
+
+His hands trembled violently as he took up his palette and brushes and
+began to mix some colours, not knowing what he was doing.
+
+"It is my fault," said Francesca, still very white, and staring at the
+brick floor. "I have seen it. I could not speak of it. You are
+unhappy--miserable. Your life is ruined, and I have done it. I!"
+
+She bit her lip almost before the last word was uttered; for it was
+stronger and louder than she had expected it to be, and the syllable
+rang with a despairing echo in the empty hall.
+
+Reanda shook his head, and bent over his colours with shaking hands, but
+said nothing.
+
+"I was so happy when you were married," said Francesca, forcing herself
+to speak calmly. "She seemed such a good wife for you--so young, so
+beautiful. And she loves you--"
+
+"No." He shook his head energetically. "She does not love me. Do not say
+that, for it is not true. One does not love in that way--to-day a kiss,
+to-morrow a sting--to-day honey, to-morrow snake-poison. Do not say that
+it is love, for it is not true. The heart tells the truth, all alone in
+the breast. A thousand words cannot make it tell one lie. But for me--it
+is finished. Let us speak no more of love. Let us talk of our good
+friendship. It is better."
+
+"Eh, let us speak of it, of this friendship! It has cost tears of
+blood!"
+
+Francesca, in the sincerity of what she felt, relapsed into the Roman
+dialect. Almost all Romans do, under any emotion.
+
+"Everything passes," answered Reanda, laying his palette aside, and
+beginning to walk up and down, his hands in his pockets. "This also
+will pass," he added, as he turned. "We are men. We shall forget."
+
+"But not I. For I did it. Your sadness cuts my heart, because I did it.
+I--I alone. But for me, you would be free."
+
+"Would to Heaven!" exclaimed the artist, almost under his breath. "But I
+will not have you say that it is your fault!" he cried, stopping before
+her. "I was the fool that believed. A man of my age--oh, a serious
+man--to marry a child! I should have known. At first, I do not say. I
+was the first. She thought she had paradise in her arms. A husband! They
+all want it, the husband. But I, who had lived and seen, I should have
+known. Fool, fool! Ignorant fool!"
+
+The words came out vehemently in the strong dialect, and the nervous,
+heart-wrung man struck his breast with his clenched fist, and his eyes
+looked upward.
+
+"Reanda, Reanda! What are you saying? When I tell you that I made you
+marry her! It was here,--I was in this very chair,--and I told you about
+her. And I asked her here with intention, that you might see how
+beautiful she was. And then, neither one nor two, she fell in love with
+you! It would have been a miracle if you had not married her. And her
+father, he was satisfied. May that day be accursed when I brought them
+here to torment you!"
+
+She spoke excitedly, and her lip quivered. He began to walk again with
+rapid, uncertain strides.
+
+"For that--yes!" he said. "Let the day bear the blame. But I was the
+madman. Who leaves the old way and follows the new knows what he leaves,
+but not what he may find. I might have been contented. I was so happy!
+God knows how happy I was!"
+
+"And I!" exclaimed Francesca, involuntarily; but he did not hear her.
+
+She felt a curious sense of elation, though she was so truly sorry for
+him, and it disturbed her strangely. She looked at him and smiled, and
+then wondered why the smile came. There is a ruthless cruelty in the
+half-unconscious impulses of the purest innocence, of which vice itself
+might be ashamed in its heart. It is simple humanity's assertion of its
+prior right to be happy. She smiled spontaneously because she knew that
+Reanda no longer loved Gloria, and she felt that he could not love her
+again; and for a while she was too simply natural to quarrel with
+herself for it, or to realize what it meant.
+
+He was nervous, melancholy, and unstrung, and he began to talk about
+himself and his married life for the first time, pouring out his
+sufferings and thoughtless of what Francesca might think and feel. He,
+too, was natural. Unlike his wife, he detested emotion. To be angry was
+almost an illness to his over-finely organized temperament. In a way,
+Griggs had been right in saying that Reanda seemed to paint as an agent
+in the power of an unseen, directing influence. Beauty made him feel
+itself, and feel for it in his turn with his brush. The conception was
+before him, guiding his hand, before a stroke of the work was done.
+There was the lightning-like co-respondence and mutual reaction between
+thought and execution, which has been explained by some to be the
+simultaneous action of two minds in man, the subjective and the
+objective. In doing certain things he had the patience and the delicacy
+of one for whom time has no meaning. He could not have told whether his
+hand followed his eye, or his eye followed his hand. His whole being was
+of excessively sensitive construction, and emotion of any kind, even
+pleasure, jarred upon its hair-fine sensibilities. And yet, behind all
+this, there was the tenacity of the great artist and the phenomenal
+power of endurance, in certain directions, which is essential to
+prize-winning in the fight for fame. There was the quality of nerve
+which can endure great tension in one way, but can bear nothing in other
+ways.
+
+He went on, giving vent to all he felt, talking to himself rather than
+to Francesca. He could not reproach his wife with any one action of
+importance. She was fond of Paul Griggs. But it was only Griggs! He
+smiled. In his eyes, the cold-faced man was no more than a stone. In
+their excursions into society she had met men whom he considered far
+more dangerous, men young, handsome, rich, having great names. They
+admired her and said so to her in the best language they had, which was
+no doubt often very eloquent. Had she ever looked twice at one of them?
+No. He could not reproach her with that. The Duchess of Astrardente was
+not more cold to her admirers than Gloria was. It was not that. There
+were little things, little nothings, but in thousands. He tried to
+please her with something, and she laughed in his face, or found fault.
+She had small hardnesses and little vulgarities of manner that drove him
+mad.
+
+"I had thought her like you," he said suddenly, turning to Francesca.
+"She is not. She is coarse-grained. She has the soul of a peasant, with
+the face of a Madonna. What would you have? It is too much. Love is an
+illusion. I will have no more of it. Besides, love is dead. It would be
+easier to wake a corpse. I shall live. I may forget. Meanwhile there is
+our friendship. That is of gold."
+
+Francesca listened in silence, thoughtful and with downcast eyes, as the
+short, disjointed sentences broke vehemently from his lips, each one
+accusing her in her own heart of having wrought the misery of two lives,
+one of which was very dear to her. Too dear, as she knew at last. The
+scarlet shame would have burned her face, if she had owned to herself
+that she loved this man, whom she had married to another, believing that
+she was making his happiness. She would not own it. Had she admitted it
+then, she would have been capable of leaving him within the hour, and of
+shutting herself up forever in the Convent at Subiaco to expiate the sin
+of the thought. It was monstrous in her eyes, and she would still refuse
+to see it.
+
+But she owned that there was the suspicion, and that Angelo Reanda was
+far dearer to her than anything else on earth. Her innocence was so
+strong and spotless that it had a right to its one and only
+satisfaction. But what she felt for Reanda was either love, or it was
+blasphemy against the holy thing in whose place he stood in her temple.
+It must not be love, and therefore, as anything else, it was too much.
+And the strange joy she felt because Gloria was nothing to him, still
+filled her heart, though it began to torment her with the knowledge of
+evil which she had never understood.
+
+There was much else against him, too, in her pride of race, and it
+helped her just then, for it told her how impossible it was that she, a
+princess of the house of Braccio, should love a mere artist, the son of
+a steward, whose forefathers had been bondsmen to her ancestors from
+time immemorial. It was out of the question, and she would not believe
+it of herself. Yet, as she looked into his delicate, spiritual face and
+watched the shades of expression that crossed it, she felt that it made
+little difference whence he came, since she understood him and he
+understood her.
+
+She became confused by her own thoughts and grasped at the idea of a
+true and perfect friendship, with a somewhat desperate determination to
+see it and nothing else in it, for the rest of her life, rather than
+part with Angelo Reanda.
+
+"Friends," she said thoughtfully. "Yes--always friends, you and I. But
+as a friend, Reanda, what can I do? I cannot help you."
+
+"The time for help is past, if it ever came. You are a saint--pray for
+me. You can do that."
+
+"But there is more than that to be done," she said, ready to sacrifice
+anything or everything just then. "Do not tell me it is hopeless. I will
+see your wife often and I will talk to her. I am older than she, and I
+can make her understand many things."
+
+"Do not try it," said Reanda, in an altered tone. "I advise you not to
+try it. You can do no good there, and you might find trouble."
+
+"Find trouble?" repeated Francesca, not understanding him. "What do you
+mean? Does she dislike me?"
+
+"Have you not seen it?" he asked, with a bitter smile.
+
+Francesca did not answer him at once, but bent her head again. Once or
+twice she looked up as though she were about to speak.
+
+"It is as I tell you," said Reanda, nodding his head slowly.
+
+Francesca made up her mind, but the scarlet blood rose in her face.
+
+"It is better to be honest and frank," she said. "Is Gloria jealous of
+me?" She was so much ashamed that she could hardly look at him just
+then.
+
+"Jealous! She would kill you!" he cried, and there was anger in his
+voice at the thought. "Do not go to her. Something might happen."
+
+The blush in Francesca's face deepened and then subsided, and she grew
+very pale again.
+
+"But if she is jealous, she loves you," she said earnestly and
+anxiously.
+
+He shrugged his high thin shoulders, and the bitter smile came back to
+his face.
+
+"It is a stage jealousy," he said cruelly. "How could she pass the time
+without something to divert her? She is always acting."
+
+"But what is she jealous of?" asked Francesca. "How can she be jealous
+of me? Because you work here? She is free to come if she likes, and to
+stay all day. I do not understand."
+
+"Who can understand her? God, who made her, understands her. I am only a
+man. I know only one thing, that I loved her and do not love her. And
+she makes a scene for every day. One day it is you, and another day it
+is the walls she does not like. You will forgive me, Princess. I speak
+frankly what comes to my mouth from my heart. The whole story is this.
+She makes my life intolerable. I am not an idle man, the first you may
+meet in society, to spend my time from morning to night in studying my
+wife's caprices. I am an artist. When I have worked I must have peace. I
+do not ask for intelligent conversation like yours. But I must have
+peace. One of these days I shall strangle her with my hands. The Lord
+will forgive me and understand. I am full of nerves. Is it my fault? She
+twists them as the women wring out clothes at the fountain. It is not a
+life; it is a hell."
+
+"Poor Reanda! Poor Reanda!" repeated Francesca, softly.
+
+"I do not pity myself," he said scornfully. "I have deserved it, and
+much more. But I am human. If it goes on a little longer, you may take
+me to Santo Spirito, for I am going mad. At least I should be there in
+holy peace. After her, the madmen would all seem doctors of wisdom. Do
+you know what will happen this evening? I go home. 'Where have you
+been?' she will ask. 'At the Palazzetto.' 'What have you been doing?'
+'Painting--it is my trade.' 'Was Donna Francesca there?' 'Of course. She
+is mistress in her own house.' 'And what did you talk of?' 'How should I
+remember? We talked.' Then it will begin. It will be an inferno, as it
+always is. 'Leave hope behind, all ye that enter here!' I can say it, if
+ever man could! You are right to pity me. Before it is finished you will
+have reason to pity me still more. Let us hope it may finish soon.
+Either San Lorenzo, or Santo Spirito--with the mad or with the dead."
+
+"Poor Reanda!"
+
+"Yes--poor Reanda, if you like. People envy me, they say I am a great
+artist. If they think so, let them say it. It seems to them that I am
+somebody." He laughed, almost hysterically. "Somebody! Stuff for Santo
+Spirito! That is all she has left me in two years--not yet two years."
+
+"Do not talk of Santo Spirito," said Francesca. "You shall not go mad.
+When you are unhappy, think of our friendship and of all the hours you
+have here every day." She hesitated and seemed to make an effort over
+herself. "But it is impossible that it should be all over, so hopelessly
+and so soon. She is nervous, perhaps. The climate does not suit her--"
+
+Reanda laughed wildly, for he was rapidly losing all control of himself.
+
+"Therefore I should take her away and go and live somewhere else!" he
+cried. "That would be the end! I should tear her to pieces with my
+hands--"
+
+"Hush, hush! You are talking madly--"
+
+"I know it. There is reason. It will end badly, one of these days,
+unless I end first, and that may happen also. Without you it would have
+happened long ago. You are the good angel in my life, the one friend God
+has sent me in my tormented existence, the one star in my black sky. Be
+my friend still, always, for ever and ever, and I shall live forever
+only to be your friend. As for love--the devil and his demons will know
+what to do with it--they will find their account in it. They have lent
+it, and they will take their payment in blood and tears of those who
+believe them."
+
+"But there is love in the world, somewhere," said Francesca, gently.
+
+"Yes--and in hell! But not in heaven--where you will be."
+
+Francesca sighed unconsciously, and looked long away towards the great
+windows at the end of the hall. Reanda gathered up his palette and
+brushes with a steadier hand. His anger had not spent itself, but it
+made him suddenly strong, and the outburst had relieved him, though it
+was certain that it would be followed by a reaction of profound
+despondency.
+
+All at once he came close to Francesca. She looked up, half startled by
+his sudden movement.
+
+"At least it is true--this one thing," he said. "I can count upon you."
+
+"Yes. You can count upon me," she answered, gazing into his eyes.
+
+He did not move. The one hand held his palette, the other hung free by
+his side. All at once she took it in hers, still looking up into his
+eyes.
+
+"I am very fond of you," she said earnestly. "You can count upon me as
+long as we two live."
+
+"God bless you," he said, more quietly than he had spoken yet, and his
+hand pressed hers a little.
+
+There could be no harm in saying as much as that, she thought, when it
+was so true and so simply said. It was all she could ever say to him, or
+to herself, and there was no reason why she should not say it. He would
+not misunderstand her. No man could have mistaken the innocence that was
+the life and light of her clear eyes. She was glad she had said it, and
+she was glad long afterwards that she had said it on that day, quietly,
+when no one could hear them in the great still hall.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVII.
+
+
+REANDA went home that evening in a very disturbed state of mind. He had
+been better so long as he had not given vent to what he felt; for, as
+with many southern men of excitable temper and weak nerves, his thoughts
+about himself, as distinguished from his pursuits, did not take positive
+shape in his mind until he had expressed them in words. Amongst the
+Latin races the phrase, 'he cannot think without speaking,' has more
+truth as applied to some individuals than the Anglo-Saxon can easily
+understand.
+
+For many months the artist had been most unhappy. His silence concerning
+his grief had been almost exemplary, and had been broken only now and
+then by a hasty exclamation of annoyance when Gloria's behaviour had
+irritated him beyond measure. He was the gentlest of men; and even when
+he had lost his temper with her, he had never spoken roughly.
+
+"You are hard to please, my dear," he had sometimes said.
+
+But that had been almost the strongest expression of his displeasure. It
+was not, indeed, that he had exercised very great self-control in the
+matter, for he had little power of that sort over himself. If he was
+habitually mild and gentle in his manner with Gloria, it was rather
+because, like many Italians, he dreaded emotion as something like an
+illness, and could avoid it to some extent merely by not speaking freely
+of what he felt. Silence was generally easy to him; and he had not
+broken out more than two or three times in all his life, as he had done
+on that afternoon alone with Francesca.
+
+The inevitable consequence followed immediately,--a consequence as much
+physical as mental, for when he went away from the Palazzetto, his clear
+dark eyes were bloodshot and yellow, and his hands had trembled so that
+he had hardly been able to find the armholes of his great-coat in
+putting it on. He walked with an uncertain and agitated step, glancing
+to right and left of him as he went, half-fiercely, half-timidly, as
+though he expected a new adversary to spring upon him from every corner.
+The straight line of the houses waned and shivered in the dusk, as he
+looked at them, and he saw flashes of light in the air. His head was hot
+and aching, and his hat hurt him. Altogether he was in a dangerous
+state, not unlike that which, with northern men, sometimes follows hard
+drinking.
+
+He hated to go home that evening. So far as he was conscious, he had
+neither misrepresented nor in any way exaggerated the miseries of his
+domestic existence; and he felt that it was before him now, precisely as
+he had described it. There would be the same questions, to which he
+would give the same answers, at which Gloria would put on the same
+expression of injured hopelessness, unless she broke out and lost her
+temper, which happened often enough. The prospect was intolerable.
+Reanda thrust his hands deep into the pocket of his overcoat, and glared
+about him as he turned the corner of the Via degli Astalli, and saw the
+Corso in the distance. But he did not slacken his pace as he went along
+under the gloomy walls of the Austrian Embassy--the Palace of
+Venice--the most grim and fortress-like of all Roman palaces.
+
+He felt as a poor man may feel when, hot and feverish from working by a
+furnace, he knows that he must face the winter storm of freezing sleet
+and piercing wind in his thin and ragged jacket to go home--a plunge, as
+it were, from molten iron into ice, with no protection from the cold.
+Every step of the homeward way was hateful to him. Yet he knew his own
+weakness well enough not to hesitate. Had he stopped, he might have been
+capable of turning in some other direction, and of spending the whole
+evening with some of his fellow-artists, going home late in the night,
+when Gloria would be asleep. The thought crossed his mind. If he did
+that, he was sure to be carried away into speaking of his troubles to
+men with whom he had no intimacy. He was too proud for that. He wished
+he could go back to Francesca, and pour out his woes again. He had not
+said half enough. He should like to have it out, to the very end, and
+then lie down and close his eyes, and hear Francesca's voice soothing
+him and speaking of their golden friendship. But that was impossible, so
+he went home to face his misery as best he could.
+
+There was exaggeration in all he thought, but there was none in the
+effect of his thoughts upon himself. He had married a woman unsuited to
+him in every way, as he was unsuited to her. The whole trouble lay
+there. Possibly he was not a man to marry at all, and should have led
+his solitary life to the end, illuminated from the outside, as it were,
+by Francesca Campodonico's faithful friendship and sweet influence. All
+causes of disagreement, considered as forces in married life, are
+relative in their value to the comparative solidity of the characters on
+which they act--a truism which ought to be the foundation of social
+charity, but is not. Reanda could not be blamed for his brittle
+sensitivenesses, nor Gloria for a certain coarse-grained streak of
+cruelty, which she had inherited from her father, and which had
+combined strangely with the rare gifts and great faults of her dead
+mother--the love of emotion for its own sake, and the tendency to do
+everything which might produce it in herself and those about her.
+Emotion was poison to Reanda. It was his wife's favourite food.
+
+He reached his home, and went up the well-lighted marble staircase,
+wishing that he were ascending the narrow stone steps at the back of the
+Palazzetto Borgia, taper in hand, to his old bachelor quarters, to light
+his lamp, to smoke in peace, and to spend the evening over a sketch, or
+with a book, or dreaming of work not yet done. He paused on the landing,
+before he rang the bell of his apartment. The polished door irritated
+him, with its brass fittings and all that it meant of married life and
+irksome social obligation. He never carried a key, because the Roman
+keys of those times were large and heavy; but he had been obliged to use
+one formerly, when he had lived by himself. The necessity of ringing the
+bell irritated him again, and he felt a nervous shock of unwillingness
+as he pulled the brass knob. He set his teeth against the tinkling and
+jangling that followed, and his eyelids quivered. Everything hurt him.
+He did not feel sure of his hands when he wanted to use them. He was
+inclined to strike the silent and respectful man-servant who opened the
+door, merely because he was silent and respectful. He went straight to
+his own dressing-room, and shut himself in. It would be a relief to
+change his clothes. He and Gloria were to go to a reception in the
+evening, and he would dress at once. In those days few Romans dressed
+for dinner every day.
+
+He dropped a stud, for his hands were shaking so that he could hardly
+hold anything; and he groped for the thing on his knees. The blood went
+to his head, and hurt him violently, as though he had received a blow.
+
+Gloria's room was next to his, and she heard him moving about. She
+knocked and tried the door, but it was locked; and she heard him utter
+an exclamation of annoyance, as he hunted for the stud. She thought it
+was meant for her, and turned angrily back from the door. On any other
+day he would have called her, for he had heard her trying to get in. But
+he shrugged his lean shoulders impatiently, glanced once towards her
+room, found his stud, and went on dressing.
+
+He really made an effort to get control of himself while he was alone.
+But to all intents and purposes he was actually ill. His face was drawn
+and sallow; his eyes were yellow and bloodshot; and there were deep,
+twitching lines about his mouth. His nostrils moved spasmodically when
+he drew breath, and his long thin hands fumbled helplessly at the studs
+and buttons of his clothes. At last he was dressed, and went into the
+drawing-room. Gloria was already there, waiting by the fireside, with an
+injured and forbidding expression in her beautiful face.
+
+Reanda came to the fireside, and stood there, spreading out his
+trembling hands to the blaze. He dreaded the first word, as a man lying
+ill of brain fever dreads each cracking explosion in a thunderstorm.
+Strained as their relations had been for a long time, he had never
+failed to kiss Gloria when he came home. This evening he barely glanced
+at her, and stood watching the dancing tongues of the wood fire, not
+daring to think of the sound of his wife's voice. It came at last cool
+and displeased.
+
+"Are you ill?" she asked, looking steadily at him.
+
+"No," he answered with an effort, and his outstretched hands shook
+before the fire.
+
+"Then what is the matter with you?"
+
+"Nothing." He did not even turn his eyes to her, as he spoke the single
+word.
+
+A silence followed, during which he suffered. Nevertheless, the first
+dreaded shock of hearing her voice was over. Though he had barely
+glanced at her, he had known from her face what the sound of the voice
+would be.
+
+Gloria leaned back in her chair and watched the fire, and sighed. Griggs
+had been with her in the afternoon, and she had been happy, quite
+innocently, as she thought. The man's dominating strength and profound
+earnestness, which would have been intolerably dull to many women,
+smoothed Gloria, as it were. She said that he ironed the creases out of
+her life for her. It was not a softening influence, but a calming one,
+bred of strength pressing heavily on caprice. She resisted it, but took
+pleasure in finding that it was irresistible. Now and then it was not
+merely a steady pressure. He had a sledge hammer amongst his
+intellectual weapons, and once in a while it fell upon one of her
+illusions. She laughed at the destruction, and had no pity for the
+fragments. They were not illusions integral with her vanity, for he
+thought her perfect, and he would not have struck at her faults if he
+had seen them. Her faults grew, for they had root in her vital nature,
+and drew nourishment from his enduring strength, which surrounded them
+and protected them in the blind, whole-heartedness of his love. For the
+rest, he had kept his word. She had seen him turn white and bite his
+lip, sometimes, and more than once he had left her abruptly, and had not
+come back again for several days. But he had never forgotten his
+promise, in any word or deed since he had given it.
+
+It is a dangerous thing to pile up a mountain of massive reality from
+which to look out upon the fading beauty of a fleeting illusion. In his
+influence on Gloria's life, the strong man had overtopped the man of
+genius by head and shoulders. And she loved the strange mixture of
+attraction and repulsion she felt when she was with Griggs--the
+something that wounded her vanity because she could not understand it,
+and the protecting shield that overspread that same vanity, and gave it
+freedom to be vain beyond all bounds. She would not have admitted that
+she loved the man. It was her nature to play upon his pity with the
+wounds her love for her husband had suffered. Yet she knew that if she
+were free she should marry him, because she could not resist him, and
+there was pleasure in the idea that she controlled so irresistible a
+force. The contrast between him and Reanda was ever before her, and
+since she had learned how weak genius could be, the comparison was
+enormously in favour of the younger man.
+
+As Reanda stood there before the fire that evening, she despised him,
+and her heart rebelled against his nature. His nervousness, his
+trembling hands, his almost evident fear of being questioned, were
+contemptible. He was like a hunted animal, she thought. Two hours
+earlier her friend had stood there, solid, leonine, gladiatorial,
+dominating her with his square white face, and still, shadowy eyes,
+quietly stretching to the flames two hands that could have torn her in
+pieces,--a man imposing in his stern young sadness, almost solemn in his
+splendid physical dignity.
+
+She looked at Reanda, and her lip curled with scorn of herself for
+having loved such a thing. It was long since she had seen the gentle
+light in his face which had won her heart two years ago. She was
+familiar with his genius, and it no longer surprised her into
+overlooking his frailty. His fame no longer flattered her. His
+gentleness was gone, and had left, not hardness nor violence, in its
+place, but a sort of irritable palsy of discontent. That was what she
+called it as she watched him.
+
+"You used to kiss me when you came home," she said suddenly, leaning far
+back in her chair.
+
+Mechanically he turned his head. The habit was strong, and she had
+reminded him of it. He did not wish to quarrel, and he did not reason.
+He moved a step to her side and bent down to kiss her forehead. The
+automatic conjugality of the daily kiss might have a good effect. That
+was what he thought, if he thought at all.
+
+But she put up her hands suddenly, and thrust him back rudely.
+
+"No," she said. "That sort of thing is not worth much, if I have to
+remind you to do it."
+
+Her lip curled again. His high shoulders went up, and he turned away.
+
+"You are hard to please," he said, and the words were as mechanical as
+the action that had preceded them.
+
+"It cannot be said that you have taken much pains to please me of late,"
+she answered coldly.
+
+The servant announced dinner at that moment, and Reanda made no answer,
+though he glanced at her nervously. They went into the dining-room and
+sat down.
+
+The storm brewed during the silent meal. Reanda scarcely ate anything,
+and drank a little weak wine and water.
+
+"You hardly seem well enough to go out this evening," said Gloria, at
+last, but there was no kindness in the tone.
+
+"I am perfectly well," he answered impatiently. "I will go with you."
+
+"There is not the slightest necessity," replied his wife. "I can go
+alone, and you can go to bed."
+
+"I tell you I am perfectly well!" he said with unconcealed annoyance.
+"Let me alone."
+
+"Certainly. Nothing is easier."
+
+The voice was full of that injured dignity which most surely irritated
+him, as Gloria knew. But the servant was in the room, and he said
+nothing, though it was a real effort to be silent. His tongue had been
+free that day, and it was hard to be bound again.
+
+They finished dinner almost in silence, and then went back to the
+drawing-room by force of habit. Gloria was still in her walking-dress,
+but there was no hurry, and she resumed her favourite seat by the fire
+for a time, before going to dress for the reception.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVIII.
+
+
+THERE was something exasperating in the renewal of the position exactly
+as it had been before dinner. To make up for having eaten nothing,
+Reanda drank two cups of coffee in silence.
+
+"You might at least speak to me," observed Gloria, as he set down the
+second cup. "One would almost think that we had quarrelled!"
+
+The hard laugh that followed the words jarred upon him more painfully
+than anything that had gone before. He laughed, too, after a moment's
+silence, half hysterically.
+
+"Yes," he said; "one might almost think that we had quarrelled!" And he
+laughed again.
+
+"The idea seems to amuse you," said Gloria, coldly.
+
+"As it does you," he answered. "We both laughed. Indeed, it is very
+amusing."
+
+"Donna Francesca has sent you home in a good humour. That is rare. I
+suppose I ought to be grateful."
+
+"Yes. I am in a fine humour. It seems to me that we both are." He bit
+his cigar, and blew out short puffs.
+
+"You need not include me. Please do not smoke into my face."
+
+The smoke was not very near her, but she made a movement with her hands
+as though brushing it away.
+
+"I beg your pardon," he said politely, and he moved to the other side of
+the fireplace.
+
+"How nervous you are!" she exclaimed. "Why can you not sit down?"
+
+"Because I wish to stand," he answered, with returning impatience.
+"Because I am nervous, if you choose."
+
+"You told me that you were perfectly well."
+
+"So I am."
+
+"If you were perfectly well, you would not be nervous," she replied.
+
+He felt as though she were driving a sharp nail into his brain.
+
+"It does not make any difference to you whether I am nervous or not," he
+said, and his eye began to lighten, as he sat down.
+
+"It certainly makes no difference to you whether you are rude or not."
+
+He shrugged his shoulders, said nothing, and smoked in silence. One thin
+leg was crossed over the other and swung restlessly.
+
+"Is this sort of thing to last forever?" she inquired coldly, after a
+silence which had lasted a full minute.
+
+"I do not know what you mean," said Reanda.
+
+"You know very well what I mean."
+
+"This is insufferable!" he exclaimed, rising suddenly, with his cigar
+between his teeth.
+
+"You might take your cigar out of your mouth to say so," retorted
+Gloria.
+
+He turned on her, and an exclamation of anger was on his lips, but he
+did not utter it. There was a remnant of self-control. Gloria leaned
+back in her chair, and took up a carved ivory fan from amongst the
+knick-knacks on the little table beside her. She opened it, shut it, and
+opened it again, and pretended to fan herself, though the room was cool.
+
+"I should really like to know," she said presently, as he walked up and
+down with uneven steps.
+
+"What?" he asked sharply.
+
+"Whether this is to last for the rest of our lives."
+
+"What?"
+
+"This peaceful existence," she said scornfully. "I should really like to
+know whether it is to last. Could you not tell me?"
+
+"It will not last long, if you make it your principal business to
+torment me," he said, stopping in his walk.
+
+"I?" she exclaimed, with an air of the utmost surprise. "When do I ever
+torment you?"
+
+"Whenever I am with you, and you know it."
+
+"Really! You must be ill, or out of your mind, or both. That would be
+some excuse for saying such a thing."
+
+"It needs none. It is true." He was becoming exasperated at last. "You
+seem to spend your time in finding out how to make life intolerable. You
+are driving me mad. I cannot bear it much longer."
+
+"If it comes to bearing, I think I have borne more than you," said
+Gloria. "It is not little. You leave me to myself. You neglect me. You
+abuse the friends I am obliged to find rather than be alone. You neglect
+me in every way--and you say that I am driving you mad. Do you realize
+at all how you have changed in this last year? You may have really gone
+mad, for all I know, but it is I who have to suffer and bear the
+consequences. You neglect me brutally. How do I know how you pass your
+time?"
+
+Reanda stood still in the middle of the room, gazing at her. For a
+moment he was surprised by the outbreak. She did not give him time to
+answer.
+
+"You leave me in the morning," she went on, working her coldness into
+anger. "You often go away before I am awake. You come back at midday,
+and sometimes you do not speak a word over your breakfast. If I speak,
+you either do not answer, or you find fault with what I say; and if I
+show the least enthusiasm for anything but your work, you preach me down
+with proverbs and maxims, as though I were a child. I am foolish,
+young, impatient, silly, not fit to take care of myself, you say! Have
+you taken care of me? Have you ever sacrificed one hour out of your long
+day to give me a little pleasure? Have you ever once, since we were
+married, stayed at home one morning and asked me what I would do--just
+to make one holiday for me? Never. Never once! You give me a fine house
+and enough money, and you think you have given me all that a woman
+wants."
+
+"And what do you want?" asked Reanda, trying to speak calmly.
+
+"A little kindness, a little love--the least thing of all you promised
+me and of all I was so sure of having! Is it so much to ask? Have you
+lied to me all this time? Did you never love me? Did you marry me for my
+face, or for my voice? Was it all a mere empty sham from the beginning?
+Have you deceived me from the first? You said you loved me. Was none of
+it true?"
+
+"Yes. I loved you," he answered, and suddenly there was a dulness in his
+voice.
+
+"You loved me--"
+
+She sighed, and in the stillness that followed the little ivory fan
+rattled as she opened and shut it. To his ear, the tone in which she had
+spoken had rung false. If only he could have heard her voice speaking as
+it had once sounded, he must have been touched.
+
+"Yes," she continued. "You loved me, or at least you made me think you
+did. I was young and I believed you. You do not even say it now. Perhaps
+because you know how hard it would be to make me believe you."
+
+"No. That is not the reason."
+
+She waited a moment, for it was not the answer she had expected.
+
+"Angelo--" she began, and waited, but he said nothing, though he looked
+at her. "It is not true, it cannot be true!" she said, suddenly turning
+her face away, for there was a bitter humiliation in it.
+
+"It is much better to say it at once," he said, with the supernaturally
+calm indifference which sometimes comes upon very sensitive people when
+they are irritated beyond endurance. "I did love you, or I should not
+have married you. But I do not love you any longer. I am sorry. I wish I
+did."
+
+"And you dare to tell me so!" she cried, turning upon him suddenly.
+
+A moment later she was leaning forward, covering her face with her
+hands, and speaking through them.
+
+"You have the heart to tell me so, after all I have been to you--the
+devotion of years, the tenderness, the love no man ever had of any
+woman! Oh, God! It is too much!"
+
+"It is said now. It is of no use to go back to a lie," observed Reanda,
+with an indifference that would have seemed diabolical even to himself,
+had he believed her outbreak to be quite genuine. "Of what use would it
+be to pretend again?"
+
+"You admit that you have only pretended to love me?" She raised her
+flushed face and gleaming eyes.
+
+"Of late--if you call it a pretence--"
+
+"Oh, not that--not that! I have seen it--but at first. You did love me.
+Say that, at least."
+
+"Certainly. Why should I have married you?"
+
+"Yes--why? In spite of her, too--it is not to be believed."
+
+"In spite of her? Of whom? Are you out of your mind?"
+
+Gloria laughed in a despairing sort of way.
+
+"Do not tell me that Donna Francesca ever wished you to be married!" she
+said.
+
+"She brought us together. You know it. It is the only thing I could ever
+reproach her with."
+
+"She made you marry me?"
+
+"Made me? No! You are quite mad."
+
+He stamped his foot impatiently, and turned away to walk up and down
+again. His cigar had gone out, but he gnawed at it angrily. He was
+amazed at what he could still bear, but he was fast losing his head. The
+mad desire to strangle her tingled in his hands, and the light of the
+lamp danced when he looked at it.
+
+"She has made you do so many things!" said Gloria.
+
+Her tone had changed again, growing hard and scornful, when she spoke of
+Donna Francesca.
+
+"What has she made me do that you should speak of her in that way?"
+asked Reanda, angrily, re-crossing the room.
+
+"She has made you hate me--for one thing," Gloria answered.
+
+"That is not true!" Reanda could hardly breathe, and he felt his voice
+growing thick.
+
+"Not true! Then, if not she, who else? You are with her there all
+day--she talks about me, she finds fault with me, and you come home and
+see the faults she finds for you--"
+
+"There is not a word of truth in what you say--"
+
+"Do not be so angry, then! If it were not true, why should you care? I
+have said it, and I will say it. She has robbed me of you. Oh, I will
+never forgive her! Never fear! One does not forget such things! She has
+got you, and she will keep you, I suppose. But you shall regret it! She
+shall pay me for it!"
+
+Her voice shook, for her jealousy was real, as was all her emotion while
+it lasted.
+
+"You shall not speak of her in that way," said Reanda, fiercely. "I owe
+her and her family all that I am, all that I have in the world--"
+
+"Including me!" interrupted Gloria. "Pay her then--pay her with your
+love and yourself. You can satisfy your conscience in that way, and you
+can break my heart."
+
+"There is not the slightest fear of that," answered Reanda, cruelly.
+
+She rose suddenly to her feet and stood before him, blazing with anger.
+
+"If I could find yours--if you had any--I would break it," she said.
+"You dare to say that I have no heart, when you can see that every word
+you say thrusts it through like a knife, when I have loved you as no
+woman ever loved man! I said it, and I repeat it--when I have given you
+everything, and would have given you the world if I had it! Indeed, you
+are utterly heartless and cruel and unkind--"
+
+"At least, I am honest. I do not play a part as you do. I say plainly
+that I do not love you and that I am sorry for it. Yes--really sorry."
+His voice softened for an instant. "I would give a great deal to love
+you as I once did, and to believe that you loved me--"
+
+"You will tell me that I do not--"
+
+"Indeed, I will tell you so, and that you never did--"
+
+"Angelo--take care! You will go too far!"
+
+"I could never go far enough in telling you that truth. You never loved
+me. You may have thought you did. I do not care. You talk of devotion
+and tenderness and all the like! Of being left alone and neglected! Of
+going too far! What devotion have you ever shown to me, beyond
+extravagantly praising everything I painted, for a few months after we
+were married. Then you grew tired of my work. That is your affair. What
+is it to me whether you admire my pictures or Mendoza's, or any other
+man's? Do you think that is devotion? I know far better than you which
+are good and which are bad. But you call it devotion. And it was
+devotion that kept you away from me when I was working, when I was
+obliged to work--for it is my trade, after all--and when you might have
+been with me day after day! And it was devotion to meet me with your
+sour, severe look every day when I came home, as though I were a secret
+enemy, a conspirator, a creature to be guarded against like a thief--as
+though I had been staying away from you on purpose, and of my
+will--instead of working for you all day long. That was your way of
+showing your love. And to torment me with questions, everlastingly
+believing that I spend my time in talking against you to Donna
+Francesca--"
+
+"You do!" cried Gloria, who had not been able to interrupt his
+incoherent speech. "You love her as you never loved me--as you hate
+me--as you both hate me!"
+
+She grasped his sleeve in her anger, shaking his arm, and staring into
+his eyes.
+
+"You make me hate you!" he answered, trying to shake her off.
+
+"And you succeed, between you--You and your--"
+
+In his turn he grasped her arm with his long, thin fingers, with nervous
+roughness.
+
+"You shall not speak of her--"
+
+"Shall not? It is the only right I have left--that and the right to hate
+you--you and that infamous woman you love--yes--you and your
+mistress--your pretty Francesca!" Her laugh was almost a scream.
+
+His fury overflowed. After all, he was the son of a countryman, of the
+steward of Gerano. He snatched the ivory fan from her hand and struck
+her across the face with it. The fragile thing broke to shivers, and the
+fragments fell between them.
+
+Gloria turned deadly white, but there was a bright red bar across her
+cheek. She looked at him a moment, and into her face there came that
+fateful look that was like her dead mother's.
+
+Then without a word she turned and left the room.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIX.
+
+
+THE daughter of Angus Dalrymple and Maria Braccio was not the woman to
+bear a blow tamely, or to hesitate long as to the surest way of
+resenting it. Before she had reached the door she had determined to
+leave the house at once, and ten minutes had not passed before she found
+herself walking down the Corso, veiled and muffled in a cloak, and
+having all the money she could call her own, in her pocket, together
+with a few jewels of little value, given her by her father.
+
+Reanda had sunk into a chair when the door had closed behind her, half
+stunned by the explosion of his own anger. He looked at the bits of
+broken ivory on the carpet, and wondered vaguely what they meant. He
+felt as though he had been in a dream of which he could not remember the
+distorted incidents at all clearly. His breath came irregularly, his
+heart fluttered and stood still and fluttered again, and his hands
+twitched at the fringe on the arms of the chair. By and bye, the butler
+came in to take away the coffee cups and he saw that his master was ill.
+Under such circumstances nothing can equal the gentleness of an Italian
+servant. The man called some one to help him, and got Reanda to his
+dressing-room, and undressed him and laid him upon the long leathern
+sofa. Then they knocked at the bedroom door, but there was no answer.
+
+"Do not disturb the signora," said Reanda, feebly. "She wishes to be
+alone. We shall not want the carriage."
+
+Those were the only words he spoke that evening, and the servants
+understood well enough that something had happened between husband and
+wife, and that it was best to be silent and to obey. No one tried the
+door of the bedroom. If any one had turned the handle, it would have
+been found to be locked. The key lay on the table in the hall, amongst
+the visiting-cards. Dalrymple's daughter had inherited some of his quick
+instinct and presence of mind. She had felt sure that if she locked the
+door of her room when she left the house, her husband would naturally
+suppose that she had shut herself in, not wishing to be disturbed, and
+would respect her desire to be alone. It would save trouble, and give
+her time to get away. He could sleep on the sofa in his dressing-room,
+as he actually did, in the illness of his anger, treated as Italians
+know how to treat such common cases, of which the consequences are
+sometimes fatal. Many an Italian has died from a fit of rage. A single
+blood-vessel, in the brain, a little weaker than the rest, and all is
+over in an apoplexy. But Reanda was not of an apoplectic constitution.
+The calming treatment acted very soon, he fell asleep, and did not wake
+till daylight, quite unaware that Gloria was not in the next room,
+sleeping off her anger as he had done.
+
+She had gone out in her first impulse to leave the house of the man who
+had so terribly insulted her. Under her veil the hot blood scorched her
+where the blow had left its red bar, and her rage and wounded pride
+chased one another from her heart to her head while with every beating
+of her pulse the longing for revenge grew wilder and stronger.
+
+She had left the house with one first idea--to find Paul Griggs and tell
+him what had happened. No other thought crossed her mind, and her steps
+turned mechanically down the Corso, for he still lived in his two rooms
+in the Via della Frezza.
+
+It was early still. People dined at six o'clock in those days, and it
+was not yet eight when Gloria found herself in the street. It was quiet,
+though there were many people moving about. During the hours between
+dinner and the theatre there were hardly any carriages out, and the
+sound of many footsteps and of many low voices filled the air. Gloria
+kept to the right and walked swiftly along, never turning her head. She
+had never been out in the streets alone at night in her life, and even
+in her anger she felt a sort of intoxication of freedom that was quite
+new to her, a beginning of satisfaction upon him who had injured her.
+There was Highland blood in her veins, as well as Italian passion.
+
+The southeast wind was blowing down the street behind her, that same
+strange and tragic wind, tragic and passionate, that had blown so
+gustily down upon Subiaco from the mountains, on that night long ago
+when Maria Addolorata had stood aside by the garden gate to let
+Dalrymple pass, bearing something in his arms. Gloria knew it by its sad
+whisper and by the faint taste of it and smell of it, through her
+close-drawn veil.
+
+On she went, down the Corso, till she came to the Piazza Colonna, and
+saw far on her left, beyond the huge black shaft of the column, the
+brilliant lights from the French officers' Club. She hesitated then, and
+slackened her speed a little. The sight of the Club reminded her of
+society, of what she was doing, and of what it might mean. As she walked
+more slowly, the wind gained upon her, as it were, from behind, and
+tried to drive her on. It seemed to be driving her from her husband's
+house with all its might, blowing her skirts before her and her thick
+veil. She passed the square, keeping close to the shutters of the shops
+under the Palazzo Piombino--gone now, to widen the open space. A gust,
+stronger than any she had felt yet, swept down the pavement. She paused
+a moment, leaning against the closed shutters of the clockmaker Ricci,
+whose shop used to be a sort of landmark in the Corso. Just then a clock
+within struck eight strokes. She heard them all distinctly through the
+shutters.
+
+She hesitated an instant. It was eight o'clock. She had not realized
+what time it was. If she found the street door shut in the Via della
+Frezza, it would be hard to get at Griggs. She had passed the house more
+than once in her walks, and she knew that Griggs lived high up in the
+fifth story. It might be already too late. She hesitated and looked up
+and down the pavement. A young French officer of Zouaves was coming
+towards her; his high wrinkled and varnished boots gleamed in the
+gaslight. He had a black beard and bright young eyes, and was smoking a
+cigarette. He was looking at her and slackened his pace as he came near.
+She left her place and walked swiftly past him, down the Corso.
+
+All at once she felt in the gust that drove her a cool drop of rain just
+behind her ear, and a moment later, passing a gas-lamp, she saw the dark
+round spots on the grey pavement. In her haste, she had brought no
+umbrella. She hurried on, and the wind blew her forward with all its
+might, so that she felt her steps lightened by its help. The Corso was
+darker and there were fewer people. The rain fell fast when she reached
+San Carlo, where the street widens, and she gathered her cloak about
+her as well as she could and crossed to the other side, hoping to find
+more shelter. She was nearing the Via della Frezza, and she knew some of
+the ins and outs of the narrow streets behind the tribune of the great
+church. It was very dark as she turned the semicircle of the apse, and
+the rain fell in torrents, but it was shorter to go that way, for Griggs
+lived nearer to the Ripetta than to the Corso, and she followed a sort
+of crooked diagonal, in the direction of his house. She thought the
+streets led by that way to the point she wished to reach, and she walked
+as fast as she could. The flare of an occasional oil lamp swung out high
+at the end of its lever showed her the way, and showed her, too, the
+rush of the yellow water down the middle channel of the street. She
+looked in vain for the turning she expected on her right. She had not
+lost her way, but she had not found the short cut she had looked for.
+Emerging upon the broad Ripetta, she paused an instant at the corner and
+looked about, though she knew which way to turn. Just then there were
+heavy splashing footsteps close to her.
+
+"Permit me, Signora," said a voice that was rough and had an odd accent,
+though the tone was polite, and a huge umbrella was held over her head.
+
+She shrank back against the wall quickly, in womanly fear of a strange
+man.
+
+"No, thank you!" she exclaimed in answer.
+
+"But yes!" said the man. "It rains. You are getting an illness,
+Signora."
+
+The faint light showed her that she would be safe enough in accepting
+the offer. The man was evidently a peasant from the mountains, and he
+was certainly not young. His vast black cloak was turned back a little
+by his arm and showed the lining of green flannel and the blue clothes
+with broad silver buttons which he wore.
+
+"Thank you," she said, for she was glad of the shelter, and she stood
+still under the enormous blue cotton umbrella, with its battered brass
+knob and its coloured stripes.
+
+"But I will accompany you," said the man. "It is certainly not beginning
+to finish. Apoplexy! It rains in pieces!"
+
+"Thank you. I am not going far," said Gloria. "You are very kind."
+
+"It seems to be the act of a Christian," observed the peasant.
+
+She began to move, and he walked beside her. He would have thought it
+bad manners to ask whither she was going. Through the torrents of rain
+they went on in silence. In less than five minutes she had found the
+door of Griggs's house. To her intense relief it was still open, and
+there was the glimmer of a tiny oil lamp from a lantern in the stairway.
+Gloria felt for the money in her pocket. The man did not wait, nor
+speak, and was already going away. She called him.
+
+[Illustration: Stefanone and Gloria.--Vol. II., p. 100.]
+
+"I wish to give you something," said Gloria.
+
+"To me?" exclaimed the man, in surprise. "No, Signora. It seems that you
+make a mistake."
+
+"Excuse me," Gloria answered. "In the dark, I did not see. I am very
+grateful to you. You are from the country?"
+
+She wished to repair the mistake she had made, by some little civility.
+The man stood on the doorstep, with his umbrella hanging backward over
+his shoulder, and she could see his face distinctly,--a typical Roman
+face with small aquiline features, keen dark eyes, a square jaw, and
+iron-grey hair.
+
+"Yes, Signora. Stefanone of Subiaco, wine merchant, to serve you. If you
+wish wine of Subiaco, ask for me at Piazza Montanara. Signora, it rains
+columns. With permission, I go."
+
+"Thank you again," she answered.
+
+He disappeared into the torrent, and she was left alone at the foot of
+the gloomy stairs, under the feeble light of the little oil lamp. She
+had thrown back her veil, for it was soaked with water and stuck to her
+face. Little rivulets ran down upon the stones from her wet clothes,
+which felt intolerably heavy as she stood there, resting one gloved hand
+against the damp wall and staring at the lantern. Her thoughts had
+been disturbed by her brief interview with the peasant; the rain chilled
+her, and her face burned. She touched her cheek with her hand where
+Reanda had struck her. It felt bruised and sore, for the blow had not
+been a light one. The sensation of the wet leather disgusted her, and
+she drew off the glove with difficulty, turning it inside out over her
+full white hand. Then she touched the place again, and patted it,
+softly, and felt it. But her eyes did not move from the lantern.
+
+There was one of those momentary lulling pauses in the rush of events
+which seem sent to confuse men's thoughts and unsettle their purposes.
+Had she reached the house five minutes earlier, she would not have
+hesitated a moment at the foot of the stairs. Suddenly she turned back
+to the door, and stood there looking out. It looked very black. She
+gathered her dripping skirt back as she bent forward a little and peered
+into the darkness. The rain fell in sheets, now, with the unquavering
+sound of a steadily rushing torrent. It would be madness to go out into
+it. A shiver ran through her, and another. She was very cold and
+miserable. No doubt Griggs had a fire upstairs, and a pleasant light in
+his study. He would be there, hard at work. She would knock, and he
+would open, and she would sit down by the fire and dry herself, and pour
+out her misery. The red bar was still across her face--she had seen it
+in the looking-glass when she had put on her hat.
+
+To go back, to see her husband that night--it was impossible. Later,
+perhaps, when he should be asleep, Griggs would find a carriage and take
+her home. No one would ever know where she had been, and she would never
+tell any more than Griggs would. She felt that she must see him and tell
+him everything, and feel his strength beside her. After all, he was the
+only friend she had in the world, and it was natural that she should
+turn to him for help, in her father's absence. He was her father's
+friend, too.
+
+She shivered again and again from head to foot, and she drew back from
+the door. For a moment she hesitated. Then with a womanly action she
+began to shake the rain out of her cloak and her skirts as well as she
+could, wetting her hands to the wrists. As she bent down, shaking the
+hem of the skirt, the blood rushed to her face again, and the place he
+had struck burned and smarted. It was quite a different sensation from
+what she had felt when she had touched it with her cool wet hand. She
+straightened herself with a spring and threw back her head, and her eyes
+flashed fiercely in the dark. The accidents of fate closed round her,
+and the hands of her destiny had her by the throat, choking her as she
+breathed.
+
+There was no more hesitation. With quick steps she began to ascend the
+short, steep flights. It was dark, beyond the first turning, but she
+went on, touching the damp walls with her hands. Then there was a
+glimmer again, and a second lantern marked the first landing and shone
+feebly upon a green door with a thin little square of white marble
+screwed to it for a door-plate and a name in black. She glanced at it
+and went on, for she knew that Griggs lived on the fifth floor. She was
+surefooted, like her father, as she went firmly up, panting a little,
+for her drenched clothes weighed her down. There was one more light, and
+then there were no more. She counted the landings, feeling the doors
+with her hands as she went by, dizzy from the constant turning in the
+darkness. At last she thought she had got to the end, and groping with
+her hands she found a worsted string and pulled it, and a cracked little
+bell jangled and beat against the wood inside. She heard a pattering of
+feet, and a shrill, nasal child's voice called out the customary
+question, inquiring who was there. She asked for Griggs.
+
+"He is not here," answered the child, and she heard the footsteps
+running away again, though she called loudly.
+
+Her heart sank. But she groped her way on. The staircase ended, for it
+was the top of the house, and she found another door, and felt for a
+string like the one she had pulled, but there was none. Something told
+her that she was right, and with the sudden, desperate longing to be
+inside, with her strong protector, in the light and warmth, she beat
+upon the door with the palms of her hands, her face almost touching the
+cold painted wood studded with nails, that smelled of wet iron.
+
+Then came the firm, regular footsteps of the strong man, and his clear,
+stern voice spoke from within, not in a question, but in a curt refusal
+to open.
+
+"Go away," he said, in Italian. "You have mistaken the door."
+
+But she beat with her hands upon the heavy wood.
+
+"Let me in!" she cried in English. "Let me in!"
+
+There was a deep exclamation of surprise, and the oiled bolt clanked
+back in its socket. The door opened inward, and Paul Griggs held up a
+lamp with a green shade, throwing the light into Gloria's face.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXX.
+
+
+GLORIA pushed past Griggs and stood beside him in the narrow entry. He
+shut the door mechanically, and turned slowly towards her, still holding
+up the lamp so that it shone upon her face.
+
+"What has happened to you?" he asked, slowly and steadily, his shadowed
+eyes fixed upon her.
+
+"He has beaten me, and I have come to you. Look at my face."
+
+He saw the red bar across her cheek. He did not raise his voice, and
+there was little change in his features, but his eyes glowed suddenly,
+like the eyes of a wild beast, and he swore an oath so terrible that
+Gloria turned a little pale and shrank from him. Then he was silent, and
+they stood together. She could hear his breath. She could see him trying
+to swallow, for his throat was suddenly as dry as cinders. Very slowly
+his frown deepened to a scowl, and two straight furrows clove their way
+down between his eyes, his dark eyebrows were lifted evilly, upward and
+outward, and little by little the strong, clean shaven upper lip rose at
+the corners and showed two gleaming, wolfish teeth. The smooth, close
+hair bristled from the point where it descended upon his forehead.
+
+Gloria shrank a little. She had seen such a look in an angry lion; just
+the look, without a motion of the limbs. Then it all disappeared, and
+the still face she knew so well was turned to hers.
+
+"Will you come in?" he asked in a constrained tone. "It is my work-room.
+I will light a fire, and you must dry yourself. How did you get so wet?
+You did not come on foot?"
+
+He opened the door while he was speaking, and led the way with the lamp.
+Gloria shivered as she followed, for there was a small window open in
+the entry, and her clothes clung to her in the cold draught. She closed
+the door behind her, as she went in. It was very little warmer within
+than without, and the small fireplace was black and cold. Instinctively
+she glanced at Griggs. He wore a rough pilot coat that had seen much
+service, buttoned to his throat. He set the little lamp with its green
+shade down upon the table amidst a mass of papers and books, and drew
+forward the only easy-chair there was, a dilapidated piece of furniture
+covered with faded yellow reps and ragged fringes that dragged on the
+floor. He took a great cloak from a clothes-horse in the corner and
+threw it over the chair, smoothing it carefully with his hands.
+
+"If you will sit down, I will try and make a fire," he said quietly.
+
+She sat down as he bade her, wondering a little at his calmness, but
+remembering the awful words that had escaped his lips when she had
+spoken, and the look of the wild beast and incarnate devil that had been
+one moment in his face. She looked about her while he began to make a
+fire, not hindering him, for she was shivering. The room was large, but
+very poorly furnished. There were two great tables, covered with books
+and papers; there was a deal bookcase along one wall and an antiquated
+cabinet between the two windows, one of its legs propped up with a dingy
+faded paper. The coarse green carpet was threadbare, but still whole.
+There were half-a-dozen plain chairs with green and white rush seats in
+various parts of the room. On the narrow white marble mantel-shelf stood
+two china candlesticks, in one of which there was a piece of candle that
+had guttered when last burning. In the middle a cheap American clock of
+white metal ticked loudly, and the hands pointed to twenty minutes
+before nine. In one corner was the clothes-horse, with two or three
+overcoats hanging on it, and two hats, one of which was hanging half
+over on one side. It looked as though two cloaked skeletons in hats were
+embracing. In another corner by the door a black stick and an umbrella
+stood side by side. But for the books the place would have had a
+desolate look. The air smelt of strong tobacco.
+
+Gloria looked about her curiously, though her heart was beating fast.
+The man was familiar to her, dear to her in many ways, and over much in
+her life. The place where he lived contained a part of him which she did
+not know. Her breath came quickly in the anticipation of an emotion
+greater even than what she had felt already, but her eyes wandered in
+curiosity from one object to another. Suddenly she heard the loud
+cracking of breaking wood. There was a blaze of paper from the
+fireplace, illuminating all the room, and some light pieces he was
+throwing on kindled quickly. He was breaking them--she looked--it was
+one of the rush-bottomed chairs.
+
+"What are you doing?" she cried, leaning suddenly far forward.
+
+"Making a good fire," he answered. "There happened to be only one bit of
+wood in my box, so I am taking these things."
+
+He broke the legs and the rails of the chair in his hands, as a child
+would break twigs, and heaped them up upon the blaze.
+
+"There are five more," he observed. "They will make a good fire."
+
+He arranged the burning mass to suit him, looked at it, and then turned.
+
+"You ought to be a little nearer," he said, and he lifted the chair with
+her in it and set her before the fireplace.
+
+It had all looked and felt desperately desolate half a minute earlier.
+It was changed now. He went to a corner and filled a small glass with
+wine from a straw-covered flask and brought it to her. She thanked him
+with her eyes and drank half of it eagerly. He knelt down before the
+fire again, for as the paper burned away underneath, the light sticks
+fell inward and might go out. When he had arranged it all again, he
+looked round and met her eyes, still kneeling.
+
+"Is that better?" he asked quietly.
+
+"You are so good," said Gloria, letting her eyelids droop as she looked
+from him to the pleasant flame.
+
+He put out his hand and gently touched the hem of her cloth skirt.
+
+"You are drenched," he said.
+
+Then, before she realized what he was doing, he bent down and kissed the
+wet cloth, and without looking at her rose to his feet, got another
+chair and sat down near her. A soft blush of pleasure had risen in her
+cheeks. They were little things that he did, but they were like him,
+unaffected, strong, direct. Another man would have made apologies for
+having no wood and would have tried to make a fire of the single stick.
+Another man would have made excuses for the disorder of his room, or for
+the poverty of its furniture, perhaps. The other man she thought of was
+her husband, and possibly she had her father in her mind, too.
+
+"When you are rested, tell me your story," he said, and his face
+hardened all at once.
+
+She began to speak in a low and uncertain voice, reciting almost
+mechanically many things which she had often told him before. He
+listened without moving a muscle. Her voice was dear to him, whether she
+repeated the endless history of her woes for the tenth or the hundredth
+time. Where she was concerned he had no judgment, and he had no
+criterion, for he had never loved another woman with whom he could
+compare her. All that was of her was of paramount interest and weighty
+importance. He could not hear it too often. But to-night her first words
+had told him of the violent crisis in her life with Reanda, and he
+listened to all she said, before she reached that point, with an
+interest he had never felt before. But he would not look at her, for he
+must have taken her in his arms, as he had done once, months before now.
+She had come for protection and for help, and her need was the life
+spring of his honour.
+
+As she went on, her voice took colour from her emotion, her hands moved
+now and then in short swift gestures, and her dark eyes burned. The
+marvellous dramatic power she possessed blazed out under the lash of her
+wrongs, and she found words she had only groped for until that moment.
+She described the miserably nervous feebleness of the man with scathing
+contempt, her tone made evil deeds of his shortcomings, her scorn made
+his weakness a black crime; her jealous anger fastened upon Francesca
+Campodonico and tore her honour to shreds and her virtues to rags of
+abomination; and her flaming pride blazed out in searing hatred and
+contempt for the coward who had struck her in the face.
+
+"He broke my fan across my face!" she cried with the ascending
+intonation of a fury rising still, and still more fiercely beautiful.
+"He slashed my face with it and broke it and threw the bits down at my
+feet! There, look at it! That is his work--oh, give it back to him, kill
+him for me, tear him to pieces for me--make him feel what I have felt
+to-day!"
+
+She had pushed her brown hat and veil back from her head, and her wet
+cloak had long ago fallen from her shoulders. One straight, white hand
+shot out and fastened upon her companion's arm, as he sat beside her,
+and she shook it in savage confidence of his iron strength.
+
+A dead silence followed, but the fire made of the broken chairs roared
+and blazed on the low brick hearth. The man kept his eyes upon it
+fixedly, as though it were his salvation, for he felt that if he looked
+at her he was lost. She had come to him not for love, but for
+protection, of her own free will. Yet he felt that his honour was
+burning in him, with no longer life, if she stayed there, than the
+short, quick fire itself. His voice was thick when he answered, as
+though he were speaking through a velvet pall.
+
+"I will kill him, if he will fight," he answered, with an effort. "I
+will not murder him, even for you."
+
+She started, for she had not realized how he would take literally what
+she said. She had no experience of desperate men in her limited life.
+
+"Murder him? No!" she said, snatching back her hand from his arm. "No,
+no! I never meant that."
+
+"I am glad you did not. If you did, I should probably break down and do
+it to please you. But if he will fight like a man, I will kill him to
+please myself. Now I will go and get a carriage and take you home."
+
+He rose to his feet and, turning, turned away from her, going toward the
+corner to get an overcoat. She followed him with her eyes, in silence.
+
+"You are not afraid to be left alone for a quarter of an hour?" he
+asked, buttoning his coat, and looking toward his umbrella.
+
+"Do not go just yet," she answered softly.
+
+"I must. It is getting late. I shall not find a carriage if I wait any
+longer. I must go now."
+
+"Do not go."
+
+She heard him breathe hard once or twice. Then with quick strides he was
+beside her, and speaking to her.
+
+"Gloria, I cannot stand it--I warn you. I love you in a way you cannot
+understand. You must not keep me here."
+
+"Do not go," she said again, in the deep, soft tone of her golden voice.
+
+"I must."
+
+He turned from her and went towards the door. Soft and swift she
+followed him, but he was in the entry before her hand was on his arm. It
+was almost dusk out there. He stopped.
+
+"I cannot go back to him," she said, and he could see the light in her
+eyes, and very faintly the red bar across the face he loved.
+
+"You should--there is nowhere else for you to go," he said, and in the
+dark his hand was finding the bolt of the door to the stairs.
+
+"No--there is nowhere else--I cannot go back to him," she answered, and
+the voice quavered uncertainly as the night breeze sighing amongst
+reeds.
+
+"You must--you must," he tried to say.
+
+Her weight was all upon his arm, but it was nothing to him. He steadily
+drew back the bolt. He turned up his face so that he could not see her.
+
+With sudden strength her white hands went round his sinewy dark throat
+as he threw back his head.
+
+"You are all I have in the world!" she half said, half whispered. "I
+will not let you go!"
+
+"You?" His voice broke out as through a bursting shell.
+
+"Yes. Come back!"
+
+His arm fell like lead to his side. Gently she drew him back to the door
+of the study. The blaze of the fire shot into her face.
+
+"Come," she said. "See how well it burns."
+
+"Yes," he said, mechanically, "it is burning well."
+
+He stood aside an instant at the door to let her pass. His eyelids
+closed and his face became rigid as a death mask of a man dead in
+passion. One moment only; then he followed her and softly shut the
+door.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXI.
+
+
+THE brilliant winter morning had an intoxicating quality in it, after
+the heavy rain which had fallen in the night, and Paul Griggs felt that
+it was good to be alive as he threaded the narrow streets between his
+lodging and the Piazza Colonna. He avoided the Corso; for he did not
+know whom he might meet, and he had no desire to meet any one, except
+Angelo Reanda.
+
+Naturally enough, his first honourable impulse was to go to the artist,
+to tell him something of the truth, and to give him an opportunity of
+demanding the common satisfaction of a hostile meeting. It did not occur
+to him that Reanda would not wish to exchange shots with him and have
+the chance of taking his life. Griggs was not the man to refuse such an
+encounter, and at that moment he felt so absolutely sure of himself that
+the idea of being killed was very far removed from his thoughts. It was
+without the slightest emotion that he enquired for Reanda at the
+latter's house, but he was very much surprised to hear that the painter
+had gone out as usual at his customary hour. He hesitated a moment and
+then decided not to leave a card, upon which he could not have written
+a message intelligible to Reanda which should not have been understood
+also by the servant who received it. Griggs made up his mind that he
+would write a formal note later in the day. He took it for granted that
+Reanda must be searching for his wife.
+
+It was necessary to find a better lodging than the one in the Via della
+Frezza, and to provide as well as he could for Gloria's comfort. He was
+met by a difficulty upon which he had not reflected as yet, though he
+had been dimly aware of it more than once during the past twelve hours.
+
+He was almost penniless, and he had no means of obtaining money at short
+notice. The payments he received from the newspapers for which he worked
+came regularly, but were not due for at least three weeks from that day.
+Alone in his bachelor existence he could have got through the time very
+well and without any greater privations than his capriciously ascetic
+nature had often imposed upon itself.
+
+He was not an improvident man, but in his lonely existence he had no
+sense of future necessities, and the weakest point in his judgment was
+his undiscriminating generosity. Of the value of money as a store
+against possible needs, he had no appreciation at all, and he gave away
+what he earned beyond his most pressing requirements in secret and often
+ill-judged charities, whenever an occasion of doing so presented
+itself, though he never sought one. For himself, he was able to subsist
+on bread and water, and the meagre fare was scarcely a privation to his
+hardy constitution. If he chanced to have no money to spare for fuel, he
+bore the cold and buttoned up his old pea-jacket to the throat while he
+sat at work at his table. His self-respect made him wise and careful in
+regard to his dress, but in other matters many a handicraftsman was
+accustomed to more luxury than he. At the present juncture he had been
+taken unawares, and he found himself in great difficulty. He had left
+himself barely enough for subsistence until the arrival of the next
+remittance, and that meant but a very few scudi; and yet he knew that
+certain expenses must be met immediately, almost within the twenty-four
+hours. The very first thing was to get a lodging suitable for Gloria. It
+would be necessary to pay at least one month's rent in advance. Even if
+he were able to do that, he would be left without a penny for daily
+expenses. He had no bank account; for he cashed the drafts he received
+and kept the money in his room. He had never borrowed of an
+acquaintance, and the idea was repulsive to him and most humiliating.
+Had he possessed any bit of jewelry, or anything of value, he would have
+sold the object, but he had nothing of the kind. His books were
+practically valueless, consisting of such volumes as he absolutely
+needed for his daily use, chiefly cheap editions, poorly bound and well
+worn. He needed at least fifty scudi, and he did not possess quite ten.
+Three weeks earlier he had sent a hundred, anonymously, to free a
+starving artist from debt.
+
+His position was only very partially enviable just then, but the bright
+north wind seemed to blow his troubles back from him as he faced it,
+walking home from his ineffectual attempt to meet Reanda. It was very
+unlike the man to return to his lodging without having accomplished
+anything, but he was hardly conscious of the fact. The face of the
+ancient city was suddenly changed, and it seemed as though nothing could
+go wrong if he would only allow fortune to play her own game without
+interference. He walked lightly, and there was a little colour in his
+face. He tried to think of what he should do to meet his present
+difficulties, but when he thought of them they were whirled away,
+shapeless and unrecognizable, and he felt a sense of irresistible power
+with each breath of the crisp dry air.
+
+As he went along he glanced at the houses he passed, and on some of the
+doors were little notices scrawled in queer handwritings and telling
+that a lodging was to let. Occasionally he paused, looked up and
+hesitated, and then he went on. The difficulty was suddenly before him,
+and he knew that even if he looked at the rooms he could not hire them,
+as he had not enough money to cover the first month's rent. Immediately
+he attempted to devise some means of raising the sum he needed, but
+before he had reached the very next corner the clear north wind had
+blown the trouble away like a cobweb. With all his strength and industry
+and determination, he was still a very young man, and perplexity had no
+hold upon him since passion had taken its own way.
+
+He reached the corner of his own street and stood still for a few
+moments. He could almost have smiled at himself as he paused. He had
+been out more than an hour and had done nothing, thought out nothing,
+made no definite plan for the future. His present poverty, which was
+desperate enough, had put on a carnival mask and laughed at him, as it
+were, and ran away when he tried to grapple with it and look it in the
+face. Gloria was there, upstairs in that tall house on which the morning
+sun was shining, and nothing else could possibly matter. But if anything
+mattered, it would be simple to talk it over together and to decide it
+in common.
+
+Suddenly he felt ashamed of himself and of the confusion of his own
+intelligence. There was something meek and childish in standing still at
+the street corner, watching the people as they went by, listening to the
+regularly recurring yell of the man who was selling country vegetables
+from a hand-cart, and looking into the faces of people who went by, as
+though expecting to find there some solution of a difficulty which his
+disturbed powers of concentration did not clearly grasp. He could not
+think connectedly, much less could he reason sensibly. He made a few
+steps forward towards his house, and then stopped again, asking himself
+what he was going to do. He felt that he had no right to go back to
+Gloria until he had decided something for the future. He felt like a boy
+who has been sent on an errand, and who comes back having forgotten what
+he was to do. All at once he had lost his hold upon the logic of
+common-sense, and when he groped for a thread that might lead him, he
+was suddenly dazzled by the blaze of his happiness and deafened by the
+voice of his own joy.
+
+He went on again and came to his own door. The one-eyed cobbler was at
+work, astride of his little bench with a brown pot of coals beside him.
+From time to time, when he had drawn the waxed yarn out through the
+leather on both sides, he blew into his black hands. Griggs stood still
+and looked at him in idle indetermination, and only struggling against
+the power that drew him towards the stairs.
+
+"A fine north wind," observed Griggs, by way of salutation.
+
+"It seems that it must be said," grunted the old man, punching a fresh
+hole in the sole he was cobbling. "To me, my fingers say it. It has
+always been a fine trade, this cobbling. It is a gentleman's trade
+because one is always sitting down."
+
+"I am going to change my lodging," said Griggs.
+
+The cobbler looked up, resting his dingy fists upon the bench on each
+side of the shoe, his awl in one hand, the other half encased in a
+leathern sheath, black with age.
+
+"After so many years!" he exclaimed. "The world will also come to an
+end. I expected that it would. Now where will you take lodging?"
+
+"Where I can find one. I want a little apartment--"
+
+"It seems that your affairs go better," observed the old man,
+scrutinizing the other's face with his one eye.
+
+"No. No better. That is the trouble. I want a little apartment, and I do
+not want to pay for it till the end of the first month."
+
+"Then wait till the end of the month before you move to it, Signore."
+
+"That is impossible."
+
+"Then there is a female," said the cobbler, without the slightest
+hesitation. "I understand. Why did you not say so?"
+
+Griggs hesitated. The man's guess had taken him by surprise. He
+reflected that it could make no difference whether the old cobbler knew
+of Gloria's coming or not.
+
+"There is a signora--a relation of mine--who has come to Rome."
+
+"A fair signora? Very beautiful? With a little eye of the devil? I have
+seen. Thanks be to heaven, one eye is still good. You are dark, and your
+family is fair. How can it interest me?"
+
+"What? Has she gone out?" asked Griggs, in sudden anxiety. "When?"
+
+"I had guessed!" exclaimed the cobbler, with a grunting laugh, and he
+ran the delicate bristles, which pointed the yarn, in opposite
+directions through the hole he had made, caught one yarn round the knot
+on the handle of the awl and the other round the leather sheath on his
+left hand. He drew the yarn tight to his arm's length with a vicious
+jerk.
+
+"When did the signora go out?" enquired Griggs, repeating his question.
+
+"It may be half an hour ago. Apoplexy! If your relations are all as
+beautiful as that!"
+
+But Griggs was already moving towards the staircase. The cobbler called
+him back, and he stood still at the foot of the steps.
+
+"There is the little apartment on the left, on the third floor," said
+the man. "The lodgers went away yesterday. I was going to ask you to
+write me a notice to put up on the door. As for paying, the padrone will
+not mind, seeing that you are an old lodger. It is good, do you know?
+There is sun. There is also a kitchen. There are five rooms with the
+entry."
+
+[Illustration: "The horror of poverty smote him."--Vol. II., p. 123.]
+
+"I will take it," said Griggs, instantly, and he ran up the stairs.
+
+He was breathless with anxiety as he entered his work-room, and looked
+about him for something which should tell him where Gloria was gone.
+Almost instantly his eyes fell upon a sheet of paper lying before his
+accustomed seat. The writing on it was hers.
+
+"I have gone to tell him. I shall be back soon."
+
+That was all it said, but it was enough to blacken the sun that streamed
+through the windows upon the old carpet. Griggs sat down and rested his
+head in his hand. With the cloud that came between him and happiness,
+his powers of reason returned, and he saw quickly, in the pre-vision of
+logic, a scene of violence and anger between husband and wife, a
+possible reconciliation, and the instant wreck of his storm-driven love.
+It was impossible to know what Gloria would tell Reanda.
+
+At the same instant the difficulties of his position rushed upon him and
+demanded an instant solution. He looked about him at the poor room, the
+miserable furniture, and the worn-out carpet, and the horror of poverty
+smote him in the face. He had allowed Gloria to come to him, and he knew
+that he could not support her decently. He had never found himself in
+so desperate a position in the course of his short and adventurous life.
+He could face anything when he alone was to suffer privation, but it was
+horrible to force misery upon the woman he loved.
+
+Then, too, he asked himself what was to happen to Gloria if Reanda
+killed him, as was possible enough. And if he were not killed, there was
+Dalrymple, her father, who might return at any moment. No one could
+foretell what the Scotchman would do. It would be like him to do nothing
+except to refuse ever to see his daughter again. But he, also, might
+choose to fight, though his English traditions would be against it. In
+any case, Gloria ran the risk of being left alone, ruined and
+unprotected.
+
+But the present problem was a meaner one, though not less desperate in
+its way. He reproached himself with having wasted even an hour when the
+case was so urgent. Without longer hesitation, he began to write letters
+to the editors for whom he worked, requesting them as a favour to
+advance the next remittance. Even then, he could scarcely expect to have
+money in less than ten days, and there was no one to whom he would
+willingly turn for help. Under ordinary circumstances he would have gone
+without food for days rather than have borrowed of an acquaintance, but
+he realized that he must overcome any such false pride within a day or
+two, at the risk of making Gloria suffer.
+
+In those first hours he was not conscious of any question of right or
+wrong in what had taken place. Honour, in a rather worldly sense, had
+always supplied for him the place of all other moral considerations. The
+woman he loved had been ill-treated by her husband, and had come to him
+for protection. He had done his best, in spite of his love, to make her
+go back, and she had known how to refuse. Men, as men, would not blame
+him for what he was doing. Gloria, as a woman, could never reproach him
+with having tempted her. He might suffer for his deeds, but he could
+never blush for them.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXII.
+
+
+MEANWHILE, Gloria had gone out alone, intending to find her husband and
+to tell him that the die was cast, that she had left him in haste and
+anger, but that she never would return to his house. She felt that she
+must live through the chain of emotions to the very last link, as it
+were, until she could feel no more. It was like her to go straight to
+Reanda and take up the battle where she had interrupted it. Her anger
+had been sudden, but it was not brief. She had left weakness, and had
+found strength to add to her own, and she wished the man who had hurt
+her to feel how strong she was, and how she was able to take her life
+out of his hands and to keep it for herself, and live it as she pleased
+in spite of him and every one. The wild blood that ran in her veins was
+free, now, and she meant that no one but herself should ever again have
+the right to thwart it, to tell her heart that it should beat so many
+times in each minute and no more. She was perfectly well aware that she
+was accepting social ruin with her freedom, but she had long nourished a
+rancorous hatred for the society which had seemed to accept her under
+protest, for Francesca's sake, and she was ready enough to turn her back
+on it before it should finally make up its polite mind to relegate her
+to the middle distance of indifferent toleration.
+
+As for Reanda, on that first morning she hated him with all her soul,
+for himself, and for what he had done to her. She had words ready for
+him, and she turned and fitted them in her heart that they might cut him
+and stab him as long as he could feel. The selfishness with a tendency
+to cruelty which was a working spring of her father's character was
+strong in her, and craved the satisfaction of wounding. A part of the
+sudden joy in life which she felt as she walked towards what had been
+her home, lay in the certainty of dealing back fourfold hurt for every
+real and fancied injury she had ever suffered at Reanda's hands.
+
+She felt quite sure of finding him. She did not imagine it possible that
+after what had happened he should go to the Palazzetto Borgia to work as
+usual. Besides, he must have discovered her absence by this time, and
+would in all probability be searching for her. She smiled at the idea,
+and she went swiftly on, keenly ready to give all the pain she could.
+
+At her own door the servant seemed surprised to see her. Every one had
+supposed that she was still in her room, for it was not yet midday, and
+she sometimes slept very late. She glanced at the hall table and saw
+her key lying amongst the cards where she had thrown it when she had
+left the house. The servant did not see her take it, for she made a
+pretence of turning the cards over to find some particular one. She
+asked indifferently about her husband. The man said that Reanda had gone
+out as usual. Gloria started a little in surprise, and inquired whether
+he had left no message for her. On hearing that he had given none, she
+sent the servant away, went to her own room, and locked herself in.
+
+With a curious Scotch caution very much at variance with her conduct,
+she reflected that as the servants were evidently not aware of what had
+taken place, they might as well be kept in the dark. In a few moments
+she gave the room the appearance which it usually had in the morning.
+With perfect calmness she dressed for the day, and then rang for her
+maid.
+
+She told the woman that she had slept badly, had got up early, and had
+gone out for a long walk; that she now intended to leave Rome for a few
+days, for a change of air, and must have what she needed packed within
+an hour. She gave a few orders, clearly and concisely, and then went out
+again, leaving word that if Reanda returned he should be told that she
+was coming back very soon.
+
+Clearly, she thought, he must have supposed that she was still sleeping,
+and he had gone to his painting without any further thought of her.
+Again she smiled, and a line of delicate cruelty was faintly shadowed
+about her lips. She left the house and walked in the direction of the
+Palazzetto. Reanda always came home to the midday breakfast, and it was
+nearly time for him to be on his way. Gloria knew every turning which he
+would take, and she hoped to meet him. Her eyes flashed in anticipation
+of the contest, and she felt that he would not be able to meet them.
+They would be too bright for him. There was a small mark on her cheek
+still, where one of the sharp edges of the ivory slats had scratched her
+fair skin, and there was a slight redness on that side, but the bright
+red bar was gone. She was glad of it, as she nodded to a passing
+acquaintance.
+
+She wished to assure herself that her husband was really at the
+Palazzetto, and she inquired of the porter at the great gate whether
+Reanda had been seen that morning. The man said that he had come at the
+usual hour, and stood aside for her to pass, but she turned from him
+abruptly and went away without a word.
+
+The blood rose in her cheeks, and her heart beat angrily. He had
+attached no more importance than this to what he had done, and had gone
+to his painting as though nothing had happened. He had not even tried to
+see her in the morning to beg her pardon for having struck her. Strange
+to say, in spite of what she herself had done, that was what most roused
+her anger. She demanded the satisfaction of his asking her forgiveness,
+as though she had no fault to find with herself. In comparison with his
+cowardly violence to her, her leaving him for Griggs was as nothing in
+her eyes.
+
+She walked more slowly as she went homewards, and the unspoken
+bitterness of her heart choked her, and the sharp words she could not
+speak cut her cruelly. She compared the hand that had dared to hurt
+though it had not strength to kill, with that other, dearer, gentler,
+more terrible hand, which could have killed anything, but which would
+rather be burned to the wrist than let one of its fingers touch her
+roughly. She compared them, and she loved the one and she loathed the
+other, with all her heart. And with that same hand Reanda, at that same
+moment, was painting some goddess's face, and it had forgotten whose
+divinely lovely cheek it had struck. It was painting unless, perhaps, it
+lay in Francesca's. But Gloria had not forgotten, and she would repay
+before the day darkened.
+
+Her husband, since he was calm enough to go to his work, would come home
+for his breakfast when he was hungry. Gloria went back to her room and
+superintended the packing of what she needed. But she was not so calm as
+she had been half an hour earlier, and she waited impatiently for her
+husband's return and for the last scene of the drama. When the things
+were packed, she had the box taken out to the hall and sent for a cab.
+As she foresaw the situation, she would leave the house forever as soon
+as the last word was spoken. Then she went into the drawing-room and
+waited, watching the clock.
+
+There, on the mantelpiece, lay the broken fan, where the fragments had
+been placed by the servant. Gloria looked at them, handled them
+curiously, and felt her cheek softly with her hand. He must have struck
+her with all his might, she thought, to have hurt her as he had with so
+light a weapon; and the whole quarrel came back to her vividly, in every
+detail, and with every spoken word.
+
+She could not regret what she had done. With an attempt at
+self-examination, which was only a self-justification, she tried to
+recall the early days when she had loved her husband, and to conjure up
+the face with the gentle light in it. She failed, of course, and the
+picture that came disgusted her and was unutterably contemptible and
+weak and full of cowardice. The face of Paul Griggs came in its place a
+moment later, and she heard in her ears the deep, stern voice, quavering
+with strength rather than with weakness, and she could feel the arms she
+loved about her, pressing her almost to pain, able to press her to death
+in their love-clasp.
+
+The hands of the clock went on, and Reanda did not come. She was
+surprised to find how long she had waited, and with a revulsion of
+feeling she rose to her feet. If he would not come, she would not wait
+for him. She was hungry, too. It was absurd, perhaps, but she would not
+eat his bread nor sit at his table, not even alone. She went to her
+writing-table and wrote a note to him, short, cruel, and decisive. She
+wrote that if her father had been in Rome she would have gone to him for
+protection. As he was absent, she had gone to her father's best friend
+and her own--to Paul Griggs. She said nothing more. He might interpret
+the statement as he pleased. She sealed the note and addressed it, and
+before she went out of the house she gave it to the servant, to be given
+to Reanda as soon as he came home. The man-servant went downstairs with
+her, and stood looking after the little open cab; he saw Gloria speak to
+the coachman, who nodded and changed his direction before they were out
+of sight.
+
+At the door in the Via della Frezza the cabman let down Gloria's luggage
+and drove away. She stood still a moment and looked at the one-eyed
+cobbler.
+
+"You have given the signore a beautiful fright," observed the old man.
+"I told him you had gone out. With one jump he was upstairs. By this
+time he cries."
+
+Gloria took a silver piece of two pauls from her purse.
+
+"Can you carry up these things for me?" she inquired, concealing her
+annoyance at the man's speech.
+
+"I am not a porter," said the cobbler, with his head on one side. "But
+one must live. With courage and money one makes war. There are three
+pieces. One at a time. But you must watch the door while I carry up the
+box. If any one should steal my tools, it would be a beautiful day's
+work. Without them I should be in the middle of the street. You will
+understand, Signora. It is not to do you a discourtesy, but my tools are
+my bread. Without them I cannot eat. There is also the left boot of Sor
+Ercole. If any one were to steal it, Sor Ercole would go upon one leg.
+Imagine the disgrace!"
+
+"I will stay here," said Gloria. "Do not be afraid."
+
+The cobbler, who was a strong old man, got hold of the trunk and
+shouldered it with ease. When he stood up, Gloria saw that he was
+bandy-legged and very short.
+
+She turned and stood on the threshold of the street door as she had
+stood on the previous night. No one would have believed that a few hours
+earlier the rain had fallen in torrents, for the pavement was dry, and
+even under the arch there seemed to be no dampness. Looking up the
+street towards the Corso, she saw that there was a wine shop, a few
+doors higher on the opposite side. Two or three men were standing before
+it, under the brown bush which served for a sign, and amongst them she
+saw a peasant in blue cloth clothes with silver buttons and clean white
+stockings. She recognized him as the man who had held his umbrella over
+her in the storm. He also saw her, lifted his felt hat and came
+forwards, crossing the street. His look was fixed on her face with a
+stare of curiosity as he stood before her.
+
+"I hope you have not caught cold, Signora," he said, with steady,
+unwinking eyes. "We passed a beautiful storm. Signora, I sell wine to
+that host. If you should need wine, I recommend him to you." He pointed
+to the shop.
+
+"You told me to ask for you at the Piazza Montanara," said Gloria,
+smiling.
+
+"With that water you could not see the shop," answered Stefanone.
+"Signora, you are very beautiful. With permission, I say that you should
+not walk alone at night."
+
+"It was the first and last time," said Gloria. "Fortunately, I met a
+person of good manners. I thank you again."
+
+"Signora, you are so beautiful that the Madonna and her angels always
+accompany you. With permission, I go. Good day."
+
+To the last, until he turned, he kept his eyes steadily fixed on
+Gloria's face, as though searching for a resemblance in her features.
+She noticed his manner and remembered him very distinctly after the
+second meeting.
+
+The cobbler came back again, closely followed by Griggs himself, who
+said nothing, but took possession of the small valise and bag which
+Gloria had brought in addition to her box. He led the way, and she
+followed him swiftly. Inside the door of his lodging he turned and
+looked at her.
+
+"Please do not go away suddenly without telling me," he said in a low
+voice. "I am easily frightened about you."
+
+"Really?"
+
+Gloria held out her two hands to meet him. He nodded as he took them.
+
+"That is better than anything you have ever said to me." She drew him to
+her.
+
+It was natural, for she was thinking how Reanda had calmly gone back to
+his work that morning, without so much as asking for her. The contrast
+was too great and too strong, between love and indifference.
+
+They went into the work-room together, and Gloria sat down on one of the
+rush chairs, and told Griggs what she had done. He walked slowly up and
+down while she was speaking, his eyes on the pattern of the old carpet.
+
+"I might have stayed," she said at last. "The servants did not even know
+that I had been out of the house."
+
+"You should have stayed," said Griggs. "I ought to say it, at least."
+
+But as he spoke the mask softened and the rare smile beautified for one
+instant the still, stern face.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXIII.
+
+
+REANDA neither wished to see Gloria again, nor to take vengeance upon
+Paul Griggs. He was not a brave man, morally or physically, and he was
+glad that his wife had left him. She had put him in the right, and he
+had every reason for refusing ever to see her again. With a cynicism
+which would have been revolting if it had not been almost childlike in
+its simplicity, he discharged his servants, sold his furniture, gave up
+his apartment in the Corso, and moved back to his old quarters in the
+Palazzetto Borgia. But he did not acknowledge Gloria's note in any other
+way.
+
+She had left him, and he wished to blot out her existence as though he
+had never known her, not even remembering the long two years of his
+married life. She was gone. There was no Gloria, and he wished that
+there never had been any woman with her name and face.
+
+On the third day, he met Paul Griggs in the street. The younger man saw
+Reanda coming, and stood still on the narrow pavement, in order to show
+that he had no intention of avoiding him. As the artist came up, Griggs
+lifted his hat gravely. Reanda mechanically raised his hand to his own
+hat and passed the man who had injured him, without a word. Griggs saw a
+slight, nervous twitching in the delicate face, but that was all. He
+thought that Reanda looked better, less harassed and less thin, than for
+a long time. He had at once returned to his old peaceful life and
+enjoyed it, and had evidently not the smallest intention of ever
+demanding satisfaction of his former friend.
+
+Francesca Campodonico had listened in nervous silence to Reanda's story.
+
+"She has done me a kindness," he concluded. "It is the first. She has
+given me back my freedom. I shall not disturb her."
+
+The colour was in Francesca's face, and her eyes looked down. Her
+delicate lips were a little drawn in, as though she were making an
+effort to restrain her words, for it was one of the hardest moments of
+her life. Being what she was, it was impossible for her to understand
+Gloria's conduct. But at the same time she felt that she was liberated
+from something which had oppressed her, and the colour in her cheeks was
+a flash of satisfaction and relief mingled with a certain displeasure at
+her own sensations and the certainty that she should be ashamed of them
+by and bye.
+
+It was not in her nature to accept such a termination for Reanda's
+married life, however he himself might be disposed to look upon it.
+
+"You are to blame almost as much as Gloria," she said, and she was
+sincerely in earnest.
+
+She was too good and devout a woman to believe in duelling, but she was
+far too womanly to be pleased with Reanda's indifference. It was wicked
+to fight duels and unchristian to seek revenge. She knew that, and it
+was a conviction as well as an opinion. But a man who allowed another to
+take his wife from him and did not resent the injury could not command
+her respect. Something in her blood revolted against such tameness,
+though she would not for all the world have had Reanda take Gloria back.
+Between the two opposites of conviction and instinct, she did not know
+what to do. Moreover, Reanda had struck his wife. He admitted it, though
+apologetically and with every extenuating circumstance which he could
+remember.
+
+"Yes," he answered. "I know that I did wrong. Am I infallible? Holy
+Saint Patience! I could bear no more. But it is clear that she was
+waiting for a reason for leaving me. I gave it to her, and she should be
+grateful. She also is free, as I am."
+
+"It is horrible!" exclaimed Francesca, with sorrowful emphasis.
+
+She blamed herself quite as much as Reanda or Gloria, because she had
+brought them together and had suggested the marriage. Reanda's thin
+shoulders went up, and he smiled incredulously.
+
+"I do not see what is so horrible," he answered. "Two people think they
+are in love. They marry. They discover their mistake. They separate.
+Well? It is finished. Let us make the sign of the cross over it."
+
+The common Roman phrase, signifying that a matter is ended and buried,
+as it were, jarred upon Francesca, for whom the smallest religious
+allusion had a real meaning.
+
+"It is not the sign of the cross which should be made," she said sadly
+and gravely, and the colour was gone from her face now. "There are two
+lives wrecked, and a human soul in danger. We cannot say that it is
+finished, and pass on."
+
+"What would you have me do?" asked Reanda, almost impatiently. "Take her
+back?"
+
+"No!" exclaimed Francesca, with a sharp intonation as though she were
+hurt.
+
+"Well, then, what? I do not see that anything is to be done. She herself
+can think of her soul. It is her property. She has made me suffer
+enough--let some one else suffer. I have enough of it."
+
+"You will forgive her some day," said Francesca. "You are angry still,
+and you speak cruelly. You will forgive her."
+
+"Never," answered Reanda, with emphasis. "I will not forgive her for
+what she made me bear, any more than I will forgive Griggs for receiving
+her when she left me. I will not touch them, but I will not forgive
+them. I am not angry. Why should I be?"
+
+Francesca sighed, for she did not understand the man, though hitherto
+she had always understood him, or thought that she had, ever since she
+had been a mere child, playing with his colours and brushes in the
+Palazzo Braccio. She left the hall and went to her own sitting-room on
+the other side of the house. As soon as she was alone, the tears came to
+her eyes. She was hardly aware of them, and when she felt them on her
+cheeks she wondered why she was crying, for she did not often shed
+tears, and was a woman of singularly well balanced nature, able to
+control herself on the rare occasions when she felt any strong emotion.
+
+In spite of Reanda's conduct, she determined not to leave matters as
+they were without attempting to improve them. She wrote a note to Paul
+Griggs, asking him to come and see her during the afternoon.
+
+He could not refuse to answer the summons, knowing, as he did, that he
+must in honour respond to any demand for an explanation coming from
+Reanda's side. Gloria wished him to reply to the note, giving an excuse
+and hinting that no good could come of any meeting.
+
+"It is a point of honour," he answered briefly, and she yielded, for he
+dominated her altogether.
+
+Francesca received him in her own small sitting-room, which overlooked
+the square before the Palazzetto. It was very quiet, and there were
+roses in old Vienna vases. It was a very old-fashioned room, the air was
+sweet with the fresh flowers, and the afternoon sun streamed in through
+a single tall window. Francesca sat on a small sofa which stood
+crosswise between the window and the writing-table. She had a frame
+before her on which was stretched a broad band of deep red satin, a
+piece of embroidery in which she was working heraldic beasts and
+armorial bearings in coloured silks.
+
+She did not rise, nor hold out her hand, but pointed to a chair near
+her, as she spoke.
+
+"I asked you to come," she said, "because I wish to speak to you about
+Gloria."
+
+Griggs bent his head, sat down, and waited with a perfectly impassive
+face. Possibly there was a rather unusual aggressiveness in the straight
+lines of his jaw and his even lips. There was a short silence before
+Francesca spoke again.
+
+"Do you know what you have done?" she asked, finishing a stitch and
+looking quietly into the man's deep eyes.
+
+He met her glance calmly, but said nothing, merely bending his head
+again, very slightly.
+
+"It is very wicked," said she, and she began to make another stitch,
+looking down again.
+
+"I have no doubt that you think so," answered Paul Griggs, slowly
+nodding a third time.
+
+"It is not a question of opinion. It is a matter of fact. You have
+ruined the life of an innocent woman."
+
+"If social position is the object of existence, you are right," he
+replied. "I have nothing to say."
+
+"I am not speaking of social position," said Donna Francesca, continuing
+to make stitches.
+
+"Then I am afraid that I do not understand you."
+
+"Can you conceive of nothing more important to the welfare of men and
+women than social position?"
+
+"It is precisely because I do, that I care so little what society
+thinks. I do not understand you."
+
+"I have known you some time," said Francesca. "I had not supposed that
+you were a man without a sense of right and wrong. That is the question
+which is concerned now."
+
+"It is a question which may be answered from more than one point of
+view. You look at it in one way, and I in another. With your permission,
+we will differ about it, since we can never agree."
+
+"There is no such thing as differing about right and wrong," answered
+Donna Francesca, with a little impatience. "Right is right, and wrong is
+wrong. You cannot possibly believe that you have done right. Therefore
+you know that you have done wrong."
+
+"That sort of logic assumes God at the expense of man," said Griggs,
+calmly.
+
+Francesca looked up with a startled expression in her eyes, for she was
+shocked, though she did not understand him.
+
+"God is good, and man is sinful," she answered, in the words of her
+simple faith.
+
+"Why?" asked Griggs, gravely.
+
+He waited for her answer to the most tremendous question which man can
+ask, and he knew that she could not answer him, though she might satisfy
+herself.
+
+"I have never talked about religion with an atheist," she said at last,
+slowly pushing her needle through the heavy satin.
+
+"I am not an atheist, Princess."
+
+"A Protestant, then--"
+
+"I am not a Protestant. I am a Catholic, as you are."
+
+She looked up suddenly and faced him with earnest eyes.
+
+"Then you are not a good Catholic," she said. "No good Catholic could
+speak as you do."
+
+"Even the Apostles had doubts," answered Griggs. "But I do not pretend
+to be good. Since I am a man, I have a right to be a man, and to be
+treated as a man. If the right is not given me freely, I will take it.
+You cannot expect a body to behave as though it were a spirit. A man
+cannot imitate an invisible essence, any more than a sculptor can
+imitate sound with a shape of clay. When we are spirits, we shall act as
+spirits. Meanwhile we are men and women. As a man, I have not done
+wrong. You have no right to judge me as an angel. Is that clear?"
+
+"Terribly clear!" Francesca slowly shook her head. "And terribly
+mistaken," she added.
+
+"You see," answered the young man. "It is impossible to argue the point.
+We do not speak the same language. You, by your nature, believe that you
+can imitate a spirit. You are spiritual by intuition and good by
+instinct, according to the spiritual standard of good. I am, on the
+contrary, a normal man, and destined to act as men act. I cannot
+understand you and you, if you will allow me to say so, cannot possibly
+understand me. That is why I propose that we should agree to differ."
+
+"And do you think you can sweep away all right and wrong, belief and
+unbelief, salvation and perdition, with such a statement as that?"
+
+"Not at all," replied Griggs. "You tell me that I am wicked. That only
+means that I am not doing what you consider right. You deny my right of
+judgment, in favour of your own. You make witnesses of spirits against
+the doings of men. You judge my body and condemn my soul. And there is
+no possible appeal from your tribunal, because it is an imaginary one.
+But if you will return to the facts of the case, you will find it hard
+to prove that I have ruined the life of an innocent woman, as you told
+me that I had."
+
+"You have! There is no denying it."
+
+"Socially, and it is the fault of society. But society is nothing to me.
+I would be an outcast from society for a much less object than the love
+of a woman, provided that I had not to do anything dishonourable."
+
+"Ah, that is it! You forget that a man's honour is his reputation at the
+club, while the honour of a woman is founded in religion, and maintained
+upon a single one of God's commandments--as you men demand that it shall
+be."
+
+Griggs was silent for a moment. He had never heard a woman state the
+case so plainly and forcibly, and he was struck by what she said. He
+could have answered her quickly enough. But the answer would not have
+been satisfactory to himself.
+
+"You see, you have nothing to say," she said. "But in one way you are
+right. We cannot argue this question. I did not ask you to come in order
+to discuss it. I sent for you to beg you to do what is right, as far as
+you can. And you could do much."
+
+"What should you think right?" asked Griggs, curious to know what she
+thought.
+
+"You should take Gloria to her father, as you are his friend. Since she
+has left her husband, she should live with her father."
+
+"That is a very simple idea!" exclaimed the young man, with something
+almost like a laugh.
+
+"Right is always simple," answered Francesca, quietly. "There is never
+any doubt about it."
+
+She looked at him once, and then continued to work at her embroidery.
+His eyes rested on the pure outline of her maidenlike face, and he was
+silent for a moment. Somehow, he felt that her simplicity of goodness
+rebuked the simplicity of his sin.
+
+"You forget one thing," said Griggs at last. "You make a spiritual
+engine of mankind, and you forget the mainspring of the world. You leave
+love out of the question."
+
+"Perhaps--as you understand love. But you will not pretend to tell me
+that love is necessarily right, whatever it involves."
+
+"Yes," answered the young man. "That is what I mean. Unless your God is
+a malignant and maleficent demon, the overwhelming passions which take
+hold of men, and against which no man can fight beyond a certain point,
+are right, because they exist and are irresistible. As for what you
+propose that I should do, I cannot do it."
+
+"You could, if you would," said Francesca. "There is nothing to hinder
+you, if you will."
+
+"There is love, and I cannot."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXIV.
+
+
+PAUL GRIGGS left Francesca with the certainty in his own mind that she
+had produced no impression whatever upon him, but he was conscious that
+his opinion of her had undergone a change. He was suddenly convinced
+that she was the best woman he had ever known, and that Gloria's
+accusations were altogether unjust and unfounded. Recalling her face,
+her manner, and her words, he knew that whatever influence she might
+have had upon Reanda, there could be no ground for Gloria's jealousy.
+She certainly disturbed him strangely, for Gloria was perfect in his
+eyes, and he accepted all she said almost blindly. The fact that Reanda
+had struck her now stood in his mind as the sole reason for the
+separation of husband and wife.
+
+Gloria was far from realizing what influence she had over the man she
+loved. It seemed to her, on the contrary, that she was completely
+dominated by him, and she was glad to feel his strength at every turn.
+Her enormous vanity was flattered by his care of her, and by his
+uncompromising admiration of her beauty as well as of her character, and
+she yielded to him purposely in small things that she might the better
+feel his strength, as she supposed. The truth, had she known it, was
+that he hardly asserted himself at all, and was ready to make any and
+every sacrifice for her comfort and happiness. He had sacrificed his
+pride to borrow money from a friend to meet the first necessities of
+their life together. He would have given his life as readily.
+
+They led a strangely lonely existence in the little apartment in the Via
+della Frezza. The world had very soon heard of what had happened, and
+had behaved according to its lights. Walking alone one morning while
+Griggs was at work, Gloria had met Donna Tullia Meyer, whom she had
+known in society, and thoughtlessly enough had bowed as though nothing
+had happened. Donna Tullia had stared at her coldly, and then turned
+away. After that, Gloria had realized what she had already understood,
+and had either not gone out without Griggs, or, when she did, had kept
+to the more secluded streets, where she would not easily meet
+acquaintances.
+
+Griggs worked perpetually, and she watched him, delighting at first in
+the difference between his way of working and that of Angelo Reanda;
+delighted, too, to be alone with him, and to feel that he was writing
+for her. She could sit almost in silence for hours, half busy with some
+bit of needlework, and yet busy with him in her thoughts. It seemed to
+her that she understood him--she told him so, and he believed her, for
+he felt that he could not be hard to understand.
+
+He was as singularly methodical as Reanda was exceptionally intuitive.
+She felt that his work was second to her in his estimation of it, but
+that, since they both depended upon it for their livelihood, they had
+agreed together to put it first. With Reanda, art was above everything
+and beyond all other interests, and he had made her feel that he worked
+for art's sake rather than for hers. There was a vast difference in the
+value placed upon her by the two men, in relation to their two
+occupations.
+
+"I have no genius," said Griggs to her one day. "I have no intuitions of
+underlying truth. But I have good brains, and few men are able to work
+as hard as I. By and bye, I shall succeed and make money, and it will be
+less dull for you."
+
+"It is never dull for me when I can be with you," she answered.
+
+As he looked, the sunshine caught her red auburn hair, and the
+love-lights played with the sunshine in her eyes. Griggs knew that life
+had no more dulness for him while she lived, and as for her, he believed
+what she said.
+
+Without letting him know what she was doing, she wrote to her father. It
+was not an easy letter to write, and she thought that she knew the
+savage old Scotchman's temper. She told him everything. At such a
+distance, it was easy to throw herself upon his mercy, and it was safer
+to write him all while he was far away, so that there might be nothing
+left to rouse his anger if he returned. She had no lack of words with
+which to describe Reanda's treatment of her; but she was also willing to
+take all the blame of the mistake she had made in marrying him. She had
+ruined her life before it had begun, she said. She had taken the law
+into her own hands, to mend it as best she could. Her father knew that
+Paul Griggs was not like other men--that he was able to protect her
+against all comers, and that he could make the world fear him if he
+could not make it respect her. Her father must do as he thought right.
+He would be justified, from the world's point of view, in casting her
+off and never remembering her existence again, but she begged him to
+forgive her, and to think kindly of her. Meanwhile, she and Griggs were
+wretchedly poor, and she begged her father to continue her allowance.
+
+If Paul Griggs had seen this letter, he would have been startled out of
+some of his belief in Gloria's perfection. There was a total absence of
+any moral sense of right or wrong in what she wrote, which would have
+made a more cynical man than Griggs was look grave. The request for the
+continuation of the allowance would have shocked him and perhaps
+disgusted him. The whole tone was too calm and business-like. It was too
+much as though she were fulfilling a duty and seeking to gain an object
+rather than appealing to Dalrymple to forgive her for yielding to the
+overwhelming mastery of a great passion. It was cold, it was
+calculating, and it was, in a measure, unwomanly.
+
+When she had sent the letter, she told Griggs what she had done, but her
+account of its contents satisfied him with one of those brilliant false
+impressions which she knew so well how to convey. She told him rather
+what she should have said than what she had really written, and, as
+usual, he found that she had done right.
+
+It was not that she would not have written a better letter if she had
+been able to compose one. She had done the best that she could. But the
+truth lay there, or the letter was composed as an expression of what she
+knew that she ought to feel, and was not the actual outpouring of an
+overfull heart. She could not be blamed for not feeling more deeply, nor
+for her inability to express what she did not feel. But when she spoke
+of it to the man she loved, she roused herself to emotion easily enough,
+and her words sounded well in her own ears and in his. To the last, he
+never understood that she loved such emotion for its own sake, and that
+he helped her to produce it in herself. In the comparatively simple
+view of human nature which he took in those days, it seemed to him that
+if a woman were willing to sacrifice everything, including social
+respectability itself, for any man, she must love him with all her
+heart. He could not have understood that any woman should give up
+everything, practically, in the attempt to feel something of which she
+was not capable.
+
+In reply to her letter, Dalrymple sent a draft for a considerable sum of
+money, through his banker. The fact that it was addressed to her at Via
+della Frezza was the only indication that he had received her letter. In
+due time, Gloria wrote to thank him, but he took no notice of the
+communication.
+
+"He never loved me," she said to Griggs as the days went by and brought
+her nothing from her father. "I used to think so, when I was a mere
+child, but I am sure of it now. You are the only human being that ever
+loved me."
+
+She was pale that day, and her white hand sought his as she spoke, with
+a quiver of the lip.
+
+"I am glad of it," he answered. "I shall not divide you with any one."
+
+So their life went on, somewhat monotonously after the first few weeks.
+Griggs worked hard and earned more money than formerly, but he
+discovered very soon that it would be all he could do to support Gloria
+in bare comfort. He would not allow her to use her own money for
+anything which was to be in common, or in which he had any share
+whatever.
+
+"You must spend it on yourself," he said. "I will not touch it. I will
+not accept anything you buy with it--not so much as a box of cigarettes.
+You must spend it on your clothes or on jewels."
+
+"You are unkind," she answered. "You know how much pleasure it would
+give me to help you."
+
+"Yes. I know. You cannot understand, but you must try. Men never do that
+sort of thing."
+
+And, as usual, he dominated her, and she dropped the subject, inwardly
+pleased with him, and knowing that he was right.
+
+His strength fascinated her, and she admired his manliness of heart and
+feeling as she had never admired any qualities in any one during her
+life. But he did not amuse her, even as much as she had been amused by
+Reanda. He was melancholic, earnest, hard working, not inclined to
+repeat lightly the words of love once spoken in moments of passion. He
+meant, perhaps, to show her how he loved her by what he would do for her
+sake, rather than tell her of it over and over again. And he worked as
+he had never worked before, hour after hour, day after day, sitting at
+his writing-table almost from morning till night. Besides his
+correspondence, he was now writing a book, from which he hoped great
+things--for her. It was a novel, and he read her day by day the pages he
+wrote. She talked over with him what he had written, and her
+imagination and dramatic intelligence, forever grasping at situations of
+emotion for herself and others, suggested many variations upon his plan.
+
+"It is my book," she often said, when they had been talking all the
+evening.
+
+It was her book, and it was a failure, because it was hers and not his.
+Her imagination was disorderly, to borrow a foreign phrase, and she was
+altogether without any sense of proportion in what she imagined. He did
+not, indeed, look upon her as intellectually perfect, though for him she
+was otherwise unapproachably superior to every other woman in the world.
+But he loved her so wholly and unselfishly that he could not bear to
+disappoint her by not making use of her suggestions. When she was
+telling him of some scene she had imagined, her voice and manner, too,
+were so thoroughly dramatic that he was persuaded of the real value of
+the matter. Divested of her individuality and transferred in his rather
+mechanically over-correct language to the black and white of pen and
+ink, the result was disappointing, even when he read it to her. He knew
+that it was, and wasted time in trying to improve what was bad from the
+beginning. She saw that he failed, and she felt that he was not a man of
+genius. Her vanity suffered because her ideas did not look well on his
+paper.
+
+Before he had finished the manuscript, she had lost her interest in it.
+Feeling that she had, and seeing it in her face, he exerted his strength
+of will in the attempt to bring back the expression of surprise and
+delight which the earlier readings had called up, but he felt that he
+was working uphill and against heavy odds. Nevertheless he completed the
+work, and spent much time in fancied improvement of its details. At a
+later period in his life he wrote three successful books in the time he
+had bestowed upon his first failure, but he wrote them alone.
+
+Gloria's face brightened when he told her that it was done. She took the
+manuscript and read over parts of it to herself, smiling a little from
+time to time, for she knew that he was watching her. She did not read it
+all.
+
+"Dedicate it to me," she said, holding out one hand to find his, while
+she settled the pages on her knees with the other.
+
+"Of course," he answered, and he wrote a few words of dedication to her
+on a sheet of paper.
+
+He sent it to a publisher in London whom he knew. It was returned with
+some wholesome advice, and Gloria's vanity suffered another blow, both
+in the failure of the book which contained so many of her ideas and in
+the failure of the man to be successful, for in her previous life she
+had not been accustomed to failure of any sort.
+
+"I am afraid I am only a newspaper man, after all," said Paul Griggs,
+quietly. "You will have to be satisfied with me as I am. But I will try
+again."
+
+"No," answered Gloria, more coldly than she usually spoke. "When you
+find that you cannot do a thing naturally, leave it alone. It is of no
+use to force talent in one direction when it wants to go in another."
+
+She sighed softly, and busied herself with some work. Griggs felt that
+he was a failure, and he felt lonely, too, for a moment, and went to his
+own room to put away the rejected manuscript in a safe place. It was not
+his nature to destroy it angrily, as some men might have done at his
+age.
+
+When he came back to the door of the sitting-room he heard her singing,
+as she often did when she was alone. But to-day she was singing an old
+song which he had not heard for a long time, and which reminded him
+painfully of that other house in which she had lived and of that other
+man whom she never saw, but who was still her husband.
+
+He entered the room rather suddenly, after having paused a moment
+outside, with his hand on the door.
+
+"Please do not sing that song!" he said quickly, as he entered.
+
+"Why not?" she asked, interrupting herself in the middle of a stave.
+
+"It reminds me of unpleasant things."
+
+"Does it? I am sorry. I will not sing it again."
+
+But she knew what it meant, for it reminded her of Reanda. She was no
+longer so sure that the reminiscence was all painful.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXV.
+
+
+IN spite of all that Griggs could do, and he did his utmost, it was hard
+to live in anything approaching to comfort on the meagre remuneration he
+received for his correspondence, and his pride altogether forbade him to
+allow Gloria to contribute anything to the slender resources of the
+small establishment. At first, it had amused her to practise little
+economies, even in the matter of their daily meals. Griggs denied
+himself everything which was not absolutely necessary, and it pleased
+Gloria to imitate him, for it made her feel that she was helping him.
+The housekeeping was a simple affair enough, and she undertook it
+readily. They had one woman servant as cook and maid-of-all-work, a
+strong young creature, not without common-sense, and plentifully gifted
+with that warm, superficial devotion which is common enough in Italian
+servants. Gloria had kept house for her father long enough to understand
+what she had undertaken, and it seemed easy at first to do the same
+thing for Griggs, though on a much more restricted scale.
+
+But the restriction soon became irksome. In a more active and
+interesting existence, she would perhaps not have felt the constant
+pinching of such excessive economy. If there had been more means within
+her reach for satisfying her hungry vanity, she could have gone through
+the daily round of little domestic cares with a lighter heart or, at
+least, with more indifference. But she and Griggs led a very lonely
+life, and, as in all lonely lives, the smallest details became
+important.
+
+It was not long before Gloria wished herself in her old home in the
+Corso, not indeed with Reanda, but with Paul Griggs. He had made her
+promise to use only the money he gave her himself for their
+housekeeping. She secretly deceived him and drew upon her own store, and
+listened in silence to his praise of her ingenuity in making the little
+he was able to give her go so far. He trusted her so completely that he
+suspected nothing.
+
+She expected that at the end of three months her father would send her
+another draft, but the day passed, and she received nothing, so that she
+at last wrote to him again, asking for money. It came, as before,
+without any word of inquiry or greeting. Dalrymple evidently intended to
+take this means of knowing from time to time that his daughter was alive
+and well. She would be obliged to write to him whenever she needed
+assistance. It was a humiliation, and she felt it bitterly, for she had
+thought that she had freed herself altogether and she found herself
+still bound by the necessity of asking for help.
+
+It seemed very hard to be thus shut off from the world in the prime of
+her youth, and beauty, and talent. To a woman who craved admiration for
+all she did and could do, it was almost unbearable. Paul Griggs worked
+and looked forward to success, and was satisfied in his aspirations, and
+more than happy in the companionship of the woman he so dearly loved.
+
+"I shall succeed," he said quietly, but with perfect assurance. "Before
+long we shall be able to leave Rome, and begin life somewhere else,
+where nobody will know our story. It will not be so dull for you there."
+
+"It is never dull when I am with you," said Gloria, but there was no
+conviction in the tone any more. "If you would let me go upon the
+stage," she added, with a change of voice, "things would be very
+different. I could earn a great deal of money."
+
+But Paul Griggs was as much opposed to the project as Reanda had been,
+and in this one respect he really asserted his will. He was so confident
+of ultimately attaining to success and fortune by his pen that he would
+not hear of Gloria's singing in public.
+
+"Besides," he said, after giving her many and excellent reasons, "if you
+earned millions, I would not touch the money."
+
+She sighed for the lost opportunities of brilliant popularity, but she
+smiled at his words, knowing how she had used her own money for him, and
+in spite of him. But for her own part she had lost all belief in his
+talent since the failure of the book he had written.
+
+The long summer days were hard to bear. He was not able to leave Rome,
+for he was altogether dependent upon his regular correspondence for what
+he earned, and he did not succeed in persuading his editors to employ
+him anywhere else, for the very reason that he did so well what was
+required of him where he was.
+
+The weather grew excessively hot, and it was terribly dreary and dull in
+the little apartment in the Via della Frezza. All day long the windows
+were tightly closed to keep out the fiery air, both the old green blinds
+and the glass within them. Griggs had moved his writing-table to the
+feeble light, and worked away as hard as ever. Gloria spent most of the
+hot hours in reading and dreaming. They went out together early in the
+morning and in the evening, when there was some coolness, but during the
+greater part of the day they were practically imprisoned by the heat.
+
+Gloria watched the strong man and wondered at his power of working under
+any circumstances. He was laborious as well as industrious. He often
+wrote a page over two and three times, in the hope of improving it, and
+he was capable of spending an hour in finding a quotation from a great
+writer, not for the sake of quoting it, but in order to satisfy himself
+that he had authority for using some particular construction of phrase.
+He kept notebooks in which he made long indexed lists of words which in
+common language were improperly used, with examples showing how they
+should be rightly employed.
+
+"I am constructing a superiority for myself," he said once. "No one
+living takes so much pains as I do."
+
+But Gloria had no faith in his painstaking ways, though she wondered at
+his unflagging perseverance. Her own single great talent lay in her
+singing, and she had never given herself any trouble about it. Reanda,
+too, though he worked carefully and often slowly, worked without effort.
+It was true that Griggs never showed fatigue, but that was due to his
+amazing bodily strength. The intellectual labour was apparent, however,
+and he always seemed to be painfully overcoming some almost unyielding
+difficulty by sheer force of steady application, though nothing came of
+it, so far as she could see.
+
+"I cannot understand why you take so much trouble," she said. "They are
+only newspaper articles, after all, to be read to-day and forgotten
+to-morrow."
+
+"I am learning to write," he answered. "It takes a long time to learn
+anything unless one has a great gift, as you have for singing. I have
+failed with one book, but I will not fail with another. The next will
+not be an extraordinary book, but it will succeed."
+
+Nothing could disturb him, and he sat at his table day after day. He was
+moved by the strongest incentives which can act upon a man, at the time
+when he himself is strongest; namely, necessity and love. Even Gloria
+could never discover whether he had what she would have called ambition.
+He himself said that he had none, and she compared him with Reanda, who
+believed in the divinity of art, the temple of fame, and the reality of
+glory.
+
+In the young man's nature, Gloria had taken the place of all other
+divinities, real and imaginary. His enduring nature could no more be
+wearied in its worship of her than it could be tired in toiling for her.
+He only resented the necessity of cutting out such a main part of the
+day for work as left him but little time to be at leisure with her.
+
+She complained of his industry, for she was tired of spending her life
+with novels, and the hours hung like leaden weights upon her, dragging
+with her as she went through the day.
+
+"Give yourself a rest," she said, not because she thought he needed it,
+but because she wished him to amuse her.
+
+"I am never tired of working for you," he answered, and the rare smile
+came to his face.
+
+With any other man in the world she might have told the truth and might
+have said frankly that her life was growing almost unbearable, buried
+from the world as she was, and cut off from society. But she was
+conscious that she should never dare to say as much to Paul Griggs. She
+was realizing, little by little, that his love for her was greater than
+she had dreamed of, and immeasurably stronger than what she felt for
+him.
+
+Then she knew the pain of receiving more than she had to give. It was a
+genuine pain of its kind, and in it, as in many other things, she
+suffered a constant humiliation. She had taken herself for a heroic
+character in the great moment when she had resolved to leave her
+husband, intuitively sure that she loved Paul Griggs with all her heart,
+and that she should continue to love him to the end in spite of the
+world. She knew now that there was no endurance in the passion.
+
+The very efforts she made to sustain it contributed to its destruction;
+but she continued to play her part. Her strong dramatic instinct told
+her when to speak and when to be silent, and how to modulate her voice
+to a tender appeal, to a touching sadness, to the strength of suppressed
+emotion. It was for a good object, she told herself, and therefore it
+must be right. He was giving his life for her, day by day, and he must
+never know that she no longer loved him. It would kill him, she thought;
+for with him it was all real. She grew melancholy and thought of death.
+If she died young, he should never guess that she had not loved him to
+the very last.
+
+In her lonely thoughts she dwelt upon the possibility, for it was a
+possibility now. There was that before her which, when it came, might
+turn life into death very suddenly. She had moments of tenderness when
+she thought of her own dead face lying on the white pillow, and the
+picture was so real that her eyes filled with tears. She would be very
+beautiful when she was dead.
+
+The idea took root in her mind; for it afforded her an inward emotion
+which touched her strangely and cost her nothing. It gained in
+fascination as she allowed it to come back when it would, and the
+details of death came vividly before her imagination, as she had read of
+them in books,--her own white face, the darkened room, the candles, Paul
+Griggs standing motionless beside her body.
+
+One day he looked from his work and saw tears on her cheeks. He dropped
+his pen as though something had struck him unawares; and he was beside
+her in a moment, looking anxiously into her eyes.
+
+"What is it?" he asked, and his hands were on hers and pressed them.
+
+"It is nothing," she answered. "It is natural, I suppose--"
+
+"No. It is not natural. You are unhappy. Tell me what is the matter."
+
+"It is foolish," she said, turning her face from him. "I see you working
+so hard day after day. I am a burden to you--it would be better if I
+were out of the way. You are working yourself to death. If you could see
+your face sometimes!" And more tears trickled down.
+
+His strong hands shook suddenly.
+
+"I am not working too hard--for me," he answered, but his voice trembled
+a little. "One of your tears hurts me more than a hundred years of hard
+work. Even if it were true--I would rather die for you than live to be
+the greatest man that ever breathed--without you."
+
+She threw her arms about his neck, and hid her face upon his shoulder.
+
+"Tell me you love me!" she cried. "You are all I have in the world!"
+
+"Does it need telling?" he asked, soothing her.
+
+Then all at once his arms tightened so that she could hardly draw breath
+for a moment, and his head was bent down and rested for an instant upon
+her neck as though he himself sought rest and refuge.
+
+"I think you know, dear," he said.
+
+She knew far better than he could tell her, for the truth of his
+passion shook the dramatic and artificial fabric of her own to its
+foundations; and even as she pressed him to her, she felt that secret
+repugnance which those who do not love feel for those who love them
+overmuch. It was mingled with a sense of shame which made her hate
+herself, and she began to suffer acutely.
+
+When she thought of Reanda, as she now often did, she longed for what
+she had felt for him, rather than for anything she had ever felt for
+Paul Griggs. In the pitiful reaching after something real, she groped
+for memories of true tenderness, and now and then they came back to her
+from beyond the chaos which lay between, as memories of home come to a
+man cast after many storms upon a desert island. She dwelt upon them and
+tried to construct an under-life out of the past, made up only of sweet
+things amongst which all that had not been good should be forgotten. She
+went for comfort to the days when she had loved Reanda, before their
+marriage--or when she had loved his genius as though it were himself,
+believing that it was all for her.
+
+Beside her always, with even, untiring strength, Paul Griggs toiled on,
+his whole life based and founded in hers, every penstroke for her, every
+dream of her, every aspiration and hope for her alone. He was splendidly
+unconscious of his own utter loneliness, blankly unaware of the
+life-comedy--or tragedy--which Gloria was acting for him out of pity
+for the heart she could break, and out of shame at finding out what her
+own heart was. Had he known the truth, the end would have come quickly
+and terribly. But he did not know it. The woman's gifts were great, and
+her beauty was greater. Greater than all was his whole-souled belief in
+her. He had never conceived it possible, in his ignorance of women, that
+a woman should really love him. She, whom he had first loved so
+hopelessly, had given him all she had to give, which was herself,
+frankly and freely. And after she had come to him, she loved him for a
+time, beyond even self-deception. But when she no longer loved him, she
+hid her secret and kept it long and well; for she feared him. He was not
+like Reanda. He would not strike only; he would kill and make an end of
+both.
+
+But she might have gone much nearer to the truth without danger. It was
+not his nature to ask anything nor to expect much, and he had taken all
+there was to take, and knew it, and was satisfied.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXVI.
+
+
+THE summer passed, with its monotonous heat. Rain fell in August and
+poisoned the campagna with fever for six weeks, and the clear October
+breezes blew from the hills, and the second greenness of the late season
+was over everything for a brief month of vintage and laughter. Then came
+November with its pestilent sirocco gales and its dampness, pierced and
+cut through now and then by the first northerly winds of winter.
+
+And then, one day, there was a new life in the little apartment in the
+Via della Frezza. Fate, relentless, had brought to the light a little
+child, to be the grandson of that fated Maria Braccio who had died long
+ago, to have his day of happiness and his night of suffering in his turn
+and to be a living bond between Gloria and the man who loved her.
+
+They called the boy Walter Crowdie for a relative of Angus Dalrymple,
+who had been the last of the name. It was convenient, and he would never
+need any other, nor any third name after the two given to him in
+baptism.
+
+For a few days after the child's birth, Griggs left his writing-table.
+He was almost too happy to work, and he spent many hours by Gloria's
+side, not talking, for he knew that she must be kept quiet, but often
+holding her hand and always looking at her face, with the strong, dumb
+devotion of a faithful bloodhound.
+
+Often she pretended to be sleeping when he was there, though she was
+wide awake and could have talked well enough. But it was easier to seem
+to be asleep than to play the comedy now, while she was so weak and
+helpless. With the simplicity of a little child Griggs watched her, and
+when her eyes were closed believed that she was sleeping. As soon as she
+opened them he spoke to her. She understood and sometimes smiled in
+spite of herself, with close-shut lids. He thought she was dreaming of
+him, or of the child, and was smiling in her sleep.
+
+As she lay there and thought over all that had happened, she knew that
+she hated him as she had never loved him, even in the first days. And
+she hated the child, for its life was the last bond, linking her to Paul
+Griggs and barring her from the world forever. Until it had been there
+she had vaguely felt that if she had the courage and really wished it,
+she might in some way get back to her old life. She knew that all hope
+of that was gone from her now.
+
+In the deep perspective of her loosened intelligence the endless years
+to come rolled away, grey and monotonous, to their vanishing point. She
+had made her choice and had not found heart to give it up, after she had
+made it, while there was yet time. Time itself took shape before her
+closed eyes, as many succeeding steps, and she saw herself toiling up
+them, a bent, veiled figure of great weariness. It was terrible to look
+forward to such truth, and the present was no better. She grasped at the
+past and dragged it up to her and looked at its faded prettiness, and
+would have kissed it, as though it had been a living thing. But she knew
+that it was dead and that what lived was horrible to her.
+
+She wished that she might die, as she had often thought she might during
+the long summer months. In those days her eyes had filled with tears of
+pity for herself. They were dry now, for the suffering was real and the
+pain was in her bodily heart. Yet she was so strong, and she feared Paul
+Griggs with such an abject fear, that she played the comedy when she
+could not make him think that she was asleep.
+
+"My only thought is for you," she said. "It is another burden on you."
+
+He was utterly happy, and he laughed aloud.
+
+"It is another reason for working," he said.
+
+And even as he said it she saw the writing-table, the poor room, his
+stern, determined face and busy hand, and herself seated in her own
+chair, with a half-read novel on her lap, staring at the grey future of
+mediocrity and mean struggling that loomed like a leaden figure above
+his bent head. Year after year, perhaps, she was to sit in that chair
+and watch the same silent battle for bare existence. It was too horrible
+to be borne. If only he were a man of genius, she could have suffered it
+all, she thought, and more also. But he himself said that he had no
+genius. His terrible mechanics of mind killed the little originality he
+had. His gloomy sobriety over his work made her desperate. But she
+feared him. The belief grew on her that if he ever found out that she
+did not love him, he would end life then, for them both--perhaps for
+them all three.
+
+Surely, hell had no tortures worse than hers, she thought. Yet she bore
+them, in terror of him. And he was perfectly happy and suspected
+nothing. She could not understand how with his melancholy nature and his
+constant assertion that he had but a little talent and much industry for
+all his stock in trade, he could believe in his own future as he did. It
+was an anomaly, a contradiction of terms, a weak point in the low level
+of his unimaginative, dogged strength. She thought often of the poor
+book he had written. She had heard that talent was stirred to music by a
+great passion that strung it and struck it, till its heartstrings rang
+wild changes and breathed deep chords, and burst into rushing harmonies
+of eloquence. But his love was dumb and dull, though it might be deadly.
+There had been neither eloquence nor music in his book. It had been an
+old story, badly told. He had said that he was only fit to be a
+newspaper man, and it was true, so far as she could see. His letters to
+the paper were excellent in their way, but that was all he could do. And
+she had given him, in the child, another reason for being what he was,
+hard-working, silent--dull.
+
+She looked at him and wondered; for there was a mystery in his shadowy
+eyes and still face, which had promised much more than she had ever
+found in him. There was something mysterious and dreadful, too, in his
+unnatural strength. The fear of him grew upon her, and sometimes when he
+kissed her she burst into tears out of sheer terror at his touch.
+
+"They are tears of happiness," she said, trembling and drying her eyes
+quickly.
+
+She smiled, and he believed her, happier every day in her and in the
+child.
+
+Then came the realization of the grey dream of misery. Again she was
+seated by the window in her accustomed chair, and he was in his place,
+pen in hand, eyes on paper, thoughts fixed like steel in that obstinate
+effort to do better, while she had the certainty of his failure before
+her. And between them, in a straw cradle with a hood, all gauze and
+lace and blue ribbons, lay the thing that bound her to him and cut her
+off forever from the world,--little Walter Crowdie, the child without a
+name, as she called him in her thoughts. And above the child, between
+her and Paul Griggs, floated the little imaginary stage on which she was
+to go on acting her play over and over again till all was done. She had
+not even the right to shed tears for herself without telling him that
+they were for the happiness he expected of her.
+
+He would not leave her. He had scarcely been out of the house for weeks,
+though the only perceptible effect of remaining indoors so long was that
+he had grown a little paler. She implored him to go out. In a few days
+she would be able to go with him, and meanwhile there was no reason why
+he should be perpetually at her side. He yielded to her importunity at
+last, and she was left alone with the child.
+
+It was a relief even greater than she had anticipated. She could cry,
+she could laugh, she could sing, and he was not there to ask questions.
+For one moment after she had heard the outer door close behind him she
+almost hesitated as to which she should do, for she was half hysterical
+with the long outward restraint of herself while, inwardly, she had
+allowed her thoughts to run wild as they would. She stood for a moment,
+and there was a vague, uncertain look in her face. Then her breast
+heaved, and she burst into tears, weeping as never before in her short
+life, passionately, angrily, violently, without thought of control, or
+indeed of anything definite.
+
+Before an hour had passed Griggs came back. She was seated quietly in
+her chair, as when he had left her. The light was all behind her, and he
+could not see the slight redness of her eyes. Pale as she was, he
+thought she had never been more beautiful. There was a gentleness in her
+manner, too, beyond what he was accustomed to. He believed that perhaps
+she might be the better for being left to herself for an hour or two
+every day, until she should be quite strong again. On the following day
+she again suggested that he should go out for a walk, and he made no
+objection.
+
+Again, as soon as he was gone, she burst into tears, almost in spite of
+herself, though she unconsciously longed for the relief they had brought
+her the first time. But to-day the fit of weeping did not pass so soon.
+The spasms of sobbing lasted long after her eyes were dry, and she had
+less time to compose herself before Griggs returned. Still, he noticed
+nothing. The tears had refreshed her, and he found that same gentleness
+which had touched him on the previous day.
+
+Several times, after that, he went out and left her alone in the
+afternoon. Then, one day, while he was walking, a heavy shower came on,
+and he made his way home as fast as he could. He opened the door quickly
+and came upon her to find her sobbing as though her heart would break.
+
+He turned very pale and stood still for a moment. There was terror in
+her face when she saw him, but in an instant he was holding her in his
+arms and kissing her hair, asking her what was the matter.
+
+"I am a millstone around your neck!" she sobbed. "It is breaking my
+heart--I shall die, if I see you working so!"
+
+He tried to comfort her, soothing her and laughing at her fears for him,
+but believing her, as he always did. Little by little, her sobs
+subsided, and she was herself again, as far as he could see. He tried to
+argue the case fairly on its merits.
+
+She listened to him, and listening was a new torture, knowing as she did
+what her tears were shed for. But she had to play the comedy again, at
+short notice, not having had the time to compose herself and enjoy the
+relief she found in crying alone.
+
+It was a relief which she sought again and again. When she thought of it
+afterwards, it was as an indescribable, half-painful, half-pleasant
+emotion through which she passed every day. When she felt that it was
+before her, as soon as Griggs was out of the house, she made a slight
+effort to resist it, for she was sensible enough to understand that it
+was becoming a habit which she could not easily break.
+
+Even after she was quite strong again, Griggs often left her to herself
+for an hour, and he did not again come in accidentally and find her in
+tears. He thought it natural that she should sometimes wish to be alone.
+
+One day, when she had dried her eyes, she took a sheet of paper from his
+table and began to write. She had no distinct intention, but she knew
+that she was going to write about herself and her sufferings. It gave
+her a strange and unhealthy pleasure to set down in black and white all
+that she suffered. She could look at it, turn it, change it, and look at
+it again. Constantly, as the pen ran on, the tears came to her eyes
+afresh, and she brushed them away with a smile.
+
+Then, all at once, she looked at the clock--the same cheap little
+American clock which had ticked so long on the mantelpiece in Griggs's
+old lodging upstairs. She knew that he would be back before long, and
+she tore the sheets she had covered into tiny strips and threw them into
+the waste-paper basket. When Griggs returned, she was singing softly to
+herself over her needlework.
+
+But she had enjoyed a rare delight in writing down the story of her
+troubles. The utter loneliness of her existence, when Griggs was not
+with her, made it natural enough. Then a strange thought crossed her
+mind. She would write to Reanda and tell him that she had forgiven him,
+and had expiated the wrong she had done him. She craved the excitement
+of confession, and it could do no harm. He might, perhaps, answer her.
+Griggs would never know, for she always received the letters and sorted
+them for him, merely to save him trouble. The correspondence of a
+newspaper man is necessarily large, covering many sources of his
+information.
+
+It was rather a wild idea, she thought, but it attracted her, or rather
+it distracted her thoughts by taking her out of the daily comedy she was
+obliged to keep up. There was in it, too, a very slight suggestion of
+danger; for it was conceivable, though almost impossible, that some
+letter of hers or her husband's might fall into Griggs's hands. There
+was a perverseness about it which was seductive to her tortuous mind.
+
+At the first opportunity she wrote a very long letter. It was the letter
+of a penitent. She told him all that she had told herself a hundred
+times, and it was a very different production from the one she had sent
+to her father nearly a year earlier. There were tears in the phrases,
+there were sobs in the broken sentences. And there were tears in her own
+eyes when she sealed it.
+
+She was going to ring for the woman servant to take it, and her hand
+was on the bell. She paused, looked at the addressed envelope, glanced
+furtively round the room, and then kissed it passionately. Then she
+rang.
+
+Griggs came home later than usual, but he thought she was preoccupied
+and absent-minded.
+
+"Has anything gone wrong?" he asked anxiously.
+
+"Wrong?" she repeated. "Oh no!" She sighed. "It is the same thing. I am
+always anxious about you. You were a little pale before you went out and
+you had hardly eaten anything at breakfast."
+
+"There is nothing the matter with me," laughed Griggs. "I am
+indestructible. I defy fate."
+
+She started perceptibly, for she was too much of an Italian not to be a
+little superstitious.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXVII.
+
+
+STEPHANONE was often seen in the Via della Frezza, for the host of the
+little wine shop was one of his good customers. The neighbourhood was
+very quiet and respectable, and the existence of the wine shop was a
+matter of convenience and almost of necessity to the respectable
+citizens who dwelt there. They sent their women servants or came
+themselves at regular hours, bringing their own bottles and vessels of
+all shapes and of many materials for the daily allowance of wine; they
+invariably paid in cash, and they never went away in the summer. The
+business was a very good one; for the Romans, though they rarely drink
+too much and are on the whole a sober people, consume an amount of
+strong wine which would produce a curious effect upon any other race, in
+any other climate. Stefanone, though his wife had formerly thought him
+extravagant, had ultimately turned out to be a very prudent person, and
+in the course of a thirty years' acquaintance with Rome had selected his
+customers with care, judgment, and foresight. Whenever he was in Rome
+and had time to spare he came to the little shop in the Via della
+Frezza. He had stood godfather for one of the host's children, which in
+those days constituted a real tie between parents and god-parents.
+
+But he had another reason for his frequent visits since that night on
+which he had accompanied Gloria and had shielded her from the rain with
+his gigantic brass-tipped umbrella. He took an interest in her, and
+would wait a long time in the hope of seeing her, sitting on a
+rush-bottomed stool outside the wine shop, and generally chewing the end
+of a wisp of broom. He had the faculty of sitting motionless for an hour
+at a time, his sturdy white-stockinged legs crossed one over the other,
+his square peasant's hands crossed upon his knee,--the sharp angles of
+the thumb-bones marked the labouring race,--his soft black hat tilted a
+little forward over his eyes, his jacket buttoned up when the weather
+was cool, thrown back and showing the loosened shirt open far below the
+throat when the day was warm.
+
+Gloria reminded him of Dalrymple. The process of mind was a very simple
+one and needs no analysis. He had sought Dalrymple for years, but in
+vain, and Gloria had something in her face which recalled her father,
+though the latter's features were rough and harshly accentuated.
+Stefanone had made the acquaintance of the one-eyed cobbler without
+difficulty and had ascertained that there was a mystery about Gloria,
+whom the cobbler had first seen on the morning after Stefanone had met
+her in the storm. It was of course very improbable that she should be
+the daughter of Dalrymple and Annetta, but even the faint possibility of
+being on the track of his enemy had a strong effect upon the unforgiving
+peasant. If he ever found Dalrymple, he intended to kill him. In the
+meanwhile he had found a simple plan for finding out whether Gloria was
+the Scotchman's daughter or not. He waited patiently for the spring, and
+he came to Rome now every month for a week at a time.
+
+More than once during the past year he had brought small presents of
+fruit and wine and country cakes for Gloria, and both she and Griggs
+knew all about him, and got their wine from the little shop which he
+supplied. Gloria was pleased by the decent, elderly peasant's admiration
+of her beauty, which he never failed to express when he got a chance of
+speaking to her. When little Walter Crowdie was first carried out into
+the sun, Stefanone was in the street, and he looked long and earnestly
+into the baby's face.
+
+"There is the same thing in the eyes," he muttered, as he turned away,
+after presenting the nurse with a beautiful jumble, which looked as
+though it had been varnished, and was adorned with small drops of hard
+pink sugar. "If it is he--an evil death on him and all his house."
+
+And he strolled slowly back to the wine shop, his hand fumbling with the
+big, curved, brass-handled knife which he carried in the pocket of his
+blue cloth breeches.
+
+He was certainly mistaken about the baby's eyes, which were remarkably
+beautiful and of a very soft brown; whereas Dalrymple's were hard, blue,
+and steely, and it was not possible that anything like an hereditary
+expression should be recognizable in the face of a child three weeks
+old. But his growing conviction made his imagination complete every link
+which chanced to be missing in the chain.
+
+One day, in the spring, he met Griggs when the latter was going out
+alone.
+
+"A word, Signore, if you permit," he said politely.
+
+"Twenty," replied Griggs, giving the common Roman answer.
+
+"Signore, Subiaco is a beautiful place," said the peasant. "In spring it
+is an enchantment. In summer, I tell you nothing. It is as fresh as
+Paradise. There is water, water, as much as you please. Wine is not
+wanting, and it seems that you know that. The butcher kills calves twice
+a week, and sometimes an ox when there is an old one, or one lame. Eh,
+in Subiaco, one is well."
+
+"I do not doubt it when I look at you," answered Griggs, without a
+smile.
+
+"Thanks be to Heaven, my health still assists me. But I am thinking of
+you and of your beautiful lady and of that little angel, whom God
+preserve. In truth, you appear to me as the Holy Family. I should not
+say it to every one, but the air of Subiaco is thin, the water is light,
+and, for a house, mine is of the better ones. One knows that we are
+country people, but we are clean people; there are neither chickens nor
+children. If you find a flea, I will have him set in gold. You shall
+say, 'This is the flea that was found in Stefanone's house.' In that way
+every one will know. I do not speak of the beds. The pope could sleep in
+the one in the large room at the head of the staircase, the pope with
+all his cardinals. They would say, 'Now we know that this is indeed a
+bed.' Do you wish better than this? I do not know. But if you will bring
+your lady and the baby, you will see. Eyes tell no lies."
+
+"And the price?" inquired Griggs, struck by the good sense of the
+suggestion.
+
+"Whatever you choose to give. If you give nothing, we shall have had
+your company. In general, we take three pauls a day, and we give the
+wine. You shall make the price as you like it. Who thinks of these
+things? We are Christians."
+
+When Griggs spoke of the project to Gloria, she embraced it eagerly. He
+said that he should be obliged to come to Rome every week on account of
+his correspondence. But Subiaco was no longer as inaccessible as
+formerly, and there was now a good carriage road all the way and a daily
+public conveyance. He should be absent three days, and would spend the
+other four with her.
+
+It was a sacrifice on his part, as she guessed from the way in which he
+spoke, but it was clearly necessary that Gloria and the child should
+have country air during the coming summer. He had often reproached
+himself with not having made some such arrangement for the preceding hot
+season, but he had seen that she did not suffer from the heat, and his
+presence in the capital had been very necessary for his work. Now,
+however, it looked possible enough, and before Stefanone went back to
+the country for his next trip a preliminary agreement had been made.
+
+Gloria looked forward with impatience to the liberty she was to gain by
+his regular absences, for her life was becoming unbearable. She felt
+that she could not much longer sustain the perpetual comedy she was
+acting, unless she could get an interval of rest from time to time. At
+first, the hour he gave her daily when he went out alone had been a
+relief and had sufficed. The tears she shed, the letters she wrote to
+Reanda, rested her and refreshed her. For she had written others since
+that first one, though he had never answered any of them. But the small
+daily interruption of her acting was no longer enough. The taste of
+liberty had bred an intense craving for more of it, and she dreamed of
+being alone for days together.
+
+She wrote to Reanda now without the slightest hope of receiving any
+reply, as madmen sometimes write endless letters to women they love,
+though they have never exchanged a word with them. It was a vent for her
+pent-up suffering. It could make no difference, and Griggs could never
+know. Her strange position put the point of faithfulness out of the
+question. She was in love with her husband, and the man who loved her
+held her to her play of love by the terror she felt of what lay behind
+his gentleness. She dreamed once that he had found out the truth, and
+was tearing her head from her body with those hands of his, slowly,
+almost gently, with mysterious eyes and still face. She woke, and found
+that the heavy tress of her hair was twisted round her throat and was
+choking her; but the impression remained, and her dread of Griggs
+increased, and it became harder and harder to act her part.
+
+At the same time the attraction of secretly writing to her husband grew
+stronger, day by day. She did not send him all she wrote, nor a tenth
+part of all, and the greater portion of her outpourings went into the
+fire, or they were torn to infinitesimal bits and thrown into the
+waste-paper basket. She was critical, in a strangely morbid way, of what
+she wrote. The fact that she was acting for Griggs, and knew it, made
+her dread to write anything to Reanda which could possibly seem
+insincere. No aspiring young author ever took greater pains over his
+work than she sometimes bestowed upon the composition of these letters,
+or judged his work more conscientiously and severely than she. And the
+result was that she told of her life with wonderful sincerity and truth.
+Truth was her only luxury in the midst of the great lie she had to
+sustain. She revelled in it, and yet, fearing to lose it, she used it
+with a conscientiousness which she had never exhibited in anything she
+had done before. It was her single delight, and she treasured it with
+scrupulous and miserly care. In her letters, at least, she could be
+really herself.
+
+But the strain was telling upon her visibly, and Griggs was very anxious
+about her, and hastened their departure for Subiaco as soon as the
+weather began to grow warm, hoping that the mountain air would bring the
+colour back to her pale cheeks. For her beauty's sake, he could almost
+have deprecated the prospect, strange to say, for she had never seemed
+more perfectly beautiful than now. She was thinner than she had formerly
+been, and her pallor had refined her by softening the look of hard and
+brilliant vitality which had characterized her before she had left
+Reanda. There is perhaps no beauty which is not beautified by a touch
+of sadness. Griggs saw it, and while his eyes rejoiced, his heart sank.
+
+He knew what an utterly lonely life she was leading, even as he judged
+her existence, and the tender string was touched in his deep nature. She
+had sacrificed everything for him, as he told himself many a time in his
+solitary walks. All the love he had given and had to give could never
+repay her for what she had given him. Marriage, he reflected, was often
+a bargain, but such devotion as hers was a gift for which there could be
+no return. She had ruined herself in the eyes of the world for him, but
+the world would never accuse him, nor shut its doors upon him because he
+had accepted what she had so freely given. He was not an emotional man,
+but even he longed for some turn of life in which for her sake he might
+do something above the dead level of that commonplace heroism which
+begins in hard work and ends in the attainment of ordinary necessities.
+He felt his strength in him and about him, and he wished that he could
+let it loose upon some adversary in the physical satisfaction of
+fighting for what he loved. It was not a high aspiration, but it was a
+manly one.
+
+He drew upon his resources to the utmost, in order to make her
+comfortable in Subiaco when they should get there. He was not a dreamer,
+though he dreamed when he had time. It was his nature to take all the
+things which came to him to be done and to do them one after another
+with untiring energy. He worked at his correspondence, and got
+additional articles to write for periodicals, though it was no easy
+matter in that day when the modern periodical was in its infancy.
+
+Gloria, acting her part, complained sadly that he worked too hard. Work
+as he might, he had no such stress to fear as was wearing out her life.
+She hated him, she feared him, and she envied him. Sometimes she pitied
+him, and then it was easier for her to act the play. As for Griggs, he
+laughed and told her for the hundredth time that he was indestructible
+and defied fate.
+
+So far as he could see what he had to deal with, he could defy anything.
+But there was that beyond of which he could not dream, and destiny, with
+leaden hands, was already upon him, on the day when a great,
+old-fashioned carriage, loaded with boxes and belongings, brought him
+and his to the door of Stefanone's house in Subiaco.
+
+Sora Nanna, grey-haired, and withered as a brown apple, but tough as
+leather still, stood on the threshold to receive them. She no longer
+wore the embroidered napkin on her hair, for civilization had advanced a
+generation in Subiaco, and a coloured handkerchief flapped about her
+head, and she had caught one corner of it in her teeth to keep it out of
+her eyes, as the afternoon breeze blew it across her leathery face.
+
+First at the door of the carriage she saw the baby, held up by its
+nurse, and the old woman threw up her hands and clapped them, and crowed
+to the child till it laughed. Then Griggs got out. And then, out of the
+dark shadow of the coach, a face looked at Sora Nanna, and it was a face
+she had known long ago, with dark eyes, beautiful and deadly pale, and
+very fateful.
+
+She turned white herself, and her teeth chattered.
+
+"Madonna Santissima!" she cried, shrinking back.
+
+She crossed herself, and did not dare to meet Gloria's eyes again for
+some time.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXVIII.
+
+
+SORA NANNA showed her new lodgers their rooms. They were the ones
+Dalrymple had occupied long ago, together with a third, opening
+separately from the same landing. In what had been the Scotchman's
+laboratory, and which was now turned into a small bedroom, a large chest
+stood in a corner, of the sort used by the peasant women to this day for
+their wedding outfits.
+
+"If it is not in your way, I will leave it here," said Sora Nanna.
+"There are certain things in it."
+
+"What things?" asked Gloria, idly, and for the sake of making
+acquaintance with the woman, rather than out of curiosity.
+
+"Things, things," answered Nanna. "Things of that poor girl's. We had a
+daughter, Signora."
+
+"Did she die long ago?" inquired Gloria, in a tone of sympathy.
+
+"We lost her, Signora," said Nanna, simply. "Look at these beds! They
+are new, new! No one has ever slept in them. And linen there is, as much
+as you can ask for. We are country people, Signora, but we are good
+people. I do not say that we are rich. One knows--in Rome everything is
+beautiful. Even the chestnuts are of gold. Here, we are in the country,
+Signora. You will excuse, if anything is wanting."
+
+But Gloria was by no means inclined to find fault. She breathed more
+freely in the mountain air, she was tired with the long drive from
+Tivoli, where they had spent the previous night, and she was more hungry
+than she had been for a long time.
+
+It was not dark when they sat down to supper in the old guest chamber
+which opened upon the street. Nanna was anxious and willing to bring
+them their supper upstairs, but Gloria preferred the common room. She
+said it would amuse her, and in reality it was easier for her not to be
+alone with Griggs, and by going downstairs on the first evening she
+meant to establish a precedent for the whole summer. He had told her
+that he must go back to Rome for his work on the next day but one, and
+she counted the hours before her up to the minute when she should be
+free and alone.
+
+They sat down at the old table at which Dalrymple had eaten his solitary
+meals so often, more than twenty years earlier. There was no change.
+There were the same solid, old-fashioned silver forks and spoons, there
+were plates of the same coarse china, tumblers of the same heavy pressed
+glass. Had Dalrymple been there, he would have recognized the old brass
+lamp with its three beaks which poor Annetta had so often brought in
+lighted when he sat there at dusk. On the shelf in the corner were the
+selfsame decanters full of transparent aniseed and pink alchermes and
+coarse brown brandy. Stefanone came in, laid his hat upon the bench, and
+put his stick in the corner just as he had always done. There was no
+change, except that Annetta was not there, and the husband and wife had
+grown almost old since those days.
+
+"How often does the post go to Rome?" Gloria asked of Sora Nanna, while
+they were at supper.
+
+"Every evening, at one of the night, Signora. There are also many
+occasions of sending by the carters."
+
+"I can write to you every day when you are away," said Gloria in English
+to Griggs.
+
+She was thinking of those letters which she wrote to Reanda almost in
+spite of herself, but the loving smile did not play her false, and
+Griggs believed her.
+
+In her, the duality of her being had created two distinct lives. For
+him, the two elements of consciousness and perception were merged in one
+by his love. All that he felt he saw in her, and all that he saw in her
+he felt. The perfection of love, while it lasts, is in that double
+certainty from within and from without, which, if once disturbed, can
+never be restored again. Singly, the one part or the other may remain
+as of old, but the wholeness of the two has but one chance of life.
+
+On that first night Gloria had an evil dream. She had fallen asleep,
+tired from the journey and worn out with the endless weariness of her
+secret suffering. She awoke in the small hours, and moonlight was
+streaming into the room. She was startled to find herself in a strange
+place, at first, and then she realized where she was, and gazed at the
+clouded panes of common glass as her head lay on the pillow, and she
+marked the moonlight on the brick floor by the joints of the bricks, and
+watched how it crept silently away. For the moon was waning, and had not
+long risen above the black line of the hills.
+
+Her eyelids drooped, but she saw it all distinctly still--more
+distinctly than before, she thought. The level light rose slowly from
+the floor; very, very slowly, stiff and straight as a stark, shrouded
+corpse, and stood upright between her and the window. She felt the heavy
+hair rising on her scalp, and an intense horror took possession of her
+body, and thrilled through her from head to foot and from her feet to
+her head. But she could not move. She felt that something held her and
+pressed on her, as though the air were moulded about her like cast iron.
+
+The thing stood between her and the window, stiff and white. It showed
+its face, and the face was white, too. It was Angelo Reanda. She knew
+it, though there seemed to be no eyes in the white thing. She felt its
+dead voice speaking to her.
+
+"An evil death on you and all your house," it said.
+
+The face was gone again, but the thing was still there. Very, very
+slowly, stiff and white, it lay back, straight from the heel upwards,
+unbending as it sank, till it laid itself upon the floor, and she was
+staring at the joints of the bricks in the moonlight.
+
+Then she shrieked aloud and awoke. The moonlight had moved a foot or
+more, and she knew that she had been asleep.
+
+"It was only a dream," she said to Griggs in the morning. "I thought I
+saw you dead, dear. It frightened me."
+
+"I am not dead yet," he laughed. "It was that salad--there were potatoes
+in it."
+
+She turned away; for the contrast between the triviality of what he said
+and the horror of what she had felt brought an expression to her face
+which even her consummate art could not have concealed.
+
+The impression lasted all day, and when she went to bed she carefully
+closed the shutters so that the moonlight should not fall upon the
+floor. The dream did not return.
+
+"It must have been the salad," said Griggs, when she told him that she
+had not been disturbed again.
+
+But Gloria was thinking of death, and his words jarred upon her
+horribly, as a trivial jest would jar on a condemned man walking from
+his cell to the scaffold. In the evening Griggs went by the diligence to
+Rome, and Gloria was left alone with her child and the nurse.
+
+Then she sat down and wrote to Reanda with a full heart and a trembling
+hand. She told him of her dream, and how the fear of his death had
+broken her nerves. She implored him to come out and see her when Griggs
+was in Rome. She could let him know when to start, if he would write one
+word. It was but a little journey, she said, and the cool mountain air
+would do him good. But if he would not come, she besought him to write
+to her, if it were only a line, to say that he was alive. She could not
+forget the dream until she should know that he was safe.
+
+She was not critical of her writing any more, for she was no longer in
+fear of being misunderstood, and she wrote desperately. It seemed to her
+that she was writing with her blood. She had sent him many letters
+without hope of answer, but something told her that she could not appeal
+in vain forever, and that he would at last reply to her.
+
+Two days passed, and she spent much of her time with the child. She
+felt that in time she might love it, if Griggs were not beside her. Then
+he came back, and in the great joy of seeing her again after that first
+short separation, the stern voice grew as soft as a woman's, and the
+still face was moved. She had looked forward with dread to his return,
+and she shivered when he touched her; she would have given all she had
+if only he would not kiss her. Then, when she felt that he might have
+found her cold to him at the first moment, that he might guess, that he
+might find out her secret, she shivered again from head to heel, in fear
+of him, and she forced the smile upon her face with all her will.
+
+"I am so glad, that I am almost frightened!" she cried, and lest the
+smile should be imperfect, she hid it against his shoulder.
+
+She could have bitten the cloth and the tough arm under it, as she felt
+him kiss the back of her neck just at the roots of the hair; as it was,
+she grasped his arm convulsively.
+
+"How strong you are!" he laughed, as he felt the pressure of her
+fingers.
+
+"Yes," she answered. "It is the mountain air--and you," she added.
+
+And, as ever, it seemed to him true. The days he spent with her were
+heavenly to him as they were days of living earthly hell to her. He did
+not even leave her alone for an hour or two, as he had done in the
+city, for when he was in Rome without her he did double work and
+shortened his sleep by half, that he might lengthen the time he was to
+have with her. The heat of the capital and the late hours brought out
+dark shadows under his eyes, and gave her another excuse for saying that
+he was overworking for her sake, and that she was a burden upon him--she
+and the child.
+
+On the morning before he next went to Rome, she received a letter from
+Reanda. The blood rushed scarlet to her face, but Griggs was busy with
+his own letters and did not see it.
+
+She went to the baby's room. The child had been taken out by the nurse,
+and she sat down in the nurse's chair by the empty cradle and broke the
+seal of the note. There was a big sheet of paper inside, on which were
+written these lines in the artist's small, nervous handwriting:--
+
+"I am perfectly well, but I understand your anxiety about my health. I
+do not wish to see you, but as human life is uncertain I have given
+instructions that you may be at once informed of the good news of my
+death, if you outlive me."
+
+Gloria's hand closed upon the sheet of paper, and she reeled forward and
+sideways in the chair, as though she had received a stunning blow. She
+heard heavy footsteps on the brick floor in the next room and with a
+desperate effort at consciousness she hid the crumpled letter in her
+bosom before the door opened. But the room swam with her as she grasped
+the straw cradle and tried to steady herself.
+
+In an agony of terror she heard the footsteps coming nearer and nearer,
+then retreating again, then turning back towards her. She prayed to God
+at that moment that Griggs might not open the door. To gain strength,
+she forced herself to rise to her feet and stand upright, but with the
+first step she took, she stumbled against the chest that contained
+Annetta's belongings. The physical pain roused her. She drew breath more
+freely, and listened. Griggs was moving about in the other room,
+probably putting together some few things which he meant to take to Rome
+with him that evening. It seemed an hour before she heard him go away,
+and the echo of his footsteps came more and more faintly as he went down
+the stairs. He evidently had not guessed that she was in the little room
+which served as a nursery--the room which had once been Dalrymple's
+laboratory.
+
+She did not read the letter again, but she found a match and set fire to
+it, and watched it as it burned to black, gossamer-like ashes on the
+brick floor. It was long before she had the courage to go down and face
+Griggs and say that she was ready for the daily walk together before the
+midday meal. And all that day she went about dreamily, scarcely knowing
+what she did or said, though she was sure that she did not fail in
+acting her part, for the habit was so strong that the acting was
+natural to her, except when something waked her to herself too suddenly.
+
+He went away at last in the evening, and she was free to do what she
+pleased with herself, to close the deadly wound she had received, if
+that were possible, to forget it even for an hour, if she could.
+
+But she could not. She felt that it was her death-wound, for it had
+killed a hope which she had tended and fostered into an inner life for
+herself. She felt that her husband hated her, as she hated Paul Griggs.
+
+She was impelled to fall upon her knees and pray to Something,
+somewhere, though she knew not what, but she was ashamed to do it when
+she thought of her life. That Something would turn upon her and curse
+her, as Reanda had cursed her in her dream--and in the cruel words he
+had written.
+
+She hardly slept that night, and she rose in the morning heavy-eyed and
+weary. Going out into the old garden behind the house she met Sora Nanna
+with a basket of clothes on her head, just starting to go up to the
+convent, followed by two of her women.
+
+"Signora," said the old woman, with her leathern smile, "you are
+consuming yourself because the husband is in Rome. You are doing
+wrong."
+
+Gloria started, stared at her, and then understood, and nodded.
+
+"Come up to the convent with us," said Nanna. "You will divert yourself,
+and while they take in the clothes, I will show you the church. It is
+beautiful. I think that even in Rome it would be a beautiful church. I
+will show you where the sisters are buried and I will tell you how
+Sister Maria Addolorata was burned in her cell. But she was not buried
+with the rest. When you come back, you will eat with a double appetite,
+and I will make gnocchi of polenta for dinner. Do you like gnocchi,
+Signora? There is much resistance in them."
+
+Gloria went with the washerwomen. She was strong and kept pace with
+them, burdened as they were with their baskets. It was good to be with
+them, common creatures with common, human hearts, knowing nothing of her
+strange trouble. Sora Nanna took her into the church and showed her the
+sights, explaining them in her strident, nasal voice without the
+slightest respect for the place so long as no religious service was
+going on. The woman showed her the little tablet erected in memory of
+Maria Addolorata, and she told the story as she had heard it, and dwelt
+upon the funeral services and the masses which had been said.
+
+"At least, she is in peace," said Gloria, in a low voice, staring at the
+tablet.
+
+[Illustration: "Let us not speak of the dead."--Vol. II., p. 203.]
+
+"Poor Annetta used to say that Sister Maria Addolorata sinned in her
+throat," said Nanna. "But you see. God can do everything. She went
+straight from her cell to heaven. Eh, she is in peace, Signora, as you
+say. Requiesca'. Come, Signora, it takes at least three-quarters of an
+hour to make gnocchi."
+
+And they did not know. She was standing on her daughter's grave, and the
+tablet was a memorial of the mother of the woman beside her.
+
+"You make me think of her, Signora," said the peasant. "You have her
+face. If you had her voice, to sing, I should think that you were she,
+returned from the dead."
+
+"Could she sing?" asked Gloria, dreamily, as they left the church.
+
+"Like the angels in Paradise," answered Nanna. "I think that now, when
+she sings, they are ashamed and stand silent to listen to her. If God
+wills that I make a good death, I shall hear her again."
+
+She glanced at her companion's dreamy, fateful face.
+
+"Let us not speak of the dead!" she concluded. "To-day we will make
+gnocchi of polenta."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXIX.
+
+
+IN the afternoon Gloria called Sora Nanna to move the chest against
+which she had stumbled in the morning. It would be more convenient, she
+said, to put it under the bed, if it could not be taken away altogether.
+It was a big, old-fashioned chest of unpainted, unvarnished wood, brown
+with age, and fastened by a hasp, through which a splinter of white
+chestnut wood had been stuck instead of a padlock. Gloria saw that it
+was heavy, as Sora Nanna dragged it and pushed it across the room. She
+remarked that, if it held only clothes, it must be packed very full.
+
+Sora Nanna, glad to rest from her efforts, stood upright with her hand
+on her hip and took breath.
+
+"Signora," she said, "who knows what is in it? Things, certain things!
+There are the clothes of that poor girl. This I know. And then, certain
+other things. Who knows what is in it? It may be a thousand years since
+I looked. Signora, shall we open it? But I think there are certain
+things that belonged to the Englishman."
+
+"The Englishman?" asked Gloria, with some curiosity.
+
+She was glad of anything which could interest her a little. For the
+moment she had not yet the courage to begin to write again after
+Reanda's message. Anything which had power to turn the current of her
+thoughts was a relief. She was sitting in the same chair beside the
+cradle in which she had sat in the morning, for she had called Nanna to
+move the box at a time when the child had been taken out for its second
+airing. She leaned back, resting her auburn hair against the bare wall,
+the waxen whiteness of her face contrasting with the bluish whitewash.
+
+"What Englishman?" she asked again, wearily, but with a show of interest
+in her half-closed eyes.
+
+"Who knows? An Englishman. They called him Sor Angoscia." Nanna sat down
+on the heavy box, and dropped her skinny hands far apart upon her knees.
+"We have cursed him much. He took our daughter. It was a night of evil.
+In that night the abbess died, and Sister Maria Addolorata was burned in
+her cell, and the Englishman took our daughter. He took our one
+daughter, Signora. We have not seen her more, not even her little
+finger. It will be twenty-two years on the eve of the feast of St. Luke.
+That is in October, Signora. He took our daughter. Poor little one! She
+was young, young--perhaps she did not know what she did."
+
+Gloria leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand and her elbow on
+her knee, gazing at the old woman.
+
+"She was a flower," said Nanna, simply. "He tore her from us with the
+roots. Who knows what he did with her? She will be dead by this time.
+May the Madonna obtain grace for her! Signora, she seemed one of those
+flowers that grow on the hillside, just as God wills. Rain, sun, she was
+always fresh. Then came the storm. Who could find her any more? Poor
+little one!"
+
+"Poor child!" exclaimed Gloria.
+
+And she made Nanna tell all she knew, and how they had found the girl's
+peasant dress in a corner of that very room.
+
+"Signora, if you wish to see, I will content you," said Nanna, rising at
+last.
+
+She opened the box. It exhaled the peculiar odour of heavy cloth which
+has been worn and has then been kept closely shut up for years. On the
+top lay Annetta's carpet apron. Nanna held it up, and there were tears
+in her eyes, glistening on her dry skin like water in a crevice of brown
+rock.
+
+"Signora, there are moths in it, see! Who cares for these things? They
+are a memory. And this is her skirt, and this is her bodice. Eh, it was
+beautiful once. The shoes, Signora, I wore them, for we had the same
+feet. What would you? It seemed a sin to let them mould, because they
+were hers. The apron, too, I might have worn it. Who knows why I did
+not wear it? It was the affection. We are all so, we women. And now
+there are moths in it. I might have worn it. At least it would not have
+been lost."
+
+Gloria peered into the box, and saw under the clothes a number of books
+packed neatly with a box made of English oak. She stretched down her
+hand and took one of the volumes. It was an English medical treatise.
+She looked at the fly-leaf.
+
+A loud cry from Gloria startled the old woman.
+
+"Angus Dalrymple--but--" Gloria read the name and stared at Nanna.
+
+"Eh, eh!" assented Nanna, nodding violently and smiling a little as she
+at last recognized the Scotchman's name which she had never been able to
+pronounce. "Yes--that is it. That was the name of the Englishman. An
+evil death on him and all his house! Stefanone says it always. I also
+may say it once. It was he. He took our daughter. Stefanone went after
+them, but they had the beast of the convent gardener. It was a good
+beast, and they made it run. Stefanone heard of them all the way to the
+sea, but the twenty-four hours had passed, and the war-ship was far out.
+He could see it. Could he go to the war-ship? It had cannons. They would
+have killed him. Then I should have had neither daughter nor husband. So
+he came back."
+
+The long habit of acting had made Gloria strong, but her hands shook on
+the closed volume. She had known that her mother had been an Italian,
+that they had left Italy suddenly and had been married on board an
+English man-of-war by the captain, that same Walter Crowdie, a relative
+of Dalrymple's, after whom Gloria and Griggs had named the child. More
+than that Dalrymple had never been willing to tell her. She remembered,
+too, that though she had once or twice begged him to take her to Tivoli
+and Subiaco, he had refused rather abruptly. It was clear enough now.
+Her mother had been this Annetta whom Dalrymple had stolen away in the
+night.
+
+And the wrinkled, leathery old hag, with her damp, coarse mouth, her skinny
+hands, and her cunning, ignorant eyes, was her grandmother--Stefanone
+was her grandfather--her mother had been a peasant, like them, beautified
+by one of nature's mad miracles.
+
+There could be no doubt about it. That was the truth, and it fell upon
+her with its cruel, massive weight, striking her where many other truths
+had struck her before this one, in her vanity.
+
+She grasped the book tightly with both hands and set her teeth. After
+that, she did not know what Nanna said, and the old woman, thinking
+Gloria was not paying a proper attention to her remarks, pushed and
+heaved the box across the room rather discontentedly. It would not go
+under the bed, being too high, so she wedged it in between the foot of
+the bedstead and the wall. There was just room for it there.
+
+"Signora, if ever your one child leaves you without a word, you will
+understand," said Nanna, a little offended at finding no sympathy.
+
+"I understand too well," answered Gloria.
+
+Then she suddenly realized what the woman wanted, and with great
+self-control she held out her hand kindly. Nanna took it and smiled, and
+pressed it in her horny fingers.
+
+"You are young, Signora. When you are old, you will understand many
+things, when evils have pounded your heart in a mortar. Oil is sweet,
+vinegar is sour; with both one makes salad. This is our life. Rest
+yourself, Signora, for you walked well this morning. I go."
+
+Gloria felt the pressure of the rough fingers on hers, after Nanna had
+left her. The acrid odour of peeled vegetables clung to her own hand,
+and she rose and washed it carefully, though she was scarcely conscious
+of what she was doing. Suddenly she dropped the towel and went back to
+the box. It had crossed her mind that the single book she had opened
+might have been borrowed from her father and that she might find another
+name in the others--that Nanna might have been mistaken in thinking that
+she recognized the English name--that it might all be a mistake, after
+all.
+
+With violent hands she dragged out the moth-eaten clothes and threw them
+behind her upon the floor, and seized the books, opening them
+desperately one after the other. In each there was the name, 'Angus
+Dalrymple,' in her father's firm young handwriting of twenty years ago.
+She threw them down and lifted out the oak box. A little brass plate was
+let into the lid, and bore the initials, 'A. D.' There was no doubt
+left. The books all bore dates prior to 1844, the year in which, as she
+knew, her father had been married. It was impossible to hesitate, for
+the case was terribly clear.
+
+She rose to her feet and carried the box to the window and set it upon a
+chair, sitting down upon another before it. It was not locked. She
+raised the lid, and saw that it was a medicine chest. There was a
+drawer, or little tray, on the top, full of small boxes and very minute
+vials, lying on their sides. Lifting this out, she saw a number of
+little stoppered bottles set in holes made in a thin piece of board for
+a frame. One was missing, and there were eleven left. She counted them
+mechanically, not knowing why she did so. Then she took them out and
+looked at the labels. The first she touched contained spirits of
+camphor. It chanced to be the only one of which the contents were
+harmless. The others were strong tinctures and acids, vegetable poisons,
+belladonna, aconite, and the like, sulphuric acid, nitric acid,
+hydrochloric acid, and others.
+
+Gloria looked at them curiously and set them back, one by one, put in
+the little tray and closed the lid. Then she sat still a long time and
+gazed out of the window at the rugged line of the hills.
+
+Between her and the pale sky she saw her own life, and the hideous
+failure of it all, culminating in the certainty that she was of the
+blood of the old peasant couple to whose house a seeming chance had
+brought her to die. She felt that she could not live, and would not live
+if she could. It was all too wildly horrible, too utterly desolate.
+
+The only human being that clung to her was the one of all others whom
+she most feared and hated, whose very touch sent a cold shiver through
+her. She and fate together had pounded her heart in a mortar, as the old
+woman had said. With a bitterness that sickened her she thought of her
+brief married life, of her poor social ambition, of her hopeless efforts
+to be some one amongst the great. What could she be, the daughter of
+peasants, what could she have ever been? Probably some one knew the
+truth about her, in all that great society. Such things might be known.
+Francesca Campodonico's delicate noble face rose faintly between her and
+the sky, and she realized with excruciating suddenness the distance that
+separated her from the woman she hated, the woman who perhaps knew that
+Gloria Dalrymple was the daughter of a peasant and a fit wife by her
+birth for Angelo Reanda, the steward's son.
+
+The ruin of her life spread behind her and before her. She could not
+face it. The confusion of it all seemed to blind her, and the confusion
+was pierced by the terrible thought that on the next day but one Griggs
+would return again, the one being who would not leave her, who believed
+in her, who worshipped her, and whom she hated for himself and for the
+destruction of her existence which had come by him.
+
+In the box before her was death, painful perhaps, but sure as the grave
+itself. She was not a coward, except when she was afraid of Paul Griggs,
+and the fear lest he, too, should find out the truth was worse than the
+fear of mortal pain.
+
+She sat still in her place, staring out of the window. After a long
+time, the nurse came in, carrying the child asleep in her arms, covered
+with a thin gauze veil. Gloria started, and then smiled mechanically as
+she had trained herself to smile whenever the child was brought to her.
+The nurse laid the small thing in its cradle, and Gloria, as in a dream,
+put the books and the clothes back into the box, and was glad that the
+nurse asked no questions. When she had shut down the lid, she rose to
+her feet and saw that she had left the medicine chest on the chair. She
+took it into the bedroom and set it upon the table.
+
+Then she sat down and wrote to Reanda. There was no haste in the
+writing, and her head was clear and cool, for she was not afraid. Griggs
+could not return for two days, and she had plenty of time. She went over
+her story, as she had gone over it many times before in her letters. She
+told him all, but not the discovery she had just made. That should die
+with her, if it could. It would be easy enough, on the next day, when
+the nurse was out, to open the box again, and to tear out the fly-leaf
+from each book and so destroy the name. As for the medicine chest,
+Griggs might see that it had belonged to her father, but he would
+suppose that she had brought it amongst her belongings. He would never
+guess that it had lain hidden in the old box for more than twenty years.
+That was her plan, and it was simple enough. But she should have to wait
+until the next day. It was better so. She could think of what she was
+going to do, and nobody would disturb her. She finished her letter.
+
+"You have killed me," she wrote at the end. "If I had not loved you to
+the very end, I would tell you that my death is on your soul. But it is
+not all your fault, if I have loved you to death. I would not die if I
+could be free in any other way, but I cannot live to be touched and
+caressed again by this man whom I loathe with all my soul. I tell you
+that when he kisses me it is as though I were stung by a serpent of ice.
+It is for your sake that I hate him as I do. For your sake I have
+suffered hell on earth for more than a whole year. For your sake I die.
+I cannot live without you. I have told you so again and a hundred times
+again, and you have not believed me. You write to-day and you tell me
+that I shall be free, when you die, to marry Paul Griggs. I would rather
+marry Satan in hell. But I shall be free to-morrow, for I shall be dead.
+God will forgive me, for God knows what I suffer. Good-bye. I love you,
+Angelo. I shall love you to-morrow, when the hour comes, and after that
+I shall love you always. This is the end. Good-bye. I love you; I kiss
+your soul with my soul. Good-bye, good-bye.
+                                                           "GLORIA."
+
+She cut a lock from her auburn hair and twisted it round and round her
+wedding ring, and thrust it into the envelope.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XL.
+
+
+TWO days later, Paul Griggs stood beside Gloria. She was not dead yet,
+but no earthly power could save her. She lay white and motionless on the
+high trestle bed, unconscious of his presence. They had sent a messenger
+for him, and he had come. The door was locked. Stefanone and his wife
+whispered together on the landing. In the third room, beyond, the nurse
+was shedding hysterical tears over the sleeping child.
+
+The strong man stood stone still with shadowy, unblinking eyes, gazing
+into the dying face. Not a muscle moved, not a feature was distorted,
+his breath was regular and slow, for his grief had taken hold upon his
+soul, and his body was unconscious of time, as though it were already
+dead.
+
+She had suffered horrible agonies for two nights and one day, and now
+the end was very near, for the wracked nerves could no longer feel. She
+lay on her back, lightly covered, one white arm and hand above the
+coverlet, the other hidden beneath it.
+
+The room was very hot, and the sun streamed through the narrow aperture
+of the nearly closed shutters, and made a bright streak on the red
+bricks, for it was morning still.
+
+The purple lids opened, and Gloria looked up. There was no shiver now,
+as she recognized the man she feared, for the nerves were almost dead.
+Perhaps there was less fear, for she knew that it was almost over. The
+dark eyes were fixed on his with a mysterious, wondering look.
+
+He tried to speak, and his lips moved, but he could make no sound, and
+his chest heaved convulsively, once. He knew what she had done, for they
+had told him. He knew, now that he tried to speak and could not, that he
+was half killed by grief. She saw the effort and understood, and faintly
+smiled.
+
+"Why?"
+
+He wrenched the single broken word out of himself by an enormous effort,
+and his throat swelled and was dry. Suddenly a single great drop of
+sweat rolled down his pale forehead.
+
+"I could not live," she answered, in a cool, far voice beyond suffering,
+and still she smiled.
+
+"Why? Why?"
+
+The repeated word broke out twice like two sobs, but not a feature
+moved. The dying woman's eyelids quivered.
+
+"I was a burden to you," she said faintly and distinctly. "You are free
+now, you have--only the child."
+
+His calm broke.
+
+"Gloria, Gloria! In the name of God Almighty, do not leave me so!"
+
+He clasped her in his arms and lifted her a little, pressing his lips to
+her face. She was inert as a statue. She feared him still, and she felt
+the shiver of horror at his touch, but it could not move her limbs any
+more. Her eyes opened and looked into his, very close, but his were
+shut. The mask was gone. The man's whole soul was in his agonized face,
+and his arm shook with her. Her mind was clear and she understood. She
+was still herself, acting her play out in the teeth of death.
+
+"I could not live," she said. "I could not be a millstone, dragging you
+down, watching you as you killed yourself in working for me. It was to
+be one of us. It was better so."
+
+In his agony he laid his head beside hers on the pillow.
+
+"Gloria--for Christ's sake--don't leave me--" The deep moan came from
+his tortured heart.
+
+"Bring--the child--Walter--" she said very faintly.
+
+Even in death she could not bear to be alone with him. He straightened
+himself, stood up, and saw the light fading in her eyes. Then, indeed, a
+shiver ran through her and shook her. Then the lids opened wide, and she
+cried out loudly.
+
+"Quick--I am going--"
+
+Rather than that she should not have what she wished, he tore himself
+away and wrenched the door open, forgetting that it was locked.
+
+"Bring the child!" he cried, into the face of old Nanna, who was
+standing there, and he pushed her towards the door of the other room
+with one hand, while he already turned back to Gloria.
+
+He started, for she was sitting up, with wide eyes and outstretched
+hands, gazing at the patch of sunlight on the floor. Dying, she saw the
+awful vision of her dream again, rising stiff and stark from the bricks
+to its upright horror between her and the light. Her hands pointed at it
+and shook, and her jaw dropped, but she was motionless as she sat.
+
+Nanna, sobbing, came in suddenly, holding up the little child straight
+before her, that it might see its mother before she was gone forever.
+The baby hands feebly beat its little sides, and it gasped for breath.
+
+Words came from Gloria's open mouth, articulate, clear, but very far in
+sound.
+
+"An evil death on you and all your house!" the words said, as though
+spoken by another.
+
+The outstretched hands sank slowly, as the vision laid itself down
+before her, straight and corpse-like. The beautiful head fell back upon
+Griggs's arm, and the eyes met his.
+
+[Illustration: "The last great, true note died away."--Vol. II., p.
+219.]
+
+Nanna prayed aloud, holding up the child mechanically, and the small
+eyes were fixed, horrorstruck, upon the bed. A low cry trembled in the
+air. Stefanone, his hat in his hand, stood against the door, bowed a
+little, as though he were in church. The cry came again. Then there was
+a sort of struggle.
+
+In an instant Gloria was standing up on the bed to her full height. And
+the hot, still room rang with a burst of desperate, ear-breaking song,
+in majestic, passionate, ascending intervals.
+
+          "Calpesta il mio cadavere, ma salva il Trovator!"
+
+The last great, true note died away. For one instant she stood up still,
+with outstretched hands, white, motionless. Then the flame in the dark
+eyes broke and went out, and Gloria fell down dead.
+
+"Maria Addolorata! Maria Addolorata!" Nanna screamed in deadly terror,
+as she heard the transcendent voice that one time, like a voice from the
+grave.
+
+She sank down, fainting upon the floor, and the little child rolled from
+her slackened arms upon the coarse bricks and lay on its face, moaning
+tremulously. No one heeded it.
+
+Stefanone, with instinctive horror of death, turned and went blindly
+down the steps, not knowing what he had seen, the death notes still
+ringing in his ears.
+
+On the bed, the man lay dumb upon the dead woman. Only the poor little
+child seemed to be alive, and clutched feebly at the coarse red bricks,
+and moaned and bruised its small face. It bore the slender inheritance
+of fatal life, the inheritance of vows broken and of faith outraged, and
+with it, perhaps, the implanted seed of a lifelong terror, not
+remembered, but felt throughout life, as real and as deadly as an
+inheritance of mortal disease. Better, perhaps, if death had taken it,
+too, to the lonely grave of the outcast and suicide woman, among the
+rocks, out of earshot of humanity. Death makes strange oversights and
+leaves strange gleanings for life, when he has reaped his field and
+housed his harvest.
+
+They would not give Gloria Christian burial, for it was known throughout
+Subiaco that she had poisoned herself, and those were still the old
+days, when the Church's rules were the law of the people.
+
+Paul Griggs took the body of the woman he had loved, and loved beyond
+death, and he laid her in a deep grave in a hollow of the hillside. Such
+words as he had to speak to those who helped him, he spoke quietly, and
+none could say that they had seen the still face moved by sorrow. But as
+they watched him, a human sort of fear took hold of them, at his great
+quiet, and they knew that his grief was beyond anything which could be
+shown or understood. It was night, and they filled the grave after he
+had thrown earth into it with his hands. He sent them away, and they
+left him alone with the dead, leaving also one of their lanterns upon a
+stone near by.
+
+All that night he lay on the grave, dumb. Then, when the dawn came upon
+him, he kissed the loose earth and stones, and got upon his feet and
+went slowly down the hillside to the town beyond the torrent. He went
+into the house noiselessly, and lay down upon the bed on which she had
+died. And so he did for two nights and two days. On the third, a great
+carriage came from Rome, bringing twelve men, singers of the Sistine
+Chapel and of the choir of Saint Peter's and of Saint John Lateran,
+twelve men having very beautiful voices, as sweet as any in the world.
+He had sent for them when he had been told that she could not have
+Christian burial.
+
+They were talking and laughing together when they came, but when they
+saw his face they grew very quiet, and followed him in silence where he
+led them. Two little boys followed them, too, wondering what was to
+happen, and what the thirteen men were going to do, all dressed in
+black, walking so steadily together.
+
+When they all came to the hollow in the hillside, they saw a mound, as
+of a grave, amidst the stones, and on it there lay a cross of black
+wood. The singers looked at one another in silence, and they understood
+that whoever lay in the grave had been refused a place in the
+churchyard, for some great sin. But they said nothing. The man who led
+them stood still at the head of the cross and took off his hat, and
+looked at his twelve companions, who uncovered their heads. They had
+sheets of written music with them, and they passed them quietly about
+from one to another and looked towards one who was their leader.
+
+Overhead, the summer sky was pale, and there were twin mountains of
+great clouds in the northwest, hiding the sun, and in the southeast,
+whence the parching wind was blowing in fierce gusts. It blew the dry
+dust from the clods of earth on the grave, and the dust settled on the
+black clothes of the men as they stood near.
+
+The voices struck the first chord softly together, and the music for the
+dead went up to heaven, and was borne far across the torrent to the
+distance in the arms of the hot wind. And one voice climbed above the
+others, sweet and clear, as though to reach heaven itself; and another
+sank deep and true and soft in the full close of the stave, as though it
+would touch and comfort the heart that was quite still at last in the
+deep earth.
+
+Then one who was young stood a little before the rest, a strong, pale
+singer, with an angel's voice. And he sang alone to the sky and the
+dusty rocks and the solemn grave. He sang the 'Cujus animam gementem
+pertransivit gladius' of the Stabat Mater, as none had sung it before
+him, nor perhaps has ever sung it since that day--he alone, without
+other music.
+
+They came also to the words 'Fac ut animę donetur Paradisi gloria,' and
+the word was a name to him who listened silently in their midst.
+
+Besides these they sang also a 'Miserere,' and last of all, 'Requiem
+eternam dona eis.'
+
+Then there was silence, and they looked at the still face, as though
+asking what they should do. The mysterious eyes met theirs with shadows.
+The pale head bent itself in thanks, twice or thrice, but there were no
+words.
+
+So they turned and left him there on the hillside, and went back to the
+town, awestruck by the vastness of the man's sorrow. And afterwards, for
+many years, when any of them heard of a great grief, he shook his head
+and said that he and those who had sung with him over a lonely grave in
+the mountains, alone knew what a man could feel and yet live.
+
+And Paul Griggs lived through those days, and is still alive. His grief
+could not spend itself, but his stern strength took hold of life again,
+and he took the child with him and went back to Rome, to work for it
+from that time forward, and to shield it from evil if he could, and to
+bring it up to be a man, ignorant of what had happened in Subiaco in
+those summer days, ignorant of the tie that made it his, to be a man
+free from the burden of past fates and sins and broken vows and trampled
+faith, and of the death his dead mother had died, having a clean name of
+his own, with which there could be no memories of misery and fear and
+horror.
+
+He wrote a few short words to Angus Dalrymple, now Lord Redin at last,
+to tell him the truth as far as he knew it. The hand that had laboured
+so bravely for Gloria could hardly trace the words that told of her
+death.
+
+Then, when the summer heat was passed, he took little Walter Crowdie
+with him, hiring an Englishwoman to tend the child, and he crossed the
+ocean and gave it to certain kinsfolk of his in America, telling them
+that it was the child of one who had been very dear to him, that he had
+taken it as his own, and would provide for it and take it back when it
+should be older. And so he did, and little Walter Crowdie grew up with
+an angel's voice, and other gifts which made him famous in his day. But
+many things happened before that time came.
+
+He could do no better than that. For a time he strove to earn money with
+his pen in his own country. But the land was still trembling from the
+convulsion of a great war, and there were many before him, and he was
+little known. After a year had passed, he saw that he could not then
+succeed, and very heavy at heart he set his face eastward again, to
+toil at his old calling as a correspondent for a great London paper, to
+earn bread for himself and for the one living being that he loved.
+
+
+
+
+PART III.
+
+_DONNA FRANCESCA CAMPODONICO._
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLI.
+
+
+NOT long after this Dalrymple returned to Rome, after an absence of
+several years. Family affairs had kept him in England and Scotland
+during his daughter's married life with Reanda; and after she had left
+the latter, it was natural that he should not wish to be in the same
+city with her, considering the view he took of her actions. Then, after
+he had learned from Griggs's brief note that she was dead, he felt that
+he could not return at once, hard and unforgiving as he was. But at last
+the power that attracted him was too strong to be resisted any longer,
+and he yielded to it and came back.
+
+He took up his abode in a hotel in the Piazza di Spagna, not far from
+his old lodgings. Long as he had lived in Rome, he was a foreigner there
+and liked the foreigners' quarter of the city. He intended once more to
+get a lodging and a servant, and to live in his morose solitude as of
+old, but on his first arrival he naturally went to the hotel. He did not
+know whether Griggs were in Rome. Reanda was alive, and living at the
+Palazzetto Borgia; for the two had exchanged letters twice a year,
+written in the constrained tone of mutual civility which suited the
+circumstances in which they were placed towards each other.
+
+In Dalrymple's opinion, Reanda had been to blame to a certain extent, in
+having maintained his intimacy with Francesca when he was aware that it
+displeased his wife. At the same time, the burden of the fault was
+undoubtedly the woman's, and her father felt in a measure responsible
+for it. Whether he felt much more than that it would be hard to say. His
+gloomy nature had spent itself in secret sorrow for his wife, with a
+faithfulness of grief which might well atone for many shortcomings. It
+is certain that he was not in any way outwardly affected by the news of
+Gloria's death. He had never loved her, she had disgraced him, and now
+she was dead. There was nothing more to be said about it.
+
+He was not altogether indifferent to the inheritance of title and
+fortune which had fallen to him in his advanced middle age. But if
+either influenced his character, the result was rather an increased
+tendency to live his own life in scorn and defiance of society, for it
+made him conscious that he should find even less opposition to his
+eccentricities than in former days, when he had been relatively a poor
+man without any especial claim to consideration.
+
+Two or three days after he had arrived in Rome, he went to the
+Palazzetto Borgia and sent in his card, asking to see Francesca
+Campodonico. In order that she might know who he was, he wrote his name
+in pencil, as she would probably not have recognized him as Lord Redin.
+In this he was mistaken, for Reanda, who had heard the news, had told
+her of it. She received him in the drawing-room. She looked very ill, he
+thought, and was much thinner than in former times, but her manner was
+not changed. They talked upon indifferent subjects, and there was a
+constraint between them. Dalrymple broke through it roughly at last.
+
+"Did you ever see my daughter after she left her husband?" he asked, as
+though he were inquiring about a mere acquaintance.
+
+Francesca started a little.
+
+"No," she answered. "It would not have been easy."
+
+She remembered her interview with Griggs, but resolved not to speak of
+it. She would have changed the subject abruptly if he had given her
+time.
+
+"It certainly was not to be expected that you should," said Lord Redin,
+thoughtfully. "When a woman chooses to break with society, she knows
+perfectly well what she is doing, and one may as well leave her to
+herself."
+
+Francesca was shocked by the cynicism of the speech. The colour rose
+faintly in her cheeks.
+
+"She was your daughter," she said, reproachfully. "Since she is dead,
+you should speak less cruelly of her."
+
+"I did not speak cruelly. I merely stated a fact. She disgraced herself
+and me, and her husband. The circumstance that she is dead does not
+change the case, so far as I can see."
+
+"Do you know how she died?" asked Francesca, moved to righteous anger,
+and willing to pain him if she could.
+
+He looked up suddenly, and bent his shaggy brows.
+
+"No," he answered. "That man Griggs wrote me that she had died suddenly.
+That was all I heard."
+
+"She did not die a natural death."
+
+"Indeed?"
+
+"She poisoned herself. She could not bear the life. It was very
+dreadful." Francesca's voice sank to a low tone.
+
+Lord Redin was silent for a few moments, and his bony face had a grim
+look. Perhaps something in the dead woman's last act appealed to him, as
+nothing in her life had done.
+
+"Tell me, please. I should like to know. After all, she was my
+daughter."
+
+"Yes," said Francesca, gravely. "She was your daughter. She was very
+unhappy with Paul Griggs, and she found out very soon that she had made
+a dreadful mistake. She loved her husband, after all."
+
+"Like a woman!" interjected Lord Redin, half unconsciously.
+
+Francesca paid no attention to the remark, except, perhaps, that she
+raised her eyebrows a little.
+
+"They went out to spend the summer at Subiaco--"
+
+"At Subiaco?" Dalrymple's steely blue eyes fixed themselves in a look of
+extreme attention.
+
+"Yes, during the heat. They lodged in the house of a man called
+Stefanone--a wine-seller--a very respectable place."
+
+Lord Redin had started nervously at the name, but he recovered himself.
+
+"Very respectable," he said, in an odd tone.
+
+"You know the house?" asked Francesca, in surprise.
+
+"Very well indeed. I was there nearly five and twenty years ago. I
+supposed that Stefanone was dead by this time."
+
+"No. He and his wife are alive, and take lodgers."
+
+"Excuse me, but how do you know all this?" asked Lord Redin, with sudden
+curiosity.
+
+"I have been there," answered Francesca. "I have often been to the
+convent. You know that one of our family is generally abbess. A
+Cardinal Braccio was archbishop, too, a good many years ago. Casa
+Braccio owns a good deal of property there."
+
+"Yes. I know that you are of the family."
+
+"My name was Francesca Braccio," said Francesca, quietly. "Of course I
+have always known Subiaco, and every one there knows Stefanone, and the
+story of his daughter who ran away with an Englishman many years ago,
+and never was heard of again."
+
+Lord Redin grew a trifle paler.
+
+"Oh!" he exclaimed. "Does every one know that story?"
+
+There was something so constrained in his tone that Francesca looked at
+him curiously.
+
+"Yes--in Subiaco," she answered. "But Gloria--" she lingered a little
+sadly on the name--"Gloria wrote letters to her husband from there and
+begged him to go and see her."
+
+"He could hardly be expected to do that," said Lord Redin, his hard tone
+returning. "Did you advise him to go?"
+
+"He consulted me," answered Francesca, rather coldly. "I told him to
+follow his own impulse. He did not go. He did not believe that she was
+sincere."
+
+"I do not blame him. When a woman has done that sort of thing, there is
+no reason for believing her."
+
+"He should have gone. I should have influenced him, I think, and I did
+wrong. She wrote him one more letter and then killed herself. She
+suffered horribly and only died two days afterwards. Shall I tell you
+more?"
+
+"If there is more to tell," said Lord Redin, less hardly.
+
+"There is not much. I went out there last year. They had refused her
+Christian burial. Paul Griggs bought a piece of land amongst the rock,
+on the other side of the torrent, and buried her there. It is surrounded
+by a wall, and there is a plain slab without a name. There are flowers.
+He pays Stefanone to have it cared for. They told me all they knew--it
+is too terrible. She died singing--she was out of her mind. It must have
+been dreadful. Old Nanna, Stefanone's wife, was in the room, and fainted
+with terror. It seems that poor Gloria, oddly enough, had an
+extraordinary resemblance to that unfortunate nun of our family who was
+burned to death in the convent, and whom Nanna had often seen. She sang
+like her, too--at the last minute Nanna thought she saw poor sister
+Maria Addolorata standing up dead and singing. It was rather strange."
+
+Lord Redin said nothing. He had bowed his head so that Francesca could
+not see his face, but she saw that his hands were trembling violently.
+She thought that she had misjudged the man, and that he was really very
+deeply moved by the story of his daughter's death. Doubtless, his
+emotion had made him wish to control himself, and he had overshot the
+mark and spoken cruelly only in order to seem calm. No one had ever
+spoken to him of his wife, and even now he could hardly bear to hear her
+name. It was long before he looked up. Then he rose almost immediately.
+
+"Will you allow me to come and see you occasionally?" he asked, with a
+gentleness not at all like his usual manner.
+
+Francesca was touched at last, misunderstanding the cause of the change.
+She told him to come as often as he pleased. As he was going, he
+remembered that he had not asked after his son-in-law. Reanda had always
+seemed to belong to Francesca, and it was natural enough that he should
+inquire of her.
+
+"Where is Reanda to be found?" he asked.
+
+"He is very ill," said Francesca, in a low voice. "I am afraid you
+cannot see him."
+
+"Where does he live? I will at least inquire. I am sorry to hear that he
+is ill."
+
+"He lives here," she answered with a little hesitation. "He is in his
+old rooms upstairs."
+
+"Oh! Yes--thank you." Their eyes met for a moment. Lord Redin's
+glittered, but Francesca's were clear and true. "I am sure you take good
+care of him," he added. "Good-bye."
+
+He left her alone, and when he was gone, she sat down wearily and laid
+her head back against a cushion, with half-closed eyes. Her lips were
+almost colourless, and her mouth had grown ten years older.
+
+Reanda was dying, and she knew it, and with him the light was going out
+of her life, as it had gone out long ago from Dalrymple's, as it had
+gone out of the life of Paul Griggs. The idea crossed her mind that
+these two men, with herself, were linked and bound together by some
+strange fatality which she could not understand, but from which there
+was no escape, and which was bringing them slowly and surely to the
+blank horror of lonely old age.
+
+The same thought occurred to Lord Redin as he slowly threaded the
+streets, going back to his hotel, to his lonely dinner, his lonely
+evening, his lonely, sleepless night. He alone of the three now knew all
+that there was to know, and in the chronicle of his far memories all led
+back to that day at Subiaco, long ago, when he had first knocked at the
+convent gate--beyond that, to the evening when poor Annetta had told him
+of the beautiful nun with the angel's voice. Many lives had been wrecked
+since that first day, and every one of them owed its ruin to him. He
+felt strangely drawn to Francesca Campodonico. There was something in
+her face that very faintly reminded him of his dead wife, her
+kinswoman, and of his dead daughter, another of her race. His gloomy
+northern nature felt the fatality of it all. He never could repent of
+what he had done. The golden light of his one short happiness shone
+through the shrouding veil of fatal time. In his own eyes, with his
+beliefs, he had not even sinned in taking what he had loved so well. But
+all the sorrow he saw, came from that deed. Francesca Campodonico's eyes
+were as clear and true as her heart. But he knew that Reanda's life was
+everything on earth to her, and he guessed that she was to lose that,
+too, before long. He would willingly have parted with his own, but
+through all his being there was a rough, manly courage that forbade the
+last act of fear, and there was a stern old Scottish belief that it was
+wrong--plainly wrong.
+
+He did not wish to see Paul Griggs any more than he had wished to see
+his daughter after she had left her husband. But no thought of vengeance
+crossed his mind. It seemed to him fruitless to think of avenging
+himself upon fate; for, after all, it was fate that had done the dire
+mischief. Possibly, he thought, as he walked slowly towards his hotel,
+fate had brought him back to Rome now, to deal with him as she had dealt
+with his. He should be glad of it, for he found little in life that was
+not gloomy and lonely beyond any words. He did not know why he had come.
+He had acted upon an impulse in going to see Francesca that day.
+
+When he reached the Corso, instead of going to his hotel he walked down
+the street in the direction of the Piazza del Popolo. He wished to see
+the house in which Gloria had lived with Griggs, and he remembered the
+street and the number from her having written to him when she wanted
+money. He reached the corner of the Via della Frezza, and turned down,
+looking up at the numbers as he went along. He glanced at the little
+wine shop on the left, with its bush, its red glass lantern, and its
+rush-bottomed stools set out by the door. In the shadow within he saw
+the gleam of silver buttons on a dark blue jacket. There was nothing
+uncommon in the sight.
+
+He found the house, paused, looked up at the windows, and looked twice
+at the number.
+
+"Do you seek some one?" inquired the one-eyed cobbler, resting his black
+hands on his knees.
+
+"Did Mr. Paul Griggs ever live here?" asked Lord Redin.
+
+"Many years," answered the cobbler, laconically.
+
+"Where does he live now?"
+
+"Always here, except when he is not here. Third floor, on the left. You
+can ring the bell. Who knows? Perhaps he will open. I do not wish to
+tell lies."
+
+The old man grunted, bent down over the shoe, and ran his awl through
+the sole. He was profoundly attached to Paul Griggs, who had always been
+kind to him, and since Gloria's death he defended him from visitors with
+more determination than ever.
+
+Lord Redin stood still and said nothing. In ten seconds the cobbler
+looked up with a surly frown.
+
+"If you wish to go up, go up," he growled. "If not, favour me by getting
+out of my light."
+
+The Scotchman looked at him.
+
+"You do not remember me," he observed. "I used to come here with the
+Signore."
+
+"Well? I have told you. If you want him, there is the staircase."
+
+"No. I do not want him," said Lord Redin, and he turned away abruptly.
+
+"As you please," growled the cobbler without looking up again.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLII.
+
+
+PAUL GRIGGS had gone back to the house in the Via della Frezza after his
+return from America, and lived alone in the little apartment in which
+the happy days of his life had been spent. He was a man able to live two
+lives,--the one in the past, the other in the active present. It was his
+instinct to be alone in his sorrow, and alone in the struggle which lay
+before him, for himself and his child. But he would have with him all
+that could make the memory of Gloria real. The reality of such things
+softened with their contrast the hardness of life.
+
+He had taken the same rooms again. Out of boxes and trunks stored in a
+garret of the house, he had taken many things which had belonged to
+Gloria. Alone, he had arranged the rooms as they used to be. His
+writing-table stood in the same place, and near it was Gloria's chair;
+beside it, the little stand with her needlework, her silks, her
+scissors, and her thimble, all as it used to be. A novel she had once
+read when sitting there lay upon the chair. Many little objects which
+had belonged to her were all in their accustomed places. On the
+mantelpiece the cheap American clock ticked loudly as in old days.
+
+Day after day, as of old, he sat in his place at work. He had made the
+room so alive with her that sometimes, looking up from a long spell of
+writing, he forgot, and stared an instant at the bedroom door, and
+listened for her footstep. Those were his happiest moments, though each
+was killed in turn by the vision of a lonely grave among rocks.
+
+With intensest longing he called her back to him. In his sleep, the last
+words he had spoken to her were spoken again by his unconscious lips in
+the still, dark night. Everything in him called her, his living soul and
+his strong bodily self. There were times when he knew that if he opened
+his eyes, shut to see her, he should see her really, there in her chair.
+He looked, trembling, and there was nothing. In dreams he sought her and
+could not find her, though he wandered in dark places, across endless
+wastes of broken clods of earth and broken stone. It was as though her
+grave covered the whole world round, and his path lay on the shadowed
+arms of an infinite great cross. And again the grey dawn awoke him from
+the search, to feel that, for pity's sake, she must be alive and near
+him. But he was always alone.
+
+Silent, iron-browed, iron-handed, he faced the world alone, doing all
+that was required of him, and more also. As he had said to Gloria in
+that very room, he was building up a superiority for himself, since
+genius was not his. He had in the rough ore of his strength the metal
+which some few men receive as a birth-gift from nature, ready smelted
+and refined, ready for them to coin at a single stroke, and throw
+broadcast to the applauding world. He had not much, perhaps, but he had
+something of the true ore, and in the furnace of his untiring energy he
+would burn out the dross and find the precious gold at last. It could
+not be for her, now. It was not for himself, but it was to be for the
+little child, growing up in a far country with a clean name--to be his
+father's friend, and nothing more, but to be happy, for the dead woman's
+sake who bore him.
+
+As in all that made a part of Paul Griggs, there was in his memory of
+Gloria and in his sorrow for her that element of endurance which was the
+foundation of his nature. That portion of his life was finished, and
+there could never be anything like it again; but it was to be always
+present with him, so long as he lived. He was sure of that. It would
+always be in his power to close his eyes and believe that she was near
+him. If it were possible, he loved her more dead than he had loved her
+living.
+
+And she had loved him to the last, and had given her life in the mad
+thought of lightening his burden. Her last words to him had told him
+so. Her last wish had been to see the child. And the greatest sacrifice
+he could now make to her was to separate himself from the child, and let
+him grow up to look upon the man who provided for him as his friend, but
+as nothing more. It was an exaggerated idea, perhaps, though it was by
+far the wisest course. Yet in doing what he did, Griggs deprived himself
+for months at a time of something that was of her, and he did it for her
+sake. He knew that in her heart there had been the unspoken shame of her
+ruined life. Shame should never come near little Walter Crowdie. The
+secret could be kept, and Paul Griggs meant to keep it, as he kept many
+things from the world.
+
+All his lonely life grew in the perfect memory, cut short though it was
+by fate's cruel scythe-stroke. Even that one fearful day held no shadow
+of unfaithfulness. She had been mad, but she had loved him. She had done
+a deed of horror upon herself, but she had loved him, and madly had done
+it for his sake. She had laid down her life for him. All that he could
+do would be nothing compared with that. All that he could tear from the
+world and lay tenderly as an offering at her feet would be but a handful
+of dust in comparison with what she had done in the madness of love.
+
+His heart strings wound themselves about their treasure, closer and
+closer, stronger and stronger. The two natures that strove together in
+him, the natures of body and soul, were at one with her, and drew life
+from her though she was gone. It seemed impossible that they could ever
+again part and smite one another for the mastery, as of old, for one
+sorrow had overwhelmed them both, and together they knew the depths of
+one grief.
+
+Again, as of old, he defied fate. Death could take the child from him,
+but could not separate the three in death or life. So long as the child
+lived, to do or die for him was the question, while life should last.
+But Paul Griggs defied fate, for fate's grim hand could not uproot his
+heart from the strong place of his great dead love, to buffet it and
+tear it again. He was alone, bodily, but he was safe forever.
+
+Out of the dimness of twilight shadows the pale face came to him, and
+the sweet lips kissed his; in a light not earthly the dark eyes
+lightened, and the red auburn hair gleamed and fell about him. In the
+darkness, a tender hand stole softly upon his, and words yet more tender
+stirred the stillness. He knew that she was near him, close to him, with
+him. The truth of what had been made the half dream all true. Only in
+his sleep he could not find her, and was wandering ever over a dreary
+grave that covered the whole world.
+
+So his life went on with little change, inwardly or outwardly, from day
+to day, in the absolute security from danger which the dead give us of
+themselves. The faith that had gone beyond her death could go beyond his
+own life, too. He defied fate.
+
+Then fate, silent, relentless, awful, knocked at his door.
+
+He was at work as usual. It was a bright winter's day, and the high sun
+of the late morning streamed across one corner of his writing-table. He
+was thinking of nothing but his writing, and upon that his thoughts were
+closely intent in that everlasting struggle to do better which had
+nearly driven poor Gloria mad.
+
+The little jingling bell rang and thumped against the outer door to
+which it was fastened. He paid no attention to it, till it rang again,
+an instant later. Then he looked up and waited, listening. Again, again,
+and again he heard it, at equal intervals, five times in all. That was
+the old cobbler's signal, and the only one to which Griggs ever
+responded. He laid down his pen and went to the door. The one-eyed man,
+his shoemaker's apron twisted round his waist, stood on the landing, and
+gave him a small, thick package, tied with a black string, under which
+was thrust a note. Griggs took it without a word, and the bandy-legged
+old cobbler swung away from the door with a satisfied grunt.
+
+Griggs took the parcel back to his work-room, and stood by the window
+looking at the address on the note. He recognized Francesca
+Campodonico's handwriting, though he had rarely seen it, and he broke
+the seal with considerable curiosity, for he could not imagine why Donna
+Francesca should write to him. He even wondered at her knowing that he
+was in Rome. He had never spoken with her since that day long ago, when
+she had sent for him and begged him to take Gloria back to her father.
+He read the note slowly. It was in Italian, and the language was rather
+formal.
+
+          "SIGNORE:--My old and dear friend, Signor Angelo
+          Reanda, died the day before yesterday after a long
+          illness. During the last hours of his life he
+          asked me to do him a service, and I gave him the
+          solemn promise which I fulfil in sending you the
+          accompanying package. You will see that it was
+          sealed by him and addressed to you by himself,
+          probably before he was taken ill, and he saw it
+          before he died and said that it was the one he
+          meant me to send. That was all he told me
+          regarding it, and I am wholly ignorant of the
+          contents. I have ascertained that you are in Rome,
+          and are living, as formerly, in the Via della
+          Frezza, and to that address I send the parcel.
+          Pray inform me that you have received it.
+
+          "Believe me, Signore, with perfect esteem,
+                                    "FRANCESCA CAMPODONICO."
+
+Griggs read the note twice through to the end, and laid it upon the
+table. Then he thrust his hands into his pockets, and turned
+thoughtfully to the window without touching the parcel, of which he had
+not even untied the black string.
+
+So Reanda was dead at last. It was nothing to him, now, though it might
+have meant much if the man had died two years earlier. Living people
+were very little to Paul Griggs. They might as well be dead, he thought.
+Nevertheless, the bald fact that Reanda was gone, made him thoughtful.
+Another figure had disappeared out of his life, though it had not meant
+very much. He believed, and had always believed, that Reanda had loved
+Francesca in secret, though she had treated him as a mere friend, as a
+protectress should treat one who needs her protection.
+
+Griggs turned and took up the note to look at it keenly, for he believed
+himself a judge of handwriting, and he thought that he might detect in
+hers the indications of any great suffering. The lines ran down a little
+at the end, but otherwise the large, careful hand was the same as ever,
+learned in a convent and little changed since, even as the woman herself
+had changed little. She was the same always, simple, honest, strangely
+maidenlike, thoroughly good.
+
+He turned to the window again. So Reanda was dead. He would not find
+Gloria, to whatsoever place he was gone. The shadow of a smile wreathed
+itself about the mouth of the lonely man--the last that was there for a
+long time after that day. Gloria was dead, but Gloria was his, and he
+hers, for ever and ever. Neither heaven nor hell could tear up his heart
+nor loosen the strong hold of all of him that clung to her and had grown
+about her and through her, till he and she were quite one.
+
+Then, all at once, he wondered what it could be that Reanda had wished
+to send him from beyond the grave. He turned, took the parcel, and
+snapped the black string with his fingers, and took off the paper.
+Within was the parcel, wrapped in a second paper and firmly tied with
+broad tape. A few words were written on the outside.
+
+"To be given to Paul Griggs when I am dead. A. R."
+
+The superscription told nothing, but he looked at it curiously as one
+does at such things, when the sender is beyond answer. He cut the white
+tape, for it was tied so tightly that he could not slip a finger under
+it to break it. There was something of hard determination in the way it
+was tied.
+
+It contained letters in their envelopes, as they had reached Reanda
+through the post, all of the same size, laid neatly one upon the
+other--a score or more of them.
+
+Griggs felt his hand shake, for he recognized Gloria's writing. His
+first impulse was to burn the whole package, as it was, reverently, as
+something which had belonged to Gloria, in which he had no part, or
+share, or right. He laid his hand upon the pile of letters, and looked
+at the small fire to see whether it were burning well. Under his hand he
+felt something hard inside the uppermost envelope. His fate was upon
+him--the fate he had so often defied to do its worst, since all that he
+had was dead and was his forever.
+
+Without another thought, he took from the envelope the letter it
+contained, and the hard thing which was inside the letter. He held it a
+moment in his hand, and it flamed in the beam of sunlight that fell
+across the end of the table, and dazzled him. Then he realized what it
+was. It was Gloria's wedding ring, and twisted round and round it and in
+and out of it was a lock of her red auburn hair, serpent-like, flaming
+in the sunshine, with a hundred little tongues that waved and moved
+softly under his breath.
+
+An icy chill smote him in the neck, and his strong limbs shook to his
+feet as he laid the thing down upon the corner of the table. There was a
+fearful fascination in it. The red gold hairs stirred and moved in the
+sunlight still, even when he no longer breathed upon them. It was her
+hair, and it seemed alive.
+
+In his other hand he still held the letter. Fate had him now, and would
+not let him go while he could feel. Again and again the cruel chill
+smote him in the back. He opened the doubled sheet, and saw the date and
+the name of the place,--Subiaco,--and the first words--'Heart of my
+heart, this is my last cry to you'--and it was to Angelo Reanda.
+
+Rigid and feeling as though great icy hands were drawing him up by the
+neck from the ground, he stood still and read every word, with all the
+message of loathing and abject fear and horror of his touch, which every
+word brought him, from the dead, through the other dead.
+
+Slowly, regularly, without wavering, moved by a power not his own, his
+hands took the other letters and opened them, and his eyes read all the
+words, from the last to the first. One by one the sheets fell upon the
+table, and all alone in the midst the lock of red auburn hair sent up
+its little lambent flame in the sunshine.
+
+Paul Griggs stood upright, stark with the stress of rending soul and
+breaking heart.
+
+As he stood there, he was aware of a man in black beside him, like
+himself, ghastly to see, with shadows and fires for eyes, and thin,
+parted lips that showed wolfish teeth, strong, stern, with iron hands.
+
+"You are dead," said his own voice out of the other's mouth. "You are
+dead, and I am Gorlias."
+
+Then the strong teeth were set and the lips closed, and the gladiator's
+unmatched arms wound themselves upon the other's strength, with grip and
+clutch and strain not of earthly men.
+
+Silent and terrible, they wrestled in fight, arm to arm, bone to bone,
+breath to breath. Hour after hour they strove in the still room. The sun
+went westering away, the shadows deepened. The night came stealing black
+and lonely through the window. Foot to foot, breast to breast, in the
+dark, they bowed themselves one upon the other, dumb in the agony of
+their reeling strife.
+
+Late in the night, in the cold room, Paul Griggs felt the carpet under
+his hands as he lay upon his back.
+
+His heart was broken.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLIII.
+
+
+LORD REDIN had barely glanced at the man in the blue jacket with silver
+buttons, whom he had seen in the deep shadow of the little wine shop as
+he strolled down the Via della Frezza. But Stefanone had seen him and
+had gone to the door as he passed, watching him when he stood talking to
+the one-eyed cobbler, and keeping his keen eyes on him as he passed
+again on his homeward way. And all the way to the hotel in the Piazza di
+Spagna Stefanone had followed him at a distance, watching the great
+loose-jointed frame and the slightly stooping head, till the Scotchman
+disappeared under the archway, past the porter, who stood aside, his
+gold-laced cap in his hand, bowing low to the 'English lord.'
+
+Stefanone waited a few moments and then accosted the porter civilly.
+
+"Do you know if the proprietor wishes to buy some good wine of last
+year, at a cheap rate?" he asked. "You understand. I am of the country.
+I cannot go in and look for the proprietor. But you are doubtless the
+director and you manage these things for him. That is why I ask you."
+
+The porter smiled at the flattery, but said that he believed wine had
+been bought for the whole year.
+
+"The hotel is doubtless full of rich foreigners," observed Stefanone.
+"It is indeed beautiful. I should prefer it to the Palazzo Borghese. Is
+it not full?"
+
+"Quite full," answered the porter, proud of the establishment.
+
+"For instance," said Stefanone, "I saw a great signore going in, just
+before I took the liberty of speaking with you. I am sure that he is a
+great English signore. Not perhaps a mylord. But a great signore, having
+much money."
+
+"What makes you think that?" inquired the porter, with a superior smile.
+
+"Eh, the reasons are two. First, you bowed to him, as though he were
+some personage, and you of course know who he is. Secondly, he lifted
+his hat to you. He is therefore a real signore, as good perhaps as a
+Roman prince. We say a proverb in the country--'to salute is courtesy,
+to answer is duty.' Therefore when any one salutes a real signore, he
+answers and lifts his hat. These are the reasons why I say this one must
+be a great one."
+
+"For that matter, you are right," laughed the porter. "That signore is
+an English lord. What a combination! You have guessed it. His name is
+Lord Redin."
+
+Stefanone's sharp eyes fixed themselves vacantly, for he did not wish to
+betray his surprise at not hearing the name he had expected.
+
+"Eh!" he exclaimed. "Names? What are they, when one is a prince. Prince
+of this. Duke of that. Our Romans are full of names. I daresay this
+signore has four or five."
+
+But the porter knew of no other, and presently Stefanone departed,
+wondering whether he had made a mistake, after all, and recalling the
+features of the man he had followed to compare them with those younger
+ones he remembered so distinctly. He went back to the Via della Frezza
+and drank a glass of wine. Then he filled the glass again and carried it
+carefully across the street to his friend the cobbler.
+
+"Drink," he said. "It will do you good. A drop of wine at sunset gives
+force to the stomach."
+
+The one-eyed man looked up, and smiled at his friend, a phenomenon
+rarely observed on his wrinkled and bearded face. He shrugged one round
+shoulder, by way of assent, held his head a little on one side and
+stretched out his black hand with the glass in it, to the light. He
+tasted it, smelt it, and looked up at Stefanone before he drank in
+earnest.
+
+"Black soul!" he exclaimed by way of an approving asseveration. "This is
+indeed wine!"
+
+"He took it for vinegar!" observed Stefanone, speaking to the air.
+
+"It is wine," answered the cobbler when he had drained the glass. "It is
+a consolation."
+
+Then they began to talk together, and Stefanone questioned him about his
+interview with the tall gentleman an hour earlier. The cobbler really
+knew nothing about him, though he remembered having seen him several
+times, years ago, before Gloria had come.
+
+"You know nothing," said Stefanone. "That signore is the father of Sor
+Paolo's signora, who died in my house."
+
+"You are joking," returned the cobbler, gravely. "He would have come to
+see his daughter while she lived--requiescat!"
+
+"And I say that I am not joking. Do you wish to hear the truth? Well.
+You have much confidence with Sor Paolo. Tell him that the father of the
+poor Signora Gloria came to the door and asked questions. You shall hear
+what he will say. He will say that it is possible. Then he will ask you
+about him. You will tell him, so and so--a very tall signore, all made
+of pieces that swing loosely when he walks, with a beard like the Moses
+of the fountain, and hard blue eyes that strike you like two balls from
+a gun, and hair that is neither red nor white, and a bony face like an
+old horse."
+
+"It is true," said the cobbler, reflectively. "It is he. It is his
+picture."
+
+"You will also say that he is now an English lord, but that formerly
+they called him Sor Angoscia. You, who are friends with Sor Paolo, you
+should tell him this. It may be that Sor Angoscia wishes him evil. Who
+knows? In this world the combinations are so many!"
+
+It was long before the cobbler got an opportunity of speaking with
+Griggs, and when he had the chance, he forgot all about it, though
+Stefanone reminded him of it from time to time. But when he at last
+spoke of the matter he was surprised to find that Stefanone had been
+quite right, as Griggs admitted without the least hesitation. He told
+Stefanone so, and the peasant was satisfied, though he had long been
+positive that he had found his man at last, and recognized him in spite
+of his beard and his age.
+
+After that Stefanone haunted the Piazza di Spagna in the morning,
+talking a little with the models who used to stand there in their
+mountain costumes to be hired by painters in the days when pictures of
+them were the fashion. Many of them came from the neighbourhood of
+Subiaco, and knew Stefanone by sight. When Lord Redin came out of the
+hotel, as he generally did between eleven and twelve if the day were
+fine, Stefanone put his pipe out, stuck it into his breeches' pocket
+with his brass-handled clasp-knife, and strolled away a hundred yards
+behind his enemy.
+
+If Lord Redin noticed him once or twice, it was merely to observe that
+men still came to Rome wearing the old-fashioned dress of the
+respectable peasants. Being naturally fearless, and at present wholly
+unsuspicious, it never struck him that any one could be dogging his
+footsteps whenever he went out of his hotel. In the evening he went out
+very little and then generally in a carriage. Two or three times, on a
+Sunday, he walked over to Saint Peter's and listened to the music at
+Vespers, as many foreigners used to do. Stefanone followed him into the
+church and watched him from a distance. Once the peasant saw Donna
+Francesca, whom he knew by sight as a member of the Braccio family,
+sitting within the great gate of the Chapel of the Choir, where the
+service was held. Lord Redin always followed the frequented streets,
+which led in an almost direct line from the Piazza di Spagna by the Via
+Condotti to the bridge of Saint Angelo. It was the nearest way. He never
+went back to the Via della Frezza, for he had no desire to see Paul
+Griggs, and his curiosity had been satisfied by once looking at the
+house in which his daughter had lived. He spent his evenings alone in
+his rooms with a bottle of wine and a book. Luxury had become a habit
+with him, and he now preferred a draught of Chāteau Lafitte to the rough
+Roman wine barely a year old, while three or four glasses of a certain
+brandy, twenty years in bottle, which he had discovered in the hotel,
+were a necessary condition of his comfort. He had the intention of going
+out one evening, in cloak and soft hat, as of old, to dine in his old
+corner at the Falcone, but he put it off from day to day, feeling no
+taste for the coarser fare and the rougher drink when the hour came.
+
+He often went to see Francesca Campodonico in the middle of the day, at
+which hour the Roman ladies used to be visible to their more intimate
+friends. An odd sort of sympathy had grown up between the two, though
+they scarcely ever alluded to past events, and then only by an accident
+which both regretted. Francesca exercised a refining influence upon the
+gloomy Scotchman, and as he knew her better, he even took the trouble to
+be less rough and cynical when he was with her. In character she was
+utterly different from his dead wife, but there was something of family
+resemblance between the two which called up memories very dear to him.
+
+Her influence softened him. In his wandering life he had more than once
+formed acquaintances with men of tastes more or less similar to his own,
+which might have ripened into friendships for a man of less morose
+character. But in that, he and Paul Griggs were very much alike. They
+found an element in every acquaintance which roused their distrust, and
+as men to men they were both equally incapable of making a confidence.
+Dalrymple's life had not brought him into close relations with any woman
+except his wife. For her sake he had kept all others at a distance in a
+strange jealousy of his own heart which had made her for him the only
+woman in the world. Then, too, he had hated, for her, the curiosity of
+those who had evidently wished to know her story. That had been always a
+secret. He had told it to his father, and his father had died with it.
+No one else had ever known whence Maria had come, nor what her name had
+been. If Captain Crowdie had ever guessed the truth, which was doubtful,
+he had held his tongue.
+
+But Angus Dalrymple was no longer the man he had been in those days. He
+had changed very much in the past two or three years; for though he had
+almost outlived the excesses into which he had fallen in his first
+sorrow, his hardy constitution had been shaken, if not weakened, by
+them. Physically his nerves were almost as good as ever, but morally he
+was not the same man. He felt the need of sympathy and confidence, which
+with such natures is the first sign of breaking down, and of the
+degeneration of pride.
+
+That was probably the secret of what he felt when he was with Francesca.
+She had that rarest quality in women, too, which commands men without
+inspiring love. It is very hard to explain what that quality is, but
+most men who have lived much and seen much have met with it at least
+once in their lives.
+
+There is a sort of manifested goodness for which the average man of the
+world has a profound and unreasonable contempt. And there is another
+sort which most wholly commands the respect of that man who has lived
+hardest. From a religious point of view, both may be equally real and
+conducive to salvation. The cynic, the worn out man of the world, the
+man whose heart is broken, all look upon the one as a weakness and the
+other as a strength. Perhaps there is more humanity in the one than in
+the other. A hundred women may rebuke a man for something he has done,
+and he will smile at the reproach, though he may smile sadly. The one
+will say to him the same words, and he will be gravely silent and will
+feel that she is right and will like her the better for it ever
+afterwards. And she is not, as a rule, the woman whom such men would
+love.
+
+"I have never before met a woman whom I should wish to have for my
+friend," said Lord Redin, one day when he was alone with Francesca. "I
+daresay I am not at all the kind of man you would select for purposes of
+friendship," he added, with a short laugh.
+
+Francesca smiled a little at the frankness of the words, and shook her
+head.
+
+"Perhaps not," she said. "Who knows? Life brings strange changes when
+one thinks that one knows it best."
+
+"It has brought strange things to me," answered Lord Redin.
+
+Then he was silent for a time. He felt the strong desire to speak out,
+for no good reason or purpose, and to tell her the story of his life.
+She would be horrorstruck at first. He fancied he could see the
+expression which would come to her face. But he held his peace, for she
+had not met him half-way, and he was ashamed of the weakness that was
+upon him.
+
+"Yes," she said thoughtfully, after a little pause. "You must have had a
+strange life, and a very unhappy one. You speak of friendship as men
+speak who are in earnest, because there is no other hope for them. I
+know something of that."
+
+She ceased, and her clear eyes turned sadly away from him.
+
+"I know you do," he answered softly.
+
+She looked at him again, and she liked him better than ever before, and
+pitied him sincerely. She had discovered that with all his faults he was
+not a bad man, as men go, for she did not know of that one deed of his
+youth which to her would have seemed a monstrous crime of sacrilege,
+beyond all forgiveness on earth or in heaven.
+
+Then she began to speak of other things, for her own words, and his,
+had gone too near her heart, and presently he left her and strolled
+homeward through the sunny streets. He walked slowly and thoughtfully,
+unconscious of the man in a blue jacket with silver buttons, who
+followed him and watched him with keen, unwinking eyes set under heavy
+brows.
+
+But Stefanone was growing impatient, and his knife was every day a
+little sharper as he whetted it thoughtfully upon a bit of smooth
+oilstone which he carried in his pocket. Would the Englishman ever turn
+down into some quiet street or lane where no one would be looking? And
+Stefanone's square face grew thinner and his aquiline features more and
+more eagle-like, till the one-eyed cobbler noticed the change, and spoke
+of it.
+
+"You are consuming yourself for some female," he said. "You have white
+hair. This is a shameful thing."
+
+But Stefanone laughed, instead of resenting the speech--a curiously
+nervous laugh.
+
+"What would you have?" he replied. "We are men, and the devil is
+everywhere."
+
+As he sat on the doorstep by the cobbler's bench, which was pushed far
+forward to get the afternoon light, he took up the short sharp
+shoemaker's knife, looked at it, held it in his hands and pared his
+coarse nails with it, whistling a little tune.
+
+"That is a good knife," he observed carelessly.
+
+The cobbler looked up and saw what he was doing.
+
+"Black soul!" he cried out angrily. "That is my welt-knife, like a
+razor, and he pares his hoofs with it!"
+
+But Stefanone dropped it into the little box of tools on the front of
+the bench, and whistled softly.
+
+"You seem to me a silly boy!" said the cobbler, still wrathful.
+
+"Apoplexy, how you talk!" answered Stefanone. "But I seem so to myself,
+sometimes."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLIV.
+
+
+THE life of Paul Griggs was not less lonely than it had been before the
+day on which he had received and read Gloria's letters to Reanda, but it
+was changed. Everything which had belonged to the dead woman was gone
+from the room in which he sat and worked as usual. Even the position of
+the furniture was changed. But he worked on as steadily as before.
+
+Outwardly he was very much the same man as ever. Any one who knew him
+well--if such a person had existed--would have seen that there was a
+little difference in the expression of his impassive face. The jaw was,
+if possible, more firmly set than ever, but there was a line in the
+forehead which had not been there formerly, and which softened the iron
+front, as it were, with something more human. It had come suddenly, and
+had remained. That was all.
+
+But within, the difference was great and deep. He felt that the man who
+sat all day long at the writing-table doing his work was not himself any
+longer, but another being, his double and shadow, and in all respects
+his slave, except in one.
+
+That other man sometimes paused in his work, fingering the pen
+unconsciously, as men do who hold it all day long, and thinking of
+Gloria with an expression of horror and suffering in his eyes. But he,
+the real Paul Griggs, never thought of her. The link was broken, the
+thread that had carried the message of dead love between him and the
+lonely grave beyond Subiaco was definitely broken. Stefanone came to
+receive the small sum which Griggs paid him monthly for his care of the
+place, and Griggs paid him as he would have paid his tailor,
+mechanically, and made a note of the payment in his pocket-book. When
+the man was gone, Griggs felt that his double was staring at the wall as
+a man stares at the dark surface of the pool in which the thing he loves
+has sunk for the last time.
+
+It was always the other self that felt at such moments. He could
+abstract himself from it, and feel that he was watching it; he could
+direct it and make it do what he pleased; but he could neither control
+its thoughts nor feel any sympathy for them. Until the fatal day, the
+world had all been black to him; only by closing his eyes could he bring
+into it the light that hovered about a dead woman's face.
+
+But now the black was changed to a flat and toneless white in which
+there was never the least variation. Life was to him a vast blank, in
+which, without interest or sensation, he moved in any direction he
+pleased, and he pleased that it should be always the same direction,
+from the remembrance of a previous intention and abiding principle. But
+it might as well have been any other, backwards, or to right or left. It
+was all precisely the same, and it was perfectly inconceivable to him
+that he should ever care whether in the endless journey he ever came
+upon a spot or point in the blank waste which should prove to him that
+he had moved at all. Nothing could make any difference. He was beyond
+that state in which any difference was apprehensible between one thing
+and another.
+
+His double had material wants, and was ruled by material circumstances.
+His double was a broken-hearted creature, toiling to make money for a
+little child to which it felt itself bound by every responsibility which
+can bind father to son; acknowledging the indebtedness in every act of
+its laborious life, denying itself every luxury, and almost every
+comfort, that there might be a little more for the child, now and in
+time to come; weary beyond earthly weariness, but untiring in the
+mechanical performance of its set task; fatally strong and destined,
+perhaps, to live on through sixty or seventy years of the same unceasing
+toil; fatally weak in its one deep wound, and horribly sensitive within
+itself, but outwardly expressionless, strong, merely a little more pale
+and haggard than Paul Griggs had been.
+
+This was the being whom Paul Griggs employed, as it were, to work for
+him, which he thoroughly understood and could control in every part
+except in its thoughts, and they were its own. But he himself existed in
+another sphere, in which there were neither interests nor
+responsibilities, nor landmarks, nor touches of human feeling, neither
+memories for the dead nor hopes for the living; in which everything was
+the same, because there was nothing but a sort of universal impersonal
+consciousness, no more attached to himself than to the beings he saw
+about him, or to that particular being which was his former self,--in
+which he chose to reside, merely because he required a bodily evidence
+of some sort in order to be alive--and there was no particular reason
+why he should not be alive. He therefore did not cease to live, but a
+straw might have turned the balance to the side of death.
+
+It was certainly true that, so far as it could be said that there was
+any link between him and humanity, it lay in the existence of the little
+boy beyond the water. But it would have been precisely the same if
+little Walter Crowdie had died. He did not wish to see the child, for he
+had no wishes at all. Life being what it was, it would be very much
+better if the child were to die at once. Since it happened to be alive,
+he forced his double to work for it. It was no longer any particular
+child so far as he himself was concerned. It belonged to his double,
+which seemed to be attached to it in an unaccountable way and did not
+complain at being driven to labour for it.
+
+At certain moments, when he seemed to have got rid of his double
+altogether for a time, a question presented itself to his real self. The
+question was the great and old one--What was it for? And to what was it
+tending? Then the people he saw in the streets appeared to him to be
+very small, like ants, running hither and thither upon the ant-hill and
+about it, moved by something which they could not understand, but which
+made them do certain things with an appearance of logical sequence, just
+as he forced his double to work for little Walter Crowdie from morning
+till night. So the people ran about anxiously, or strolled lazily
+through the hours, careful or careless, as the case might be, but quite
+unconscious that they were of no consequence and of no use, and that it
+was quite immaterial whether they were alive or dead. Most of them
+thought that they cared a good deal for life on the whole, and that it
+held a multitude of pleasant and interesting things to be liked and
+sought, and an equal number of unpleasant and dangerous things to be
+avoided; all of which things had no real existence whatever, as the
+impersonal consciousness of Paul Griggs was well aware. He watched the
+people curiously, as though they merely existed to perform tricks for
+his benefit. But they did not amuse him, for nothing could amuse him,
+nor interest him when he had momentarily got rid of his double, as
+sometimes happened when he was out of doors.
+
+One day, the month having passed again, Stefanone came for his money. It
+was very little, and the old peasant would willingly have undertaken
+that the work should be done for nothing. But he was interested in Paul
+Griggs, and he was growing very impatient because he could not get an
+opportunity of falling upon Lord Redin in a quiet place. He had formed a
+new plan of almost childlike simplicity. When Griggs had paid him the
+money, he lingered a moment and looked about the room.
+
+"Signore, you have changed the furniture," he observed. "That chair was
+formerly here. This table used to be there. There are a thousand
+changes."
+
+"Yes," said Griggs, taking up his pen to go on with his work. "You have
+good eyes," he added good-naturedly.
+
+"Two," assented Stefanone; "each better than the other. For instance, I
+will tell you. When that chair was by the window, there was a little
+table beside it. On the table was the work-basket of your poor Signora,
+whom may the Lord preserve in glory! Is it truth?"
+
+"Yes," answered Griggs, with perfect indifference. "It is quite true."
+
+The allusion did not pain him, the man who was talking with Stefanone.
+It would perhaps hurt the other man when he thought of it later.
+
+"Signore," said Stefanone, who evidently had something in his mind, "I
+was thinking in the night, and this thought came to me. The dead are
+dead. Requiescant! It is better for the living to live in holy peace.
+You never see the father of the Signora. There is bad blood between you.
+This was my thought--let them be reconciled, and spend an evening
+together. They will speak of the dead one. They will shed tears. They
+will embrace. Let the enmity be finished. In this way they will enjoy
+life more."
+
+"You are crazy, Stefanone," answered Griggs, impatiently. "But how do
+you know who is the father of the Signora?"
+
+"Every one knows it, Signore!" replied the peasant, with well-feigned
+sincerity. "Every one knows that it is the great English lord who lives
+at the hotel in the Piazza di Spagna this year. Signore, I have said a
+word. You must not take it ill. Enmity is bad. Friendship is a good
+thing. And then it is simple. With maccaroni one makes acquaintance
+again. There is the Falcone, but it would be better here. We will cook
+the maccaroni in the kitchen; you will eat on this table. What are all
+these papers for? Study, study! A dish of good paste is better, with
+cheese. I will bring a certain wine--two flasks. Then you will be
+friends, for you will drink together. And if the English lord drinks too
+much, I will go home with him to the hotel in the Piazza di Spagna. But
+you will only have to go to bed. Once in a year, what is it to be a
+little gay with good wine? At least you will be good friends. Then
+things will end well."
+
+Griggs looked at Stefanone curiously, while the old peasant was
+speaking, for he knew the people well, and he suspected something though
+he did not know what to think.
+
+"Perhaps some day we may take your advice," he said coldly. "Good
+morning, Stefanone; I have much to write."
+
+"I remove the inconvenience," answered Stefanone, in the stock Italian
+phrase for taking leave.
+
+"No inconvenience," replied Griggs, civilly, as is the custom. "But I
+have to work."
+
+"Study, study!" grumbled Stefanone, going towards the door. "What does
+it all conclude, this great study? Headache. For a flask of wine you
+have the same thing, and the pleasure besides. It is enough. Signore,"
+he added, reluctantly turning the handle, "I go. Think of what I have
+said to you. Sometimes an old man says a wise word."
+
+He went away very much discontented with the result of the conversation.
+His mind was a medley of cunning and simplicity backed by an absolutely
+unforgiving temper and great caution. His plan had seemed exceedingly
+good. Lord Redin and Griggs would have supped together, and the former
+would very naturally have gone home alone. Stefanone was oddly surprised
+that Griggs should not have acceded to the proposition at once, though
+in reality there was not the slightest of small reasons for his doing
+so.
+
+It was long since anything had happened to rouse Griggs into thinking
+about any individual human being as anything more than a bit of the
+world's furniture, to be worn out and thrown away in the course of time,
+out of sight. But something in the absolutely gratuitous nature of
+Stefanone's advice moved his suspicions. He saw, with his intimate
+knowledge of the Roman peasant's character, the whole process of the old
+wine-seller's mind, if only, in the first place, the fellow had the
+desire to harass Dalrymple. That being granted, the rest was plain
+enough. Dalrymple, if he really came to supper with Griggs, would stay
+late into the night and finish all the wine there might be. On his way
+home through the deserted streets, Stefanone could kill him at his
+leisure and convenience, and nobody would be the wiser. The only
+difficulty lay in establishing some sufficient reason why Stefanone
+should wish to kill him at all, and in this Griggs signally failed,
+which was not surprising.
+
+All at once, as generally happened now, he lost all interest in the
+matter and returned to his work; or rather, to speak as he might have
+spoken, he set his mechanical self to work for him, while his own being
+disappeared in blank indifference and unconsciousness. But on the
+following day, which chanced to be a Sunday, he went out in the morning
+for a walk. He rarely worked on Sundays, having long ago convinced
+himself that a day of rest was necessary in the long run.
+
+As he was coming home, he saw Lord Redin walking far in front of him
+down the Corso, easily recognizable by his height and his loose,
+swinging gait. Griggs had not proceeded many steps further when
+Stefanone passed him, walking at a swinging stride. The peasant had
+probably seen him, but chose to take no notice of him. Griggs allowed
+him to get a fair start and then quickened his own pace, so as to keep
+him in view. Lord Redin swung along steadily and turned up the Via
+Condotti. Stefanone almost ran, till he, too, had turned the corner of
+the street. Griggs, without running, nearly overtook him as he took the
+same turn a moment later.
+
+It was perfectly clear that Stefanone was dogging the Scotchman's
+steps. The latter crossed the Piazza di Spagna, and entered the deep
+archway of his hotel. The peasant slackened his speed at once and
+lounged across the square towards the foot of the great stairway which
+leads up to the Trinitą de' Monti. Griggs followed him, and came up with
+him just as he sat down upon a step beside one of the big stone posts,
+to take breath and light his pipe. The man looked up, touched his hat,
+smiled, and struck a sulphur match, which he applied to the tobacco in
+the red clay bowl before the sulphur was half burned out, after the
+manner of his kind.
+
+"You have taken a walk, Signore," he observed, puffing away at the
+willow stem and watching the match.
+
+"You walk fast, Stefanone," answered Griggs. "You can walk as fast as
+Lord Redin."
+
+Stefanone did not show the least surprise. He pressed down the burning
+tobacco with one horny finger, and carefully laid the last glowing bit
+of the burnt-out wooden match upon it.
+
+"For this, we are people of the mountains," he answered slowly. "We can
+walk."
+
+"Why do you wish to kill that signore?" inquired Griggs, calmly.
+
+Stefanone looked up, and the pale lids of his keen eyes were contracted
+as he stared hard and long at the other's face.
+
+"What are you saying?" he asked, with a short, harsh laugh. "What is
+passing through your head? What have I to do with the Englishman?
+Nothing. These are follies!"
+
+And still he gazed keenly at Griggs, awaiting the latter's reply. Griggs
+answered him contemptuously in the dialect.
+
+"You take me for a foreigner! You might know better."
+
+"I do not know what you mean," answered Stefanone, doggedly. "It is
+Sunday. I am at leisure. I walk to take a little air. It is my affair.
+Besides, at this hour, who would follow a man to kill him? It is about
+to ring midday. There are a thousand people in the street. Those who
+kill wait at the corners of streets when it is night. You say that I
+take you for a foreigner. You have taken me for an assassin. At your
+pleasure. So much the worse for me. An assassin! Only this was wanting.
+It is better that I go back to Subiaco. At least they know me there.
+Here in Rome--not even dogs would stay here. Beautiful town! Where one
+is called assassin for breakfast, without counting one, nor two."
+
+By this time Griggs was convinced that he was right. He knew the man
+well, and all his kind. The long speech of complaint, with its peculiar
+tone, half insolent, half of injured innocence, was to cover the
+fellow's embarrassment. Griggs answered him in his own strain.
+
+"A man is not an assassin who kills his enemy for a good reason,
+Stefanone," he observed. "How do I know what he may have done to you?"
+
+"To me? Nothing." The peasant shrugged his sturdy shoulders.
+
+"Then I have made a mistake," said Griggs.
+
+"You have made a mistake," assented Stefanone. "Let us not talk about it
+any more."
+
+"Very well."
+
+Griggs turned away and walked slowly towards the hotel, well aware that
+Stefanone was watching him and would think that he was going to warn
+Lord Redin of his danger. That, indeed, was Griggs's first impulse, and
+it was probably his wisest course, whatever might come of the meeting.
+But the Scotchman had made up his mind that he would not see Griggs
+under any circumstances, and though the latter had seen him enter the
+hotel less than ten minutes earlier, the servant returned almost
+immediately and said that Lord Redin was not at home. Griggs understood
+and turned away, thoughtfully.
+
+Before he went down the Via Condotti again, he looked over his shoulder
+towards the steps, and he saw that Stefanone was gone. As he walked
+along the street, the whole incident began to fade away in his mind, as
+all real matters so often did, nowadays. All at once he stopped short,
+and roused himself by an effort--directing his double, as he would have
+said, perhaps. There was no denying the fact that a man's life was
+hanging in the balance of a chance, and to the man, if not to Griggs,
+that life was worth something. If it had been any other man in the
+world, even that fact would have left him indifferent enough. Why should
+he care who lived or died? But Dalrymple was a man he had injured, and
+he was under an obligation of honour to save him, if he could.
+
+There was only one person in Rome who could help him--Francesca
+Campodonico. She knew much of what had happened; she might perhaps
+understand the present case. At all events, even if she had not seen
+Lord Redin of late, she could not be supposed to have broken relations
+with him; she could send for him and warn him. The case was urgent, as
+Griggs knew. After what he had said to Stefanone, the latter, if he
+meant to kill his man, would not lose a day.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLV.
+
+
+IT was past midday when Paul Griggs reached the Palazzetto Borgia and
+inquired for Donna Francesca. He was told that she was out. It was her
+custom, the porter said, always to breakfast on Sundays with her
+relatives, the Prince and Princess of Gerano. Griggs asked at what time
+she might be expected to return. The porter put on a vague look and said
+that it was impossible to tell. Sometimes she went to Saint Peter's on
+Sunday afternoon, to hear Vespers. Vespers began at twenty-two o'clock,
+or half-past twenty-two--between half-past three and four by French
+time, at that season of the year.
+
+Griggs turned away, and wandered about for half an hour in the vicinity
+of the palace, uncertain as to what he should do, and yet determined not
+to lose sight of the necessity for immediate action of some sort. At
+last he went back to the Piazza di Spagna, intending to write a word of
+warning to Lord Redin, though he knew that the latter would pay very
+little attention to anything of such a nature. Like most foreigners, he
+would laugh at the idea of being attacked in the streets. Even in an
+interview it would not be easy to persuade him of the truth which Griggs
+had discovered more by intuition and through his profound knowledge of
+the Roman character than by any chain of evidence.
+
+Lord Redin had gone out, he was told. It was impossible to say with any
+certainty whether this were true or not, and Griggs wrote a few words on
+his card, sealed the latter in an envelope, and left it to be delivered
+to the Scotchman. Then he went back to the Via della Frezza, determined
+to renew his attempt to see Francesca Campodonico, at a later hour.
+
+At the door of the little wine shop Stefanone was seated on one of the
+rush stools, his hat tilted over his eyes, and his white-stockinged legs
+crossed. He was smoking and looking down, but he recognized Griggs's
+step at some distance, and raised his eyes. Griggs nodded to him
+familiarly, passing along on the other side of the narrow street, and he
+saw Stefanone's expression. There was a look of cunning and amusement in
+the contraction of the pale lids, which the younger man did not like.
+Stefanone spoke to him across the street.
+
+"You are well returned, Signore," he said, in the common phrase of
+greeting after an absence.
+
+The words were civil enough, but there was something of mockery in the
+tone. Griggs might not have noticed it at any other time, but his
+thoughts had been occupied with Stefanone during the last two hours,
+and he resented what sounded like insolence. The tone implied that he
+had been on a fool's errand, and that Stefanone knew it. He said
+nothing, but stood still and scrutinized the man's face. There was an
+unwonted colour about the cheek bones, and the keen eyes sparkled under
+the brim of the soft hat. Stefanone had a solid head, and was not given
+to drinking, especially in the morning; but Griggs guessed that to-day
+he had drunk more than usual. The man's next words convinced him of the
+fact.
+
+"Signore," he said, slowly rising, "will you favour us by tasting the
+wine I brought last week? There is no one in the shop yet, for it is
+early. If you will, we can drink a glass."
+
+"Thank you," answered Griggs. "I have not eaten yet."
+
+"Then Sor Angoscia did not ask you to breakfast!" laughed Stefanone,
+insolently. "At midday, too! It was just the hour! But perhaps he
+invited you to his supper, for it is ordered."
+
+And he laughed again. Griggs glanced at him once more, and then went
+quietly on towards his own door. He saw that the man had drunk too much,
+and the idea of bandying words in the attempt to rebuke him was
+distasteful. Griggs had very rarely lost his temper, so far as to strike
+a man, even in former days, and it had seemed to him of late that he
+could never be really angry again. Nothing could ever again be of
+enough importance to make it worth while. If a man of his own class had
+insulted him, he would have directed his double, as it were, to resent
+the offence, but he himself would have remained utterly indifferent.
+
+The one-eyed cobbler was not in his place, as it was Sunday. If he had
+been there, Griggs would very possibly have told him to watch Stefanone
+and to try and keep him in the wine shop until he should grow heavy over
+his wine and fall asleep. In that state he would at least be harmless.
+But the cobbler was not there. Griggs went up to his rooms to wait until
+a later hour, when he might hope to find Francesca.
+
+Stefanone, being left alone, sat down again, pulled his hat over his
+eyes once more and felt in his pocket for his clasp-knife. His mind was
+by no means clear, for he had eaten nothing, he had swallowed a good
+deal of strong wine, and he had made up his mind that he must kill his
+enemy on that day or never. The intention was well-defined, but that was
+all. He had put off his vengeance too long. It was true that he had not
+yet caught Dalrymple alone in a quiet street at night, that is to say,
+under the most favourable circumstances imaginable; but more than once
+he might have fallen upon him suddenly from a doorway in a narrow lane,
+in which there had been but a few women and children to see the deed, if
+they saw it at all. He knew well enough that in Rome the fear of being
+in any way implicated in a murder, even as a witness, would have made
+women, and probably men, too, run indoors or out of the way, rather than
+interfere or pursue him. He told himself therefore that he had been
+unreasonably cautious, and that unless he acted quickly Lord Redin,
+being warned by Griggs, would take measures of self-defence which might
+put him beyond the reach of the clasp-knife forever. Stefanone's ideas
+about the power of an 'English lord' were vague in the extreme.
+
+He had not been exactly frightened by Griggs's sudden accusation that
+morning, but he had been made nervous and vicious by the certainty that
+his intentions had been discovered. Peasant-like, not being able to hit
+on a plan for immediate success, he had excited himself and stimulated
+his courage with drink. His eyes were already a little bloodshot, and
+the flush on his high cheek bones showed that he was in the first stage
+of drunkenness, which under present circumstances was the most dangerous
+and might last all day with a man of his age and constitution, provided
+that he did not drink too fast. And there was little fear of that, for
+the Roman is cautious in his cups, and drinks slowly, never wishing to
+lose his head, and indeed very much ashamed of ever being seen in a
+helpless condition.
+
+By this time he was well acquainted with Lord Redin's habits; and though
+Griggs had been told that the Scotchman was out, Stefanone knew very
+well that he was at home and would not leave the hotel for another hour
+or more.
+
+Leaning back against the wall and tipping the stool, he swung his
+white-stockinged legs thoughtfully.
+
+"One must eat," he remarked aloud, to himself.
+
+He held his head a little on one side, thoughtfully considering the
+question of food. Then he turned his face slowly towards the low door of
+the shop and sniffed the air. Something was cooking in the back regions
+within. Stefanone nodded to himself, rose, pulled out a blue and red
+cotton handkerchief, and proceeded to dust his well-blacked low shoes
+and steel buckles with considerable care, setting first one foot and
+then the other upon the stool.
+
+"Let us eat," he said aloud, folding his handkerchief again and
+returning it to his pocket.
+
+He went in and sat down at one of the trestle tables,--a heavy board,
+black with age. The host was nodding on a chair in the corner, a fat man
+in a clean white apron, with a round red face and fat red prominences
+over his eyes, with thin eyebrows that were scarcely perceptible.
+
+Stefanone rapped on the board with his knuckles; the host awoke, looked
+at him with a pleased smile, made an interrogatory gesture, and having
+received an affirmative nod for an answer retired into the dark kitchen.
+In a moment he returned with a huge earthenware plate of soup in which a
+couple of large pieces of fat meat bobbed lazily as he set the dish on
+the table. Then he brought bread, a measure of wine, an iron spoon, and
+a two-pronged fork.
+
+Stefanone eat the soup without a word, breaking great pieces of bread
+into it. Then he pulled out his clasp-knife and opened it; the long
+blade, keen as a razor and slightly curved, but dark and dull in colour,
+snapped to its place, as the ring at the back fell into the
+corresponding sharp notch. With affected delicacy, Stefanone held it
+between his thumb and one finger and drew the edge across the fat boiled
+meat, which fell into pieces almost at a touch, though it was tough and
+stringy. The host watched the operation approvingly. At that time it was
+forbidden to carry such knives in Rome, unless the point were round and
+blunt. The Roman always stabs; he never cuts his man's throat in a fight
+or in a murder.
+
+"It is a prohibited weapon," observed the fat man, smiling, "but it is
+very beautiful. Poor Christian, if he finds it between his ribs! He
+would soon be cold. It is a consolation at night to have such a toy."
+
+"Truly, it is the consolation of my soul," answered Stefanone.
+
+"Say a little, dear friend," said the fat man, sitting down and resting
+his bare elbows upon the table, "that arm, has it ever sent any one to
+Paradise?"
+
+"And then I should tell you!" exclaimed Stefanone, laughing, and he
+sipped some wine and smacked his lips. "But no," he added presently. "I
+am a pacific man. If they touch me--woe! But I, to touch any one? Not
+even a fly."
+
+"Thus I like men," said the host, "serious, full of scruples, people who
+drink well, quiet, quiet, and pay better."
+
+"So we are at Subiaco," answered Stefanone.
+
+He cleaned his knife on a piece of bread very carefully, laid it open
+beside him, and threw the crust to a lean dog that appeared suddenly
+from beneath the table, as though it had come up through a trap-door;
+the half-famished creature bolted the bread with a snap and a gulp and
+disappeared again as suddenly and silently, just in time to avoid the
+fat man's slow, heavy hand.
+
+When he had finished eating, Stefanone produced his little piece of
+oilstone, which he carried wrapped in dingy paper, and having greased it
+proceeded to draw the blade over it slowly and smoothly.
+
+"Apoplexy!" ejaculated the host. "Are you not contented? Or perhaps you
+wish to shave with it?"
+
+"Thus I keep it," answered the peasant, smiling. "A minute here, a
+minute there. The time costs nothing. What am I doing? Nothing. I
+digest. To pass the time I sharpen the knife. I am like this. I say it
+is a sin to waste time."
+
+Every now and then he sipped his wine, but there was no perceptible
+change in his manner, for he was careful to keep himself just at the
+same level of excitement, neither more nor less.
+
+Half an hour later he was smoking his pipe in the Piazza di Spagna,
+lounging near the great fountain in the sunshine, his eyes generally
+turned towards the door of the hotel. He waited a long time, and
+replenished his pipe more than once.
+
+"This would be the only thing wanting," he said impatiently and half
+aloud. "That just to-day he should not go out."
+
+But Lord Redin appeared at last, dressed as though he were going to make
+a visit. He looked about the square, standing still on the threshold for
+a moment, and a couple of small open cabs drove up. But he shook his
+head, consulted his watch, and strode away in the direction of the
+Propaganda.
+
+Stefanone guessed that he was going to the Palazzetto Borgia, and
+followed him as usual at a safe distance, threading the winding ways
+towards the Piazza di Venezia. There used to be a small café then under
+the corner of that part of the Palazzo Torlonia which has now been
+pulled down. Lord Redin entered it, and Stefanone lingered on the other
+side of the street. A man passed him who sold melon seeds and aquavitę,
+and Stefanone drank a glass of the one and bought a measure of the
+other. The Romans are fond of the taste of the tiny dry kernel which is
+found inside the broad white shell of the seed. Presently Lord Redin
+came out, wiping his mouth with his handkerchief, and went on. Stefanone
+followed him again, walking fast when his enemy had turned a corner and
+slackening his speed as soon as he caught sight of him again.
+
+Francesca was out. He saw Lord Redin's look of annoyance as the latter
+turned away after speaking with the porter, and he fell back into the
+shadow of a doorway, expecting that the Scotchman would take the street
+by which he had come. But Dalrymple turned down the narrow lane beside
+the palace, in the direction of the Tiber. Stefanone's bloodshot eyes
+opened suddenly as he sprang after him; with a quick movement he got his
+knife out, opened it, and thrust his hand with it open into the wide
+pocket of his jacket. Lord Redin had never gone down that lane before,
+to Stefanone's knowledge, and it was a hundred to one that at that hour
+no one would be about. Stefanone himself did not know the place.
+
+Dalrymple must have heard the quick and heavy footsteps of the peasant
+behind him, but it would not have been at all like him to turn his
+head. With loose, swinging gait he strode along, and his heavy stick
+made high little echoes as it struck the dry cobble-stones.
+
+Stefanone was very near him. His eyes glared redly, and his hand with
+the knife in it was half out of his pocket. In ten steps more he would
+spring and strike upwards, as Romans do. He chose the spot on the dark
+overcoat where his knife should go through, below the shoulder-blade, at
+the height of the small ribs on the left side. His lips were parted and
+dry.
+
+There was a loud scream of anger, a tremendous clattering noise, and a
+sound of feet. Stefanone turned suddenly pale, and his hand went to the
+bottom of his pocket again.
+
+On an open doorstep lay a copper 'conca'--the Roman water jar--a
+wretched dog was rushing down the street with something in its mouth, in
+front of Lord Redin, a woman was pursuing it with yells, swinging a
+small wooden stool in her right hand, to throw it at the dog, and the
+neighbours were on their doorsteps in a moment. Stefanone slunk under
+the shadow of the wall, grinding his teeth. The chance was gone. The
+streets beyond were broader and more populous.
+
+Lord Redin went steadily onward, evidently familiar with every turn of
+the way, down to the Tiber, across the Bridge of Quattro Capi, and over
+the island of Saint Bartholomew to Trastevere, turning then to the right
+through the straight Lungaretta, past Santa Maria and under the heights
+of San Pietro in Montorio, and so to the Lungara and by Santo Spirito to
+the Piazza of Saint Peter's. He walked fast, and Stefanone twice wiped
+the perspiration from his forehead on the way, for he was nervous from
+the tension and the disappointment, and felt suddenly weak.
+
+The Scotchman never paused, but crossed the vast square and went up the
+steps of the basilica. He was evidently going to hear the Vespers. Then
+Stefanone, instead of following him into the church, sat down outside
+the wine shop on the right, just opposite the end of the Colonnade. He
+ordered a measure of wine and prepared to wait, for he guessed that Lord
+Redin would remain in the church at least an hour.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLVI.
+
+
+LORD REDIN lifted the heavy leathern curtain of the door on the right of
+the main entrance to the basilica, and went into the church. For some
+reason or other, the majority of people go in by that door rather than
+the other. It may be that the reason is a very simple one, after all.
+Most people are right handed, and of any two doors side by side leading
+into the same place, will instinctively take the one on the right. The
+practice of passing to the left in the street, in almost all old
+countries, was for the sake of safety, in order that a man might have
+his sword hand towards any one he met.
+
+The air of the church was warm, and had a faint odour of incense in it.
+The temperature of the vast building varies but little with the seasons;
+going into it in winter, it seems warm, in summer it is very cold. On
+that day there were not many people in the nave, though a soft sound of
+unceasing footsteps broke the stillness. Very far away an occasional
+strain of music floated on the air from the Chapel of the Choir, the
+last on the left before the transept is reached. Lord Redin walked
+leisurely in the direction of the sound.
+
+The chapel was full, and the canons were intoning the psalms of the
+office. At the conclusion of each one the choir sang the 'Gloria' from
+the great organ loft on the right. It chanced that there were a number
+of foreigners on that day, and they had filled all the available space
+within the gate, and there was a small crowd outside, pressing as close
+as possible in order to hear the voices more distinctly. Lord Redin was
+taller than most men, and looking over the heads of the others he saw
+Francesca Campodonico's pale profile in the thick of the press. She
+evidently wished to extricate herself, and she seemed to be suffering
+from the closeness, for she pressed her handkerchief nervously to her
+lips, and her eyes were half closed. Lord Redin forced his way to her
+without much consideration for the people who hindered him. A few
+minutes later he brought her out on the side towards the transept.
+
+"Thank you," said Francesca. "I should like to sit down. I had almost
+fainted--there was a woman next to me who had musk about her."
+
+They went round the pillar of the dome to the south transept where there
+are almost always a number of benches set along the edges of a huge
+green baize carpet. They sat down together on the end of one of the
+seats.
+
+"We can go back, by and bye, and hear the music, if you like," said
+Francesca. "The psalms will last some time longer."
+
+"I would rather sit here and talk, since I have had the good luck to
+meet you," answered Lord Redin, resting his elbows on his knees, and
+idly poking the green carpet with the end of his stick. "I went to your
+house, and they told me that you would very probably be here."
+
+"Yes. I often come. But you know that, for we have met here before. I
+only stay at home on Sundays when it rains."
+
+"Oh! Is that the rule?"
+
+"Yes, if you call it a rule," answered Francesca.
+
+"I like to know about the things you do, and how you spend your life,"
+said the Scotchman, thoughtfully.
+
+"Do you? Why? There is nothing very interesting about my existence, it
+seems to me."
+
+"It interests me. It makes me feel less lonely to know about some one
+else--some one I like very much."
+
+Francesca looked at her companion with an expression of pity. She was
+lonely, too, but in a different way. The little drama of her life had
+run sadly and smoothly. She was willing to give the man her friendship
+if it could help him, rather because he seemed to ask for it in a mute
+fashion than because she desired his.
+
+"Lord Redin," she said, after a little pause, "do you always mean to
+live in this way?"
+
+"Alone? Yes. It is the only way I can live, at my age."
+
+"At your age--would it make any difference if you were younger?" asked
+Francesca. She dropped her voice to a low key. "You would never marry
+again, even if you were much younger."
+
+"Marry!" His shoulders moved with a sort of little start. "You do not
+know what you are saying!" he added, almost under his breath, though she
+heard the words distinctly.
+
+She looked at him again, in silence, during several seconds, and she saw
+how the colour sank away from his face, till the skin was like old
+parchment. The hand that held the heavy stick tightened round it and
+grew yellow at the knuckles.
+
+"Forgive me," she said gently. "I am very thoughtless--it is the second
+time."
+
+He did not speak for some moments, but she understood his silence and
+waited. The air was very quiet, and the enormous pillar of the dome
+almost completely shut off the echo of the distant music. The low
+afternoon sun streamed levelly through the great windows of the apse,
+for the basilica is built towards the west. There were very few people
+in the church that day. The sun made visible beams across the high
+shadows overhead.
+
+Suddenly Lord Redin spoke again. There was something weak and tremulous
+in the tone of his rough voice.
+
+"I am very much attached to you, for two reasons," he said. "We have
+known each other long, but not intimately."
+
+"That is true. Not very intimately."
+
+Francesca did not know exactly what to say. But for his manner and for
+his behaviour a few moments earlier, she might have fancied that he was
+about to offer himself to her, but such an idea was very far from her
+thoughts. Her woman's instinct told her that he was going to tell her
+something in the nature of a confidence.
+
+"Precisely," he continued. "We have never been intimate. The reason why
+we have not been intimate is one of the reasons why I am more attached
+to you than you have ever guessed."
+
+"That is complicated," said Francesca, with a smile. "Perhaps the other
+reason may be simpler."
+
+"It is very simple, very simple indeed, though it will not seem natural
+to you. You are the only very good woman I ever knew, who made me feel
+that she was good instead of making me see it. Perhaps you think it
+unnatural that I should be attracted by goodness at all. But I am not
+very bad, as men go."
+
+"No. I do not believe you are. And I am not so good as you think." She
+sighed softly.
+
+"You are much better than I once thought," answered Lord Redin. "Once
+upon a time--well, I should only offend you, and I know better now.
+Forgive me for thinking of it. I wish to tell you something else."
+
+"If it is something which has been your secret, it is better not told,"
+said Francesca, quietly. "One rarely makes a confidence that one does
+not regret it."
+
+"You are a wise woman." He looked at her thoughtfully. "And yet you must
+be very young."
+
+"No. But though I have had my own life apart, I have lived outwardly
+very much in the world, although I am still young. Most of the secrets
+which have been told me have been repeated to me by the people in whom
+others had confided."
+
+"All that is true," he answered. "Nevertheless--" He paused. "I am
+desperate!" he exclaimed, with sudden energy. "I cannot bear this any
+longer--I am alone, always, always. Sometimes I think I shall go mad!
+You do not know what a life I lead. I have not even a vice to comfort
+me!" He laughed low and savagely. "I tried to drink, but I am sick of
+it--it does no good! A man who has not even a vice is a very lonely
+man."
+
+Francesca's clear eyes opened wide with a startled look, and gazed
+towards his averted face, trying to catch his glance. She felt that she
+was close to something very strong and dreadful which she could not
+understand.
+
+"Do not speak like that!" she said. "No one is lonely who believes in
+God."
+
+"God!" he exclaimed bitterly. "God has forgotten me, and the devil will
+not have me!" He looked at her at last, and saw her face. "Do not be
+shocked," he said, with a sorrowful smile. "If I were as bad as I seem
+to you just now, I should have cut my throat twenty years ago."
+
+"Hush! Hush!" Francesca did not know what to say.
+
+His manner changed a little, and he spoke more calmly.
+
+"I am not eloquent," he said, looking into her eyes. "You may not
+understand. But I have suffered a great deal."
+
+"Yes. I know that. I am very sorry for you."
+
+"I think you are," he answered. "That is why I want to be honest and
+tell you the truth about myself. For that reason, and because I cannot
+bear it any longer. I cannot, I cannot!" he repeated in a low,
+despairing tone.
+
+"If it will help you to tell me, then tell me," said Francesca, kindly.
+"But I do not ask you to. I do not see why we should not be the best of
+friends without my knowing this thing which weighs on your mind."
+
+"You will understand when I have told you," answered Lord Redin. "Then
+you can judge whether you will have me for a friend or not. It will seem
+very bad to you. Perhaps it is. I never thought so. But you are a Roman
+Catholic, and that makes a difference."
+
+"Not in a question of right and wrong."
+
+"It makes the question what it is. You shall hear."
+
+He paused a moment, and the lines and furrows deepened in his face. The
+sun was sinking fast, and the long beams had faded away out of the
+shadows. There was no one in sight now, but the music of the benediction
+service echoed faintly in the distance. Francesca felt her heart beating
+with a sort of excitement she could not understand, and though she did
+not look at her companion, her ears were strained to catch the first
+word he spoke.
+
+"I married a nun," he said simply.
+
+Francesca started.
+
+"A Sister of Charity?" she asked, after a moment's dead silence. "They
+do not take vows--"
+
+"No. A nun from the Carmelite Convent of Subiaco."
+
+His words were very distinct. There was no mistaking what he said.
+Francesca shrank from him instinctively, and uttered a low exclamation
+of repugnance and horror.
+
+"That is not all," continued Lord Redin, with a calm that seemed
+supernatural. "She was your kinswoman. She was Maria Braccio, whom every
+one believed was burned to death in her cell."
+
+"But her body--they found it! It is impossible!" She thought he must be
+mad.
+
+"No. They found another body. I put it into the bed and set fire to the
+mattress. It was burned beyond recognition, and they thought it was
+Maria. But it was the body of old Stefanone's daughter. I lived in his
+house. The girl poisoned herself with some of my chemicals--I was a
+young doctor in those days. Maria and I were married on board an English
+man-of-war, and we lived in Scotland after that. Gloria was the daughter
+of Maria Braccio, the Carmelite nun--your kinswoman."
+
+Francesca pressed her handkerchief to her lips. She felt as though she
+were losing her senses. Minute after minute passed, and she could say
+nothing. From time to time, Lord Redin glanced sideways at her. He
+breathed hard once or twice, and his hands strained upon his stick as
+though they would break it in two.
+
+"Then she died," he said. When he had spoken the three words, he
+shivered from head to foot, and was silent.
+
+Still Francesca could not speak. The sacrilege of the deed was horrible
+in itself. To her, who had grown up to look upon Maria Braccio as a holy
+woman, cut off in her youth by a frightful death, the truth was
+overwhelmingly awful. She strove within herself to find something upon
+which she could throw the merest shadow of an extenuation, but she could
+find nothing.
+
+"You understand now why, as an honourable man, I wished to tell you the
+truth about myself," he said, speaking almost coldly in the effort he
+was making at self-control. "I could not ask for your friendship until I
+had told you."
+
+Francesca turned her white face slowly towards him in the dusk, and her
+lips moved, but she did not speak. She could not in that first moment
+find the words she wanted. She felt that she shrank from him, that she
+never wished to touch his hand again. Doubtless, in time, she might get
+over the first impression. She wished that he would leave her to think
+about it.
+
+"Can you ever be my friend now?" he asked gravely.
+
+"Your friend--" she stopped, and shook her head sadly. "I--I am
+afraid--" she could not go on.
+
+Lord Redin rose slowly to his feet.
+
+"No. I am afraid not," he said.
+
+He waited a moment, but there was no reply.
+
+"May I take you to your carriage?" he asked gently.
+
+"No, thank you. No--that is--I am going home in a cab. I would rather be
+alone--please."
+
+"Then good-bye."
+
+The lonely man went away and left her there. His head was bent, and she
+thought that he walked unsteadily, as she watched him. Suddenly a great
+wave of pity filled her heart. He looked so very lonely. What right had
+she to judge him? Was she perfect, because he called her good? She
+called him before he turned the great pillar of the dome.
+
+"Lord Redin! Lord Redin!"
+
+But her voice was weak, and in the vast, dim place it did not reach him.
+He went on alone, past the high altar, round the pillar, down the nave.
+The benediction service was not quite over yet, but every one who was
+not listening to the music had left the church. He went towards the door
+by which he had entered. Before going out he paused, and looked towards
+the little chapel on the right of the entrance. He hesitated, and then
+went to it and stood leaning with his hands upon the heavy marble
+balustrade, that was low for his great height as he stood on the step.
+
+A single silver lamp sent a faint light upwards that lingered upon the
+Pietą above the altar, upon the marble limbs of the dead Christ, upon
+the features of the Blessed Virgin, the Addolorata--the sorrowing
+mother.
+
+Bending a little, as though very weary, the friendless, wifeless,
+childless man raised his furrowed face and looked up. There was no hope
+any more, and his despair was heavy upon him whose young love had
+blasted the lives of many.
+
+His teeth were set--he could have bitten through iron. He trembled a
+little, and as he looked upward, two dreadful tears--the tears of the
+strong that are as blood--welled from his eyes and trickled down upon
+his cheeks.
+
+"Maria Addolorata!" he whispered.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLVII.
+
+
+FRANCESCA had half risen from her seat when she had seen that Lord Redin
+did not hear her voice, calling to him. Then she realized that she could
+not overtake him without running, since he had got so far, and she kept
+her place, leaning back once more, and trying to collect her thoughts
+before going home. The music was still going on in the Chapel of the
+Choir, and though it was dusk in the vast church, it would not be dark
+for some time. The vergers did not make their rounds to give warning of
+the hour of closing until sunset. Francesca sat still and tried to
+understand what she had heard. She was nervous and shaken, and she
+wished that she were already at home. The great dimness of the lonely
+transept was strangely mysterious--and the tale of the dead girl, burned
+to take the place of the living, was grewsome, and made her shiver with
+disgust and horror. She started nervously at the sound of a distant
+footstep.
+
+But the strongest impression she had, was that of abhorrence for the
+unholy deeds of the man who had just left her. To a woman for whom
+religion in its forms as well as in its meaning was the mainstay of
+life on earth and the hope of life to come, the sacrilege of the crime
+seemed supernatural. She felt as though it must be in some way her duty
+to help in expiating it, lest the punishment of it should fall upon all
+her race. And as she thought it over, trying to look at it as simply as
+she could, she surveyed at a glance the whole chain of the fatal story,
+and saw how many terrible things had followed upon that one great sin,
+and how very nearly she herself had been touched by its consequences.
+She had been involved in it and had become a part of it. She had felt it
+about her for years, in her friendship for Reanda. It had contributed to
+the causes of his death, if it had not actually caused it. She, in
+helping to bring about his marriage with the daughter of her sinning
+kinswoman, had unconsciously made a link in the chain. Her friendship
+for the artist no longer looked as innocent as formerly. Gloria had
+accused him of loving her, Francesca. Had she not loved him? Whether she
+had or not, she had done things which had wounded his innocent young
+wife. In a sudden and painful illumination of the past, she saw that she
+herself had not been sinless; that she had been selfish, if nothing
+worse; that she had craved Reanda's presence and devoted friendship, if
+nothing more; that death had taken from her more than a friend. She saw
+all at once the vanity of her own belief in her own innocence, and she
+accused herself very bitterly of many things which had been quite hidden
+from her until then.
+
+She was roused by a footstep behind her, and she started at the sound of
+a voice she knew, but which had changed oddly since she had last heard
+it. It was stern, deep, and clear still, but the life was gone out of
+it. It had an automatic sound.
+
+"I beg your pardon, Princess," said Paul Griggs, stopping close to her
+behind the bench. "May I speak to you for a moment?"
+
+She turned her head. As the sun went down, the church grew lighter for a
+little while, as it often does. Yet she could hardly see the man's eyes
+at all, as she looked into his face. They were all in the shadow and had
+no light in them.
+
+"Sit down," she said mechanically.
+
+She could not refuse to speak to him, and, indeed, she would not have
+refused to receive him had she been at home when he had called that day.
+Socially speaking, according to the standards of those around her, he
+had done nothing which she could very severely blame. A woman he had
+dearly loved had come to him for protection, and he had not driven her
+away. That was the social value of what he had done. The moral view of
+it all was individual with herself. Society gave her no right to treat
+him rudely because she disapproved of his past life. For the rest, she
+had liked him in former times, and she believed that there was much more
+good in him than at first appeared.
+
+She was almost glad that he had disturbed her solitude just then, for a
+nervous sense of loneliness was creeping upon her; and though there had
+been nothing to prevent her from rising and going away, she had felt
+that something was holding her in her seat, a shadowy something that was
+oppressive and not natural, that descended upon her out of the gloomy
+heights, and that rose around her from the secret depths below, where
+the great dead lay side by side in their leaden coffins.
+
+"Sit down," she repeated, as Griggs came round the bench.
+
+He sat down beside her. There was a little distance between them, and he
+sat rather stiffly, holding his hat on his knees.
+
+"I should apologize for disturbing you," he began. "I have been twice to
+your house to-day, but you were out. What I wish to speak of is rather
+urgent. I heard that you might be here, and so I came."
+
+"Yes," she said, and waited for him to say more.
+
+"What is it?" she asked presently, as he did not speak at once.
+
+"It is about Dalrymple--about Lord Redin," he said at last. "You used to
+know him. Do you ever see him now?"
+
+Francesca looked at him with a little surprise, but she answered
+quietly, as though the question were quite a natural one.
+
+"He was here five minutes ago. Yes, I often see him."
+
+"Would you do him a service?" asked Griggs, in his calm and indifferent
+tone.
+
+He was forcing himself to do what was plainly his duty, but he was
+utterly incapable of taking any interest in the matter. Francesca
+hesitated before she answered. An hour earlier she would have assented
+readily enough, but now the idea of doing anything which could tend to
+bring her into closer relations with Lord Redin was disagreeable.
+
+"I do not think you will refuse," said Griggs, as she did not speak.
+"His life is in danger."
+
+She turned quickly and scrutinized the expressionless features. In the
+glow of the sunset the church was quite light. The total unconcern of
+the man's manner contrasted strangely with the importance of what he
+said. Francesca felt that something must be wrong.
+
+"You say that very coolly," she observed, and her tone showed that she
+was incredulous.
+
+"And you do not believe me," answered Griggs, quite unmoved. "It is
+natural, I suppose. I will try to explain."
+
+"Please do. I do not understand at all."
+
+Nevertheless, she was startled, though she concealed her nervousness.
+She had not spoken with Griggs for a long time; and as he talked, she
+saw what a great change had taken place. He was very quiet, as he had
+always been, but he was almost too quiet. She could not make out his
+eyes. She knew of his superhuman strength, and his stillness seemed
+unnatural. What he said did not sound rational. An impression got hold
+of her that he had gone mad, and she was physically afraid of him. He
+began to explain. She felt a singing in her ears, and she could not
+follow what he said. It was like an evil dream, and it grew upon her
+second by second.
+
+He talked on in the same even, monotonous tone. The words meant nothing
+to her. She crossed her feet nervously and tried to get a soothing
+sensation by stroking her sable muff. She made a great effort at
+concentration and failed to understand anything.
+
+All at once it grew dark, as the sunset light faded out of the sky.
+Again she felt the desire to rise and the certainty that she could not,
+if she tried. He ceased speaking and seemed to expect her to say
+something, but she had not understood a word of his long explanation. He
+sat patiently waiting. She could hardly distinguish his face in the
+gloom.
+
+The sound of irregular, shuffling footsteps and low voices moved the
+stillness. The vergers were making their last round in a hurried,
+perfunctory way. They passed across the transept to the high altar. It
+was so dark that Francesca could only just see their shadows moving in
+the blackness. She did not realize what they were doing, and her
+imagination made ghosts of them, rushing through the silence of the
+deserted place, from one tomb to another, waking the dead for the night.
+They did not even glance across, as they skirted the wall of the church.
+Even if they had looked, they might not have seen two persons in black,
+against the blackness, sitting silently side by side on the dark bench.
+They saw nothing and passed on, out of sight and out of hearing.
+
+"May I ask whether you will give him the message?" inquired Griggs at
+last, moving in his seat, for he knew that it was time to be going.
+
+Francesca started, at the sound of his voice.
+
+"I--I am afraid--I have not understood," she said. "I beg your pardon--I
+was not paying attention. I am nervous."
+
+"It is growing late," said Griggs. "We had better be going--I will tell
+you again as we walk to the door."
+
+"Yes--no--just a moment!" She made a strong effort over herself. "Tell
+me in three words," she said. "Who is it that threatens Lord Redin's
+life?"
+
+"A peasant of Subiaco called Stefanone. Really, Princess, we must be
+going; it is quite dark--"
+
+"Stefanone!" exclaimed Francesca, while he was speaking the last words,
+which she did not hear. "Stefanone of Subiaco--of course!"
+
+"We must really be going," said Griggs, rising to his feet, and
+wondering indifferently why it was so hard to make her understand.
+
+She rose to her feet slowly. Lord Redin's story was intricately confused
+in her mind with the few words which she had retained of what Griggs had
+said.
+
+"Yes--yes--Stefanone," she said in a low voice, as though to herself,
+and she stood still, comprehending the whole situation in a flash, and
+imagining that Griggs knew the whole truth and had been telling it to
+her as though she had not known it. "But how did you know that Lord
+Redin took the girl's body and burnt it?" she asked, quite certain that
+he had mentioned the fact.
+
+"What girl?" asked Griggs in wonder.
+
+"Why, the body of Stefanone's daughter, which he managed to burn in the
+convent when he carried off my cousin! How did you know about it?"
+
+"I did not know about it," said Griggs. "Your cousin? I do not
+understand."
+
+"My cousin--yes--Maria Braccio--Gloria's mother! You have just been
+talking about her--"
+
+"I?" asked Griggs, bewildered.
+
+Francesca stepped back from him, suddenly guessing that she had revealed
+Lord Redin's secret.
+
+"Is it possible?" she asked in a low voice. "Oh, it is all a mistake!"
+she cried suddenly. "I have told you his story--oh, I am losing my
+head!"
+
+"Come," said Griggs, authoritatively. "We must get out of the church, at
+all events, or we shall be locked in."
+
+"Oh no!" answered Francesca. "There is always somebody here--"
+
+"There is not. You must really come."
+
+"Yes--but there is no danger of being locked in. Yes--let us walk down
+the nave. There is more light."
+
+They walked slowly, for she was too much confused to hasten her steps.
+Her inexplicable mistake troubled her terribly. She remembered how she
+had warned Lord Redin not to tell her any secrets, and how seriously
+she, the most discreet of women, had resolved never to reveal what he
+had said. But the impression of his story had been so much more direct
+and strong than even the first words Griggs had spoken, that so soon as
+she had realized that the latter was speaking approximately of the same
+subject, she had lost the thread of what he was saying and had seemed to
+hear Lord Redin's dreadful tale all over again. She thought that she was
+losing her head.
+
+It was almost quite dark when they reached the other side of the high
+altar. Griggs walked beside her in silence, trying to understand the
+meaning of what she had said.
+
+The gloom was terrible. The enormous statues loomed faintly like vast
+ghosts, high up, between the floor and the roof, their whiteness
+glimmering where there seemed to be nothing else but darkness below them
+and above them. A low, far sound that was a voice but not a word,
+trembled in the air. Francesca shuddered.
+
+"They have not gone yet," said Griggs. "They are still talking. But we
+must hurry."
+
+"No," said Francesca, "that was not any one talking." And her teeth
+chattered. "Give me your arm, please--I am frightened."
+
+He held out his arm till she could feel it in the dark, and she took it.
+He pressed her hand to his side and drew her along, for he feared that
+the doors might be already shut.
+
+"Not so fast! Oh, not so fast, please!" she cried. "I shall fall. They
+do not shut the doors--"
+
+"Yes, they do! Let me carry you. I can run with you in the dark--there
+is no time to be lost!"
+
+"No, no! I can walk faster--but there is really no danger--"
+
+It is a very long way from the high altar to the main entrance of the
+church. Francesca was breathless when they reached the door and Griggs
+lifted the heavy leathern curtain. If the door had been still open, he
+would have seen the twilight from the porch at once. Instead, all was
+black and close and smelled of leather. Francesca was holding his
+sleeve, afraid of losing him.
+
+"It is too late," he said quietly. "We are probably locked in. We will
+try the door of the Sacristy."
+
+He seized her arm and hurried her along into the south aisle. He struck
+his shoulder violently against the base of the pillar he passed in the
+darkness, but he did not stop. Almost instinctively he found the door,
+for he could not see it. Even the hideous skeleton which supports a
+black marble drapery above it was not visible in the gloom. He found the
+bevelled edge of the smoothly polished panel and pushed. But it would
+not yield.
+
+"We are locked in," he said, in the same quiet tone as before.
+
+Francesca uttered a low cry of terror and then was silent.
+
+"Cannot you break the door?" she asked suddenly.
+
+"No," he answered. "Nothing short of a battering-ram could move it."
+
+"Try," she said. "You are so strong--the lock might give way."
+
+To satisfy her he braced himself and heaved against the panel with all
+his gigantic strength. In the dark she could hear his breath drawn
+through his nostrils.
+
+"It will not move," he said, desisting. "We shall have to spend the
+night here. I am very sorry."
+
+For some moments Francesca said nothing, overcome by her terror of the
+situation. Griggs stood still, with his back to the polished door,
+trying to see her in the gloom. Then he felt her closer to him and heard
+her small feet moving on the pavement.
+
+"We must make the best of it," he said at last. "It is never quite dark
+near the high altar. I daresay, too, that there is still a little
+twilight where we were sitting. At least, there is a carpet there and
+there are benches. We can sit there until it is later. Then you can lie
+down upon the bench. I will make a pillow for you with my overcoat. It
+is warm, and I shall not need it."
+
+He made a step forwards, and she heard him moving.
+
+"Do not leave me!" she cried, in sudden terror.
+
+He felt her grasp his arm convulsively in the dark, and he felt her
+hands shaking.
+
+"Do not be frightened," he said, in his quiet voice. "Dead people do no
+harm, you know. It is only imagination."
+
+She shuddered as he groped his way with her toward the nave. They
+passed the pillar and saw the soft light of the ninety little flames of
+the huge golden lamps around the central shrine below the high altar.
+Far beyond, the great windows showed faintly in the height of the
+blackness. They walked more freely, keeping in the middle of the church.
+In the distant chapels on each side a few little lamps glimmered like
+fireflies. Before the last chapel on the right, the Chapel of the
+Sacrament, Francesca paused, instinctively holding fast to Griggs's arm,
+and they both bent one knee, as all Catholics do, who pass before it.
+But when they reached the shrine, Francesca loosed her hold and sank
+upon her knees, resting her arms upon the broad marble of the
+balustrade. Griggs knelt a moment beside her, by force of habit, then
+rose and waited, looking about him into the depths of blackness, and
+reflecting upon the best spot in which to pass the night.
+
+She remained kneeling a long time, praying more or less consciously, but
+aware that it was a relief to be near a little light after passing
+through the darkness. Her mind was as terribly confused as her
+companion's was utterly calm and indifferent. If he had been alone he
+would have sat down upon a step until he was sleepy and then he would
+have stretched himself upon one of the benches in the transept. But to
+Francesca it was unspeakably dreadful.
+
+The strangeness of the whole situation forced itself upon her more and
+more, when she thought of rising from her knees and going back to the
+bench. She felt a womanly shyness about keeping close to her companion,
+her hand on his arm, for hours together, but she knew that the terror
+she should feel of being left alone, even for an instant, or of merely
+thinking that she was to be left alone, would more than overcome that if
+she went away from the lights. She would grasp his arm and hold it
+tightly.
+
+Then she felt ashamed of herself. She had always been told that she came
+of a brave race. She had never been in danger, and there was really no
+danger now. It was absurd to remain on her knees for the sake of the
+lamps. She rose to her feet and turned. Griggs was not looking at her,
+but at the ornaments on the altar. The soft glimmer lighted up his dark
+face. A moment after she had risen he came forward. She meant to propose
+that they should go back to the transept, but just then she shuddered
+again.
+
+"Let us sit down here, on the step," she said, suddenly.
+
+"If you like," he answered. "Wait a minute," he added, and he pulled off
+his overcoat.
+
+He spread a part of it on the step, and rolled the rest into a pillow
+against which she could lean, and he held it in place while she sat
+down. She thanked him, and he sat down beside her. At first, as she
+turned from the lamps, the nave was like a fathomless black wall.
+Neither spoke for some time. Griggs broke the silence when he supposed
+that she was sufficiently recovered to talk quietly, for he had been
+thinking of what she had said, and it was almost clear to him at last.
+
+"I should like to speak to you quite frankly, if you will allow me," he
+said gravely. "May I?"
+
+"Certainly."
+
+"The few words you said about Lord Redin's story have explained a great
+many things which I never understood," said Griggs. "Is it too much to
+ask that you should tell me everything you know?"
+
+"I would rather not say anything more," answered Francesca. "I am very
+much ashamed of having betrayed his secret. Besides, what is to be
+gained by your knowing a few more details? It is bad enough as it is."
+
+"It is more or less the story of my life," he said, almost
+indifferently.
+
+She turned her head slowly and tried to see his face. She could just
+distinguish the features, cold and impassive.
+
+"I came to you to ask you to warn Dalrymple of a danger," he continued,
+as she did not speak. "I knew that fact, but not the reason why his life
+was and is threatened. Unless I have mistaken what you said, I
+understand it now. It is a much stronger one than I should ever have
+guessed. Lord Redin ran away with your cousin, and made it appear that
+he had carried off Stefanone's daughter. Stefanone has waited patiently
+for nearly a quarter of a century. He has found Dalrymple at last and
+means to kill him. He will succeed, unless you can make Dalrymple
+understand that the danger is real. I have no evidence on which I could
+have the man arrested, and I have no personal influence in Rome. You
+have. You would find no difficulty in having Stefanone kept out of the
+city. And you can make Dalrymple see the truth, since he has confided in
+you. Will you do that? He will not believe me, and you can save him.
+Besides, he will not see me. I have tried twice to-day. He has made up
+his mind that he will not see me."
+
+"I will do my best," said Francesca, leaning her head back against the
+marble rail, and half closing her eyes. "How terrible it all is!"
+
+"Yes. I suppose that is the word," said Griggs, indifferently.
+"Sacrilege, suicide, and probably murder to come."
+
+She was shocked by the perfectly emotionless way in which he spoke of
+Gloria's death, so much shocked that she drew a short, quick breath
+between her teeth as though she had hurt herself. Griggs heard it.
+
+"What is the matter?" he asked.
+
+"Nothing," she said.
+
+"I thought something hurt you."
+
+"No--nothing."
+
+She was silent again.
+
+"Yes," he continued, in a tone of cold speculation, "I suppose that any
+one would call it terrible. At all events, it is curious, as a sequence
+of cause and effect, from one tragedy to another."
+
+"Please--please do not speak of it all like that--" Francesca felt
+herself growing angry with him.
+
+"How should I speak of it?" he asked. "It is an extraordinary
+concatenation of events. I look upon the whole thing as very curious,
+especially since you have given me the key to it all."
+
+Francesca was moved to anger, taking the defence of the dead Gloria, as
+almost any woman would have done. At the moment Paul Griggs repelled her
+even more than Lord Redin. It seemed to her that there was something
+dastardly in his indifference.
+
+"Have you no heart?" she asked suddenly.
+
+"No, I am dead," he answered, in his clear, lifeless voice, that might
+have been a ghost's.
+
+The words made her shiver, and she felt as though her hair were moving.
+From his face, as she had last seen it, and from his voice, he might
+almost have been dead, as he said he was, like the thousands of silent
+ones in the labyrinths under her feet, and she alone alive in the midst
+of so much death.
+
+"What do you mean?" she asked, and her own voice trembled in spite of
+herself.
+
+"It is very like being dead," he answered thoughtfully. "I cannot feel
+anything. I cannot understand why any one else should. Everything is the
+same to me. The world is a white blank to me, and one place is exactly
+like any other place."
+
+"But why? What has happened to you?" asked Francesca.
+
+"You know. You sent me those letters."
+
+"What letters?"
+
+"The package Reanda gave you before he died."
+
+"Yes. What was in it? I told you that I did not know, when I wrote to
+you. I remember every word I wrote."
+
+"I know. But I thought that you at least guessed. They were Gloria's
+letters to her husband."
+
+"Her old letters, before--" Francesca stopped short.
+
+"No," he answered, with the same unnatural quiet. "All the letters she
+wrote him afterwards--when we were together."
+
+"All those letters?" cried Francesca, suddenly understanding. "Oh
+no--no! It is not possible! He could not, he would not, have done
+anything so horrible."
+
+"He did," said Griggs, calmly. "I had supposed that she loved me. He had
+his vengeance. He proved to me that she did not. I hope he is satisfied
+with the result. Yes," he continued, after a moment's pause, "it was the
+cruelest thing that ever one man did to another. I spent a bad night, I
+remember. On the top of the package was the last letter she wrote him,
+just before she killed herself. She loathed me, she said, she hated me,
+she shivered at my touch. She feared me so that she acted a comedy of
+love, in terror of her life, after she had discovered that she hated me.
+She need not have been afraid. Why should I have hurt her? In that last
+letter, she put her wedding ring with a lock of her hair wound in and
+out of it. Reanda knew what he was doing when he sent it to me. Do you
+wonder that it has deadened me to everything?"
+
+"Oh, how could he do it? How could he!" Francesca repeated, for the
+worst of it all to her was the unutterable cruelty of the man she had
+believed so gentle.
+
+"I suppose it was natural," said Griggs. "I loved the woman, and he knew
+it. I fancy few men have loved much more sincerely than I loved her,
+even after she was dead. I was not always saying so. I am not that kind
+of man. Besides, men who live by stringing words together for money do
+not value them much in their own lives. But I worked for her. I did the
+best I could. Even she must have known that I loved her."
+
+"I know you did. I cannot understand how you can speak of her at all."
+Francesca wondered at the man.
+
+"She? She is no more to me than Queen Christina, over there in her tomb
+in the dark! For that matter, nothing else has any meaning, either."
+
+For a long time Francesca said nothing. She sat quite still, resting the
+back of her head against the marble, in the awful silence under the
+faint lights that glimmered above the great tomb.
+
+"You have told me the most dreadful thing I ever heard," she said at
+last, in a low tone. "Is she nothing to you? Really nothing? Can you
+never think kindly of her again?"
+
+"No. Why should I? That is--" he hesitated. "I could not explain it," he
+said, and was silent.
+
+"It does not seem human," said Francesca. "You would have a memory of
+her--something--some touch of sadness--I wonder whether you really loved
+her as much as you thought you did?"
+
+Griggs turned upon Francesca slowly, his hands clasped upon one knee.
+
+"You do not know what such love means," he said slowly. "It is
+God--faith--goodness--everything. It is heaven on earth, and earth in
+heaven, in one heart. When it is gone there is nothing left. It went
+hard. It will not come back now. The heart itself is gone. There is
+nothing for it to come to. You think me cold, you are shocked because I
+speak indifferently of her. She lied to me. She lied and acted in every
+word and deed of her life with me. She deceived herself a little at
+first, and she deceived me mortally afterwards. It was all an immense,
+loathsome, deadly lie. I lived through the truth. Why should I wish to
+go back to the lie again? She died, telling me that she died for me. She
+died, having written to Reanda that she died for him. I do not judge
+her. God will. But God Himself could not make me love the smallest
+shadow of her memory. It is impossible. I am beyond life. I am outside
+it. My eternity has begun."
+
+"Is it not a little for her sake that you wish to save her father?"
+asked Francesca.
+
+"No. It is a matter of honour, and nothing else, since I injured him, as
+the world would say, by taking his daughter from her husband. Do you
+understand? Can you put yourself a little in my position? It is not
+because I care whether he lives or dies, or dies a natural death or is
+stabbed in the back by a peasant. It is because I ought to care. I do
+many things because I ought to care to do them, though the things and
+their consequences are all one to me, now."
+
+"It cannot last," said Francesca, sadly. "You will change as you grow
+older."
+
+"No. That is a thing you can never understand," he answered. "I am two
+individuals. The one is what you see, a man more or less like other men,
+growing older--a man who has a certain mortal, earthly memory of that
+dead woman, when the real man is unconscious. But the real man is beyond
+growing old, because he is beyond feeling anything. He is stationary,
+outside of life. The world is a blank to him and always will be."
+
+His voice grew more and more expressionless as he spoke. Francesca felt
+that she could not pity him as she had pitied poor Lord Redin when she
+had seen him going away alone. The man beside her was in earnest, and
+was as far beyond woman's pity as he was beyond woman's love. Yet she no
+longer felt repelled by him since she had understood what he had
+suffered. Perhaps she herself, suffering still in her heart, wished that
+she might be even as he was, beyond the possibility of pain, even though
+beyond the hope of happiness. He wanted nothing, he asked for nothing,
+and he was not afraid to be alone with his own soul, as she was
+sometimes. The other man had asked for her friendship. It could mean
+nothing to Paul Griggs. If love were nothing, what could friendship be?
+
+Yet there was something lofty and grand about such loneliness as his.
+She could not but feel that, now that she knew all. She thought of him
+as she sat beside him in the monumental silence of the enormous
+sepulchre, and she guessed of depths in his soul like the deepness of
+the shadows above her and before her and around her.
+
+"My suffering seems very small, compared with yours," she said softly,
+almost to herself.
+
+Somehow she knew that he would understand her, though perhaps her
+knowledge was only hope.
+
+"Why should you suffer at all?" he asked. "You have never done anything
+wrong. Nothing, of all this, is your fault. It was all fatal, from the
+first, and you cannot blame yourself for anything that has happened."
+
+"I do," she answered, in a low voice. "Indeed I do."
+
+"You are wrong. You are not to blame. Dalrymple was--Maria
+Braccio--I--Gloria--we four. But you! What have you done? Compared with
+us you are a saint on earth!"
+
+She hesitated a moment before she spoke. Then her voice came in a broken
+way.
+
+"I loved Angelo Reanda. I know it, now that I have lost him."
+
+Griggs barely heard the last words, but he bent his head gravely, and
+said nothing in answer.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLVIII.
+
+
+THE stillness was all around them and seemed to fold them together as
+they sat side by side. A deep sigh quivered and paused and was drawn
+again almost with a gasp that stirred the air. Suddenly Francesca's face
+was hidden in her hands, and her head was bowed almost to her knees. A
+moment more, and she sobbed aloud, wordless, as though her soul were
+breaking from her heart.
+
+In the great gloom there was something unearthly in the sound of her
+weeping. The man who could neither suffer any more himself nor feel
+human pity for another's suffering, turned and looked at her with
+shadowy eyes. He understood, though he could not feel, and he knew that
+she had borne more than any one had guessed.
+
+She shed many tears, and it was long before her sobbing ceased to call
+down pitiful, heart-breaking echoes from the unseen heights of darkness.
+Her head was bent down upon her knees as she sat there, striving with
+herself.
+
+He could do nothing, and there was nothing that he could say. He could
+not comfort her, he could not deny her grief. He only knew that there
+was one more being still alive and bearing the pain of sins done long
+ago. Truly the judgment upon that man by whom the offence had come,
+should be heavy and relentless and enduring.
+
+At last all was still again. Francesca did not move, but sat bowed
+together, her hands pressing her face. Very softly, Griggs rose to his
+feet, and she did not see that he was no longer seated beside her. He
+stood up and leaned upon the broad marble of the balustrade. When she at
+last raised her head, she thought that he was gone.
+
+"Where are you?" she asked, in a startled voice.
+
+Then, looking round, she saw him standing by the rail. She understood
+why he had moved--that she might not feel that he was watching her and
+seeing her tears.
+
+"I am not ashamed," she said. "At least you know me, now."
+
+"Yes. I know."
+
+She also rose and stood up, and leaned upon the balustrade and looked
+into his face.
+
+"I am glad you know," she said, and he saw how pale she was, and that
+her cheeks were wet. "Now that it is over, I am glad that you know," she
+said again. "You are beyond sympathy, and beyond pitying any one, though
+you are not unkind. I am glad, that if any one was to know my secret, it
+should be you. I could not bear pity. It would hurt me. But you are not
+unkind."
+
+"Nor kind--nor anything," he said.
+
+"No. It is as though I had spoken to the grave--or to eternity. It is
+safe with you."
+
+"Yes. Quite safe. Safer than with the dead."
+
+"He never knew it. Thank God! He never knew it! To me he was always the
+same faithful friend. To you he was an enemy, and cruel. I thought him
+above cruelty, but he was human, after all. Was it not human, that he
+should be cruel to you?"
+
+"Yes," answered Griggs, wondering a little at her speech and tone. "It
+was very human."
+
+"And you forgive him for it?"
+
+"I?" There was surprise in his tone.
+
+"Yes," she answered. "I want your forgiveness for him. He died without
+your forgiveness. It is the only thing I ask of you--I have not the
+right to ask anything, I know, but is it so very much?"
+
+"It is nothing," said Griggs. "There is no such thing as forgiveness in
+my world. How could there be? I resent nothing."
+
+"But then, if you do not resent what he did, you have forgiven him. Have
+you not?"
+
+"I suppose so." He was puzzled.
+
+"Will you not say it?" she pleaded.
+
+"Willingly," he answered. "I forgive him. I remember nothing against
+him."
+
+"Thank you. You are a good man."
+
+He shook his head gravely, but he took her outstretched hand and pressed
+it gently.
+
+"Thank you," she repeated, withdrawing hers. "Do not think it strange
+that I should ask such a thing. It means a great deal to me. I could not
+bear to think that he had left an enemy in the world and was gone where
+he could not ask forgiveness for what he had done. So I asked it of you,
+for him. I know that he would have wished me to. Do you understand?"
+
+"Yes," said Griggs, thoughtfully. "I understand."
+
+Again there was silence for a long time as they stood there. The tears
+dried upon the woman's sweet pale face, and a soft light came where the
+tears had been.
+
+"Will you come with me?" she asked at last, looking up.
+
+He did not guess what she meant to do, but he left the step on which he
+was standing and stood ready.
+
+"It must be late," he said. "Should you like to try and rest? I will
+arrange a place for you as well as I can."
+
+"Not yet," she answered. "If you will come with me--" she hesitated.
+
+"Yes?"
+
+"I will say a prayer for the dead," she said, in a low voice. "I always
+do, every night, since he died."
+
+Griggs bent his head, and she came down from the step. He walked beside
+her, down the silent nave into the darkness. Before the Chapel of the
+Sacrament they both paused and bent the knee. Then she hesitated.
+
+"I should like to go to the Pietą," she said timidly. "It seems so far.
+Do you mind?"
+
+He held out his arm silently. She felt it and laid her hand upon it, and
+they went on. It was very dark. They knew that they were passing the
+pillars when they could not see the little lights from the chapels in
+the distance on their left. Then by the echo of their own footsteps they
+knew that they were near the great door, and at last they saw the single
+tiny flame in the silver lamp hanging above the altar they sought.
+
+Guided by it, they went forward, and the solitary ray showed them the
+marble rail. They knelt down side by side.
+
+"Let us pray for them all," said Francesca, very softly.
+
+She looked up to the marble face of Christ's mother, the Addolorata, the
+mother of sorrows, and she thought of that sinning nun, dead long ago,
+who had been called Addolorata.
+
+"Let us pray for them all," she repeated. "For Maria Braccio, for
+Gloria--for Angelo Reanda."
+
+She lowered her head upon her hands. Then, presently, she looked up
+again, and Griggs heard her sweet voice in the darkness repeating the
+ancient Commemoration for the Dead, from the Canon of the Mass.
+
+"Remember also, O Lord, thy servants who are gone before us with the
+sign of faith, and sleep the sleep of peace. Give them, O Lord, and to
+all who rest in Christ, a place of refreshment, light, and peace, for
+that Christ's sake, who liveth and reigneth with Thee in the unity of
+the Holy Spirit. Amen."
+
+Once more she bent her head and was silent for a time. Then as she
+knelt, her hands moved silently along the marble and pressed the two
+folded hands of the man beside her, and she looked at him.
+
+"Let us be friends," she said simply.
+
+"Such as I am, I am yours."
+
+Then their hands clasped. They both started and looked down, for the
+fingers were cold and wet and dark.
+
+It was the blood of Angus Dalrymple that had sealed their friendship.
+
+The swift sure blade had struck him as he stood there, repeating the
+name of his dead wife. There had been no one near the door and none to
+see the quick, black deed. Strong hands had thrown his falling body
+within the marble balustrade, that was still wet with his heart's blood.
+
+There Paul Griggs found him, lying on his back, stretched to his length
+in the dim shadow between the rail and the altar. He had paid the price
+at last, a loving, sinning, suffering, faithful, faultful man.
+
+But the friendship that was so grimly consecrated on that night, was the
+truest that ever was between man and woman.
+
+
+END OF VOL. II.
+
+
+
+
+THE RALSTONS.
+
+BY
+
+F. MARION CRAWFORD.
+
+2 vols. 16mo. Cloth. $2.00.
+
+PRESS COMMENTS.
+
+          "The interest is unflagging throughout. Never has
+          the author done more brilliant, artistic work than
+          here."--_Ohio State Journal._
+
+          "It is immensely entertaining; once in the full
+          swing of the narrative, one is carried on quite
+          irresistibly to the end. The style throughout is
+          easy and graceful, and the text abounds in wise
+          and witty reflections on the realities of
+          existence."--_Boston Beacon._
+
+          "As a picture of a certain kind of New York life,
+          it is correct and literal; as a study of human
+          nature it is realistic enough to be modern, and
+          romantic enough to be of the age of
+          Trollope."--_Chicago Herald._
+
+          "The whole group of character studies is strong
+          and vivid."--_The Literary World._
+
+          "There is a long succession of exceedingly strong
+          dramatic situations which hold the reader's
+          attention enchained to the end. This is one of the
+          strong books of the year, and will have a large
+          circle of readers."--_New Orleans Picayune._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+          MACMILLAN & CO.,
+          66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
+
+
+
+
+UNIFORM EDITION
+
+OF THE WORKS OF
+
+F. MARION CRAWFORD.
+
+=12mo. Cloth. Price $1.00 per volume.=
+
+
+KATHARINE LAUDERDALE.
+
+=The first of a series of novels dealing with New York life.=
+
+          "Mr. Crawford at his best is a great novelist, and
+          in 'Katharine Lauderdale' we have him at his
+          best."--_Boston Daily Advertiser._
+
+          "A most admirable novel, excellent in style,
+          flashing with humor, and full of the ripest and
+          wisest reflections upon men and women."--_The
+          Westminster Gazette._
+
+          "It is the first time, we think, in American
+          fiction that any such breadth of view has shown
+          itself in the study of our social
+          framework."--_Life._
+
+          "It need scarcely be said that the story is
+          skilfully and picturesquely written, portraying
+          sharply individual characters in well-defined
+          surroundings."--_New York Commercial Advertiser._
+
+          "'Katharine Lauderdale' is a tale of New York, and
+          is up to the highest level of his work. In some
+          respects it will probably be regarded as his best.
+          None of his works, with the exception of 'Mr.
+          Isaacs,' shows so clearly his skill as a literary
+          artist."--_San Francisco Evening Bulletin._
+
+
+PIETRO GHISLERI.
+
+          "The imaginative richness, the marvellous
+          ingenuity of plot, the power and subtlety of the
+          portrayal of character, the charm of the romantic
+          environment,--the entire atmosphere, indeed,--rank
+          this novel at once among the great
+          creations."--_The Boston Budget._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+          MACMILLAN & CO.,
+          66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
+
+
+WITH THE IMMORTALS.
+
+          "Altogether an admirable piece of art worked in
+          the spirit of a thorough artist. Every reader of
+          cultivated tastes will find it a book prolific in
+          entertainment of the most refined description, and
+          to all such we commend it heartily."--_Boston
+          Saturday Evening Gazette._
+
+          "The strange central idea of the story could have
+          occurred only to a writer whose mind was very
+          sensitive to the current modern thought and
+          progress, while its execution, the setting it
+          forth in proper literary clothing, could be
+          successfully attempted only by one whose active
+          literary ability should be fully equalled by his
+          power of assimilative knowledge both literary and
+          scientific, and no less by his courage and
+          capacity for hard work. The book will be found to
+          have a fascination entirely new for the habitual
+          reader of novels. Indeed, Mr. Crawford has
+          succeeded in taking his readers quite above the
+          ordinary plane of novel interest."--_Boston
+          Advertiser._
+
+
+MARZIO'S CRUCIFIX.
+
+          "We take the liberty of saying that this work
+          belongs to the highest department of
+          character-painting in words."--_Churchman._
+
+          "We have repeatedly had occasion to say that Mr.
+          Crawford possesses in an extraordinary degree the
+          art of constructing a story. His sense of
+          proportion is just, and his narrative flows along
+          with ease and perspicuity. It is as if it could
+          not have been written otherwise, so naturally does
+          the story unfold itself, and so logical and
+          consistent is the sequence of incident after
+          incident. As a story 'Marzio's Crucifix' is
+          perfectly constructed."--_New York Commercial
+          Advertiser._
+
+
+KHALED.
+
+A Story of Arabia.
+
+          "Throughout the fascinating story runs the
+          subtlest analysis, suggested rather than
+          elaborately worked out, of human passion and
+          motive, the building out and development of the
+          character of the woman who becomes the hero's wife
+          and whose love he finally wins, being an
+          especially acute and highly finished example of
+          the story-teller's art. . . . That it is beautifully
+          written and holds the interest of the reader,
+          fanciful as it all is, to the very end, none who
+          know the depth and artistic finish of Mr.
+          Crawford's work need be told."--_The Chicago
+          Times._
+
+
+PAUL PATOFF.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+          MACMILLAN & CO.,
+          66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
+
+
+ZOROASTER.
+
+          "The field of Mr. Crawford's imagination appears
+          to be unbounded. . . . In 'Zoroaster' Mr. Crawford's
+          winged fancy ventures a daring flight. . . . Yet
+          'Zoroaster' is a novel rather than a drama. It is
+          a drama in the force of its situations and in the
+          poetry and dignity of its language; but its men
+          and women are not men and women of a play. By the
+          naturalness of their conversation and behavior
+          they seem to live and lay hold of our human
+          sympathy more than the same characters on a stage
+          could possibly do."--_The Times._
+
+
+A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH.
+
+          "It is a pleasure to have anything so perfect of
+          its kind as this brief and vivid story. . . . It is
+          doubly a success, being full of human sympathy, as
+          well as thoroughly artistic in its nice balancing
+          of the unusual with the commonplace, the clever
+          juxtaposition of innocence and guilt, comedy and
+          tragedy, simplicity and intrigue."--_Critic._
+
+          "Of all the stories Mr. Crawford has written, it
+          is the most dramatic, the most finished, the most
+          compact. . . . The taste which is left in one's mind
+          after the story is finished is exactly what the
+          fine reader desires and the novelist intends. . . .
+          It has no defects. It is neither trifling nor
+          trivial. It is a work of art. It is
+          perfect."--_Boston Beacon._
+
+
+AN AMERICAN POLITICIAN.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+          MACMILLAN & CO.,
+          66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
+
+
+A CIGARETTE-MAKER'S ROMANCE.
+
+          "It is a touching romance, filled with scenes of
+          great dramatic power."--_Boston Commercial
+          Bulletin._
+
+          "It is full of life and movement, and is one of
+          the best of Mr. Crawford's books."--_Boston
+          Saturday Evening Gazette._
+
+          "The interest is unflagging throughout. Never has
+          Mr. Crawford done more brilliant realistic work
+          than here. But his realism is only the case and
+          cover for those intense feelings which, placed
+          under no matter what humble conditions, produce the
+          most dramatic and the most tragic situations. . . .
+          This is a secret of genius, to take the most coarse
+          and common material, the meanest surroundings, the
+          most sordid material prospects, and out of the
+          vehement passions which sometimes dominate all
+          human beings to build up with these poor elements
+          scenes and passages, the dramatic and emotional
+          power of which at once enforce attention and awaken
+          the profoundest interest."--_New York Tribune._
+
+
+
+GREIFENSTEIN.
+
+          "'Greifenstein' is a remarkable novel, and while
+          it illustrates once more the author's unusual
+          versatility, it also shows that he has not been
+          tempted into careless writing by the vogue of his
+          earlier books. . . . There is nothing weak or small
+          or frivolous in the story. The author deals with
+          tremendous passions working at the height of their
+          energy. His characters are stern, rugged,
+          determined men and women, governed by powerful
+          prejudices and iron conventions, types of a
+          military people, in whom the sense of duty has
+          been cultivated until it dominates all other
+          motives, and in whom the principle of 'noblesse
+          oblige' is, so far as the aristocratic class is
+          concerned, the fundamental rule of conduct. What
+          such people may be capable of is startlingly
+          shown."--_New York Tribune._
+
+
+A ROMAN SINGER.
+
+          "One of Mr. Crawford's most charming stories--a
+          love romance pure and simple."--_Boston Home
+          Journal._
+
+          "'A Roman Singer' is one of his most finished,
+          compact, and successful stories, and contains a
+          splendid picture of Italian life."--_Toronto
+          Mail._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+          MACMILLAN & CO.,
+          66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
+
+
+MR. ISAACS.
+
+A Tale of Modern India.
+
+          "The writer first shows the hero in relation with
+          the people of the East and then skilfully brings
+          into connection the Anglo-Saxon race. It is in this
+          showing of the different effects which the two
+          classes of minds have upon the central figure of
+          the story that one of its chief merits lies. The
+          characters are original, and one does not recognize
+          any of the hackneyed personages who are so apt to
+          be considered indispensable to novelists, and
+          which, dressed in one guise or another, are but the
+          marionettes, which are all dominated by the same
+          mind, moved by the same motive force. The men are
+          all endowed with individualism and independent life
+          and thought. . . . There is a strong tinge of
+          mysticism about the book which is one of its
+          greatest charms."--_Boston Transcript._
+
+          "No story of human experience that we have met
+          with since 'John Inglesant' has such an effect of
+          transporting the reader into regions differing
+          from his own. 'Mr. Isaacs' is the best novel that
+          has ever laid its scenes in our Indian
+          dominions."--_The Daily News, London._
+
+
+DR. CLAUDIUS.
+
+A True Story.
+
+          "There is a suggestion of strength, of a mastery
+          of facts, of a fund of knowledge, that speaks well
+          for future production. . . . To be thoroughly
+          enjoyed, however, this book must be read, as no
+          mere cursory notice can give an adequate idea of
+          its many interesting points and excellences, for
+          without a doubt 'Dr. Claudius' is the most
+          interesting book that has been published for many
+          months, and richly deserves a high place in the
+          public favor."--_St. Louis Spectator._
+
+          "To our mind it by no means belies the promises of
+          its predecessor. The story, an exceedingly
+          improbable and romantic one, is told with much
+          skill; the characters are strongly marked without
+          any suspicion of caricature, and the author's
+          ideas on social and political subjects are often
+          brilliant and always striking. It is no
+          exaggeration to say that there is not a dull page
+          in the book, which is peculiarly adapted for the
+          recreation of student or thinker."--_Living
+          Church._
+
+
+TO LEEWARD.
+
+          "A story of remarkable power."--_Review of
+          Reviews._
+
+          "Mr. Crawford has written many strange and
+          powerful stories of Italian life, but none can be
+          any stranger or more powerful than 'To Leeward,'
+          with its mixture of comedy and tragedy, innocence
+          and guilt."--_Cottage Hearth._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+          MACMILLAN & CO.,
+          66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
+
+
+SARACINESCA.
+
+          "His highest achievement, as yet, in the realms of
+          fiction. The work has two distinct merits, either
+          of which would serve to make it great,--that of
+          telling a perfect story in a perfect way, and of
+          giving a graphic picture of Roman society in the
+          last days of the pope's temporal power. . . . The
+          story is exquisitely told."--_Boston Traveler._
+
+          "One of the most engrossing novels we have ever
+          read."--_Boston Times._
+
+
+SANT' ILARIO.
+
+A sequel to "Saracinesca."
+
+          "The author shows steady and constant improvement
+          in his art. 'Sant' Ilario' is a continuation of the
+          chronicles of the Saracinesca family. . . . A
+          singularly powerful and beautiful story. . . .
+          Admirably developed, with a naturalness beyond
+          praise. . . . It must rank with 'Greifenstein' as
+          the best work the author has produced. It fulfils
+          every requirement of artistic fiction. It brings
+          out what is most impressive in human action,
+          without owing any of its effectiveness to
+          sensationalism or artifice. It is natural, fluent
+          in evolution, accordant with experience, graphic in
+          description, penetrating in analysis, and absorbing
+          in interest."--_New York Tribune._
+
+
+
+DON ORSINO.
+
+A continuation of "Saracinesca" and "Sant' Ilario."
+
+          "The third in a rather remarkable series of novels
+          dealing with three generations of the Saracinesca
+          family, entitled respectively 'Saracinesca,'
+          'Sant' Ilario,' and 'Don Orsino,' and these novels
+          present an important study of Italian life,
+          customs, and conditions during the present
+          century. Each one of these novels is worthy of
+          very careful reading, and offers exceptional
+          enjoyment in many ways, in the fascinating
+          absorption of good fiction, in interest of
+          faithful historic accuracy, and in charm of style.
+          The 'new Italy' is strikingly revealed in 'Don
+          Orsino.'"--_Boston Budget._
+
+          "We are inclined to regard the book as the most
+          ingenious of all Mr. Crawford's fictions.
+          Certainly it is the best novel of the
+          season."--_Evening Bulletin._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+          MACMILLAN & CO.,
+          66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
+
+
+THE THREE FATES.
+
+          "The strength of the story lies in its portrayal
+          of the aspirations, disciplinary efforts, trials,
+          and triumphs of the man who is a born writer, and
+          who, by long and painful experiences, learns the
+          good that is in him and the way in which to give
+          it effectual expression. The analytical quality of
+          the book is excellent, and the individuality of
+          each one of the very dissimilar three fates is set
+          forth in an entirely satisfactory manner. . . . Mr.
+          Crawford has manifestly brought his best qualities
+          as a student of human nature and his finest
+          resources as a master of an original and
+          picturesque style to bear upon this story. Taken
+          for all in all it is one of the most pleasing of
+          all his productions in fiction, and it affords a
+          view of certain phases of American, or perhaps we
+          should say of New York, life that have not
+          hitherto been treated with anything like the same
+          adequacy and felicity."--_Boston Beacon._
+
+
+CHILDREN OF THE KING.
+
+A Tale of Southern Italy.
+
+          "A sympathetic reader cannot fail to be impressed
+          with the dramatic power of this story. The
+          simplicity of nature, the uncorrupted truth of a
+          soul, have been portrayed by a master-hand. The
+          suddenness of the unforeseen tragedy at the last
+          renders the incident of the story powerful beyond
+          description. One can only feel such sensations as
+          the last scene of the story incites. It may be
+          added that if Mr. Crawford has written some
+          stories unevenly, he has made no mistakes in the
+          stories of Italian life. A reader of them cannot
+          fail to gain a clearer, fuller acquaintance with
+          the Italians and the artistic spirit that pervades
+          the country."--M. L. B. in _Syracuse Journal_.
+
+
+THE WITCH OF PRAGUE.
+
+A Fantastic Tale.
+
+ILLUSTRATED BY W. J. HENNESSY.
+
+          "'The Witch of Prague' is so remarkable a book as
+          to be certain of as wide a popularity as any of
+          its predecessors. The keenest interest for most
+          readers will lie in its demonstration of the
+          latest revelations of hypnotic science. . . . It is
+          a romance of singular daring and power."--_London
+          Academy._
+
+          "Mr. Crawford has written in many keys, but never
+          in so strange a one as that which dominates 'The
+          Witch of Prague.' . . . The artistic skill with
+          which this extraordinary story is constructed and
+          carried out is admirable and delightful. . . . Mr.
+          Crawford has scored a decided triumph, for the
+          interest of the tale is sustained throughout. . . .
+          A very remarkable, powerful, and interesting
+          story."--_New York Tribune._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+          MACMILLAN & CO.,
+          66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Transcriber's Notes:
+
+Obvious punctuation errors repaired.
+
+Vol. 1
+
+Page 50, "retractation" changed to "retraction" (of a general
+retraction)
+
+Page 83, "baiscchi" changed to "baiocchi" (ten baiocchi for)
+
+
+Vol. 2
+
+Page 27, "premiss" changed to "premise" (a false premise)
+
+Page 29, "premisses" changed to "premises" (assumed premises)
+
+Page 118, "np" changed to "up" (paused, looked up)
+
+Page 152, "orf" changed to "or" (or the letter was)
+
+Page 219, "Calpasta" changed to "Calpesta" (Calpesta il mio)
+
+Page xvi, letter "i" missing in "generations" replaced (generations of
+the Saracinesca)
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Casa Braccio, Volumes 1 and 2 (of 2), by 
+F. Marion Crawford
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CASA BRACCIO, VOLUMES 1 AND 2 ***
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