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<pre>

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
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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

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</pre>

<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_ii" id="Page_ii">[ii]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 387px;">
<img src="images/cover01.jpg" width="387" height="600" alt="Cover" title="Cover" />
</div>

<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_iii" id="Page_iii">[iii]</a></span></p>
<h1>CASA BRACCIO</h1>

<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_iv" id="Page_iv">[iv]</a></span></p><div class="figcenter" style="width: 150px;">
<img src="images/emblem.png" width="150" height="41" alt="Emblem" title="Emblem" />
</div>

<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v">[v]</a></span></p><div class="figcenter" style="width: 369px;">
<img src="images/gs01.jpg" width="369" height="500" alt="&quot;He looked at her long and sadly.&quot;&mdash;Vol. I., p. 239." title="&quot;He looked at her long and sadly.&quot;&mdash;Vol. I., p. 239." />
<span class="caption">&quot;He looked at her long and sadly.&quot;&mdash;Vol. I., <a href="#Page_239">p. 239.</a></span>
</div>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h1>CASA BRACCIO</h1>

<h3>BY</h3>

<h2>F. MARION CRAWFORD</h2>

<div class='center'><span class="smcap">Author of "Saracinesca," "Pietro Ghisleri," etc.</span><br />
<br /><br />
<br />IN TWO VOLUMES<br />

<br />VOL. I.<br /><br /><br /><br />

<i>WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY A. CASTAIGNE</i><br />

<br /><br /><br /><br />
<b>New York</b><br />
MACMILLAN AND CO.<br />
<small>AND LONDON</small><br />
<br />
1895<br />
<br />
<small><i>All rights reserved</i></small><br />
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_vi" id="Page_vi">[vi]</a></span></p>

<div class='copyright'>
<span class="smcap">Copyright, 1894,</span><br />
<br />
<span class="smcap">By F. MARION CRAWFORD.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Norwood Press</b><br />
J. S. Cushing &amp; Co.&mdash;Berwick &amp; Smith<br />
Norwood Mass. U.S.A.<br />
</div><hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[vii]</a></span></p>

<div class='center'>
THIS STORY, BEING MY TWENTY-FIFTH NOVEL,<br />
IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED TO<br />
MY WIFE<br /></div>
<div class='blockquot'>
<span class="smcap">Sorrento, 1895</span><br /></div>



<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii">[viii]</a></span></p>

<h2>CONTENTS.</h2>




<div class='center'>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="Contents">
<tr><td align='center' colspan='2'>PART I.</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Sister Maria Addolorata&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='center' colspan='2'><br />PART II.</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Gloria Dalrymple</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_225">225</a></td></tr>
</table></div>



<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix">[ix]</a></span></p>

<h2>LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.</h2>

<h3><span class="smcap">Vol. I.</span></h3>



<div class='center'>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="Illustrations">
<tr><td align='left'>&nbsp;</td><td align='left'><small>PAGE</small></td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>Nanna and Annetta</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_15">15</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>Maria Addolorata</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_25">25</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>"Sor Tommaso was lying motionless"</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_78">78</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>"She had covered her face with the veil"</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_126">126</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>"An evil death on you!"</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_218">218</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>"He looked at her long and sadly"</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_239">239</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>"Fire and sleet and candle-light;<br /><span style="margin-left: 1em;">And Christ receive thy soul"</span></td><td align='right' valign='bottom'><a href="#Page_324">324</a></td></tr>
</table></div>




<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p>

<h2><span class="smcap">Part I.</span></h2>

<h3><i>SISTER MARIA ADDOLORATA.</i></h3>


<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span></p>

<h2>CASA BRACCIO.</h2>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><span class="smcap">Part I.</span></h2>

<h3><i>SISTER MARIA ADDOLORATA.</i></h3>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>CHAPTER I.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">Subiaco</span> 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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span>
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 medi&aelig;val 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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span>
people, dominated by ecclesiastical institutions,
and, though distinctly Roman, a couple of
hundred years behind Rome itself in all matters
ethic and &aelig;sthetic. 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;in religion Maria Addolorata&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;perfectly innocent,
of course&mdash;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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span></p>

<p>And Sora Nanna gesticulated, unable to express
herself.</p>

<p>"Then she sins in her throat," observed Annetta,
calmly. "But you do not even look at her&mdash;so
many sheets&mdash;so many pillow-cases&mdash;and good
day! But while you count, I look."</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span>
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,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span>
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.</p>

<div class="figleft" style="width: 249px;">
<img src="images/gs02.jpg" width="249" height="500" alt="Nanna and Annetta.&mdash;Vol. I., p. 15." title="Nanna and Annetta.&mdash;Vol. I., p. 15." />
<span class="caption">Nanna and Annetta.&mdash;Vol. I., p.&nbsp;15.</span>
</div>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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!"</p>

<p>"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."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span></p>

<p>"You say foolish things," repeated Sora Nanna.</p>

<p>Then she turned deliberately away and began to
descend once more, with an occasional dissatisfied
movement of the shoulders.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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&mdash;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."</p>

<p>"And why should we go to the galleys if Gigetto
waits for the Englishman?" inquired Annetta.</p>

<p>"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!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span></p>

<p>Annetta shrugged her shoulders and said nothing.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span>
were strong rather than thin, and their rare smile
was both genial and gentle. There were lines&mdash;as
yet very faint&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span>
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,&mdash;which were extraordinarily
liberal admissions on the part of the
old practitioner, and contributed largely towards
reassuring Stefanone concerning his lodger's
character.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span>
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&mdash;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.</p>

<p>"Of course," admitted the doctor, "he is a
Protestant. But then he has a passport. Let us
therefore let him alone."</p>

<p>The existence of the passport&mdash;indispensable
in those days&mdash;was a strong argument in the
eyes of the simple Stefanone. He could not conceive<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span>
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.</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER II.</h2>


<div class="figleft" style="width: 435px;">
<img src="images/gs03.jpg" width="435" height="500" alt="Maria Addolorata.&mdash;Vol. I., p. 25." title="Maria Addolorata.&mdash;Vol. I., p. 25." />
<span class="caption">Maria Addolorata.&mdash;Vol. I., p. 25.</span>
</div>

<p><span class="smcap">Sister Maria Addolorata</span> 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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;and
sometimes the heart&mdash;when she who sang
them has been long dead, and many would give
much to hear but a breath of them again.</p>

<p>It was hard for Maria Addolorata not to sing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<div class='center'>
"Death is my love, dark-eyed death&mdash;"<br />
</div>

<div class='unindent'>she sang.</div>

<p>"Maria!"</p>

<p>The abbess was standing in the doorway and
speaking to her, but she did not hear.</p>

<div class='poem'>
"His hands are sweetly cold and gentle&mdash;<br />
<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Flowers of leek, and firefly&mdash;</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Holy Saint John!"</span><br />
</div>

<p>"Maria!" cried the abbess, impatiently. "What
follies are you singing? I could hear you in my
room!"</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>The abbess sat down upon the only chair, and
Maria remained standing before her, her sewing
in her hands.</p>

<p>"I have often told you that you must not sing
in your cell," said the abbess, in a coldly severe
tone.</p>

<p>Maria's shoulders shook her veil a little, but she
still looked at the floor.</p>

<p>"I cannot help it," she answered in a constrained
voice. "I did not know that I was singing&mdash;"</p>

<p>"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&mdash;a
love-song, too!"</p>

<p>"The love of death," suggested Maria.</p>

<p>"It makes no difference," answered the elder<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span>
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."</p>

<p>"I do."</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"Oh, Uncle Cardinal has often heard me sing."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"He once told me that I had a good voice,"
observed Maria, still standing before her aunt.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"It was not a love-song. It is about death&mdash;and
Saint John's eve."</p>

<p>"Well, then it is about witches. Do not argue
with me. There is a rule, and you must not
break it."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span>
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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span>
minds. Why? No thinking man can help asking
the little question which grows great in the unanswering
silence that follows it.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Instead of that, and instead of all it meant to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span>
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&mdash;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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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?</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span>
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&mdash;and blood,
blood&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>Repeat the items for half a century, sum them
up, and offer them to God as a meet and fitting
sacrifice&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>That a sinful woman, full of sorrows, and weary
of the world, might silently bow her head under<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>But then, there was that virtue of patience<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span>
again, which was beyond her comprehension. At
last she spoke, her face still to the sunset.</p>

<p>"What difference can it make to God how we
die?" she asked, scarcely conscious that she was
speaking.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"No, I did not mean that," answered Maria,
quickly. "But why should we not all be martyrs?
It would be much quicker."</p>

<p>"Heaven preserve us!" exclaimed the abbess.
"What are you thinking of, child?"</p>

<p>"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?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Are you mad, Maria?" she asked in a low
voice.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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&mdash;by the grace of Heaven it will pass."</p>

<p>"Penance and prayer!" exclaimed Maria, sadly.
"That is it&mdash;a slow death, but a sure one!"</p>

<p>"I am more than sixty years old," replied the
abbess. "I have done penance and prayed prayers
all my life, and you see&mdash;I am well. I am stout."</p>

<p>"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."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span></p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Speak, mother," answered the young nun, the
strong habit of submission returning instantly
with the other's grave tone.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;not to complain and to rebel."</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span>
caught the end of her loose over-sleeve and fanned
herself slowly when she had finished speaking.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"What are we? And why are we what we are?
Yes, mother&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span>
places in the choir? Not I&mdash;I am young and
strong still&mdash;nor you, perhaps, for you are strong
still, though you are not young. But many of the
sisters&mdash;yes, they are the best ones, I know&mdash;they
are killing themselves by inches before our
eyes. You know it&mdash;I know it&mdash;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&mdash;or if He does, then why
may we not do it in our own way? Ah&mdash;it would
be so short&mdash;a knife-thrust, and then the great
peace forever!"</p>

<p>The abbess had risen and was standing before
Maria, one hand resting on the back of the rush-bottomed
chair.</p>

<p>"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!"</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span></p>

<p>"But that is not an answer&mdash;just to cry 'blasphemy!'"
she said. "The question is clear&mdash;"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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!"</p>

<p>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.</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER III.</h2>


<p>"<span class="smcap">It</span> is well," said Stefanone. "The world is
come to an end. I will not say anything more."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"And why?" asked the doctor very slowly, between
the operations of pinching, stuffing, snuffing,
and dusting. "Why is the world come to an end?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"You, who have made it end, should know why,"
answered the peasant, after a short pause.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span>
It was understood that Gigetto was to marry
Annetta&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>Having duly and solemnly finished the operation
of taking snuff, the doctor looked at the peasant.</p>

<p>"I do not wish to have said anything," he observed,
by way of a general <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'retractation'">retraction</ins>. "These
are probably follies."</p>

<p>"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!"</p>

<p>"So long as you do not make me die, too!" exclaimed
Sor Tommaso, with rather a pitying smile.</p>

<p>"Eh! To die&mdash;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&mdash;what can you understand?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span>
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!"</p>

<p>"Oh, beautiful!" cried the doctor, angrily, stung
by what is still almost a mortal insult. "You&mdash;to
me&mdash;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&mdash;"</p>

<p>"If I had, I should wrap half a pound of sliced
ham&mdash;fat ham, you know&mdash;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."</p>

<p>"And meanwhile you give me 'ignorant' in my
face!" retorted Sor Tommaso.</p>

<p>"Yes&mdash;and I repeat it!" cried Stefanone, leaning
forwards, his clenched hand on the table. "I
say it twice, three times&mdash;ignorant, ignorant, ignorant!
Have you understood?"</p>

<p>"Say it louder! In that way every one can hear
you! Beast of a sheep-grazer!"</p>

<p>"And you&mdash;crow-feeder! Furnisher of grave-diggers.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span>
And then&mdash;ignorant! Oh&mdash;this time
I have said it clearly!"</p>

<p>"And it seems to me that it is enough!" roared
the doctor, across the table. "Ciociaro! Take
that!"</p>

<p>"Ciociaro? I? Oh, your soul! If I get hold
of you with my hands!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span></p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"We were only playing," he said suavely. "A
little discussion&mdash;a mere jest. Our friend Stefanone
was explaining something."</p>

<p>"If the table had been narrower, he would have
explained you away altogether," observed Dalrymple,
coming forward.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"It was nothing," said Stefanone, quietly enough,
though his eyes were bloodshot and glanced about
the room in an unsettled way.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"I saw you coming," she said, and laughed again.
"And then&mdash;it is always the same. Half a 'foglietta'
of the old, just for the appetite."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Will you eat now?" asked Annetta, still
smiling.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span></p>

<p>"Presently," answered Dalrymple. "What is
there to eat? I am hungry."</p>

<p>"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&mdash;a
fresh ham cut to-day. It is one of the Grape-eater's,
and it seems good. You remember, Sor
Tommaso, the&mdash;speaking with respect to your
face&mdash;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&mdash;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."</p>

<p>"You talk too much," said Stefanone.</p>

<p>"Never mind, papa! Words are not pennies.
The more one wastes, the more one has!"</p>

<p>Dalrymple said nothing; but he smiled as she
turned lightly with a toss of her small dark head
and left the room.</p>

<p>"Fine blood," observed the doctor, with a conciliatory
glance at the girl's father.</p>

<p>"You will be wanted before long, Sor Tommaso,"
said Dalrymple, gravely. "I hear that the abbess
is very ill."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span></p>

<p>The doctor looked up with sudden interest, and
put on his professional expression.</p>

<p>"The abbess, you say? Dear me! She is not
young! What has she? Who told you, Sor
Angoscia?"</p>

<p>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'&mdash;and it must
be admitted that 'Anguish' was an improvement.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Dear me, dear me!" exclaimed Sor Tommaso,
shaking his head. "Cold&mdash;bronchitis, pleurisy,
pneumonia&mdash;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&mdash;blisters&mdash;mustard&mdash;a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span>
lancet&mdash;they will not allow a barber
in the convent to bleed them. Well&mdash;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&mdash;you
know&mdash;that little affair. Let us speak no
more about it. I am more beast than you, because
I said anything. Good night."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"And may the devil go with you," said Stefanone,
under his breath, as the doctor disappeared.</p>

<p>"Why?" inquired Dalrymple, who had caught
the words.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I thought you spoke," said the Scotchman.
"Well&mdash;the abbess is very ill, and Sor Tommaso
has a job."</p>

<p>"May he do it well! So that it need not be
begun again."</p>

<p>"What do you mean?" Dalrymple slowly
sipped the remains of his little measure of wine.</p>

<p>"Those nuns!" exclaimed Stefanone, instead of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span>
answering the question. "What are they here to
do, in this world? Better make saints of them&mdash;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!"</p>

<p>Dalrymple glanced at the angry peasant with
some amusement, but did not make any answer.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Yes. And as you cannot quarrel with Sor
Agostino on that account, I do not see but that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span>
you will either have to bear it, or sell your wine
a farthing cheaper than that of the nuns."</p>

<p>"Eh&mdash;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&mdash;a pleasant journey to
Stefanone. But it is those nuns. They are to
blame, and the devil will pay them."</p>

<p>"In that case you need not," observed Dalrymple,
rising. "I am going to wash my hands before
supper."</p>

<p>"At your pleasure, Signore," answered Stefanone,
politely.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Be quick, Signore," she said with a laugh.
"The beefsteak of mutton is grilling."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I will teach you to make love with the Englishman,"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span>
he said slowly, still watching the dropping
wine.</p>

<p>"Me!" cried Annetta, with real or feigned
astonishment, and she tossed a knife and fork
angrily into a plate, with a loud, clattering noise.</p>

<p>"I am speaking with you," answered her father,
without raising his eyes. "Do you know? You
will come to a bad end."</p>

<p>"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!"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Yes. Too easily," she said, almost in a whisper,
and there was a low hiss in the words.</p>

<p>"In the meanwhile, it is true&mdash;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&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Well? Is it not my place to serve him with
his supper? If you are not satisfied, hire a servant<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span>
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&mdash;"</p>

<p>She stopped short in her speech. Her father
knew what the tone meant, and looked up for the
first time.</p>

<p>"O-&egrave;!" he exclaimed, as one suddenly aware of
a danger, and warning some one else.</p>

<p>"Nothing," answered Annetta, looking down and
arranging the knives and forks symmetrically on
the clean cloth she had laid.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"So much the better for him." She still spoke
in a low voice, as she turned away from the table.</p>

<p>"But I will kill you," said Stefanone, "if I see
you making eyes at the Englishman."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"You will kill me?" she asked, just as he was
opposite to her. "Well&mdash;kill me, then! Here<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span>
I am. What are you waiting for? For the Englishman
to interfere? He is washing his hands.
He always takes a long time."</p>

<p>"Then it is true that you have fallen in love
with him?" asked Stefanone, his anger returning.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Do you want anything better than Gigetto?
Apoplexy! But you have ideas!"</p>

<p>"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&mdash;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."</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"Coward!" she exclaimed. "But I will pay
you&mdash;and Sor Tommaso&mdash;for that blow."</p>

<p>"Whenever you like," answered her father
gruffly, but already sorry for what he had done.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"But I will pay you, Sor Tommaso," she said
thoughtfully and softly.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Is the beefsteak of mutton ready?" inquired
the Scotchman, cheerfully, with his extraordinary
accent.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"You must be very strong, Signore," said Annetta,
at last, her chin resting on her doubled hand.</p>

<p>"Why?" inquired Dalrymple, carelessly, between
two mouthfuls.</p>

<p>"Because you eat so much. It must be a fine
thing to eat so much meat. We eat very little
of it."</p>

<p>"Why?" asked the Scotchman, again between
his mouthfuls.</p>

<p>"Oh, who knows? It costs much. That must
be the reason. Besides, it does not go down. I
should not care for it."</p>

<p>"It is a habit." Dalrymple drank. "In my
country most of the people eat oats," he said, as
he set down his glass.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span></p>

<p>"Oats!" laughed the girl. "Like horses! But
horses will eat meat, too, like you. As for me&mdash;good
bread, fresh cheese, a little salad, a drink of
wine and water&mdash;that is enough."</p>

<p>"Like the nuns," observed Dalrymple, attacking
the ham of the 'Grape-eater.'</p>

<p>"Oh, the nuns! They live on boiled cabbage!
You can smell it a mile away. But they make
good cakes."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"That must be very inconvenient," said Dalrymple.
"I should think that smaller ones would
always be better."</p>

<p>"Who knows? It has always been so. And
when it has always been so, it will always be so&mdash;one
knows that."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span></p>

<p>Annetta nodded her head rhythmically to convey
an impression of the immutability of all ancient
customs and of this one in particular.</p>

<p>Dalrymple, however, was not much interested
in the question of the baskets.</p>

<p>"What do the nuns do all day?" he asked. "I
suppose you see them, sometimes. There must be
young ones amongst them."</p>

<p>Annetta glanced more keenly at the Scotchman's
quiet face, and then laughed.</p>

<p>"There is one, if you could see her! The
abbess's niece. Oh, that one is beautiful. She
seems to me a painted angel!"</p>

<p>"The abbess's niece? What is she like? Let
me see, the abbess is a princess, is she not?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Thank you," said Dalrymple, with something
like a laugh. "Tell me more about the nun."</p>

<p>"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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span>
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."</p>

<p>"He will do for a Scotch doctor then," answered
Dalrymple. "Tell me, what does this beautiful
nun do all day long?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"So she takes care of the linen," he said. "That
cannot be very amusing, I should think."</p>

<p>"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&mdash;not<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span>
if they would fill my apron with gold
pieces."</p>

<p>"But why did this beautiful girl become a nun,
then? Was she unhappy, or crossed in love?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Well? And if I do fall in love with her, who
cares?" Dalrymple slowly filled a glass of wine.</p>

<p>"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!"</p>

<p>The doctor, wrapped in a long broadcloth cloak<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span>
with a velvet collar, and having a case of instruments
and medicines under his arm, glanced round
the room and came in.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"They are nuns," laughed Annetta. "What can
they know?"</p>

<p>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.</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER IV.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">Sor Tommaso</span> 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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span>
the doctor on ordinary occasions had much influence
upon the convent's statistics of mortality.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"Are you really the doctor?" asked one of the
voices, in a doubtful tone.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"God be praised!" he exclaimed, when he was
fairly inside.</p>

<p>"And praised be His holy name," answered both
the sisters, promptly.</p>

<p>Both had dropped their veils, and proceeded to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>The abbess was very ill, but had insisted upon<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span>
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&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span></p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"It is the will of Heaven," said the abbess, in a
very weak and hoarse voice.</p>

<p>"Tell me what to do," said Maria Addolorata.
"It shall be done as though you yourself did it."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I wish your most reverend excellency a good
rest and speedy recovery," he said. "I am your
most reverend excellency's most humble servant."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"What do you think?" she asked.</p>

<p>"I do not wish to say anything," he answered.</p>

<p>"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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span>
to perform them. I have not even seen the
tip of her most reverend excellency's most wise
tongue. What can I do?"</p>

<p>"Well, then, come back to-morrow morning, and
I will see you here," said Maria Addolorata.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span></p>

<div class="figright" style="width: 370px;">
<img src="images/gs04.jpg" width="370" height="500" alt="&quot;Sor Tommaso was lying motionless.&quot;&mdash;Vol. I., p. 78." title="&quot;Sor Tommaso was lying motionless.&quot;&mdash;Vol. I., p. 78." />
<span class="caption">&quot;Sor Tommaso was lying motionless.&quot;&mdash;Vol. I., p.&nbsp;78.</span>
</div>

<p>Just then the doctor heard light footsteps coming
down the path behind him. He called out,
warning that he was in the way.</p>

<p>"O-&egrave;, 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.</p>

<p>"And another on you!" answered a woman's
voice, speaking low through clenched teeth.</p>

<p>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.</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER V.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">When</span> 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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span>
beside him not half empty, and his glass was
full.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span>
gusty south wind fanned his face pleasantly, and
he wished he were to sleep out of doors.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"I thought you had gone out," he said carelessly,
to Annetta.</p>

<p>The girl turned her head quickly.</p>

<p>"I?" she cried. "And alone? Without even
Gigetto? When do I ever go out alone at night?
Will you have some supper, Signore?"</p>

<p>"I have just eaten, thank you," answered Dalrymple,
seating himself.</p>

<p>"Three hours ago. It was not yet an hour of
the night when you ate. Well&mdash;at your pleasure.
Do not complain afterwards that we make you die
of hunger."</p>

<p>"Bread, Annetta!" said Stefanone, gruffly but
good-naturedly. "And cheese, and salt&mdash;wine, too!
A thousand things! Quickly, my daughter."</p>

<p>"Quicker than this?" inquired the girl, who
had already placed most of the things he asked for
upon the table.</p>

<p>"I say it to say it," answered her father.
"'Hunger makes long jumps,' and I am hungry."</p>

<p>"Did you win anything?" asked Sora Nanna,
with both her elbows on the table.</p>

<p>"Five baiocchi."</p>

<p>"It was worth while to pay ten <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'baiscchi'">baiocchi</ins> for
another man's bad wine, for the sake of winning<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span>
so much!" replied Sora Nanna, who was a careful
soul. "Of course you paid for the wine?"</p>

<p>"Eh&mdash;of course. They pay for wine when
they come here. One takes a little and one gives
a little. This is life."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"And you? Do you not drink?" asked Stefanone.
"You have no glass."</p>

<p>"What does it matter?" She sat down between
her father and mother.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>She looked quietly into his eyes for a moment,
before she touched the wine with her lips.</p>

<p>"Yes," she answered, with a little emphasis.
"I will drink out of your glass now."</p>

<p>"Better so," laughed Stefanone, who was glad
to be reconciled, for he loved the girl, in spite of
his occasional violence of temper.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Nothing," answered Stefanone. "We were
playing together. Signor Englishman," he said,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span>
turning to Dalrymple, "you must sometimes wish
that you were married, and had a wife like Nanna,
and a daughter like Annetta."</p>

<p>"Of course I do," said Dalrymple, with a
smile.</p>

<p>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,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span>
but was a vigorous pounding against his
own bolted door.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Get up, Signore! Get up! You are wanted
quickly!" It was Stefanone.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"The matter is that they have killed Sor Tommaso,"
answered the peasant.</p>

<p>Dalrymple uttered an exclamation of surprise
and incredulity.</p>

<p>"It is as I say," continued Stefanone. "They<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span>
found him lying across the way, in the street, with
knife-wounds in him, as many as you please."</p>

<p>"That is horrible!" exclaimed Dalrymple, turning,
and calmly trimming his lamp, which burned
badly at first.</p>

<p>"Then dress yourself, Signore!" said Stefanone,
impatiently. "You must come!"</p>

<p>"Why? If he is dead, what can I do?" asked
the northern man, coolly. "I am sorry. What
more can I say?"</p>

<p>"But he is not dead yet!" Stefanone was
growing excited. "They have taken him&mdash;"</p>

<p>"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&mdash;cotton
is not good. Where have they taken Sor
Tommaso?"</p>

<p>"To his own house," answered the peasant.</p>

<p>"So much the better. Go and make the bandages."</p>

<p>Dalrymple pushed Stefanone towards the door
with one hand, while he continued to fasten his
clothes with the other.</p>

<p>Stefanone was not without some experience of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"It is some woman," said one of them, contemptuously.
"What can a woman do with a knife?
Worse than a cat&mdash;she scratches, and runs away."</p>

<p>"Some little jealousy," observed another. "Eh!
Sor Tommaso&mdash;who knows where he makes love?
But meanwhile he is growing old, to be so gay."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span>
helping Dalrymple when he was needed. The
doctor's servant-woman, a somewhat grimy peasant,
was sitting on the stairs, sobbing loudly.</p>

<p>"It is useless," moaned Sor Tommaso. "I am
dead."</p>

<p>"I may be mistaken," answered Dalrymple,
"but I think not."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"If I get well, it will be a miracle," said Sor
Tommaso, feebly. "I must think of my soul."</p>

<p>"By all means," answered the Scotchman. "It
can do your soul no harm, and contemplation
rests the body."</p>

<p>"You Protestants have not human sentiment,"
observed the Italian, moving his head slowly on
the pillow. "But I also think of the abbess. I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span>
was to have gone there early this morning. She
will also die. We shall both die."</p>

<p>Dalrymple crossed one leg over the other, and
looked quietly at the doctor.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Mercy!" cried Sor Tommaso, with sudden
energy, and opening his eyes very wide.</p>

<p>"Are you afraid that I shall kill them," asked
Dalrymple, with a smile.</p>

<p>"Who knows? A foreigner! And the people
say that you have converse with the devil. But
the common people are ignorant."</p>

<p>"Very."</p>

<p>"And as for the convent&mdash;a Protestant&mdash;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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span>
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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"You do not know what you are saying," answered
Sor Tommaso, with sudden gravity. "The
woman has relations&mdash;who could handle a knife
better than she."</p>

<p>And he turned his face away.</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER VI.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">The</span> 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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"I will speak to Sister Maria Addolorata," she
said. "Have the goodness to wait."</p>

<p>"Outside?" inquired Dalrymple, as the little
shutter of the loophole was almost closed.</p>

<p>"Of course," answered the nun, opening it again,
and shutting it as soon as she had spoken.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Sister Maria Addolorata will speak with you,"
said the portress's voice, as he approached his face
to the little grating.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span>
further explanations as he deemed necessary and
persuasive.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Open the door, Sister Filomena," she said at
last.</p>

<p>The portress shook her head almost imperceptibly
as she obeyed, but she said nothing. The<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span>
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&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;a fact which he
realized immediately.</p>

<p>"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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span></p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I hope that the abbess is no worse than when
Doctor Taddei saw her last night," observed Dalrymple.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I shall hope to be allowed to give some advice<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span>
to her most reverend excellency," said Dalrymple,
to show that he had understood the hint.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I shall be greatly obliged, and will do my best
to give good advice without seeing the patient."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"You are an Englishman, I presume, Signor
Doctor?" she observed, in a tone of interrogation.</p>

<p>"A Scotchman, Madam," answered Dalrymple,
correcting her and drawing himself up a little.
"My name is Angus Dalrymple."</p>

<p>"It is the same&mdash;an Englishman or a Scotchman,"
said the nun.</p>

<p>"Pardon me, Madam, we consider that there is
a great difference. The Scotch are chiefly Celts.
Englishmen are Anglo-Saxons."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span></p>

<p>"But you are all Protestants. It is therefore
the same for us."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"You say nothing," she said presently. "Are
you a Protestant?"</p>

<p>"Yes, Madam."</p>

<p>"It is a pity!" said Maria Addolorata. "May
God send you light."</p>

<p>"Thank you, Madam."</p>

<p>Maria Addolorata smiled under her veil at the
polite simplicity of the reply. She had met Englishmen
in Rome.</p>

<p>"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'&mdash;or 'Sister Maria.' I am Sister Maria
Addolorata. But you know it, for you sent your
message to me."</p>

<p>"Doctor Taddei told me."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Let us go," she said, dropping her veil again,
and beginning to walk on. "The sisters are
warned."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I have kept you waiting," she said, as she
entered the little room again.</p>

<p>"My time is altogether at your service, Sister
Maria Addolorata," he answered, rising quickly.
"How is her most reverend excellency?"</p>

<p>"Very ill. I do not know what to say. She<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span>
will not hear of seeing you. I fear she will not
live long, for she can hardly breathe."</p>

<p>"Does she cough?"</p>

<p>"Not much. Not so much as last night. She
complains that she cannot draw her breath and
that her lungs feel full of something."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"That is an idea," answered the nun, quickly.
"My uncle is a man of broad views. I have heard<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span>
it said in Rome. I could write to him that Doctor
Taddei is unable to come, and that a celebrated
foreign physician is here&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Not celebrated," interrupted Dalrymple, with
his literal Scotch veracity.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I will do all you tell me," she answered quietly.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span></p>

<p>"This when she coughs&mdash;ten drops," he said,
handing the bottles to the nun. "And five drops
of this once an hour, until her chest feels freer."</p>

<p>He gave her minute directions, as far as he
could, about the general treatment of the patient,
which Maria repeated and got by heart.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>As Dalrymple took his leave, he held out his
hand, forgetting that he was in Italy.</p>

<p>"It is not our custom," said Maria Addolorata,
thrusting each of her own hands into the opposite
sleeve.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Your most humble servant," he said, bowing
to her.</p>

<p>"Good day, Signor Doctor," she answered,
through the open door, as the portress jingled
her keys and prepared to follow Dalrymple.</p>

<p>So he took his departure, not without much
satisfaction at the result of his first attempt.</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER VII.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">Sor Tommaso</span> 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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span>
that my aunt is ill, I would not displease her for
anything."</p>

<p>"That is natural," said Dalrymple. "But I
would give anything in the world to hear you."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I should know it in a hundred thousand,"
asseverated the Scotchman, with warmth.</p>

<p>"That would be a great many&mdash;a whole choir
of angels!" And the nun laughed softly, as she
sometimes did, now that she knew him so much
better.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Will you sing a little louder than the rest next
Sunday afternoon, Sister Maria?" he asked. "I
will be in the church."</p>

<p>"That would be a great sin," she answered, but
not very gravely.</p>

<p>"Why?"</p>

<p>"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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span>
to you Protestants, I suppose. At all events, come
to the church."</p>

<p>"Do you think we are all devils, Sister Maria?"
asked Dalrymple, with a smile.</p>

<p>"More or less." She laughed again. "They
say in the town that you have a compact with
the devil."</p>

<p>"Do you hear what is said in the town?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>Dalrymple said nothing in answer for some time.
Then he spoke suddenly and rather hoarsely.</p>

<p>"Shall I never see you, Sister Maria?" he asked.</p>

<p>"Me? But you see me every day&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Yes,&mdash;but your face, without the veil."</p>

<p>Maria Addolorata shook her head.</p>

<p>"It is against all rules," she answered.</p>

<p>"Is it not against all rules that we should sit here
and make conversation every day for half an hour?"</p>

<p>"Yes&mdash;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."</p>

<p>"Oh,&mdash;I understand." Dalrymple laughed a
little. "Then I am never to see your beautiful
face?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span></p>

<p>"How do you know it is beautiful, since you
have never seen it?"</p>

<p>"From your beautiful hands," answered the
young man, promptly.</p>

<p>"Oh!" Maria Addolorata glanced at her hands
and then, with a movement which might have been
quicker, concealed them in her sleeves.</p>

<p>"It is a sin to hide what God has made beautiful,"
said Dalrymple.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>Dalrymple walked more slowly on that day, as<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Maria Addolorata lifted her head a little, but
not enough to show him more than an inch of her
face.</p>

<p>"Have I displeased you, Signor Doctor?" she
asked, in her deep, warm voice. "Have I not
carried out your orders?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span></p>

<p>"On the contrary," answered Dalrymple, with
a stiffness which he resented in himself. "It is
impossible to be more conscientious than you
always are."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Good morning, Sister Maria Addolorata," he
said suddenly, and bowed.</p>

<p>"Good morning, Signor Doctor," answered the
nun.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"The doctor did not stay long to-day," she said,
in a hollow tone.</p>

<p>"No, mother," answered the young nun. "He
thinks you are doing very well. He wishes you
to eat a wing of roast chicken."</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"Always."</p>

<p>"You generally do not raise your veil until you
come into this room, after the doctor is gone," said
the elder lady.</p>

<p>"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."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span></p>

<p>"Go into the garden, and walk a little," said the
abbess. "It will do you good. You are pale."</p>

<p>If she had felt even a faint uneasiness about her
niece's conduct, it was removed by the latter's
manner.</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER VIII.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">Once</span> 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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>The old Roman expression, denoting generally
the average public, survives still in polite society,
and Stefanone had caught it from Sor Tommaso.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;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!"</p>

<p>"My daughter! what are you saying?"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"What am I saying? The truth. Ask rather
of the Signore whether it is not true."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span></p>

<p>"It is silly," said Dalrymple, growing unnaturally
red, and looking up sharply at Annetta, before
he took his next mouthful.</p>

<p>"Look at him, mother!" laughed the girl. "He
is red, red&mdash;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&mdash;like
that face of a woman that is built into
the fountain in the piazza. Arch-priest! What a
face!"</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span></p>

<p>"But these are sins!" she exclaimed at last.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;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!"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"No," said Dalrymple, who had regained his self-possession.
"She never shows me her face."</p>

<p>"What a shame for a Carmelite nun to show her
face to a man!" cried the girl.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span></p>

<p>"But I tell you she is always veiled to her chin,"
insisted Dalrymple, with perfect truth.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;when
it is withered, it is hay, and the beasts eat
it."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Are you ill?" asked Maria Addolorata, after a
moment's silence which, short as it was, both felt
to be awkward.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"No, I am not ill," answered the Scotchman,
simply, and in his most natural tone of voice.</p>

<p>"Then what is the matter with you since yesterday?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span>
asked Maria Addolorata, less coldly, and as
though she were secretly amused.</p>

<p>"There is nothing the matter&mdash;at least, nothing
that I could explain to you."</p>

<p>She sat down in the big easy-chair and, as formerly,
he took his seat opposite to her.</p>

<p>"There is something," she insisted, speaking
thoughtfully. "You cannot deceive a woman,
Signor Doctor."</p>

<p>Dalrymple smiled and looked at her veiled head.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"And is not a nun a woman?" asked Maria
Addolorata, and he knew that she was smiling, too.</p>

<p>"You would not forgive me if I answered you,"
he said.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Shall I tell you?"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span></p>

<p>"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&mdash;for in a few days
Doctor Taddei will be well again, and you will not
need my services."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"It cannot be so soon," she said in a very low
tone.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>Again there was a short silence in the still room.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"There, see me!" she exclaimed. "Look at me
well this once!"</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span>
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.</p>

<div class="figleft" style="width: 397px;">
<img src="images/gs05.jpg" width="397" height="500" alt="&quot;She had covered her face with the veil.&quot;&mdash;Vol. I., p. 126." title="&quot;She had covered her face with the veil.&quot;&mdash;Vol. I., p. 126." />
<span class="caption">&quot;She had covered her face with the veil.&quot;&mdash;Vol. I., p.&nbsp;126.</span>
</div>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"Go!" she cried in a low and broken voice, between
her sobs. "Go! Go quickly!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Maria! Maria!" The abbess's voice was calling
her, hoarsely and almost desperately, from the
next room.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Wait!" she said. "Something is the matter!"</p>

<p>She was at the bedroom door in an instant, and
in an instant more she was at her aunt's bedside.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span></p>

<p>"Maria&mdash;I am dying," said the abbess's voice
faintly, as she felt the nun's arm under her head.</p>

<p>Dalrymple heard the words, and did not hesitate
as he hastily felt for something in his pocket.</p>

<p>"Come!" cried Maria Addolorata.</p>

<p>But he was already there, on the other side of
the bed, pouring something between the sick lady's
lips.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"She is dead," she said. "Let us leave her in
peace."</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span></p>

<p>"She will probably live through this," answered
Dalrymple, shaking his head.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"It is passed," said Dalrymple. "It will not
come again to-day. We can leave her now, for she
will sleep."</p>

<p>"Yes," said the abbess herself. "Let me sleep."
Her voice was faint, but the words were distinctly
articulated.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Go!" she said, with more energy than might
have been expected. "This is a religious house.
You must not be here."</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span>
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.'</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I have spent a bad half-hour," she said at last,
with something like a gasp.</p>

<p>"It is the worst half-hour I ever spent in my
life," answered Dalrymple. "I thought it was all
over," he added.</p>

<p>"Yes," she said, "I thought it was all over."</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"No!"</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER IX.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">It</span> 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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span>
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,&mdash;too well,
perhaps,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;a voice of gold.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span>
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&mdash;the
tragedy of supreme hell.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER X.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">They</span> were together on the following day. The
abbess was better, and as yet there had been no
return of the syncope which Dalrymple dreaded.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"The sin of it; the deadly sin!" she said.</p>

<p>"There is no sin in it," he answered; but she
shook her veiled head.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span>
doomed house, wherein is desperate, starving life,
higher and higher, inch by inch&mdash;the flood of rising
fate.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;you have honour to lose&mdash;you
understand that, at least&mdash;"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Go&mdash;leave me. You are tempting me again."
She spoke away from him, not changing her position.</p>

<p>"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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span>
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&mdash;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?"</p>

<p>Maria Addolorata bent her veiled head slowly
twice or three times, in a heavy-hearted way.</p>

<p>"They made you believe all that," continued
Dalrymple, with cold earnestness, "and much more
besides&mdash;a great deal of which I know little, I
suppose&mdash;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."</p>

<p>"It is not the truth," answered the nun, slowly.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span>
"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&mdash;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."</p>

<p>"No, I will not go away," said Dalrymple, and
it seemed to Maria that his voice was the voice of
her fate.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Love is more merciful than God," he answered.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;with
good horses we can reach the sea to-morrow.
There is an English ship of war at anchor in Civita<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span>
Vecchia. The officers are my friends. Before to-morrow
night we can be safe&mdash;married&mdash;happy.
No one will know&mdash;no one will follow us. Maria&mdash;come&mdash;come&mdash;come!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Come, my darling," he continued, fast and low.
"I have a beautiful home, my father's home, my
mother's&mdash;your laws and vows are nothing to
them. You shall be honoured, loved&mdash;ah, dear!
adored, worshipped&mdash;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&mdash;how you are alive in every drop
of my blood, beating through me like living fire,
through heart and soul and head and hand&mdash;"</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span>
love again, as a stream of liquid fire let loose to
flood all it meets with dazzling destruction and hot
death.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"The Lord have mercy upon my sinful soul!"
she softly prayed.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"And to-morrow?" she said, with a despairing
question in her tone.</p>

<p>"We will go away to-night," he answered, "and
to-morrow will be ours, too, and all the to-morrows
after that."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span></p>

<p>But she shook her head, and her hands loosened
their hold upon his arms, still lingering on his
sleeves.</p>

<p>"And leave her to die?" she asked, with a quick
glance at the abbess's door.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"The sin, the deadly sin!" she moaned. "Oh,
the horror of it all&mdash;the sin, the shame, the disgrace!
That is the worst to bear&mdash;the shame!
The undying shame of it!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"What do you believe in most?" he asked suddenly
and almost brutally.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span></p>

<p>She turned, startled, and looked him in the face.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"You do not mean that," she said, as though
trying hard to convince herself.</p>

<p>"I mean it," he answered slowly, pale himself,
and knowing what he said.</p>

<p>She leaned nearer to him and took his arms with
her hands, for she could not speak. The terrible
question was in his eyes.</p>

<p>"You would kill yourself, if I refused&mdash;if I
would not go with you?" Still she could not
believe him.</p>

<p>"Yes," he answered.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Good-bye," he said, gently loosening himself
from her hold.</p>

<p>Her hands dropped and she turned half round,
following him as he went towards the door. His<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"No! No!" she cried, drawing his head down
to her.</p>

<p>But he took her by the wrists and held her
away from him at his arms' length.</p>

<p>"Are you in earnest?" he asked fiercely. "If
you play with me any more, you shall die, too."</p>

<p>"But not to-day!" she answered imploringly.
"Not to-night! Give me time&mdash;a day&mdash;a little
while&mdash;"</p>

<p>"To lose you? No. I have been near losing
you. I know what it means. Make up your mind.
Yes, or no."</p>

<p>"To-night? But how? There is not time&mdash;these
clothes I wear&mdash;"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"My cloak would come down to your feet," he
said, measuring her height with his eyes. "I have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span>
a plaid which would cover your head. Once on
horseback, no one would notice anything. Can
you ride?"</p>

<p>"No. I never learned."</p>

<p>"That is unlucky. But we can manage it.
The main thing would be to get a long start if
possible&mdash;that you should not be missed&mdash;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?"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span>
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."</p>

<p>Maria leaned heavily upon the chair, with bent
head.</p>

<p>"I cannot do it&mdash;oh, I cannot!" she said despairingly.
"The shame of it! To be the talk
of Rome&mdash;the scandal of the day&mdash;a disgrace to
my father and mother!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I have told you," he said. "I will not repeat
it. You must choose."</p>

<p>"Oh, you cannot be in earnest&mdash;"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span></p>

<p>"You are cruel," she said, half catching her
breath. "You know that you make me suffer&mdash;that
I cannot live without you."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I believe you would," she said, and she felt
pride in saying it.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I want your answer," he said, still standing
near the door. "Yes or no&mdash;for to-morrow
night?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span></p>

<p>"I cannot live without you," she answered
slowly, and still looking down. "I must go."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I must go," she repeated, still avoiding his
look. "Yes, I must go. I should die without
you."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>She looked up with startled eyes.</p>

<p>"You do not believe me?" she asked. "What
shall I do? I&mdash;I promise! You yourself have
never said that you promised."</p>

<p>"Does it need that?" He pressed the hand he
held, with softly increasing strength, between his
palms.</p>

<p>"No," she answered, looking at him. "I can<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span>
see it. You will do what you say. I have promised,
too."</p>

<p>He gazed incredulously into her face.</p>

<p>"Do you doubt me?" she asked.</p>

<p>"Have I not reason to doubt? You change your
mind easily. I do not blame you. But how am I
to believe?"</p>

<p>She grew impatient of his unbelief. Yet as he
pressed her hand, the power he had over her increased
with every second.</p>

<p>"But I will, I will!" she cried, in a low voice.
"And still you doubt&mdash;I see it in your eyes.
Have I not promised? What more can I do?"</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I say it&mdash;I promise it&mdash;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?"</p>

<p>"I do not know," he answered a second time,
holding her with his eyes. "I must believe you
before I go."</p>

<p>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,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span>
more in despair of convincing him than in a blush
of shame.</p>

<p>"Believe me!" she said, imperiously, and her
eyelids contracted with the effort of her will.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I pledge you with my blood!" she said suddenly.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER XI.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">When</span> 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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span>
and surely fatal than the prussic acid which enters
into its composition.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"It would not take much of that," he said to himself,
with a grim smile.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"We will read it downstairs," he said. "I am
going for a walk."</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>Dalrymple laughed, put on his hat and went off,
leaving Sora Nanna to find Gigetto and give the
necessary directions.</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER XII.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">Gigetto</span> 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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"By Bacchus," she laughed, "I will go and see
Sor Tommaso. They say he is better."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"What do you want?" she croaked roughly, and
not opening the door any wider.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Oh! I did not recognize you," said the old
woman. "I will ask."</p>

<p>Still holding the door almost closed, she drew in
her head and spoke with Sor Tommaso. Annetta
could hear his answer.</p>

<p>"Of course!" he said, in a voice still weak, but
singularly oily with the politeness of his intention.
"Let her favour us!"</p>

<p>The door was opened, and Annetta went in. Sor<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"Who knows?" returned Sor Tommaso, with
amazing blandness. "I trust that he may be forgiven
as I forgive him."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Little by little; who goes slowly goes safely,"
answered the doctor. "I am an old man, you must
know."</p>

<p>"Old!" Annetta was glad of the opportunity
to laugh at last. "Old? Eh, on Sunday, when<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span>
you have on those new black trousers of yours that
are tight, tight&mdash;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."</p>

<p>"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&mdash;the one that is not lame. These
chairs remember the blessed soul of mamma," added
Sor Tommaso, in explanation of their weakness.</p>

<p>"Requiesca'!" exclaimed Annetta, sitting down.</p>

<p>"Amen," responded Sor Tommaso. "You are
so beautiful to-day," he continued, looking at her
flowered bodice and new apron; "where have you
been?"</p>

<p>"Where should I go? To Civitella. There was
the fair. We ate certain chickens&mdash;tough! But
the air of the mountain consumes. There were
also fireworks."</p>

<p>"What? Have you walked?" asked Sor Tommaso.</p>

<p>"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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span>
Therefore with these two feet I walked.
I and many others, girls like me. It is true that
I am half dead."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"But the Englishman comes to see you," said
Annetta, indifferently.</p>

<p>"The Englishman, yes. He comes. More or
less, he has almost cured me. But then, for his
conversation, I say nothing!"</p>

<p>"Meanwhile he is also curing the abbess. He
has a fortunate hand. There death, here death&mdash;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."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span></p>

<p>"Who knows? A cordial, perhaps," observed
Sor Tommaso, thoughtfully. "I have such cordials,
too."</p>

<p>"I do not doubt it," answered the girl, suspiciously.
"But I would rather not taste them.
I feel quite well."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"No, no. I want no wine," said Annetta, quickly.</p>

<p>"Bring it all the same. Perhaps she will do us
the honour to drink it."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span></p>

<p>Serafina nodded, and her bare feet were heard
on the stone steps as she descended.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I brought this also," she said, holding up the
bottle as she set down the tray. "Perhaps it is
better."</p>

<p>"Yes," said Sor Tommaso, nodding in approbation.
"It is better."</p>

<p>"You will drink a little orgeat?" asked the old
woman, in a tone of persuasion, and mixing it in
the glass.</p>

<p>"Water, simply water," said Annetta, who was
still suspicious. "Give me water in the other
glass."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span></p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"After you," he said, with a polite smile, but
raising his hand to take the glass.</p>

<p>"Sick people first, well people afterwards,"
answered Annetta, smiling too, but watching him
intently.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"A little more?" suggested Serafina, in her
croaking voice.</p>

<p>"No," interposed Sor Tommaso. "It might
hurt her&mdash;so much at once."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span></p>

<p>But Annetta filled the tumbler with pure water,
and emptied it again.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"Eh, if God wills," answered the doctor. "I will
be accompanied by Serafina."</p>

<p>"I!" exclaimed the old woman. "I am afraid
even of a cat! What could I do for you?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Thank you, and good evening," answered the
girl, dropping half a courtsey, with a vicious twinkle
in her little eyes.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span>
otherwise, as she knew, he would have had her
arrested.</p>

<p>Suddenly, at the last turning she stopped and
turned very pale, clasping both hands upon her
bodice.</p>

<p>"Assassin!" she groaned, grinding her short
white teeth. "<i>He</i> has poisoned me, after all! An
evil death to him and all his house! Assassin!"</p>

<p>She forgot that she had experienced precisely
the same sensations once before, when she had been
overheated and had swallowed too much cold water.</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER XIII.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">With</span> 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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span>
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&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>The image fixed itself. In the dim shadow
behind it, she saw the face of Maria Addolorata<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"An evil death on you and all your house!" cried
the angry peasant girl, in a low voice.</p>

<p>"Death!" She could not tell whence the echo
came back to her, in a tone strange to her ears&mdash;for
it was her own, perhaps.</p>

<p>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&mdash;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,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"But I am alive!" she exclaimed in a soft, glad
tone. "The brigand only did me a spite. He
was afraid to kill me."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span>
felt chilly now, and she wished that she had some
of that same stinging, warming stuff.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>But there was no response. Growing bolder,
she called him gently.</p>

<p>"Signor! Are you there?"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span>
to read her letter. It was directly in the line of
the moon's rays, and the stopper gleamed like a
little star.</p>

<p>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&mdash;the same in size,
in its transparent contents, in its label. It might
have deceived a keener eye than hers.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Signore!" she called softly. But there was
no answer.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"An evil death on you and all your house!" she
tried to say.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>There was no noise. Dying, she thought she
screamed, but only the faintest moan had passed
her lips.</p>

<p>The door was shut, and the quiet moonlight
floated in and silvered her dark, dead face.</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER XIV.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">At</span> 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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>It was perjury and sacrilege, and earthly shame,
and eternal damnation. Nothing less. And the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>It was too much. She could bear anything but
that. Rather than endure that, it was better to
die.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span>
how to use was at hand&mdash;the glass with which
to administer it. It would prolong life. It might
save it.</p>

<p>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&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Maria stared fixedly into the pinched face, and a
new horror came upon her.</p>

<p>It was murder she was doing. Nothing less.
The power to save was there, and she would not
use it. No&mdash;it could not be murder&mdash;it was
not possible that she could do murder.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>It was slower still. The eyelids were gradually
opening&mdash;the blind white was horrible to see.
Each breath was a convulsion that shook the
frail body.</p>

<p>It was murder. Her hand shot out like lightning
and seized the small bottle. Let anything
come,&mdash;love, shame, heaven, damnation; it should
not be murder.</p>

<p>She forced the unstoppered bottle into the
dying woman's mouth with a desperate hand.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER XV.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">When</span> 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span>
information, but could only elicit a repetition of
the message. He was wanted immediately, as the
abbess was very ill.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span>
hands, brought the lamp into the laboratory, and
set it upon the table.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span>
home within the next sixty seconds, there would
be trouble. But there was no sound.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span>
they broke down the door and found Annetta's
skirt and bodice and shoes wrapped together in a
corner.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"It is a cool night," said Dalrymple, though he
was hot enough himself. "Drink this, my boy."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Drink it all," said Dalrymple. "I brought it
for you."</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span>
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.</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER XVI.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">Dalrymple</span> 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Am I in time?" he asked in a tone of anxiety.</p>

<p>She shook her head slowly.</p>

<p>"Is she dead?"</p>

<p>"She was dead before I sent for you," answered
Maria Addolorata, in a low and almost solemn tone.
"No one knows it yet."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span></p>

<p>"I feared so," said Dalrymple.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"No," she said briefly.</p>

<p>"Why not?" he asked in quick surprise.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Maria," he began, but he only pronounced her
name, and stopped short, for a great fear took him
by the throat.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"It is hard to speak here," he said. "Let us go
into the parlour."</p>

<p>She shook her head, and again moved backwards
a step, so that her shoulders were almost against
the door.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>Dalrymple seemed little moved by the solemn
invocation. It meant little enough to him.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;my life and my honour. Will you listen
to me?"</p>

<p>She nodded, and he heard her draw a quick
breath. Then he began his story, putting it together<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"What will you do?" asked Maria, in a low and
wondering tone.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span>
bolt of the garden gate from the outside by propping
up the spring from within. You shall see."</p>

<p>"It is horrible!" gasped Maria. "And I do not
see&mdash;"</p>

<p>"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&mdash;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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span>
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?"</p>

<p>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,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span></p>

<p>She turned, opened the door, and led him into
the parlour, where the silver lamp was burning
brightly.</p>

<p>"You must tell it all again," she said, still standing.
"I must be quite sure that I understand."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"It is life or death for me," he said, when he had
told her everything. "Which shall it be?"</p>

<p>She was silent for a moment. Then her strong
mouth smiled strangely.</p>

<p>"It shall be life for you, if I lose my soul for
it," she said.</p>

<p>She felt the quick thrill and pressure of his
hand, and all the man's tremendous energy was
alive again.</p>

<p>"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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span>
Wait at the garden gate till I tap softly,
and leave the rest to me. There is no danger.
Do not be afraid."</p>

<p>"Afraid!" she exclaimed proudly. "How little
you know me! It never was fear that held me.
Besides&mdash;with you!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Her most reverend excellency is in no danger
now," he said to the portress, with Scotch veracity.</p>

<p>"Sister Maria Addolorata may then rest a little,"
answered the lay sister, who rarely spoke.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span></p>

<p>"Precisely so," said Dalrymple, drily.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Stand aside a little," said Dalrymple, in a whisper.
"You need not see&mdash;it is not a pretty sight.
Keep the door shut till I come back. Where is
your cell?"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"It is burning well," he said with grim brevity.</p>

<p>He stooped and looked closely in the dimness at
the old-fashioned lock. It was made as he supposed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"There is plenty of time, now," he said, and he
gently pushed her out upon the narrow walk, drawing
the door after him.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"No human being can suspect that the door has
been opened," he said.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Hold on," he said. "I will lead the mule."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span></p>

<div class="figright" style="width: 391px;">
<img src="images/gs06.jpg" width="391" height="500" alt="&quot;An evil death on you!&quot;&mdash;Vol. I., p. 218." title="&quot;An evil death on you!&quot;&mdash;Vol. I., p. 218." />
<span class="caption">&quot;An evil death on you!&quot;&mdash;Vol. I., p.&nbsp;218.</span>
</div>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;which
indeed was in need of their prayers.</p>

<p>Stefanone returned from Rome, but it was a sad<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"An evil death on you and all your house!" he
said, shaking his fist at the door of the room.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span></p>
<h2><span class="smcap">Part II.</span></h2>


<h3><i>GLORIA DALRYMPLE.</i></h3>



<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER XVII.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">In</span> 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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span>
extent that in spite of his father's disappointment,
even the old Prince&mdash;the brother of Sister Maria
Addolorata&mdash;advised Angelo Reanda to give up
the Church, and to devote himself altogether to
painting.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span>
whose instincts were naturally as refined as his
character was sensitive and upright.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span></p>

<p>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,&mdash;as,
for instance, that there was a convenient interior
staircase leading from the great hall to the upper<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span>
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,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span>
indeed, depended on something past his comprehension.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;a fictitious tragedy accepted as real by
all Roman society&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span></p>

<p>"You should marry," she answered one day,
when they were together in the great hall which
he was decorating.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I do not think I shall ever marry," he answered
at last, looking down and idly mixing two colours
on his palette.</p>

<p>"Why not?" she asked quickly. "I have heard
you say that you might, some day."</p>

<p>"Some day, some day&mdash;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."</p>

<p>"Do you think that every one who marries must
be unhappy?" she asked. "You are cynical. I
did not know it."</p>

<p>"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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span>
You must surely understand that. It is very easy
to understand."</p>

<p>He made as though he would go up the ladder
to his little platform and continue his work. But
she stopped him.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I am not a gentleman, as you understand the
word," he said slowly. "And yet I am certainly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span>
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?"</p>

<p>"Yes," answered Francesca. "It is clear
enough. But&mdash;"</p>

<p>She checked herself, and he looked into her face,
expecting her to continue. But she said nothing
more.</p>

<p>"You were going to find an objection to what I
said," he observed.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"Your fault?" cried Reanda, leaning forward
and looking into her eyes. "How? I do not
understand."</p>

<p>"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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span>
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!"</p>

<p>"Genius!" exclaimed Reanda, shaking his head
sadly. "Do not use the word of me."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"To go away for a time?" asked Reanda,
anxiously.</p>

<p>"I did not say that. Perhaps I should. Yes,
if you could enjoy a journey, go away&mdash;for a
time."</p>

<p>She spoke with some hesitation and rather nervously,
for he had said more than she had meant
to propose.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"If I do not find one here&mdash;" He did not complete
the sentence, but smiled a little.</p>

<p>"Must you marry a Roman princess?" she
asked. "What should you say to a foreigner?
Is that impossible, too?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span></p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>Donna Francesca laughed softly, but without
much mirth.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;English
or Scotch&mdash;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."</p>

<p>"What a name!" Reanda laughed. "I suppose
they have come to spend the winter in Rome," he
added.</p>

<p>"Not at all. I hear that they have lived here
for years. But one never meets the foreigners,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span>
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!"</p>

<p>"For that matter, I wish I might," said Reanda,
who was passionately fond of music.</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER XVIII.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">Seventeen</span> years had scored their account on
Angus Dalrymple's hard face, and one great sorrow
had set an even deeper mark upon him&mdash;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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</a></span>
murder whom in cold blood would be an act of
cowardice.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;worshipping her, too, with that curious
faculty for idealizing the very human, which belongs
to German governesses when they like their
pupils.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span>
movement, and dabbled in conspiracies which
rather amused than disquieted the papal government.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>Dalrymple had found in the artist world a man
who was something of a companion to him at
times,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[251]</a></span></p>

<p>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,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[252]</a></span>
there was nothing to prevent their walking together
as far as the Piazza di Spagna, or anywhere else.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"There goes the Gladiator," said Reanda to his
companion, suddenly. "There is no mistaking
his walk, even at this distance."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Why do you call him the Gladiator?" asked
Francesca, with some interest.</p>

<p>"It is a nickname he has got. Cotogni, the
sculptor, was in despair for a model last year.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span>
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&mdash;the one in the
Louvre&mdash;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."</p>

<p>"Yes, he looks strong," said Francesca, watching
the man with natural curiosity.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</a></span></p>

<p>"How curious!" exclaimed Francesca, rather
idly, for her interest in Paul Griggs was almost
exhausted.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"It would give me great pleasure if you would
bring your daughter to see me," she said graciously.</p>

<p>"You are very kind," answered Dalrymple, his
steely blue eyes scrutinizing her pure young features.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[255]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[256]</a></span></p>

<p>"May I introduce Mr. Griggs?" he said, with
the stiff inclination which was a part of his manner.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>Reanda said something civil as his hand parted
from the Scotchman's. Francesca saw an opportunity
of bringing Reanda and Gloria together.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;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."</p>

<p>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,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[257]</a></span>
and to whom the other had but just been introduced.
But they bowed their thanks, and promised
to come.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I shall expect you after four o'clock," she said,
nodding graciously as she went by.</p>

<p>Dalrymple looked after her, till she had left the
shop.</p>

<p>"That woman is not like other women, I think,"
he said thoughtfully, to his companion.</p>

<p>The mask-like face turned itself deliberately
towards him, with shadowy, unwinking eyes.</p>

<p>"No," answered Griggs, and he slowly took up
his paper again.</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[258]</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER XIX.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">Donna Francesca</span> 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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[259]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[260]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"You know him, Mr. Griggs?" she said, as they
all rose to leave the room.</p>

<p>"Yes," he answered, "as one man knows another."</p>

<p>"What does that mean?" asked Francesca, moving
towards the door to lead the way.</p>

<p>"It does not mean much," replied the young man,
with curious ambiguity.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>They all went through the house till they came
to a door which divided the inhabited part from the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[261]</a></span>
hall in which Reanda was working. She knocked
gently upon it with her knuckles, and then smiled
as she saw Gloria looking at her.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>She was interested, too, in the technical mechanics
of fresco-painting, which she had never before<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[262]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[263]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I was speaking of your accent in Italian," said
Griggs.</p>

<p>"Is there anything wrong about it?" asked
Gloria, with an anxiety that seemed exaggerated.</p>

<p>"On the contrary," answered Donna Francesca,
"Mr. Griggs was telling me how perfectly you
speak. But I had noticed it."</p>

<p>"Oh! I thought Mr. Griggs was finding fault,"
answered Gloria, turning to Reanda again.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[264]</a></span></p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I sometimes think so myself," answered Griggs,
with one of his steady looks. "In a way, every
one must have a sort of duality&mdash;a good and evil
principle."</p>

<p>"God and the devil," suggested Francesca,
simply.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I do not understand. What battle?"</p>

<p>"The battle between body and soul. The face
tells which way the fight is going."</p>

<p>She looked at his own, and she felt that she could
not tell. But to a certain extent she understood
him.</p>

<p>"Griggs is full of theories," observed Dalrymple.
"Gloria, come down!" he cried in English, suddenly.</p>

<p>Gloria, intent upon understanding how fresco-painting
was done, was boldly mounting the steps
of the ladder towards the top of the little scaffolding,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[265]</a></span>
which might have been fourteen feet high.
For the vault had long been finished, and Reanda
was painting the walls.</p>

<p>"Nonsense, papa!" answered the young girl,
also in English. "There's no danger at all."</p>

<p>"Well&mdash;don't break your neck," said Dalrymple.
"I wish you would come down, though."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Gloria is rather wild," said Dalrymple, in a
sort of apology. "I hope you will forgive her&mdash;she
is so much interested."</p>

<p>"Oh&mdash;if she wishes to see, let her go, of
course," answered Francesca, concealing a little
nervous irritation she felt.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[266]</a></span>
had become indifferent, allowing his daughter to
do what she pleased, as usual.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Jump!" he cried, in a voice of command.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[267]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"It must be yours, Miss Dalrymple," he said.</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[268]</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER XX.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">It</span> 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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[269]</a></span></p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Well, it was her fault. Besides, the absent
are always wrong. But she is handsome, is she
not?"</p>

<p>Reanda shrugged his thin shoulders, and looked
critically at his hands, which were smeared with
paint.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;" 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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[270]</a></span>
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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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&mdash;how shall I say? It pleases me&mdash;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!"</p>

<p>Francesca laughed gently. Reanda shook his
head with slow disapprobation, and frowned.</p>

<p>"I say the truth," he said. "There is something&mdash;I
cannot explain. But I can show you,"
he added quickly.</p>

<p>He took up his palette and brushes from the
chair on which they lay, and reached the white
plastered wall in two steps.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[271]</a></span></p>

<p>"Paint her," said Francesca, to encourage him.</p>

<p>"Yes, I will show her to you&mdash;as I think she
is," he answered.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Make her beautiful, at least," said Francesca,
watching him.</p>

<p>"Oh, yes&mdash;very beautiful," he answered.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"But you are painting a sunset!" she cried
suddenly.</p>

<p>"A sunset? That is her hair. It is red, and
she has much of it. Wait a little."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[272]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Yes, but it is still a sunset," said Francesca.
"I have seen it like that from the Campagna in
winter."</p>

<p>"She is not 'Gloria' for nothing," answered
Reanda. "I am making her glorious. You shall
see."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Truth is always terrible," answered Reanda.
"But you cannot say that it is not like her."</p>

<p>"Horribly like. It is diabolical!"</p>

<p>"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?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[273]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"It is diabolical, satanical!" she responded,
under her breath.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;in a fearful caricature
exaggerating beauty itself to the bounds of the
devilish.</p>

<p>"I cannot bear it!" cried Francesca.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[274]</a></span></p>

<p>"There!" cried Francesca. "And I wish I had
never seen it!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"It makes no difference," he said. "You will
never forget it."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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&mdash;yet
they are mine, are they not? And you gave them
to me."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[275]</a></span></p>

<p>The sweet young face turned to him with an unaffected,
grateful smile. His sad features softened
all at once.</p>

<p>"Ah, Donna Francesca," he said gently, "you
have given me something better than Cupid and
Psyche, for your gift will live forever in heaven."</p>

<p>She looked thoughtfully into his eyes, but with
a sort of question in her own.</p>

<p>"Your dear friendship," he added, bending his
head a little. Then he laughed suddenly. "Do
not give me a wife," he concluded.</p>

<p>"And you, Reanda&mdash;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!"</p>

<p>"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&mdash;it is the image!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[276]</a></span></p>

<p>Francesca, who could not remember her ill-fated
kinswoman, was not much impressed by Reanda's
statement.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Oh, but I remember well!" insisted Reanda.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"You, princess!" exclaimed Reanda, in surprise;
for she had not begun to go into the world yet since
her husband's death.</p>

<p>"It is not a reception. We are to meet there
about arranging another of those charity concerts
for the deaf and dumb."</p>

<p>"I might have known," answered the painter.
"As for me, I shall go to the theatre to-night.
There is the Trovatore."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[277]</a></span></p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Good night," said Francesca, as she turned to
leave the room.</p>

<p>"And you forgive the caricature?" asked Reanda,
holding the door open for her to pass.</p>

<p>"I would forgive you many things," she answered,
smiling as she went by.</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[278]</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER XXI.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">In</span> 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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[279]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[280]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[281]</a></span>
nodded, while Griggs leaned forward a little and
stared vacantly into the pit.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>His thoughts were disturbed, and he recalled
vividly the face of the dead nun, which he had
seen long ago. The resemblance was certainly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[282]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[283]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<div class='center'>
"Calpesta il mio cadavere, ma salva il Trovator!"<br />
</div>

<div class='unindent'>she sang in great ascending intervals.</div>

<p>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.</p>

<p>He went out and walked slowly up the Via di<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[284]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>The artist walked on, glancing at the groups he
passed in the dim street, but neither pausing nor<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[285]</a></span>
hurrying. He meant to let fate have her own way
with him that night.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<div class='center'>
"Calpesta il mio cadavere, ma salva il Trovator!"<br />
</div>

<p>The great soprano rang out upon the midnight
silence, like the voice of a despairing archangel,
and there was nothing more.</p>

<p>"Hush!" exclaimed a man's voice energetically.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>He was not mistaken. Griggs had recognized
him first, and they had waited for him at the
corner.</p>

<p>"It is an unexpected pleasure to meet twice in
the same day," said Reanda.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[286]</a></span></p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Was I not right?" asked Gloria, quickly appealing
to Reanda with the certainty of support.</p>

<p>"A thousand times right," he answered. "How
could one be wrong with such a voice?"</p>

<p>Gloria was pleased, and they all walked on together
till they reached the door of Dalrymple's
lodging.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"No. In the Palazzetto Borgia, where I work."</p>

<p>"This is not exactly on your way home, then,"
observed Gloria. "You may as well rest and
refresh yourself."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"This is an illumination," said Dalrymple, looking
back as he led the way.</p>

<p>Gloria stopped suddenly, and looked round.
She was following her father, and Reanda came
after her, Griggs being the last.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[287]</a></span></p>

<p>"One, two, three," she counted, and her eyes
met Reanda's.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Why did you do that?" asked Dalrymple, who
had turned his head again, as the taper was
extinguished.</p>

<p>"Three lights mean death," said Gloria, promptly;
and she laughed, as she went quickly up the
steps.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[288]</a></span>
the brim, and looked at it. He had hardly spoken
since Reanda had joined the party.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>She laughed, but her eyes were fixed on his face.</p>

<div class='center'>
"'Un altro po' di fravole, e dammi crema ancor,'"<br />
</div>

<div class='unindent'>she sang softly, in the Roman dialect.</div>

<p>Then she laughed again, and Reanda smiled at
the absurd words&mdash;"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.</p>

<p>"Don't look so grim, papa," she said in English.
"Nobody can hear me here, you know."</p>

<p>"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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[289]</a></span></p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Why do you look at me like that?" she asked,
turning upon him with a little show of temper.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"You will make her vain with your pretty
speeches, Griggs," said Dalrymple.</p>

<p>"I doubt that," answered Griggs.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Miss Dalrymple is doing her best to make me
vain with her praise," said Reanda.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[290]</a></span></p>

<p>"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!"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"But I did not except Raphael, nor any one,"
persisted Gloria, before Reanda could speak.</p>

<p>"Really, Signorina, though I am mortal and
susceptible, you go a little too far. Flattery is
not appreciation, you know."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>In spite of himself, as before, he continued to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[291]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>It was nearly one o'clock when he lighted his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[292]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"Mind!" exclaimed the artist, with a sudden
revulsion of feeling in favour of the journalist.
"I should be delighted&mdash;flattered."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[293]</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER XXII.</h2>

<p><span class="smcap">Three</span> 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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[294]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[295]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[296]</a></span></p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[297]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[298]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[299]</a></span>
great painter, the latter would effectually keep
her from the stage.</p>

<p>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&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[300]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>Patience being exhausted, the visitor came down
the five flights again, and remonstrated with the
cobbler.</p>

<p>"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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[301]</a></span>
in? Why? To disoblige you? If you want anything
of Sor Paolo, say it to me. Or come again."</p>

<p>"But he will not open," objected the visitor.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"But since I have tried!"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[302]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"You are the strongest man in the world, are
you not?" she asked him once.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"What nonsense!" Gloria laughed.</p>

<p>"Is it? I daresay it is." And he relapsed into
indifference, so far as she could see.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[303]</a></span></p>

<p>"What is the other man like?" she asked.
"Not the strong man of the two, but the other?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"What will happen then?" she asked lightly,
and still inclined to laugh.</p>

<p>"One or the other, or both, will die, I suppose,"
he answered.</p>

<p>"How very unpleasant!"</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[304]</a></span>
last, it is as the pity which the unhurt weak feel
for the ruined strong.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I hope so," he answered, turning his impassive
face slowly towards her.</p>

<p>"Then you ought to be much nicer to me," she said.</p>

<p>"I am as nice as I know how to be," replied
Griggs, with fixed eyes. "What shall I do?"</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"I admit it. I regret it, and I wish I were not."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Thank you, thank you," said Griggs, quietly,
repeating the words without emphasis.</p>

<p>"I don't like you!" she exclaimed petulantly,
but with a little laugh.</p>

<p>"I know that," he answered. "But I like you
very much. We were probably meant to differ."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[305]</a></span></p>

<p>"Then you might amuse me. It's awfully dull
when it rains. Pull the house down, or tear up
silver scudi, or something."</p>

<p>"I am not Samson, and I am not a clown,"
observed Griggs, coldly.</p>

<p>"I shall never like you if you are so disagreeable,"
said Gloria, taking up a book, and settling
herself to read.</p>

<p>"I am afraid you never will," answered Griggs,
following her example.</p>

<p>A few minutes passed in silence. Then Gloria
looked up suddenly.</p>

<p>"Mr. Griggs?"</p>

<p>"Yes?"</p>

<p>"I did not mean to be horrid."</p>

<p>"No, of course not."</p>

<p>"Because, if I were ever in trouble, you know&mdash;I
should come straight to you."</p>

<p>"Thank you," he answered very gently. "But
I hope you will never be in trouble. If you ever
should be&mdash;" He stopped.</p>

<p>"Well?"</p>

<p>"I do not think you would find anybody who
would try harder to help you," he said simply.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Would it be the good man or the bad man that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[306]</a></span>
would help me?" she asked, remembering the
former conversation.</p>

<p>"Both," answered Griggs, without hesitation.</p>

<p>"I am not sure that I might not like the bad
man better," said Gloria, almost to herself.</p>

<p>"Is Reanda a bad man?" inquired Griggs,
slowly, and looking for the blush in her face.</p>

<p>"Why?" But she blushed, as he expected.</p>

<p>"Because you like him better than me."</p>

<p>"You are quite different. It is of no use to talk
about it, and I want to read."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[307]</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER XXIII.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">Very</span> 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[308]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"The Philistines are upon thee!" cried Delilah
in a piercing voice.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>People began to laugh.</p>

<p>"Cut off his hair!" cried one.</p>

<p>"Of what use was the wig?" laughed another,
and every one tittered.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Griggs looked at the cords. Then his mask-like
face turned slowly to the audience. Only the great<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[309]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"You told me the other day that you were not
Samson," she said. "You see you can be when
you choose."</p>

<p>"No," answered Griggs, coldly; "I am a clown."</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[310]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>The streets were alive, though it was very late.
There was more freedom to be gay and more hope<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[311]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>He wandered on with the same even, untiring
stride, for a long time, through the dark and winding<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[312]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"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!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[313]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[314]</a></span></p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Rather more than half," answered the other,
and he drank eagerly. "Give me some more,
please," he said, holding out his glass.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I congratulate you all three," said Griggs,
slowly, for he had known what was coming. "Let
us drink the health of the couple."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"That might mean a good deal," said Griggs,
quickly, and he drained a third glass. "Were
you ever drunk, Dalrymple?" he inquired
gravely.</p>

<p>"No. I never was," answered the Scotchman.</p>

<p>"Nor I. This seems a fitting occasion for trying
an experiment. We might try to get drunk."</p>

<p>"By all means, let us try," replied Dalrymple.
"I have my doubts about the possibility of the
thing, however."</p>

<p>"So have I."</p>

<p>They sat opposite to one another in silence for
some minutes, each satisfied that the other was in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[315]</a></span>
earnest. Dalrymple solemnly filled the glasses
and then leaned back in his chair.</p>

<p>"You did not seem much surprised by what
I told you," he observed at last. "I suppose you
expected it."</p>

<p>"Yes. It seemed natural enough, though it is
not always the natural things that happen."</p>

<p>"I think they are suited to marry. Of course,
Reanda is very much older, but he is comparatively
a young man still."</p>

<p>"Comparatively. He will make a better husband
for having had experience, I daresay."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"And she preserves the distance," Griggs remarked.
"You are not drinking fair. My glass
is empty."</p>

<p>Dalrymple finished his and refilled both.</p>

<p>"I have been here some time," he observed, half
apologetically. "But as I was saying&mdash;or rather,
as you were saying&mdash;Donna Francesca preserves
the distance. These Italians do that admirably.
They know the difference between intimacy and
familiarity."</p>

<p>"That is a nice distinction," said Griggs. "I
will use it in my next letter. No. Donna Francesca<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[316]</a></span>
could never be familiar with any one. They
learn it when they are young, I suppose, and it
becomes a race-characteristic."</p>

<p>"What?" asked Dalrymple, abruptly.</p>

<p>"A certain graceful loftiness," answered the
younger man.</p>

<p>The Scotchman's wrinkled eyelids contracted,
and he was silent for a few moments.</p>

<p>"A certain graceful loftiness," he repeated
slowly. "Yes, perhaps so. A certain graceful
loftiness."</p>

<p>"You seem struck by the expression," said
Griggs.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Never fear. They will be up all night. Not
that it is a reason for wasting time, as you say."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Those race-characteristics of families are very
curious," continued Griggs, thoughtfully.</p>

<p>"Are they?" Dalrymple looked at him suspiciously.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[317]</a></span></p>

<p>"Very. Especially voices. They run in families,
like resemblance of features."</p>

<p>"So they do," answered the other, thoughtfully.
"So they do."</p>

<p>He had of late years got into the habit of often
repeating such short phrases, in an absent-minded
way.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;of some
one&mdash;"</p>

<p>Dalrymple raised his eyes suddenly again, as
though he were irritated.</p>

<p>"I say," he began, interrupting his companion.
"Do you feel anything? Anything queer in your
head?"</p>

<p>"No. Why?"</p>

<p>"You are talking rather disconnectedly, that
is all."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"So I thought," answered Dalrymple.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[318]</a></span></p>

<p>He ordered more wine and relapsed into silence.
Neither spoke again for a long time.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Certainly. Eat as much as you like."</p>

<p>Griggs ordered something, which was brought
after considerable delay, and he began to eat.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"I might ask you the same question," answered
Griggs, cautiously.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[319]</a></span></p>

<p>"Yes. I have seen it. You cannot tell me
much about Rome which I do not know."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"He will probably kill his man," said Dalrymple.</p>

<p>Suddenly his big, loose shoulders shook a little,
and he shivered. He glanced towards the window,
suspecting that it might be open.</p>

<p>"Are you cold?" asked Griggs, carelessly.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"No," said Griggs. "I refuse to mix things.
This may be the longer way, but it is the safer."</p>

<p>And he drank again.</p>

<p>"He was a man from Tivoli, or Subiaco," he
remarked presently. "He spoke with that accent."</p>

<p>"I daresay," answered Dalrymple, who looked
down into his glass at that moment, so that his
face was in shadow.</p>

<p>Just then four men who had occupied a table<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[320]</a></span>
near the door rose and went out. It was late, even
for a night in Carnival.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"At least," assented Paul Griggs. "But they
expect to be open all night. I think there is time."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;a peculiar atmosphere in which the old-fashioned
Roman delighted to sit for hours on
holidays.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[321]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I believe that fellow is laughing at us," he said
to Griggs.</p>

<p>"There is nothing to laugh at," answered the
latter, unmoved. "But of course, if you think so,
throw him downstairs."</p>

<p>Dalrymple laughed drily.</p>

<p>"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."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[322]</a></span></p>

<p>"I grew up at sea and before the mast. That
may account for it."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"An Englishman, I suppose?"</p>

<p>"No. An American."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Very much like you Scotch," answered Griggs.
"I have heard you say that you were a doctor
once."</p>

<p>"A doctor&mdash;yes&mdash;in a way, for the sake of being<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[323]</a></span>
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."</p>

<p>He laughed a little and filled his glass.</p>

<p>"Poor Dalrymple!" he exclaimed softly, still
smiling.</p>

<p>Paul Griggs raised his slow eyes to his companion's
face.</p>

<p>"It never struck me that you were much to be
pitied," he observed.</p>

<p>"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."</p>
<div class="figright" style="width: 443px;">
<img src="images/gs07.jpg" width="443" height="500" alt="&quot;Fire and sleet and candle-light; And Christ receive thy soul.&quot;&mdash;Vol. I., p. 324." title="&quot;Fire and sleet and candle-light; And Christ receive thy soul.&quot;&mdash;Vol. I., p. 324." />
<span class="caption">&quot;Fire and sleet and candle-light;<br />
<span style="margin-left: 4em;">And Christ receive thy soul.&quot;</span>
<span style="margin-left: 12em;">&mdash;Vol. I., p.&nbsp;324.</span></span>
</div>

<p>"'For in that sleep of death, what dreams may
come&mdash;'" Griggs quoted, and stopped.</p>

<p>"'When we have shuffled off this mortal coil.'
You do not know your Shakespeare, young man."</p>

<p>"'Must give us pause,'" continued Griggs. "I
was thinking of the dreams, not of the rest."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[324]</a></span></p>



<p>"Dreams? Yes. There will be dreams there.
Dreams, and other things&mdash;'this ae night of all.'
Not that my reason admits that they can be more
than dreams, you know, Griggs. Reason says 'to
sleep&mdash;no more.' And fancy says 'perchance to
dream.' Well, well, it will be a long dream, that's
all."</p>

<p>"Yes. We shall be dead a long time. Better
drink now." And Griggs drank.</p>

<div class='poem'>
"'Fire and sleet and candle-light,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And Christ receive thy soul;'"</span><br />
</div>

<div class='unindent'>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.</div>

<div class='poem'>
"'This ae night, this ae night,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Every night and all,</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Fire and sleet and candle-light,</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">And Christ receive thy soul.'"</span><br />
</div>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;</p>

<div class='poem'>
"'Till a' the seas gang dry, my love,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Till a' the seas gang dry.'</span><br />
</div>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[325]</a></span></p>

<div class='unindent'>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?"</div>

<p>"Yes," answered Griggs, quietly. "And you,
Dalrymple? Were you never in love?"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[326]</a></span>
immediately, and pretended not to have noticed
Dalrymple's expression.</p>

<p>"I like your queer old Scotch ballads," he said,
humouring the man's previous tendency to quote
poetry.</p>

<p>"There's a lot of life in them still," answered
Dalrymple, absently twisting his empty glass.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"'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.</p>

<p>"No," answered Dalrymple, with much gravity.
"There I venture&mdash;indeed, I claim the right&mdash;to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[327]</a></span>
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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<div class='poem'>
"'Night and day on me she cries,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And I am weary of the skies</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Since&mdash;'"</span><br />
</div>

<p>He broke off and shook himself nervously, and
looked at Griggs, as though wondering whether
the latter had heard.</p>

<p>"This wine is good," he said, rousing himself.
"Let us have some more. Giulio!"</p>

<p>The fat waiter awoke instantly at the call,
looked, nodded, went out, and returned immediately
with another bottle.</p>

<p>"Is this the sixth or the seventh?" asked Dalrymple,
slowly.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Bring seven more, Giulio," said the Scotchman,
gravely. "It will save you six journeys."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[328]</a></span></p>

<p>"Does the Signore speak in earnest?" asked the
servant, and he glanced at Griggs, who was impassive
as marble.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"That is a Homeric order," observed Griggs.</p>

<p>"I think&mdash;in fact, I am almost sure&mdash;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."</p>

<p>He emptied his glass and poured the remainder
of the bottle into it.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"He is a first-rate artist. I like him very well."</p>

<p>"A good man, eh? Well, well&mdash;from the point
of view of discretion, Griggs, I am doing right.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[329]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"And may God bless you!" said Giulio, solemnly.
"If you do not die to-night, you will
never die again."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>Griggs insisted on paying his share. They settled,
and Giulio went away happy.</p>

<p>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&mdash;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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[330]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[331]</a></span>
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!</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Dalrymple, leaning on his elbow, one hand in
his streaked beard, the other grasping his glass,
talked on and quoted more and more.</p>

<div class='poem'>
"'The flame took fast upon her cheek,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Took fast upon her chin,</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Took fast upon her fair body</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Because of her deadly sin.'"</span><br />
</div>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[332]</a></span></p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>He looked up, and his eyes were changed, and
Griggs knew that they no longer saw him.</p>

<p>"Stiff," he said softly. "Quite stiff. Dead
two or three hours, I daresay. It stands up on
its feet beside me&mdash;certainly dead two or three
hours."</p>

<p>He nodded wisely to himself twice, and then
spoke again in the same far-off tone, gazing past
Griggs, at the wall.</p>

<p>"The clothes-basket is a silly idea. Besides,
I should lose the night. Rather carry it myself&mdash;wrap
it up in the plaid. She'll never know, when
she has it on her head. Who cares?"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[333]</a></span></p>

<p>The unwinking eyes dilated. The bright colour
was gone from the cheek bones.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;I can see it in
the dark&mdash;but I must cover it, darling. Quick&mdash;this
way. At last! No&mdash;you cannot see the fire,
but it is burning well, I am sure. Hold on! Hold
the pommel of the saddle with both hands&mdash;so!"</p>

<p>The voice ceased. Griggs began to understand.
He touched Dalrymple's sleeve, leaning across the
table.</p>

<p>"I say!" he called softly. "Dalrymple!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"By Jove!" he exclaimed in his natural voice.
"I think I must have been napping&mdash;'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.</p>

<div class='poem'>
"'Then up and gat the seventh o' them,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And never a word spake he;</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But he has striped his bright brown brand&mdash;'</span><br />
</div>

<div class='unindent'>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."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[334]</a></span></div>

<p>"I am afraid it does," said Griggs.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Very odd," said Griggs, lighting a cigar.</p>

<p>Giulio, sitting outside, half asleep, woke up as he
heard the steady tread of the two strong men go by.</p>

<p>"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.</p>


<h3>END OF VOL. I.</h3><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[336]</a></span></p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[335]</a></span></p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_i" id="Page_V2_i">[i]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 377px;">
<img src="images/cover02.jpg" width="377" height="600" alt="Cover" title="Cover" />
</div>
<h1>CASA BRACCIO</h1>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 150px;">
<img src="images/emblem.png" width="150" height="41" alt="Emblem" title="Emblem" />
</div><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_ii" id="Page_V2_ii">[ii]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 361px;">
<img src="images/gs21.jpg" width="361" height="500" alt="&quot;As he stood there repeating the name.&quot;&mdash;Vol. II., p. 331." title="&quot;As he stood there repeating the name.&quot;&mdash;Vol. II., p. 331." />
<span class="caption">&quot;As he stood there repeating the name.&quot;&mdash;Vol. II., <a href="#Page_V2_331">p.&nbsp;331.</a></span>
</div><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_iii" id="Page_V2_iii">[iii]</a></span></p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h1>CASA BRACCIO</h1>

<h3>BY</h3>

<h2>F. MARION CRAWFORD</h2>

<div class='center'><span class="smcap">Author of "Saracinesca," "Pietro Ghisleri," etc.</span><br />
<br /><br />
<br />IN TWO VOLUMES<br />

<br />VOL. II.<br /><br /><br /><br />

<i>WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY A. CASTAIGNE</i><br />

<br /><br /><br /><br />
<b>New York</b><br />
MACMILLAN AND CO.<br />
<small>AND LONDON</small><br />
<br />
1895<br />
<br />
<small><i>All rights reserved</i></small><br />
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />

<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_iv" id="Page_V2_iv">[iv]</a></span></p>




<div class='copyright'>
<span class="smcap">Copyright, 1894,</span><br />
<span class="smcap">By</span> F. MARION CRAWFORD.<br />
<br />
<b>Norwood Press</b><br />
J. S. Cushing &amp; Co.&mdash;Berwick &amp; Smith<br />
Norwood Mass. U.S.A.<br />
</div>



<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_v" id="Page_V2_v">[v]</a></span></p>

<h2>CONTENTS.</h2>




<div class='center'>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="Contents">
<tr><td align='center' colspan='2'>PART II.&mdash;<i>Continued.</i></td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Gloria Dalrymple</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_V2_1">1</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='center' colspan='2'><br />PART III.</td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Donna Francesca Campodonico</span>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_V2_227">227</a></td></tr>
</table></div>



<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_vii" id="Page_V2_vii">[vii]</a></span></p>

<h2>LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.</h2>


<h3><span class="smcap">Vol. II.</span></h3>



<div class='center'>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="Illustrations">
<tr><td align='left'>&nbsp;</td><td align='right'><small>PAGE</small></td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>"Gloria&mdash;forgive me!"</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_V2_50">50</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>Stefanone and Gloria</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_V2_100">100</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>"The horror of poverty smote him"</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_V2_123">123</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>"Let us not speak of the dead"</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_V2_203">203</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>"The last great, true note died away"</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_V2_219">219</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'>"As he stood there repeating the name"</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_V2_ii">331</a></td></tr>
</table></div>


<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_1" id="Page_V2_1">[1]</a></span></p>

<h2>Part II.&mdash;<i>Continued.</i></h2>

<h3><i>GLORIA DALRYMPLE.</i></h3>

<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_3" id="Page_V2_3">[3]</a></span></p>


<h2>CASA BRACCIO.</h2>

<h2><span class="smcap">Part II.</span>&mdash;<i>Continued.</i></h2>

<h3><i>GLORIA DALRYMPLE.</i></h3>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>CHAPTER XXIV.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">During</span> 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.</p>

<p>"Besides," said Gloria, "you will not always be
painting frescoes for Donna Francesca. I want<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_4" id="Page_V2_4">[4]</a></span>
you to paint a great picture, and send it to Paris
and get a medal."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_5" id="Page_V2_5">[5]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_6" id="Page_V2_6">[6]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_7" id="Page_V2_7">[7]</a></span>
of a disagreement between the two women,
though he felt that it was in the air.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_8" id="Page_V2_8">[8]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_9" id="Page_V2_9">[9]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"These Romans!" she exclaimed at last. "They
believe that there is nobody like themselves!"</p>

<p>Angelo Reanda's face had a pained look, as he
laid his long thin hand upon hers.</p>

<p>"My dear," he said gently. "You have married
an artist. What would you have? I am sure,
people have received us very well."</p>

<p>"Very well! Of course&mdash;as though we had not
the right to be received well. But, Angelo&mdash;do
not say such things&mdash;that I have married an
artist&mdash;"</p>

<p>"It is quite true," he answered, with a smile. "I
work with my hands. They do not. There is the
difference."</p>

<p>"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,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_10" id="Page_V2_10">[10]</a></span>
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&mdash;but that is
all. Not one of them wants me for a friend. I
am so lonely, Angelo."</p>

<p>Her eyes filled with tears, and he tried to comfort
her.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Love you? I worship you! That is why I
wish you to have everything the world holds,
everything at your feet."</p>

<p>"But I am quite satisfied," objected Reanda,
with unwise truth. "Do not think of me."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I will think of you!" she cried. "I have
nothing else to think of. You shall have it all,
everything&mdash;they shall know what a man you
are!"</p>

<p>"An artist, my dear, an artist. A little better
than some, a little less good than others. What
can society do for me?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_11" id="Page_V2_11">[11]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_12" id="Page_V2_12">[12]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_13" id="Page_V2_13">[13]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"Why do you not receive him here?" asked
Reanda, carelessly.</p>

<p>"Because&mdash;" she hesitated. "I should rather
see him in the drawing-room," she added a moment
later, without giving any further explanation.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Suddenly he asked about Gloria and her husband.
There was an odd abruptness in the question, and
a hard little laugh, quite unnecessary, accompanied<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_14" id="Page_V2_14">[14]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"I suppose they are radiantly happy," he said.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Are they not happy?" he asked quickly, as her
silence roused his suspicions.</p>

<p>"I have never heard anything to the contrary,"
answered Francesca, dangerously accurate in the
statement.</p>

<p>"Oh!" Griggs uttered the ejaculation in a
thoughtful tone, but said no more.</p>

<p>"I hope I have not given you the impression that
there is anything wrong," said Francesca, showing
her anxiety too much.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_15" id="Page_V2_15">[15]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Between Griggs and Gloria there was the sort<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_16" id="Page_V2_16">[16]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>Gloria laughed gaily, and patted her husband's
hand.</p>

<p>"What men like that call love!" she answered.
"Besides&mdash;a journalist! And hideous as he is!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_17" id="Page_V2_17">[17]</a></span></p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"You surely do not suppose that I ever cared
for him!" she said, readily suspecting that he
suspected her.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"How foolish you are, love!" he exclaimed.
"But Griggs is younger than I&mdash;it would not be
so very unnatural if you had cared for him."</p>

<p>She broke out passionately.</p>

<p>"Younger than you! So am I, much younger
than you! But you are young, too. I will not<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_18" id="Page_V2_18">[18]</a></span>
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."</p>

<p>He drew her to him, reluctant, and the pained
look which Francesca knew so well came into his
face.</p>

<p>"Are you unhappy, my heart?" he asked gently.
"What is it, dear? Tell me!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Oh, so unhappy!" she cried softly, hiding her
face against his coat, and glad to feel the tears in
her eyes.</p>

<p>"But what is it?" he asked very kindly, smoothing
her auburn hair with one hand, while the other
pressed her to him.</p>

<p>As he looked over her head at the wall, his
face showed both pain and perplexity. He had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_19" id="Page_V2_19">[19]</a></span>
not the least idea what to do, except to humour her
as much as he could.</p>

<p>"I am so lonely, sometimes," she moaned. "The
days are so long."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"She is always there," said Gloria, pressing her
face closer to his coat.</p>

<p>"Indeed she is not!" he cried, and she could
feel the little breath of indignation he drew. "I
am a great deal alone."</p>

<p>"Not half as much as I am."</p>

<p>"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&mdash;"</p>

<p>"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&mdash;oh, I know she
loves you!"</p>

<p>Reanda began to lose patience.</p>

<p>"How absurd!" he exclaimed. "It is ridiculous.
It is an insult to Donna Francesca to say
that she is in love with me."</p>

<p>"It is true." Gloria suddenly raised her head
and drew back from him a very little. "I am a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_20" id="Page_V2_20">[20]</a></span>
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&mdash;"</p>

<p>Reanda laughed, with an effort.</p>

<p>"It is altogether too absurd!" he said. "I do
not know what to say. I can only laugh."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"She would not have people know that she had
friends living in such a place," Gloria answered.</p>

<p>Unwittingly she had dealt Reanda a deadly
thrust.</p>

<p>He had fallen in love with her and had married
her on the understanding with himself, so to say,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_21" id="Page_V2_21">[21]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>His tone changed, when he answered her, but
she was far from suspecting what she had done.</p>

<p>"We will get another apartment at once," he
said quietly.</p>

<p>"No," she answered at once, protesting, "you
must not do anything of the kind! What an idea!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_22" id="Page_V2_22">[22]</a></span>
To change our home merely because it is not on the
Corso or the Piazza di Venezia!"</p>

<p>"You would prefer the Corso?" inquired Angelo.
"That is natural. It is more gay."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"It is ridiculous!" cried Gloria. "You must
not think of it. Besides&mdash;the expense&mdash;"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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&mdash;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&mdash;"</p>

<p>"You are very unjust," said Reanda, hurt by
the vulgarity of the speech and deeply wounded in
his own pride.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_23" id="Page_V2_23">[23]</a></span></p>

<p>"You defend her! You see!" And the colour
rose in Gloria's cheeks.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_24" id="Page_V2_24">[24]</a></span>
ready, he gave her short warning that they were to
move immediately.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I did not take the house with that intention,
my dear," said Reanda, gently, but wounded and
repelled by the remark and the tone.</p>

<p>"Well then, we might have stayed where we
were," she answered. "It was much cheaper, and
there was more sun for the winter."</p>

<p>"But this is gayer," objected Reanda. "You
have the Corso under the window."</p>

<p>"As though I looked out of the window!"
exclaimed Gloria, scornfully. "It was so nice&mdash;our
little place there."</p>

<p>"You are hard to please, my dear," said the
artist, coldly.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_25" id="Page_V2_25">[25]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_26" id="Page_V2_26">[26]</a></span></p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>CHAPTER XXV.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">Paul Griggs</span> 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_27" id="Page_V2_27">[27]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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 <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'premiss'">premise</ins>, but logical
beyond all liability to deception when reasoning
from anything it had accepted. Its processes were
intuitively correct and almost instantaneous, while<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_28" id="Page_V2_28">[28]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>When he began to love Gloria Dalrymple, she
appealed to both sides of his nature. For once, the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_29" id="Page_V2_29">[29]</a></span>
spiritual instinct coincided with the direction given
to the material man by a very earthly passion.</p>

<p>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 <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'premisses'">premises</ins> 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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_30" id="Page_V2_30">[30]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_31" id="Page_V2_31">[31]</a></span>
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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_32" id="Page_V2_32">[32]</a></span>
as though he were a specialist. He had enormous
industry and great mechanical power of handling
language.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_33" id="Page_V2_33">[33]</a></span>
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&mdash;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.</p>

<p>Gloria looked at him thoughtfully with half-closed
lids.</p>

<p>"I shall surprise you all," he repeated slowly,
"but it will not be genius."</p>

<p>"You will not surprise me," Gloria answered,
still meeting his eyes. "As for genius, what
is it?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_34" id="Page_V2_34">[34]</a></span></p>

<p>"It is what you have when you sing," said
Griggs. "It is what Reanda has when he paints."</p>

<p>"Then why not what you do when you write?"</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"I always understand what you tell me. You
put things so clearly. Yes, I think I understand
you better than you understand yourself."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;ever since
I first came here to work. It has been a long piece
of life."</p>

<p>"Indeed it has," Gloria answered, and a moment
later she sighed.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_35" id="Page_V2_35">[35]</a></span></p>

<p>"I wonder whether you understand my life at
all," she said presently.</p>

<p>"I am not sure that I do. It is a strange life,
in some ways&mdash;like yourself."</p>

<p>"Am I strange?"</p>

<p>"Very."</p>

<p>"What makes you think so?"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Do you like compliments?" he asked abruptly.</p>

<p>"That depends upon whether I consider them
compliments or not," she answered, with a little
laugh.</p>

<p>"You are a very perfect woman in very imperfect
surroundings," said Griggs.</p>

<p>"That is not a compliment to the surroundings,
at all events. I do not know whether to laugh or
not. Shall I?"</p>

<p>"If you will. I like to hear you laugh."</p>

<p>"You should hear me cry!" And she laughed
again at herself.</p>

<p>"God forbid!" he said gravely.</p>

<p>"I do sometimes," she answered, and her face
grew suddenly sad, as he watched her.</p>

<p>He felt a quick pain for her in his heart.</p>

<p>"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?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_36" id="Page_V2_36">[36]</a></span></p>

<p>"What should you think?" she asked lightly,
though no smile came with the words.</p>

<p>"I cannot guess. Tell me. Is it because you
still wish to be a singer? Is that it?"</p>

<p>"No. That is not it."</p>

<p>"Then I cannot guess." He looked for the
answer in her face. "Will you tell me?" he asked
after a pause.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_37" id="Page_V2_37">[37]</a></span></p>

<p>Griggs came back from the window and sat down
near her again in the low chair, looking up into
her face.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Yes. But&mdash;all sorts of things have happened
in that time, you know. I am not the same as I
was when I first knew you."</p>

<p>"No. You are married. That is one great
difference."</p>

<p>"Too great," said she. "Honestly, do you think
me improved since my marriage?"</p>

<p>"Improved? No. Why should you improve?
You are just what you were meant to be, as you
always were."</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"They ought to suit you," said Griggs. "If
they do not, it is not your fault."</p>

<p>"But I might have done something to make them
suit me. I sometimes think that I have not treated
them properly."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_38" id="Page_V2_38">[38]</a></span></p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I do not know&mdash;some one might. People are
so strange, sometimes."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"And by things you mean people," suggested
Griggs.</p>

<p>"Of course."</p>

<p>"And by your surroundings you mean&mdash;what?"</p>

<p>"You know," she answered in a low voice, turning
her face still further away from him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_39" id="Page_V2_39">[39]</a></span></p>

<p>"Reanda?"</p>

<p>She hesitated for a moment, knowing that her
answer must have weight on the man.</p>

<p>"I suppose so," she said at last. "I ought not
to say so&mdash;ought I? Tell me the truth."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Are you really my friend?" she asked softly.</p>

<p>"Yes." The word almost choked him, for there
was not room for it and for the rest.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_40" id="Page_V2_40">[40]</a></span></p>

<p>She turned quietly and surveyed the marble
mask with curious inquiry.</p>

<p>"Why do you say it like that," she asked; "as
though you would rather not? Do you grudge it?"</p>

<p>"No." He spoke barely above his breath.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Perhaps you meant it," she said presently. "I
hardly know. Did you?"</p>

<p>"Please be reasonable," said Griggs, indistinctly,
and his hands gripped each other on his knee.</p>

<p>"How oddly you talk!" she exclaimed. "What
have I said that was unreasonable?"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"You cannot understand," he answered. "There
is no reason why you should. Forgive me. I am
nervous to-day."</p>

<p>"You? Nervous?" She laughed again, with a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_41" id="Page_V2_41">[41]</a></span>
little scorn. "You are not capable of being nervous."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Honestly, will you be my friend?" she asked,
with a gentle smile.</p>

<p>"Heart and soul&mdash;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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I believe you could," she said, looking at him.
"You are so strong. You could do anything."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>She sighed, and turned away again, half satisfied.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;yes,
I have told you so. But what can you do to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_42" id="Page_V2_42">[42]</a></span>
help me? You cannot make my surroundings
what they are not, you know."</p>

<p>"No&mdash;I cannot change your husband," said
Griggs.</p>

<p>She started a little, but still looked away.</p>

<p>"No. You cannot make him love me," she said,
softly and sadly.</p>

<p>The big hands lost their hold on one another,
and the deep eyes opened a little wider. But she
was not watching him.</p>

<p>"Do you mean to say&mdash;" He stopped.</p>

<p>She slowly bent her head twice, but said nothing.</p>

<p>"Reanda does not love you?" he said, in wondering
interrogation. "Why&mdash;I thought&mdash;" He
hesitated.</p>

<p>"He cares no more for me than&mdash;that!" The
hand that stretched towards him across the open
piano tapped the polished wood once, and sharply.</p>

<p>"Are you in serious earnest?" asked Griggs,
bending forward, as though to catch her first look
when she should turn.</p>

<p>"Does any one jest about such things?" He
could just see that her lips curled a little as she
spoke.</p>

<p>"And you&mdash;you love him still?" he asked, with
pressing voice.</p>

<p>"Yes&mdash;I love him. The more fool I."</p>

<p>The words did not grate on him, as they would<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_43" id="Page_V2_43">[43]</a></span>
have jarred on her husband's ear. The myth he
had imagined made perfections of the woman's
faults.</p>

<p>"It is a pity," he said, resting his forehead in
his hand. "It is a deadly pity."</p>

<p>Then she turned at last and saw his attitude.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;or I will make it end."</p>

<p>"For God's sake do not talk like that!"</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>Griggs looked straight into her eyes a moment
and then almost understood what she meant.</p>

<p>"You mean that he&mdash;that when he is painting
there&mdash;" He hesitated.</p>

<p>"Of course. All day long. All the bitter live-long
day! They sit there together on pretence of
talking about it. You know&mdash;you can guess at
least&mdash;it is the old, old story, and I have to suffer
for it. She could not marry him&mdash;because she is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_44" id="Page_V2_44">[44]</a></span>
a princess and he an artist&mdash;good enough for me&mdash;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&mdash;that was
what they wanted. A wife for her favourite! O
God! When I think of it&mdash;"</p>

<p>She stopped suddenly and buried her face in
both her hands, as she leaned upon the piano.</p>

<p>"It is not to be believed!" The strong man's
voice vibrated with the rising storm of anger.</p>

<p>She looked up again with flashing eyes and pale
cheeks.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I know. We all saw it."</p>

<p>"Of course&mdash;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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_45" id="Page_V2_45">[45]</a></span>
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&mdash;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&mdash;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."</p>

<p>"I do not wonder that you hate her," said
Griggs. "I have often thought you did."</p>

<p>Gloria smiled sadly.</p>

<p>"Yes," she answered. "I hate her with all my
heart. She has robbed me of the only thing I ever
had worth having&mdash;if I ever had it. I sometimes
wonder&mdash;or rather, no. I do not wonder,
for I know the truth well enough. I have been<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_46" id="Page_V2_46">[46]</a></span>
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&mdash;no,
not beautiful&mdash;" She paused.</p>

<p>"You are the most beautiful woman in the
world," said Paul Griggs, with deep conviction.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;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&mdash;oh, you do not know! That woman's
face haunts me in the dark&mdash;she is always there,
with him, wherever I look, as they are together
now at her house. Do you understand? Do you<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_47" id="Page_V2_47">[47]</a></span>
know what I feel? You pity me&mdash;but do you
know? Oh, I have longed for some one&mdash;I have
wished I had a dog to listen to me&mdash;sometimes&mdash;it
is so hard to be alone&mdash;so very hard&mdash;"</p>

<p>She broke off suddenly and hid her face again.</p>

<p>"You are not alone. You have me&mdash;if you will
have me."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Don't&mdash;don't," he said, almost pathetic in
his lack of eloquence when he thought he most
needed it.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_48" id="Page_V2_48">[48]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"Be my friend!" she said softly, and her fingers
pressed his very gently.</p>

<p>He looked down into her eyes for one moment,
and then the passion in him got the mastery of his
honourable soul.</p>

<p>"How can I?" he cried in a broken, choking
voice. "I love you!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Please&mdash;please!" she cried.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>She cried out to him to let her go. But as she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_49" id="Page_V2_49">[49]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"Please&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_50" id="Page_V2_50">[50]</a></span>
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.</p>

<div class="figright" style="width: 363px;">
<img src="images/gs22.jpg" width="363" height="500" alt="&quot;Gloria&mdash;forgive me!&quot;&mdash;Vol. II., p. 50." title="&quot;Gloria&mdash;forgive me!&quot;&mdash;Vol. II., p. 50." />
<span class="caption">&quot;Gloria&mdash;forgive me!&quot;&mdash;Vol. II., p.&nbsp;50.</span>
</div>

<p>"Gloria&mdash;forgive me," he said.</p>

<p>She looked up, a little fear of him still in her face.</p>

<p>"How can I?" she asked, but in her voice there
was forgiveness already.</p>

<p>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&mdash;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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_51" id="Page_V2_51">[51]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Please&mdash;please!" he said softly, using the
very word she had used to him.</p>

<p>"Yes&mdash;but&mdash;" She hesitated and then raised
her eyes.</p>

<p>The mask of his face was all softened, and his
lips trembled a little. His hands quivered, too,
as they touched hers.</p>

<p>"Please!" he repeated. "I promise. Indeed, I
promise. Forgive me."</p>

<p>She smiled, all at once, dreamily. All his emotion,
and her desire for it, were gone.</p>

<p>"I asked you to be my friend," she said. "I
meant it, you know. How could you? It was not
kind."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_52" id="Page_V2_52">[52]</a></span></p>

<p>"No&mdash;but forgive me," he insisted in a pleading
tone.</p>

<p>"I suppose I must," she said at last. "But I
shall never feel sure of you again. How can I?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"You promise me that? Solemnly?" She still
smiled.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"What can I ask you to do? I shall never dare
to speak to you about my life again."</p>

<p>"I think you will, when you see that I am just
as I used to be. And you forgive me, quite?"</p>

<p>"Yes. I must. We must forget to-day. It
must be as though it had never happened. Will
you forget it?"</p>

<p>"I will try." But of that he knew the utter
impossibility.</p>

<p>"If you try, you can succeed. Now get up. Be
reasonable."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Thank you," she said simply.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_53" id="Page_V2_53">[53]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>He took leave of her very quickly and went out
into the damp street and faced the gusty southeast
wind.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_54" id="Page_V2_54">[54]</a></span></p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>CHAPTER XXVI.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">Donna Francesca</span> 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>She suspected herself of a great sin, besides reproaching
herself bitterly with many of her deeds<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_55" id="Page_V2_55">[55]</a></span>
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"&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>They were alone together on a winter's afternoon<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_56" id="Page_V2_56">[56]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>She smiled at the idea. The hall was at least
fifty feet long by thirty wide.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>She spoke the last words with the simplicity of
absolute innocence.</p>

<p>"And me?" he asked, as innocently and simply
as she. "What will you do with me?"</p>

<p>"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&mdash;oil-painting,
or fresco?"</p>

<p>"You would not want the altar piece which I
should paint," he said, with sudden sadness.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_57" id="Page_V2_57">[57]</a></span></p>

<p>"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&mdash;a portrait, perhaps&mdash;" she stopped.</p>

<p>"Of yourself? Yes, I could do that," he answered
quickly.</p>

<p>"No," she said, and hesitated. "Of your wife,"
she added rather abruptly.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>He laughed harshly before he answered her.</p>

<p>"No," he said. "Certainly not a portrait of my
wife. Not even to please you. And that is saying
much."</p>

<p>He spoke very bitterly. In the few words, he
poured out the pent-up suffering of many months.
Francesca turned pale.</p>

<p>"I know, and it is my fault," she said in a low
voice.</p>

<p>"Your fault? No! But it is not mine."</p>

<p>His hands trembled violently as he took up his
palette and brushes and began to mix some colours,
not knowing what he was doing.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;miserable.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_58" id="Page_V2_58">[58]</a></span>
Your life is ruined, and I have done
it. I!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Reanda shook his head, and bent over his colours
with shaking hands, but said nothing.</p>

<p>"I was so happy when you were married," said
Francesca, forcing herself to speak calmly. "She
seemed such a good wife for you&mdash;so young, so
beautiful. And she loves you&mdash;"</p>

<p>"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&mdash;to-day a
kiss, to-morrow a sting&mdash;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&mdash;it is finished. Let us speak
no more of love. Let us talk of our good friendship.
It is better."</p>

<p>"Eh, let us speak of it, of this friendship! It
has cost tears of blood!"</p>

<p>Francesca, in the sincerity of what she felt,
relapsed into the Roman dialect. Almost all
Romans do, under any emotion.</p>

<p>"Everything passes," answered Reanda, laying
his palette aside, and beginning to walk up and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_59" id="Page_V2_59">[59]</a></span>
down, his hands in his pockets. "This also will
pass," he added, as he turned. "We are men.
We shall forget."</p>

<p>"But not I. For I did it. Your sadness cuts
my heart, because I did it. I&mdash;I alone. But for
me, you would be free."</p>

<p>"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&mdash;oh, a serious man&mdash;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!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Reanda, Reanda! What are you saying?
When I tell you that I made you marry her! It
was here,&mdash;I was in this very chair,&mdash;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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_60" id="Page_V2_60">[60]</a></span>
May that day be accursed when I brought them
here to torment you!"</p>

<p>She spoke excitedly, and her lip quivered. He
began to walk again with rapid, uncertain strides.</p>

<p>"For that&mdash;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!"</p>

<p>"And I!" exclaimed Francesca, involuntarily;
but he did not hear her.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_61" id="Page_V2_61">[61]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>He went on, giving vent to all he felt, talking to
himself rather than to Francesca. He could not<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_62" id="Page_V2_62">[62]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>Francesca listened in silence, thoughtful and
with downcast eyes, as the short, disjointed sentences<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_63" id="Page_V2_63">[63]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_64" id="Page_V2_64">[64]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Friends," she said thoughtfully. "Yes&mdash;always
friends, you and I. But as a friend,
Reanda, what can I do? I cannot help you."</p>

<p>"The time for help is past, if it ever came.
You are a saint&mdash;pray for me. You can do that."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Find trouble?" repeated Francesca, not understanding<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_65" id="Page_V2_65">[65]</a></span>
him. "What do you mean? Does she
dislike me?"</p>

<p>"Have you not seen it?" he asked, with a bitter
smile.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"It is as I tell you," said Reanda, nodding his
head slowly.</p>

<p>Francesca made up her mind, but the scarlet
blood rose in her face.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>The blush in Francesca's face deepened and then
subsided, and she grew very pale again.</p>

<p>"But if she is jealous, she loves you," she said
earnestly and anxiously.</p>

<p>He shrugged his high thin shoulders, and the
bitter smile came back to his face.</p>

<p>"It is a stage jealousy," he said cruelly.
"How could she pass the time without something
to divert her? She is always acting."</p>

<p>"But what is she jealous of?" asked Francesca.
"How can she be jealous of me? Because you<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_66" id="Page_V2_66">[66]</a></span>
work here? She is free to come if she likes, and
to stay all day. I do not understand."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Poor Reanda! Poor Reanda!" repeated Francesca,
softly.</p>

<p>"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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_67" id="Page_V2_67">[67]</a></span>
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&mdash;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&mdash;with
the mad or with the dead."</p>

<p>"Poor Reanda!"</p>

<p>"Yes&mdash;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&mdash;not yet two years."</p>

<p>"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&mdash;"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_68" id="Page_V2_68">[68]</a></span></p>

<p>Reanda laughed wildly, for he was rapidly losing
all control of himself.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Hush, hush! You are talking madly&mdash;"</p>

<p>"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&mdash;the devil and his demons will know
what to do with it&mdash;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."</p>

<p>"But there is love in the world, somewhere,"
said Francesca, gently.</p>

<p>"Yes&mdash;and in hell! But not in heaven&mdash;where
you will be."</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_69" id="Page_V2_69">[69]</a></span>
outburst had relieved him, though it was certain
that it would be followed by a reaction of profound
despondency.</p>

<p>All at once he came close to Francesca. She
looked up, half startled by his sudden movement.</p>

<p>"At least it is true&mdash;this one thing," he said.
"I can count upon you."</p>

<p>"Yes. You can count upon me," she answered,
gazing into his eyes.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I am very fond of you," she said earnestly.
"You can count upon me as long as we two live."</p>

<p>"God bless you," he said, more quietly than he
had spoken yet, and his hand pressed hers a little.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_70" id="Page_V2_70">[70]</a></span></p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>CHAPTER XXVII.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">Reanda</span> 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"You are hard to please, my dear," he had sometimes
said.</p>

<p>But that had been almost the strongest expression
of his displeasure. It was not, indeed, that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_71" id="Page_V2_71">[71]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>The inevitable consequence followed immediately,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>He hated to go home that evening. So far as he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_72" id="Page_V2_72">[72]</a></span>
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&mdash;the Palace of Venice&mdash;the
most grim and fortress-like of all Roman
palaces.</p>

<p>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&mdash;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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_73" id="Page_V2_73">[73]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_74" id="Page_V2_74">[74]</a></span>
strangely with the rare gifts and great faults of
her dead mother&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_75" id="Page_V2_75">[75]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_76" id="Page_V2_76">[76]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Are you ill?" she asked, looking steadily at
him.</p>

<p>"No," he answered with an effort, and his outstretched
hands shook before the fire.</p>

<p>"Then what is the matter with you?"</p>

<p>"Nothing." He did not even turn his eyes to
her, as he spoke the single word.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Gloria leaned back in her chair and watched
the fire, and sighed. Griggs had been with her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_77" id="Page_V2_77">[77]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>It is a dangerous thing to pile up a mountain of
massive reality from which to look out upon the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_78" id="Page_V2_78">[78]</a></span>
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&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_79" id="Page_V2_79">[79]</a></span>
hands that could have torn her in pieces,&mdash;a man
imposing in his stern young sadness, almost solemn
in his splendid physical dignity.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"You used to kiss me when you came home,"
she said suddenly, leaning far back in her chair.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>But she put up her hands suddenly, and thrust
him back rudely.</p>

<p>"No," she said. "That sort of thing is not
worth much, if I have to remind you to do it."</p>

<p>Her lip curled again. His high shoulders went
up, and he turned away.</p>

<p>"You are hard to please," he said, and the words<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_80" id="Page_V2_80">[80]</a></span>
were as mechanical as the action that had preceded
them.</p>

<p>"It cannot be said that you have taken much
pains to please me of late," she answered coldly.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>The storm brewed during the silent meal. Reanda
scarcely ate anything, and drank a little weak wine
and water.</p>

<p>"You hardly seem well enough to go out this
evening," said Gloria, at last, but there was no
kindness in the tone.</p>

<p>"I am perfectly well," he answered impatiently.
"I will go with you."</p>

<p>"There is not the slightest necessity," replied
his wife. "I can go alone, and you can go to
bed."</p>

<p>"I tell you I am perfectly well!" he said with
unconcealed annoyance. "Let me alone."</p>

<p>"Certainly. Nothing is easier."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>They finished dinner almost in silence, and then<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_81" id="Page_V2_81">[81]</a></span>
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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_82" id="Page_V2_82">[82]</a></span></p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>CHAPTER XXVIII.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">There</span> 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.</p>

<p>"You might at least speak to me," observed
Gloria, as he set down the second cup. "One
would almost think that we had quarrelled!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Yes," he said; "one might almost think that
we had quarrelled!" And he laughed again.</p>

<p>"The idea seems to amuse you," said Gloria,
coldly.</p>

<p>"As it does you," he answered. "We both
laughed. Indeed, it is very amusing."</p>

<p>"Donna Francesca has sent you home in a good
humour. That is rare. I suppose I ought to be
grateful."</p>

<p>"Yes. I am in a fine humour. It seems to me
that we both are." He bit his cigar, and blew out
short puffs.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_83" id="Page_V2_83">[83]</a></span></p>

<p>"You need not include me. Please do not smoke
into my face."</p>

<p>The smoke was not very near her, but she made
a movement with her hands as though brushing it
away.</p>

<p>"I beg your pardon," he said politely, and he
moved to the other side of the fireplace.</p>

<p>"How nervous you are!" she exclaimed. "Why
can you not sit down?"</p>

<p>"Because I wish to stand," he answered, with
returning impatience. "Because I am nervous, if
you choose."</p>

<p>"You told me that you were perfectly well."</p>

<p>"So I am."</p>

<p>"If you were perfectly well, you would not be
nervous," she replied.</p>

<p>He felt as though she were driving a sharp nail
into his brain.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"It certainly makes no difference to you whether
you are rude or not."</p>

<p>He shrugged his shoulders, said nothing, and
smoked in silence. One thin leg was crossed over
the other and swung restlessly.</p>

<p>"Is this sort of thing to last forever?" she inquired
coldly, after a silence which had lasted a
full minute.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_84" id="Page_V2_84">[84]</a></span></p>

<p>"I do not know what you mean," said Reanda.</p>

<p>"You know very well what I mean."</p>

<p>"This is insufferable!" he exclaimed, rising
suddenly, with his cigar between his teeth.</p>

<p>"You might take your cigar out of your mouth
to say so," retorted Gloria.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I should really like to know," she said presently,
as he walked up and down with uneven steps.</p>

<p>"What?" he asked sharply.</p>

<p>"Whether this is to last for the rest of our lives."</p>

<p>"What?"</p>

<p>"This peaceful existence," she said scornfully.
"I should really like to know whether it is to last.
Could you not tell me?"</p>

<p>"It will not last long, if you make it your principal
business to torment me," he said, stopping in
his walk.</p>

<p>"I?" she exclaimed, with an air of the utmost
surprise. "When do I ever torment you?"</p>

<p>"Whenever I am with you, and you know it."</p>

<p>"Really! You must be ill, or out of your mind,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_85" id="Page_V2_85">[85]</a></span>
or both. That would be some excuse for saying
such a thing."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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&mdash;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?"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_86" id="Page_V2_86">[86]</a></span>
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&mdash;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."</p>

<p>"And what do you want?" asked Reanda, trying
to speak calmly.</p>

<p>"A little kindness, a little love&mdash;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?"</p>

<p>"Yes. I loved you," he answered, and suddenly
there was a dulness in his voice.</p>

<p>"You loved me&mdash;"</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_87" id="Page_V2_87">[87]</a></span></p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"No. That is not the reason."</p>

<p>She waited a moment, for it was not the answer
she had expected.</p>

<p>"Angelo&mdash;" 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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"And you dare to tell me so!" she cried, turning
upon him suddenly.</p>

<p>A moment later she was leaning forward, covering
her face with her hands, and speaking through
them.</p>

<p>"You have the heart to tell me so, after all I
have been to you&mdash;the devotion of years, the tenderness,
the love no man ever had of any woman!
Oh, God! It is too much!"</p>

<p>"It is said now. It is of no use to go back to a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_88" id="Page_V2_88">[88]</a></span>
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?"</p>

<p>"You admit that you have only pretended to
love me?" She raised her flushed face and gleaming
eyes.</p>

<p>"Of late&mdash;if you call it a pretence&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Oh, not that&mdash;not that! I have seen it&mdash;but
at first. You did love me. Say that, at least."</p>

<p>"Certainly. Why should I have married you?"</p>

<p>"Yes&mdash;why? In spite of her, too&mdash;it is not to
be believed."</p>

<p>"In spite of her? Of whom? Are you out of
your mind?"</p>

<p>Gloria laughed in a despairing sort of way.</p>

<p>"Do not tell me that Donna Francesca ever
wished you to be married!" she said.</p>

<p>"She brought us together. You know it. It is
the only thing I could ever reproach her with."</p>

<p>"She made you marry me?"</p>

<p>"Made me? No! You are quite mad."</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_89" id="Page_V2_89">[89]</a></span></p>

<p>"She has made you do so many things!" said
Gloria.</p>

<p>Her tone had changed again, growing hard and
scornful, when she spoke of Donna Francesca.</p>

<p>"What has she made me do that you should speak
of her in that way?" asked Reanda, angrily, re-crossing
the room.</p>

<p>"She has made you hate me&mdash;for one thing,"
Gloria answered.</p>

<p>"That is not true!" Reanda could hardly
breathe, and he felt his voice growing thick.</p>

<p>"Not true! Then, if not she, who else? You
are with her there all day&mdash;she talks about me,
she finds fault with me, and you come home and
see the faults she finds for you&mdash;"</p>

<p>"There is not a word of truth in what you
say&mdash;"</p>

<p>"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!"</p>

<p>Her voice shook, for her jealousy was real, as
was all her emotion while it lasted.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_90" id="Page_V2_90">[90]</a></span></p>

<p>"Including me!" interrupted Gloria. "Pay her
then&mdash;pay her with your love and yourself. You
can satisfy your conscience in that way, and you
can break my heart."</p>

<p>"There is not the slightest fear of that," answered
Reanda, cruelly.</p>

<p>She rose suddenly to her feet and stood before
him, blazing with anger.</p>

<p>"If I could find yours&mdash;if you had any&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;"</p>

<p>"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&mdash;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&mdash;"</p>

<p>"You will tell me that I do not&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Indeed, I will tell you so, and that you never
did&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Angelo&mdash;take care! You will go too far!"</p>

<p>"I could never go far enough in telling you that
truth. You never loved me. You may have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_91" id="Page_V2_91">[91]</a></span>
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&mdash;for
it is my trade, after all&mdash;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&mdash;as though I had been
staying away from you on purpose, and of my will&mdash;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&mdash;"</p>

<p>"You do!" cried Gloria, who had not been able
to interrupt his incoherent speech. "You love her
as you never loved me&mdash;as you hate me&mdash;as you
both hate me!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_92" id="Page_V2_92">[92]</a></span></p>

<p>She grasped his sleeve in her anger, shaking his
arm, and staring into his eyes.</p>

<p>"You make me hate you!" he answered, trying
to shake her off.</p>

<p>"And you succeed, between you&mdash;You and
your&mdash;"</p>

<p>In his turn he grasped her arm with his long,
thin fingers, with nervous roughness.</p>

<p>"You shall not speak of her&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Shall not? It is the only right I have left&mdash;that
and the right to hate you&mdash;you and that infamous
woman you love&mdash;yes&mdash;you and your mistress&mdash;your
pretty Francesca!" Her laugh was
almost a scream.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Then without a word she turned and left the
room.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_93" id="Page_V2_93">[93]</a></span></p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>CHAPTER XXIX.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">The</span> 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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_94" id="Page_V2_94">[94]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"Do not disturb the signora," said Reanda,
feebly. "She wishes to be alone. We shall not
want the carriage."</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_95" id="Page_V2_95">[95]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>She had left the house with one first idea&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_96" id="Page_V2_96">[96]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;gone now, to widen the open
space. A gust, stronger than any she had felt yet,
swept down the pavement. She paused a moment,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_97" id="Page_V2_97">[97]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_98" id="Page_V2_98">[98]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>She shrank back against the wall quickly, in
womanly fear of a strange man.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_99" id="Page_V2_99">[99]</a></span></p>

<p>"No, thank you!" she exclaimed in answer.</p>

<p>"But yes!" said the man. "It rains. You are
getting an illness, Signora."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"But I will accompany you," said the man. "It
is certainly not beginning to finish. Apoplexy!
It rains in pieces!"</p>

<p>"Thank you. I am not going far," said Gloria.
"You are very kind."</p>

<p>"It seems to be the act of a Christian," observed
the peasant.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_100" id="Page_V2_100">[100]</a></span>
pocket. The man did not wait, nor speak, and was
already going away. She called him.</p>

<div class="figleft" style="width: 363px;">
<img src="images/gs23.jpg" width="363" height="500" alt="Stefanone and Gloria.&mdash;Vol. II., p. 100." title="Stefanone and Gloria.&mdash;Vol. II., p. 100." />
<span class="caption">Stefanone and Gloria.&mdash;Vol. II., p.&nbsp;100.</span>
</div>

<p>"I wish to give you something," said Gloria.</p>

<p>"To me?" exclaimed the man, in surprise.
"No, Signora. It seems that you make a mistake."</p>

<p>"Excuse me," Gloria answered. "In the dark,
I did not see. I am very grateful to you. You
are from the country?"</p>

<p>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,&mdash;a
typical Roman face with small aquiline features,
keen dark eyes, a square jaw, and iron-grey
hair.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Thank you again," she answered.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_101" id="Page_V2_101">[101]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_102" id="Page_V2_102">[102]</a></span>
still across her face&mdash;she had seen it in the
looking-glass when she had put on her hat.</p>

<p>To go back, to see her husband that night&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>There was no more hesitation. With quick steps<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_103" id="Page_V2_103">[103]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"He is not here," answered the child, and she
heard the footsteps running away again, though
she called loudly.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_104" id="Page_V2_104">[104]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Go away," he said, in Italian. "You have
mistaken the door."</p>

<p>But she beat with her hands upon the heavy
wood.</p>

<p>"Let me in!" she cried in English. "Let
me in!"</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_105" id="Page_V2_105">[105]</a></span></p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>CHAPTER XXX.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">Gloria</span> 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.</p>

<p>"What has happened to you?" he asked, slowly
and steadily, his shadowed eyes fixed upon her.</p>

<p>"He has beaten me, and I have come to you.
Look at my face."</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_106" id="Page_V2_106">[106]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"If you will sit down, I will try and make a
fire," he said quietly.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_107" id="Page_V2_107">[107]</a></span></p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_108" id="Page_V2_108">[108]</a></span></p>

<p>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&mdash;she looked&mdash;it
was one of the rush-bottomed chairs.</p>

<p>"What are you doing?" she cried, leaning suddenly
far forward.</p>

<p>"Making a good fire," he answered. "There
happened to be only one bit of wood in my box,
so I am taking these things."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"There are five more," he observed. "They will
make a good fire."</p>

<p>He arranged the burning mass to suit him, looked
at it, and then turned.</p>

<p>"You ought to be a little nearer," he said, and
he lifted the chair with her in it and set her before
the fireplace.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_109" id="Page_V2_109">[109]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Is that better?" he asked quietly.</p>

<p>"You are so good," said Gloria, letting her eyelids
droop as she looked from him to the pleasant flame.</p>

<p>He put out his hand and gently touched the hem
of her cloth skirt.</p>

<p>"You are drenched," he said.</p>

<p>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,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_110" id="Page_V2_110">[110]</a></span>
and possibly she had her father in her mind,
too.</p>

<p>"When you are rested, tell me your story," he
said, and his face hardened all at once.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_111" id="Page_V2_111">[111]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;oh,
give it back to him, kill him for me, tear
him to pieces for me&mdash;make him feel what I have
felt to-day!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_112" id="Page_V2_112">[112]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"I will kill him, if he will fight," he answered,
with an effort. "I will not murder him, even for
you."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Murder him? No!" she said, snatching back
her hand from his arm. "No, no! I never meant
that."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"You are not afraid to be left alone for a quarter
of an hour?" he asked, buttoning his coat, and
looking toward his umbrella.</p>

<p>"Do not go just yet," she answered softly.</p>

<p>"I must. It is getting late. I shall not find a
carriage if I wait any longer. I must go now."</p>

<p>"Do not go."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_113" id="Page_V2_113">[113]</a></span></p>

<p>She heard him breathe hard once or twice. Then
with quick strides he was beside her, and speaking
to her.</p>

<p>"Gloria, I cannot stand it&mdash;I warn you. I love
you in a way you cannot understand. You must
not keep me here."</p>

<p>"Do not go," she said again, in the deep, soft
tone of her golden voice.</p>

<p>"I must."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"You should&mdash;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.</p>

<p>"No&mdash;there is nowhere else&mdash;I cannot go back
to him," she answered, and the voice quavered
uncertainly as the night breeze sighing amongst reeds.</p>

<p>"You must&mdash;you must," he tried to say.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>With sudden strength her white hands went
round his sinewy dark throat as he threw back
his head.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_114" id="Page_V2_114">[114]</a></span></p>

<p>"You are all I have in the world!" she half said,
half whispered. "I will not let you go!"</p>

<p>"You?" His voice broke out as through a
bursting shell.</p>

<p>"Yes. Come back!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Come," she said. "See how well it burns."</p>

<p>"Yes," he said, mechanically, "it is burning well."</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_115" id="Page_V2_115">[115]</a></span></p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>CHAPTER XXXI.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">The</span> 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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_116" id="Page_V2_116">[116]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_117" id="Page_V2_117">[117]</a></span>
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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_118" id="Page_V2_118">[118]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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 <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'np'">up</ins>
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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_119" id="Page_V2_119">[119]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_120" id="Page_V2_120">[120]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"A fine north wind," observed Griggs, by way
of salutation.</p>

<p>"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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_121" id="Page_V2_121">[121]</a></span>
always been a fine trade, this cobbling. It is a
gentleman's trade because one is always sitting
down."</p>

<p>"I am going to change my lodging," said Griggs.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"Where I can find one. I want a little apartment&mdash;"</p>

<p>"It seems that your affairs go better," observed
the old man, scrutinizing the other's face with his
one eye.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Then wait till the end of the month before you
move to it, Signore."</p>

<p>"That is impossible."</p>

<p>"Then there is a female," said the cobbler, without
the slightest hesitation. "I understand. Why
did you not say so?"</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_122" id="Page_V2_122">[122]</a></span></p>

<p>"There is a signora&mdash;a relation of mine&mdash;who
has come to Rome."</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"What? Has she gone out?" asked Griggs, in
sudden anxiety. "When?"</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"When did the signora go out?" enquired
Griggs, repeating his question.</p>

<p>"It may be half an hour ago. Apoplexy! If
your relations are all as beautiful as that!"</p>

<p>But Griggs was already moving towards the staircase.
The cobbler called him back, and he stood
still at the foot of the steps.</p>

<p>"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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_123" id="Page_V2_123">[123]</a></span>
sun. There is also a kitchen. There are five
rooms with the entry."</p>

<div class="figright" style="width: 345px;">
<img src="images/gs24.jpg" width="345" height="500" alt="&quot;The horror of poverty smote him.&quot;&mdash;Vol. II., p. 123." title="&quot;The horror of poverty smote him.&quot;&mdash;Vol. II., p. 123." />
<span class="caption">&quot;The horror of poverty smote him.&quot;&mdash;Vol. II., p.&nbsp;123.</span>
</div>

<p>"I will take it," said Griggs, instantly, and he
ran up the stairs.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I have gone to tell him. I shall be back soon."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_124" id="Page_V2_124">[124]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_125" id="Page_V2_125">[125]</a></span>
pride within a day or two, at the risk of making
Gloria suffer.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_126" id="Page_V2_126">[126]</a></span></p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>CHAPTER XXXII.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">Meanwhile</span>, 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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_127" id="Page_V2_127">[127]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_128" id="Page_V2_128">[128]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Clearly, she thought, he must have supposed that
she was still sleeping, and he had gone to his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_129" id="Page_V2_129">[129]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_130" id="Page_V2_130">[130]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_131" id="Page_V2_131">[131]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_132" id="Page_V2_132">[132]</a></span></p>

<p>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&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_133" id="Page_V2_133">[133]</a></span></p>

<p>Gloria took a silver piece of two pauls from her
purse.</p>

<p>"Can you carry up these things for me?" she
inquired, concealing her annoyance at the man's
speech.</p>

<p>"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!"</p>

<p>"I will stay here," said Gloria. "Do not be
afraid."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_134" id="Page_V2_134">[134]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"You told me to ask for you at the Piazza Montanara,"
said Gloria, smiling.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"It was the first and last time," said Gloria.
"Fortunately, I met a person of good manners. I
thank you again."</p>

<p>"Signora, you are so beautiful that the Madonna
and her angels always accompany you. With
permission, I go. Good day."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_135" id="Page_V2_135">[135]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Please do not go away suddenly without telling
me," he said in a low voice. "I am easily frightened
about you."</p>

<p>"Really?"</p>

<p>Gloria held out her two hands to meet him. He
nodded as he took them.</p>

<p>"That is better than anything you have ever
said to me." She drew him to her.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_136" id="Page_V2_136">[136]</a></span></p>

<p>"I might have stayed," she said at last. "The
servants did not even know that I had been out of
the house."</p>

<p>"You should have stayed," said Griggs. "I
ought to say it, at least."</p>

<p>But as he spoke the mask softened and the rare
smile beautified for one instant the still, stern face.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_137" id="Page_V2_137">[137]</a></span></p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>CHAPTER XXXIII.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">Reanda</span> 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_138" id="Page_V2_138">[138]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>Francesca Campodonico had listened in nervous
silence to Reanda's story.</p>

<p>"She has done me a kindness," he concluded.
"It is the first. She has given me back my freedom.
I shall not disturb her."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_139" id="Page_V2_139">[139]</a></span></p>

<p>"You are to blame almost as much as Gloria,"
she said, and she was sincerely in earnest.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"It is horrible!" exclaimed Francesca, with sorrowful
emphasis.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_140" id="Page_V2_140">[140]</a></span></p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"What would you have me do?" asked Reanda,
almost impatiently. "Take her back?"</p>

<p>"No!" exclaimed Francesca, with a sharp intonation
as though she were hurt.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;let
some one else suffer. I have enough of it."</p>

<p>"You will forgive her some day," said Francesca.
"You are angry still, and you speak cruelly. You
will forgive her."</p>

<p>"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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_141" id="Page_V2_141">[141]</a></span>
I will not forgive them. I am not angry. Why
should I be?"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"It is a point of honour," he answered briefly,
and she yielded, for he dominated her altogether.</p>

<p>Francesca received him in her own small sitting-room,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_142" id="Page_V2_142">[142]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>She did not rise, nor hold out her hand, but
pointed to a chair near her, as she spoke.</p>

<p>"I asked you to come," she said, "because I
wish to speak to you about Gloria."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Do you know what you have done?" she asked,
finishing a stitch and looking quietly into the
man's deep eyes.</p>

<p>He met her glance calmly, but said nothing,
merely bending his head again, very slightly.</p>

<p>"It is very wicked," said she, and she began to
make another stitch, looking down again.</p>

<p>"I have no doubt that you think so," answered
Paul Griggs, slowly nodding a third time.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_143" id="Page_V2_143">[143]</a></span></p>

<p>"It is not a question of opinion. It is a matter
of fact. You have ruined the life of an innocent
woman."</p>

<p>"If social position is the object of existence,
you are right," he replied. "I have nothing to
say."</p>

<p>"I am not speaking of social position," said
Donna Francesca, continuing to make stitches.</p>

<p>"Then I am afraid that I do not understand
you."</p>

<p>"Can you conceive of nothing more important to
the welfare of men and women than social position?"</p>

<p>"It is precisely because I do, that I care so little
what society thinks. I do not understand you."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_144" id="Page_V2_144">[144]</a></span></p>

<p>"That sort of logic assumes God at the expense
of man," said Griggs, calmly.</p>

<p>Francesca looked up with a startled expression
in her eyes, for she was shocked, though she did
not understand him.</p>

<p>"God is good, and man is sinful," she answered,
in the words of her simple faith.</p>

<p>"Why?" asked Griggs, gravely.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I have never talked about religion with an
atheist," she said at last, slowly pushing her needle
through the heavy satin.</p>

<p>"I am not an atheist, Princess."</p>

<p>"A Protestant, then&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I am not a Protestant. I am a Catholic, as
you are."</p>

<p>She looked up suddenly and faced him with
earnest eyes.</p>

<p>"Then you are not a good Catholic," she said.
"No good Catholic could speak as you do."</p>

<p>"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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_145" id="Page_V2_145">[145]</a></span>
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?"</p>

<p>"Terribly clear!" Francesca slowly shook her
head. "And terribly mistaken," she added.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"And do you think you can sweep away all right
and wrong, belief and unbelief, salvation and perdition,
with such a statement as that?"</p>

<p>"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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_146" id="Page_V2_146">[146]</a></span>
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."</p>

<p>"You have! There is no denying it."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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&mdash;as
you men demand that it shall be."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"What should you think right?" asked Griggs,
curious to know what she thought.</p>

<p>"You should take Gloria to her father, as you<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_147" id="Page_V2_147">[147]</a></span>
are his friend. Since she has left her husband, she
should live with her father."</p>

<p>"That is a very simple idea!" exclaimed the
young man, with something almost like a laugh.</p>

<p>"Right is always simple," answered Francesca,
quietly. "There is never any doubt about it."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Perhaps&mdash;as you understand love. But you
will not pretend to tell me that love is necessarily
right, whatever it involves."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"You could, if you would," said Francesca.
"There is nothing to hinder you, if you will."</p>

<p>"There is love, and I cannot."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_148" id="Page_V2_148">[148]</a></span></p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>CHAPTER XXXIV.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">Paul Griggs</span> 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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_149" id="Page_V2_149">[149]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_150" id="Page_V2_150">[150]</a></span>
seemed to her that she understood him&mdash;she told
him so, and he believed her, for he felt that he
could not be hard to understand.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"It is never dull for me when I can be with you,"
she answered.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_151" id="Page_V2_151">[151]</a></span>
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&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_152" id="Page_V2_152">[152]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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, <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'orf'">or</ins> 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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_153" id="Page_V2_153">[153]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>She was pale that day, and her white hand sought
his as she spoke, with a quiver of the lip.</p>

<p>"I am glad of it," he answered. "I shall not
divide you with any one."</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_154" id="Page_V2_154">[154]</a></span>
was to be in common, or in which he had any share
whatever.</p>

<p>"You must spend it on yourself," he said. "I
will not touch it. I will not accept anything you
buy with it&mdash;not so much as a box of cigarettes.
You must spend it on your clothes or on jewels."</p>

<p>"You are unkind," she answered. "You know
how much pleasure it would give me to help you."</p>

<p>"Yes. I know. You cannot understand, but you
must try. Men never do that sort of thing."</p>

<p>And, as usual, he dominated her, and she dropped
the subject, inwardly pleased with him, and knowing
that he was right.</p>

<p>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&mdash;for her. It was a novel,
and he read her day by day the pages he wrote.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_155" id="Page_V2_155">[155]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"It is my book," she often said, when they had
been talking all the evening.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_156" id="Page_V2_156">[156]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Dedicate it to me," she said, holding out one
hand to find his, while she settled the pages on her
knees with the other.</p>

<p>"Of course," he answered, and he wrote a few
words of dedication to her on a sheet of paper.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_157" id="Page_V2_157">[157]</a></span></p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>He entered the room rather suddenly, after having
paused a moment outside, with his hand on the
door.</p>

<p>"Please do not sing that song!" he said quickly,
as he entered.</p>

<p>"Why not?" she asked, interrupting herself in
the middle of a stave.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_158" id="Page_V2_158">[158]</a></span></p>

<p>"It reminds me of unpleasant things."</p>

<p>"Does it? I am sorry. I will not sing it
again."</p>

<p>But she knew what it meant, for it reminded
her of Reanda. She was no longer so sure that the
reminiscence was all painful.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_159" id="Page_V2_159">[159]</a></span></p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>CHAPTER XXXV.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">In</span> 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.</p>

<p>But the restriction soon became irksome. In a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_160" id="Page_V2_160">[160]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_161" id="Page_V2_161">[161]</a></span>
she found herself still bound by the necessity of
asking for help.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Besides," he said, after giving her many and
excellent reasons, "if you earned millions, I would
not touch the money."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_162" id="Page_V2_162">[162]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_163" id="Page_V2_163">[163]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"I am constructing a superiority for myself," he
said once. "No one living takes so much pains as
I do."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_164" id="Page_V2_164">[164]</a></span></p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Give yourself a rest," she said, not because she
thought he needed it, but because she wished him
to amuse her.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_165" id="Page_V2_165">[165]</a></span></p>

<p>"I am never tired of working for you," he
answered, and the rare smile came to his face.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_166" id="Page_V2_166">[166]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;her
own white face, the darkened room, the candles,
Paul Griggs standing motionless beside her body.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"What is it?" he asked, and his hands were
on hers and pressed them.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_167" id="Page_V2_167">[167]</a></span></p>

<p>"It is nothing," she answered. "It is natural,
I suppose&mdash;"</p>

<p>"No. It is not natural. You are unhappy.
Tell me what is the matter."</p>

<p>"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&mdash;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.</p>

<p>His strong hands shook suddenly.</p>

<p>"I am not working too hard&mdash;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&mdash;I would
rather die for you than live to be the greatest man
that ever breathed&mdash;without you."</p>

<p>She threw her arms about his neck, and hid her
face upon his shoulder.</p>

<p>"Tell me you love me!" she cried. "You are
all I have in the world!"</p>

<p>"Does it need telling?" he asked, soothing her.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I think you know, dear," he said.</p>

<p>She knew far better than he could tell her, for<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_168" id="Page_V2_168">[168]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;or when she had
loved his genius as though it were himself, believing
that it was all for her.</p>

<p>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&mdash;or<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_169" id="Page_V2_169">[169]</a></span>
tragedy&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_170" id="Page_V2_170">[170]</a></span></p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>CHAPTER XXXVI.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">The</span> 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>For a few days after the child's birth, Griggs<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_171" id="Page_V2_171">[171]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>In the deep perspective of her loosened intelligence<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_172" id="Page_V2_172">[172]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"My only thought is for you," she said. "It is
another burden on you."</p>

<p>He was utterly happy, and he laughed aloud.</p>

<p>"It is another reason for working," he said.</p>

<p>And even as he said it she saw the writing-table,
the poor room, his stern, determined face and busy<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_173" id="Page_V2_173">[173]</a></span>
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&mdash;perhaps
for them all three.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_174" id="Page_V2_174">[174]</a></span>
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&mdash;dull.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"They are tears of happiness," she said, trembling
and drying her eyes quickly.</p>

<p>She smiled, and he believed her, happier every
day in her and in the child.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_175" id="Page_V2_175">[175]</a></span>
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,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_176" id="Page_V2_176">[176]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Several times, after that, he went out and left
her alone in the afternoon. Then, one day, while<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_177" id="Page_V2_177">[177]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I am a millstone around your neck!" she
sobbed. "It is breaking my heart&mdash;I shall die, if
I see you working so!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_178" id="Page_V2_178">[178]</a></span>
to resist it, for she was sensible enough to understand
that it was becoming a habit which she could not easily
break.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Then, all at once, she looked at the clock&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_179" id="Page_V2_179">[179]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>She was going to ring for the woman servant<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_180" id="Page_V2_180">[180]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>Griggs came home later than usual, but he
thought she was preoccupied and absent-minded.</p>

<p>"Has anything gone wrong?" he asked anxiously.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"There is nothing the matter with me," laughed
Griggs. "I am indestructible. I defy fate."</p>

<p>She started perceptibly, for she was too much of
an Italian not to be a little superstitious.</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_181" id="Page_V2_181">[181]</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER XXXVII.</h2>


<p><span class='smcap'>Stefanone</span> 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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_182" id="Page_V2_182">[182]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;the
sharp angles of the thumb-bones marked the
labouring race,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_183" id="Page_V2_183">[183]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;an
evil death on him and all his house."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_184" id="Page_V2_184">[184]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>One day, in the spring, he met Griggs when the
latter was going out alone.</p>

<p>"A word, Signore, if you permit," he said
politely.</p>

<p>"Twenty," replied Griggs, giving the common
Roman answer.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I do not doubt it when I look at you," answered
Griggs, without a smile.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_185" id="Page_V2_185">[185]</a></span></p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"And the price?" inquired Griggs, struck by
the good sense of the suggestion.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_186" id="Page_V2_186">[186]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_187" id="Page_V2_187">[187]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_188" id="Page_V2_188">[188]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_189" id="Page_V2_189">[189]</a></span>
touch of sadness. Griggs saw it, and while his
eyes rejoiced, his heart sank.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_190" id="Page_V2_190">[190]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_191" id="Page_V2_191">[191]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>She turned white herself, and her teeth chattered.</p>

<p>"Madonna Santissima!" she cried, shrinking
back.</p>

<p>She crossed herself, and did not dare to meet
Gloria's eyes again for some time.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_192" id="Page_V2_192">[192]</a></span></p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>CHAPTER XXXVIII.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">Sora Nanna</span> 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.</p>

<p>"If it is not in your way, I will leave it here,"
said Sora Nanna. "There are certain things
in it."</p>

<p>"What things?" asked Gloria, idly, and for the
sake of making acquaintance with the woman,
rather than out of curiosity.</p>

<p>"Things, things," answered Nanna. "Things of
that poor girl's. We had a daughter, Signora."</p>

<p>"Did she die long ago?" inquired Gloria, in a
tone of sympathy.</p>

<p>"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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_193" id="Page_V2_193">[193]</a></span>
say that we are rich. One knows&mdash;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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_194" id="Page_V2_194">[194]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"How often does the post go to Rome?" Gloria
asked of Sora Nanna, while they were at supper.</p>

<p>"Every evening, at one of the night, Signora.
There are also many occasions of sending by the
carters."</p>

<p>"I can write to you every day when you are
away," said Gloria in English to Griggs.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_195" id="Page_V2_195">[195]</a></span>
the one part or the other may remain as of old,
but the wholeness of the two has but one chance
of life.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Her eyelids drooped, but she saw it all distinctly
still&mdash;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.</p>

<p>The thing stood between her and the window,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_196" id="Page_V2_196">[196]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"An evil death on you and all your house," it
said.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Then she shrieked aloud and awoke. The moonlight
had moved a foot or more, and she knew that
she had been asleep.</p>

<p>"It was only a dream," she said to Griggs in
the morning. "I thought I saw you dead, dear.
It frightened me."</p>

<p>"I am not dead yet," he laughed. "It was that
salad&mdash;there were potatoes in it."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_197" id="Page_V2_197">[197]</a></span></p>

<p>"It must have been the salad," said Griggs,
when she told him that she had not been disturbed
again.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Two days passed, and she spent much of her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_198" id="Page_V2_198">[198]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"I am so glad, that I am almost frightened!"
she cried, and lest the smile should be imperfect,
she hid it against his shoulder.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"How strong you are!" he laughed, as he felt
the pressure of her fingers.</p>

<p>"Yes," she answered. "It is the mountain air&mdash;and
you," she added.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_199" id="Page_V2_199">[199]</a></span>
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&mdash;she and the child.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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:&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_200" id="Page_V2_200">[200]</a></span>
door opened. But the room swam with her as she
grasped the straw cradle and tried to steady herself.</p>

<p>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&mdash;the room
which had once been Dalrymple's laboratory.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_201" id="Page_V2_201">[201]</a></span>
habit was so strong that the acting was natural to
her, except when something waked her to herself
too suddenly.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;and in the cruel words he had
written.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Signora," said the old woman, with her leathern
smile, "you are consuming yourself because the
husband is in Rome. You are doing wrong."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_202" id="Page_V2_202">[202]</a></span></p>

<p>Gloria started, stared at her, and then understood,
and nodded.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"At least, she is in peace," said Gloria, in a low
voice, staring at the tablet.</p>

<div class="figleft" style="width: 376px;">
<img src="images/gs25.jpg" width="376" height="500" alt="&quot;Let us not speak of the dead.&quot;&mdash;Vol. II., p. 203." title="&quot;Let us not speak of the dead.&quot;&mdash;Vol. II., p. 203." />
<span class="caption">&quot;Let us not speak of the dead.&quot;&mdash;Vol. II., p.&nbsp;203.</span>
</div><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_203" id="Page_V2_203">[203]</a></span></p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Could she sing?" asked Gloria, dreamily, as
they left the church.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>She glanced at her companion's dreamy, fateful
face.</p>

<p>"Let us not speak of the dead!" she concluded.
"To-day we will make gnocchi of polenta."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_204" id="Page_V2_204">[204]</a></span></p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>CHAPTER XXXIX.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">In</span> 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.</p>

<p>Sora Nanna, glad to rest from her efforts, stood
upright with her hand on her hip and took breath.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"The Englishman?" asked Gloria, with some
curiosity.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_205" id="Page_V2_205">[205]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"What Englishman?" she asked again, wearily,
but with a show of interest in her half-closed eyes.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;perhaps she did not know what she
did."</p>

<p>Gloria leaned forward, resting her chin in her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_206" id="Page_V2_206">[206]</a></span>
hand and her elbow on her knee, gazing at the old
woman.</p>

<p>"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!"</p>

<p>"Poor child!" exclaimed Gloria.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Signora, if you wish to see, I will content
you," said Nanna, rising at last.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_207" id="Page_V2_207">[207]</a></span>
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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>A loud cry from Gloria startled the old woman.</p>

<p>"Angus Dalrymple&mdash;but&mdash;" Gloria read the
name and stared at Nanna.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;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."</p>

<p>The long habit of acting had made Gloria strong,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_208" id="Page_V2_208">[208]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>And the wrinkled, leathery old hag, with her
damp, coarse mouth, her skinny hands, and her
cunning, ignorant eyes, was her grandmother&mdash;Stefanone
was her grandfather&mdash;her mother had
been a peasant, like them, beautified by one of
nature's mad miracles.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_209" id="Page_V2_209">[209]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"Signora, if ever your one child leaves you without
a word, you will understand," said Nanna, a
little offended at finding no sympathy.</p>

<p>"I understand too well," answered Gloria.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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&mdash;that Nanna might have been mistaken
in thinking that she recognized the English
name&mdash;that it might all be a mistake, after all.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_210" id="Page_V2_210">[210]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_211" id="Page_V2_211">[211]</a></span>
and the like, sulphuric acid, nitric acid, hydrochloric
acid, and others.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_212" id="Page_V2_212">[212]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_213" id="Page_V2_213">[213]</a></span>
medicine chest on the chair. She took it into the
bedroom and set it upon the table.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_214" id="Page_V2_214">[214]</a></span>
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.</p>

<div class='sig'>
"<span class="smcap">Gloria.</span>"<br />
</div>

<p>She cut a lock from her auburn hair and twisted
it round and round her wedding ring, and thrust it
into the envelope.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_215" id="Page_V2_215">[215]</a></span></p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>CHAPTER XL.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">Two</span> 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>The room was very hot, and the sun streamed
through the narrow aperture of the nearly closed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_216" id="Page_V2_216">[216]</a></span>
shutters, and made a bright streak on the red
bricks, for it was morning still.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Why?"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I could not live," she answered, in a cool, far
voice beyond suffering, and still she smiled.</p>

<p>"Why? Why?"</p>

<p>The repeated word broke out twice like two sobs,
but not a feature moved. The dying woman's
eyelids quivered.</p>

<p>"I was a burden to you," she said faintly and
distinctly. "You are free now, you have&mdash;only
the child."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_217" id="Page_V2_217">[217]</a></span></p>

<p>His calm broke.</p>

<p>"Gloria, Gloria! In the name of God Almighty,
do not leave me so!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>In his agony he laid his head beside hers on the
pillow.</p>

<p>"Gloria&mdash;for Christ's sake&mdash;don't leave me&mdash;"
The deep moan came from his tortured heart.</p>

<p>"Bring&mdash;the child&mdash;Walter&mdash;" she said very
faintly.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Quick&mdash;I am going&mdash;"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_218" id="Page_V2_218">[218]</a></span></p>

<p>Rather than that she should not have what she
wished, he tore himself away and wrenched the
door open, forgetting that it was locked.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Words came from Gloria's open mouth, articulate,
clear, but very far in sound.</p>

<p>"An evil death on you and all your house!" the
words said, as though spoken by another.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<div class="figright" style="width: 350px;">
<img src="images/gs26.jpg" width="350" height="500" alt="&quot;The last great, true note died away.&quot;&mdash;Vol. II., p. 219." title="&quot;The last great, true note died away.&quot;&mdash;Vol. II., p. 219." />
<span class="caption">&quot;The last great, true note died away.&quot;&mdash;Vol. II., p.&nbsp;219.</span>
</div>

<p>Nanna prayed aloud, holding up the child mechanically,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_219" id="Page_V2_219">[219]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<div class='center'>
"<ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'Calpasta'">Calpesta</ins> il mio cadavere, ma salva il Trovator!"<br />
</div>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Maria Addolorata! Maria Addolorata!" Nanna
screamed in deadly terror, as she heard the transcendent
voice that one time, like a voice from the
grave.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_220" id="Page_V2_220">[220]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_221" id="Page_V2_221">[221]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_222" id="Page_V2_222">[222]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_223" id="Page_V2_223">[223]</a></span>
animam gementem pertransivit gladius' of the
Stabat Mater, as none had sung it before him, nor
perhaps has ever sung it since that day&mdash;he alone,
without other music.</p>

<p>They came also to the words 'Fac ut anim&aelig;
donetur Paradisi gloria,' and the word was a name
to him who listened silently in their midst.</p>

<p>Besides these they sang also a 'Miserere,' and
last of all, 'Requiem eternam dona eis.'</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_224" id="Page_V2_224">[224]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_225" id="Page_V2_225">[225]</a></span>
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.</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_227" id="Page_V2_227">[227]</a></span></p>
<h2><span class="smcap">Part III.</span></h2>

<h3><i>DONNA FRANCESCA CAMPODONICO.</i></h3>



<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_229" id="Page_V2_229">[229]</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER XLI.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">Not</span> 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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_230" id="Page_V2_230">[230]</a></span>
year, written in the constrained tone of mutual
civility which suited the circumstances in which
they were placed towards each other.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Two or three days after he had arrived in Rome,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_231" id="Page_V2_231">[231]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"Did you ever see my daughter after she left her
husband?" he asked, as though he were inquiring
about a mere acquaintance.</p>

<p>Francesca started a little.</p>

<p>"No," she answered. "It would not have been
easy."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>Francesca was shocked by the cynicism of the
speech. The colour rose faintly in her cheeks.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_232" id="Page_V2_232">[232]</a></span></p>

<p>"She was your daughter," she said, reproachfully.
"Since she is dead, you should speak less
cruelly of her."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Do you know how she died?" asked Francesca,
moved to righteous anger, and willing to pain him
if she could.</p>

<p>He looked up suddenly, and bent his shaggy
brows.</p>

<p>"No," he answered. "That man Griggs wrote
me that she had died suddenly. That was all I
heard."</p>

<p>"She did not die a natural death."</p>

<p>"Indeed?"</p>

<p>"She poisoned herself. She could not bear the
life. It was very dreadful." Francesca's voice
sank to a low tone.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Tell me, please. I should like to know. After
all, she was my daughter."</p>

<p>"Yes," said Francesca, gravely. "She was your
daughter. She was very unhappy with Paul
Griggs, and she found out very soon that she had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_233" id="Page_V2_233">[233]</a></span>
made a dreadful mistake. She loved her husband,
after all."</p>

<p>"Like a woman!" interjected Lord Redin, half
unconsciously.</p>

<p>Francesca paid no attention to the remark, except,
perhaps, that she raised her eyebrows a
little.</p>

<p>"They went out to spend the summer at Subiaco&mdash;"</p>

<p>"At Subiaco?" Dalrymple's steely blue eyes
fixed themselves in a look of extreme attention.</p>

<p>"Yes, during the heat. They lodged in the
house of a man called Stefanone&mdash;a wine-seller&mdash;a
very respectable place."</p>

<p>Lord Redin had started nervously at the name,
but he recovered himself.</p>

<p>"Very respectable," he said, in an odd tone.</p>

<p>"You know the house?" asked Francesca, in surprise.</p>

<p>"Very well indeed. I was there nearly five and
twenty years ago. I supposed that Stefanone was
dead by this time."</p>

<p>"No. He and his wife are alive, and take
lodgers."</p>

<p>"Excuse me, but how do you know all this?"
asked Lord Redin, with sudden curiosity.</p>

<p>"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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_234" id="Page_V2_234">[234]</a></span>
Braccio was archbishop, too, a good many years
ago. Casa Braccio owns a good deal of property
there."</p>

<p>"Yes. I know that you are of the family."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>Lord Redin grew a trifle paler.</p>

<p>"Oh!" he exclaimed. "Does every one know
that story?"</p>

<p>There was something so constrained in his tone
that Francesca looked at him curiously.</p>

<p>"Yes&mdash;in Subiaco," she answered. "But
Gloria&mdash;" she lingered a little sadly on the name&mdash;"Gloria
wrote letters to her husband from there
and begged him to go and see her."</p>

<p>"He could hardly be expected to do that," said
Lord Redin, his hard tone returning. "Did you
advise him to go?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I do not blame him. When a woman has done
that sort of thing, there is no reason for believing
her."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_235" id="Page_V2_235">[235]</a></span></p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"If there is more to tell," said Lord Redin, less
hardly.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;it is too terrible. She died
singing&mdash;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&mdash;at the last minute Nanna thought she saw
poor sister Maria Addolorata standing up dead and
singing. It was rather strange."</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_236" id="Page_V2_236">[236]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"Will you allow me to come and see you occasionally?"
he asked, with a gentleness not at all
like his usual manner.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Where is Reanda to be found?" he asked.</p>

<p>"He is very ill," said Francesca, in a low voice.
"I am afraid you cannot see him."</p>

<p>"Where does he live? I will at least inquire.
I am sorry to hear that he is ill."</p>

<p>"He lives here," she answered with a little hesitation.
"He is in his old rooms upstairs."</p>

<p>"Oh! Yes&mdash;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."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_237" id="Page_V2_237">[237]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_238" id="Page_V2_238">[238]</a></span>
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&mdash;plainly wrong.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_239" id="Page_V2_239">[239]</a></span>
had acted upon an impulse in going to see Francesca
that day.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>He found the house, paused, looked up at the
windows, and looked twice at the number.</p>

<p>"Do you seek some one?" inquired the one-eyed
cobbler, resting his black hands on his knees.</p>

<p>"Did Mr. Paul Griggs ever live here?" asked
Lord Redin.</p>

<p>"Many years," answered the cobbler, laconically.</p>

<p>"Where does he live now?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>The old man grunted, bent down over the shoe,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_240" id="Page_V2_240">[240]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>Lord Redin stood still and said nothing. In ten
seconds the cobbler looked up with a surly frown.</p>

<p>"If you wish to go up, go up," he growled. "If
not, favour me by getting out of my light."</p>

<p>The Scotchman looked at him.</p>

<p>"You do not remember me," he observed.
"I used to come here with the Signore."</p>

<p>"Well? I have told you. If you want him,
there is the staircase."</p>

<p>"No. I do not want him," said Lord Redin,
and he turned away abruptly.</p>

<p>"As you please," growled the cobbler without
looking up again.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_241" id="Page_V2_241">[241]</a></span></p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>CHAPTER XLII.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">Paul Griggs</span> 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,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_242" id="Page_V2_242">[242]</a></span>
the mantelpiece the cheap American clock ticked
loudly as in old days.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_243" id="Page_V2_243">[243]</a></span>
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&mdash;to be his father's friend, and
nothing more, but to be happy, for the dead
woman's sake who bore him.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_244" id="Page_V2_244">[244]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>His heart strings wound themselves about their
treasure, closer and closer, stronger and stronger.
The two natures that strove together in him, the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_245" id="Page_V2_245">[245]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_246" id="Page_V2_246">[246]</a></span>
themselves. The faith that had gone beyond her
death could go beyond his own life, too. He defied
fate.</p>

<p>Then fate, silent, relentless, awful, knocked at
his door.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Griggs took the parcel back to his work-room,
and stood by the window looking at the address on<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_247" id="Page_V2_247">[247]</a></span>
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.</p>

<div class="blockquot"><p>"<span class="smcap">Signore</span>:&mdash;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.</p>

<p>"Believe me, Signore, with perfect esteem,</p>

<div class='sig'>
"<span class="smcap">Francesca Campodonico</span>."<br />
</div></div>

<p>Griggs read the note twice through to the end,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_248" id="Page_V2_248">[248]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_249" id="Page_V2_249">[249]</a></span>
wreathed itself about the mouth of the lonely man&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"To be given to Paul Griggs when I am dead.
A. R."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;a score
or more of them.</p>

<p>Griggs felt his hand shake, for he recognized
Gloria's writing. His first impulse was to burn<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_250" id="Page_V2_250">[250]</a></span>
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&mdash;the fate
he had so often defied to do its worst, since all that
he had was dead and was his forever.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>In his other hand he still held the letter. Fate
had him now, and would not let him go while he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_251" id="Page_V2_251">[251]</a></span>
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,&mdash;Subiaco,&mdash;and
the first words&mdash;'Heart of my heart,
this is my last cry to you'&mdash;and it was to Angelo
Reanda.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Paul Griggs stood upright, stark with the stress
of rending soul and breaking heart.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"You are dead," said his own voice out of the
other's mouth. "You are dead, and I am Gorlias."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_252" id="Page_V2_252">[252]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Late in the night, in the cold room, Paul Griggs
felt the carpet under his hands as he lay upon his
back.</p>

<p>His heart was broken.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_253" id="Page_V2_253">[253]</a></span></p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>CHAPTER XLIII.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">Lord Redin</span> 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.'</p>

<p>Stefanone waited a few moments and then accosted
the porter civilly.</p>

<p>"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."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_254" id="Page_V2_254">[254]</a></span></p>

<p>The porter smiled at the flattery, but said that he
believed wine had been bought for the whole year.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"Quite full," answered the porter, proud of the
establishment.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"What makes you think that?" inquired the
porter, with a superior smile.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;'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."</p>

<p>"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."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_255" id="Page_V2_255">[255]</a></span></p>

<p>Stefanone's sharp eyes fixed themselves vacantly,
for he did not wish to betray his surprise at not
hearing the name he had expected.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Drink," he said. "It will do you good.
A drop of wine at sunset gives force to the
stomach."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Black soul!" he exclaimed by way of an
approving asseveration. "This is indeed wine!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_256" id="Page_V2_256">[256]</a></span></p>

<p>"He took it for vinegar!" observed Stefanone,
speaking to the air.</p>

<p>"It is wine," answered the cobbler when he had
drained the glass. "It is a consolation."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"You know nothing," said Stefanone. "That
signore is the father of Sor Paolo's signora, who
died in my house."</p>

<p>"You are joking," returned the cobbler, gravely.
"He would have come to see his daughter while
she lived&mdash;requiescat!"</p>

<p>"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&mdash;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."</p>

<p>"It is true," said the cobbler, reflectively. "It
is he. It is his picture."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_257" id="Page_V2_257">[257]</a></span></p>

<p>"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!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_258" id="Page_V2_258">[258]</a></span></p>

<p>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 Ch&acirc;teau Lafitte to the rough
Roman wine barely a year old, while three or four
glasses of a certain brandy, twenty years in bottle,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_259" id="Page_V2_259">[259]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_260" id="Page_V2_260">[260]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_261" id="Page_V2_261">[261]</a></span>
what that quality is, but most men who have lived
much and seen much have met with it at least once
in their lives.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>Francesca smiled a little at the frankness of the
words, and shook her head.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_262" id="Page_V2_262">[262]</a></span></p>

<p>"Perhaps not," she said. "Who knows? Life
brings strange changes when one thinks that one
knows it best."</p>

<p>"It has brought strange things to me," answered
Lord Redin.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>She ceased, and her clear eyes turned sadly away
from him.</p>

<p>"I know you do," he answered softly.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Then she began to speak of other things, for her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_263" id="Page_V2_263">[263]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"You are consuming yourself for some female,"
he said. "You have white hair. This is a shameful
thing."</p>

<p>But Stefanone laughed, instead of resenting the
speech&mdash;a curiously nervous laugh.</p>

<p>"What would you have?" he replied. "We
are men, and the devil is everywhere."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"That is a good knife," he observed carelessly.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_264" id="Page_V2_264">[264]</a></span></p>

<p>The cobbler looked up and saw what he was
doing.</p>

<p>"Black soul!" he cried out angrily. "That is
my welt-knife, like a razor, and he pares his hoofs
with it!"</p>

<p>But Stefanone dropped it into the little box of
tools on the front of the bench, and whistled softly.</p>

<p>"You seem to me a silly boy!" said the cobbler,
still wrathful.</p>

<p>"Apoplexy, how you talk!" answered Stefanone.
"But I seem so to myself, sometimes."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_265" id="Page_V2_265">[265]</a></span></p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>CHAPTER XLIV.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">The</span> 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.</p>

<p>Outwardly he was very much the same man as
ever. Any one who knew him well&mdash;if such a
person had existed&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_266" id="Page_V2_266">[266]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_267" id="Page_V2_267">[267]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_268" id="Page_V2_268">[268]</a></span>
strong, merely a little more pale and haggard
than Paul Griggs had been.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;in which he
chose to reside, merely because he required a bodily
evidence of some sort in order to be alive&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_269" id="Page_V2_269">[269]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_270" id="Page_V2_270">[270]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Signore, you have changed the furniture," he
observed. "That chair was formerly here. This
table used to be there. There are a thousand
changes."</p>

<p>"Yes," said Griggs, taking up his pen to go on
with his work. "You have good eyes," he added
good-naturedly.</p>

<p>"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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_271" id="Page_V2_271">[271]</a></span>
of your poor Signora, whom may the Lord preserve
in glory! Is it truth?"</p>

<p>"Yes," answered Griggs, with perfect indifference.
"It is quite true."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;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."</p>

<p>"You are crazy, Stefanone," answered Griggs,
impatiently. "But how do you know who is the
father of the Signora?"</p>

<p>"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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_272" id="Page_V2_272">[272]</a></span>
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&mdash;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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Perhaps some day we may take your advice,"
he said coldly. "Good morning, Stefanone; I have
much to write."</p>

<p>"I remove the inconvenience," answered Stefanone,
in the stock Italian phrase for taking leave.</p>

<p>"No inconvenience," replied Griggs, civilly, as
is the custom. "But I have to work."</p>

<p>"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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_273" id="Page_V2_273">[273]</a></span>
said to you. Sometimes an old man says a wise
word."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_274" id="Page_V2_274">[274]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>It was perfectly clear that Stefanone was dogging<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_275" id="Page_V2_275">[275]</a></span>
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
Trinit&agrave; 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.</p>

<p>"You have taken a walk, Signore," he observed,
puffing away at the willow stem and watching the
match.</p>

<p>"You walk fast, Stefanone," answered Griggs.
"You can walk as fast as Lord Redin."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"For this, we are people of the mountains," he
answered slowly. "We can walk."</p>

<p>"Why do you wish to kill that signore?" inquired
Griggs, calmly.</p>

<p>Stefanone looked up, and the pale lids of his
keen eyes were contracted as he stared hard and
long at the other's face.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_276" id="Page_V2_276">[276]</a></span></p>

<p>"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!"</p>

<p>And still he gazed keenly at Griggs, awaiting
the latter's reply. Griggs answered him contemptuously
in the dialect.</p>

<p>"You take me for a foreigner! You might know
better."</p>

<p>"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&mdash;not even dogs would stay here. Beautiful
town! Where one is called assassin for breakfast,
without counting one, nor two."</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_277" id="Page_V2_277">[277]</a></span></p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"To me? Nothing." The peasant shrugged his
sturdy shoulders.</p>

<p>"Then I have made a mistake," said Griggs.</p>

<p>"You have made a mistake," assented Stefanone.
"Let us not talk about it any more."</p>

<p>"Very well."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;directing his double, as he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_278" id="Page_V2_278">[278]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>There was only one person in Rome who could
help him&mdash;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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_279" id="Page_V2_279">[279]</a></span></p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>CHAPTER XLV.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">It</span> 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&mdash;between
half-past three and four by French time,
at that season of the year.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_280" id="Page_V2_280">[280]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"You are well returned, Signore," he said, in
the common phrase of greeting after an absence.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_281" id="Page_V2_281">[281]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Thank you," answered Griggs. "I have not
eaten yet."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_282" id="Page_V2_282">[282]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_283" id="Page_V2_283">[283]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_284" id="Page_V2_284">[284]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Leaning back against the wall and tipping the
stool, he swung his white-stockinged legs thoughtfully.</p>

<p>"One must eat," he remarked aloud, to himself.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Let us eat," he said aloud, folding his handkerchief
again and returning it to his pocket.</p>

<p>He went in and sat down at one of the trestle
tables,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>Stefanone rapped on the board with his knuckles;
the host awoke, looked at him with a pleased smile,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_285" id="Page_V2_285">[285]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Truly, it is the consolation of my soul," answered
Stefanone.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_286" id="Page_V2_286">[286]</a></span></p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"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&mdash;woe!
But I, to touch any one? Not even a fly."</p>

<p>"Thus I like men," said the host, "serious, full
of scruples, people who drink well, quiet, quiet,
and pay better."</p>

<p>"So we are at Subiaco," answered Stefanone.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Apoplexy!" ejaculated the host. "Are you
not contented? Or perhaps you wish to shave
with it?"</p>

<p>"Thus I keep it," answered the peasant, smiling.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_287" id="Page_V2_287">[287]</a></span>
"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"This would be the only thing wanting," he said
impatiently and half aloud. "That just to-day he
should not go out."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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
caf&eacute; then under the corner of that part of the
Palazzo Torlonia which has now been pulled down.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_288" id="Page_V2_288">[288]</a></span>
Lord Redin entered it, and Stefanone lingered on
the other side of the street. A man passed him
who sold melon seeds and aquavit&aelig;, 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Dalrymple must have heard the quick and heavy
footsteps of the peasant behind him, but it would<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_289" id="Page_V2_289">[289]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>On an open doorstep lay a copper 'conca'&mdash;the
Roman water jar&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_290" id="Page_V2_290">[290]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_291" id="Page_V2_291">[291]</a></span></p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>CHAPTER XLVI.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">Lord Redin</span> 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>The chapel was full, and the canons were intoning<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_292" id="Page_V2_292">[292]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"Thank you," said Francesca. "I should like
to sit down. I had almost fainted&mdash;there was a
woman next to me who had musk about her."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"We can go back, by and bye, and hear the
music, if you like," said Francesca. "The psalms
will last some time longer."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_293" id="Page_V2_293">[293]</a></span></p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Yes. I often come. But you know that, for
we have met here before. I only stay at home on
Sundays when it rains."</p>

<p>"Oh! Is that the rule?"</p>

<p>"Yes, if you call it a rule," answered Francesca.</p>

<p>"I like to know about the things you do, and
how you spend your life," said the Scotchman,
thoughtfully.</p>

<p>"Do you? Why? There is nothing very interesting
about my existence, it seems to me."</p>

<p>"It interests me. It makes me feel less lonely to
know about some one else&mdash;some one I like very
much."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Lord Redin," she said, after a little pause, "do
you always mean to live in this way?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_294" id="Page_V2_294">[294]</a></span></p>

<p>"Alone? Yes. It is the only way I can live,
at my age."</p>

<p>"At your age&mdash;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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Forgive me," she said gently. "I am very
thoughtless&mdash;it is the second time."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Suddenly Lord Redin spoke again. There was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_295" id="Page_V2_295">[295]</a></span>
something weak and tremulous in the tone of his
rough voice.</p>

<p>"I am very much attached to you, for two reasons,"
he said. "We have known each other long,
but not intimately."</p>

<p>"That is true. Not very intimately."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"That is complicated," said Francesca, with a
smile. "Perhaps the other reason may be simpler."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"No. I do not believe you are. And I am not
so good as you think." She sighed softly.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_296" id="Page_V2_296">[296]</a></span></p>

<p>"You are much better than I once thought," answered
Lord Redin. "Once upon a time&mdash;well, I
should only offend you, and I know better now.
Forgive me for thinking of it. I wish to tell you
something else."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"You are a wise woman." He looked at her
thoughtfully. "And yet you must be very young."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"All that is true," he answered. "Nevertheless&mdash;"
He paused. "I am desperate!" he exclaimed,
with sudden energy. "I cannot bear this any
longer&mdash;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&mdash;it does no good! A
man who has not even a vice is a very lonely
man."</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_297" id="Page_V2_297">[297]</a></span>
something very strong and dreadful which she
could not understand.</p>

<p>"Do not speak like that!" she said. "No one
is lonely who believes in God."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Hush! Hush!" Francesca did not know what
to say.</p>

<p>His manner changed a little, and he spoke more
calmly.</p>

<p>"I am not eloquent," he said, looking into her
eyes. "You may not understand. But I have
suffered a great deal."</p>

<p>"Yes. I know that. I am very sorry for you."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"You will understand when I have told you,"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_298" id="Page_V2_298">[298]</a></span>
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."</p>

<p>"Not in a question of right and wrong."</p>

<p>"It makes the question what it is. You shall
hear."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I married a nun," he said simply.</p>

<p>Francesca started.</p>

<p>"A Sister of Charity?" she asked, after a moment's
dead silence. "They do not take vows&mdash;"</p>

<p>"No. A nun from the Carmelite Convent of
Subiaco."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"That is not all," continued Lord Redin, with a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_299" id="Page_V2_299">[299]</a></span>
calm that seemed supernatural. "She was your
kinswoman. She was Maria Braccio, whom every
one believed was burned to death in her cell."</p>

<p>"But her body&mdash;they found it! It is impossible!"
She thought he must be mad.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;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&mdash;your kinswoman."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Then she died," he said. When he had spoken
the three words, he shivered from head to foot, and
was silent.</p>

<p>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,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_300" id="Page_V2_300">[300]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Can you ever be my friend now?" he asked
gravely.</p>

<p>"Your friend&mdash;" she stopped, and shook her
head sadly. "I&mdash;I am afraid&mdash;" she could not
go on.</p>

<p>Lord Redin rose slowly to his feet.</p>

<p>"No. I am afraid not," he said.</p>

<p>He waited a moment, but there was no reply.</p>

<p>"May I take you to your carriage?" he asked
gently.</p>

<p>"No, thank you. No&mdash;that is&mdash;I am going
home in a cab. I would rather be alone&mdash;please."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_301" id="Page_V2_301">[301]</a></span></p>

<p>"Then good-bye."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Lord Redin! Lord Redin!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>A single silver lamp sent a faint light upwards
that lingered upon the Piet&agrave; above the altar, upon
the marble limbs of the dead Christ, upon the
features of the Blessed Virgin, the Addolorata&mdash;the
sorrowing mother.</p>

<p>Bending a little, as though very weary, the friendless,
wifeless, childless man raised his furrowed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_302" id="Page_V2_302">[302]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>His teeth were set&mdash;he could have bitten
through iron. He trembled a little, and as he
looked upward, two dreadful tears&mdash;the tears of
the strong that are as blood&mdash;welled from his eyes
and trickled down upon his cheeks.</p>

<p>"Maria Addolorata!" he whispered.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_303" id="Page_V2_303">[303]</a></span></p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>CHAPTER XLVII.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">Francesca</span> 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&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_304" id="Page_V2_304">[304]</a></span>
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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_305" id="Page_V2_305">[305]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I beg your pardon, Princess," said Paul Griggs,
stopping close to her behind the bench. "May I
speak to you for a moment?"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Sit down," she said mechanically.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_306" id="Page_V2_306">[306]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Sit down," she repeated, as Griggs came round
the bench.</p>

<p>He sat down beside her. There was a little
distance between them, and he sat rather stiffly,
holding his hat on his knees.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Yes," she said, and waited for him to say more.</p>

<p>"What is it?" she asked presently, as he did
not speak at once.</p>

<p>"It is about Dalrymple&mdash;about Lord Redin," he
said at last. "You used to know him. Do you
ever see him now?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_307" id="Page_V2_307">[307]</a></span></p>

<p>Francesca looked at him with a little surprise,
but she answered quietly, as though the question
were quite a natural one.</p>

<p>"He was here five minutes ago. Yes, I often
see him."</p>

<p>"Would you do him a service?" asked Griggs,
in his calm and indifferent tone.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I do not think you will refuse," said Griggs, as
she did not speak. "His life is in danger."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"You say that very coolly," she observed, and
her tone showed that she was incredulous.</p>

<p>"And you do not believe me," answered Griggs,
quite unmoved. "It is natural, I suppose. I will
try to explain."</p>

<p>"Please do. I do not understand at all."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_308" id="Page_V2_308">[308]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>The sound of irregular, shuffling footsteps and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_309" id="Page_V2_309">[309]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>Francesca started, at the sound of his voice.</p>

<p>"I&mdash;I am afraid&mdash;I have not understood," she
said. "I beg your pardon&mdash;I was not paying
attention. I am nervous."</p>

<p>"It is growing late," said Griggs. "We had
better be going&mdash;I will tell you again as we walk
to the door."</p>

<p>"Yes&mdash;no&mdash;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?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_310" id="Page_V2_310">[310]</a></span></p>

<p>"A peasant of Subiaco called Stefanone. Really,
Princess, we must be going; it is quite dark&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Stefanone!" exclaimed Francesca, while he was
speaking the last words, which she did not hear.
"Stefanone of Subiaco&mdash;of course!"</p>

<p>"We must really be going," said Griggs, rising
to his feet, and wondering indifferently why it was
so hard to make her understand.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Yes&mdash;yes&mdash;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.</p>

<p>"What girl?" asked Griggs in wonder.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"I did not know about it," said Griggs. "Your
cousin? I do not understand."</p>

<p>"My cousin&mdash;yes&mdash;Maria Braccio&mdash;Gloria's
mother! You have just been talking about her&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I?" asked Griggs, bewildered.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_311" id="Page_V2_311">[311]</a></span></p>

<p>Francesca stepped back from him, suddenly guessing
that she had revealed Lord Redin's secret.</p>

<p>"Is it possible?" she asked in a low voice.
"Oh, it is all a mistake!" she cried suddenly.
"I have told you his story&mdash;oh, I am losing my
head!"</p>

<p>"Come," said Griggs, authoritatively. "We must
get out of the church, at all events, or we shall be
locked in."</p>

<p>"Oh no!" answered Francesca. "There is always
somebody here&mdash;"</p>

<p>"There is not. You must really come."</p>

<p>"Yes&mdash;but there is no danger of being locked
in. Yes&mdash;let us walk down the nave. There is
more light."</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_312" id="Page_V2_312">[312]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"They have not gone yet," said Griggs. "They
are still talking. But we must hurry."</p>

<p>"No," said Francesca, "that was not any one
talking." And her teeth chattered. "Give me
your arm, please&mdash;I am frightened."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Not so fast! Oh, not so fast, please!" she cried.
"I shall fall. They do not shut the doors&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Yes, they do! Let me carry you. I can run
with you in the dark&mdash;there is no time to be
lost!"</p>

<p>"No, no! I can walk faster&mdash;but there is really
no danger&mdash;"</p>

<p>It is a very long way from the high altar to the
main entrance of the church. Francesca was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_313" id="Page_V2_313">[313]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"It is too late," he said quietly. "We are
probably locked in. We will try the door of the
Sacristy."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"We are locked in," he said, in the same quiet
tone as before.</p>

<p>Francesca uttered a low cry of terror and then
was silent.</p>

<p>"Cannot you break the door?" she asked suddenly.</p>

<p>"No," he answered. "Nothing short of a battering-ram
could move it."</p>

<p>"Try," she said. "You are so strong&mdash;the lock
might give way."</p>

<p>To satisfy her he braced himself and heaved<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_314" id="Page_V2_314">[314]</a></span>
against the panel with all his gigantic strength.
In the dark she could hear his breath drawn
through his nostrils.</p>

<p>"It will not move," he said, desisting. "We
shall have to spend the night here. I am very
sorry."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>He made a step forwards, and she heard him
moving.</p>

<p>"Do not leave me!" she cried, in sudden terror.</p>

<p>He felt her grasp his arm convulsively in the
dark, and he felt her hands shaking.</p>

<p>"Do not be frightened," he said, in his quiet
voice. "Dead people do no harm, you know. It
is only imagination."</p>

<p>She shuddered as he groped his way with her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_315" id="Page_V2_315">[315]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_316" id="Page_V2_316">[316]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Let us sit down here, on the step," she said,
suddenly.</p>

<p>"If you like," he answered. "Wait a minute,"
he added, and he pulled off his overcoat.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_317" id="Page_V2_317">[317]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"I should like to speak to you quite frankly, if
you will allow me," he said gravely. "May I?"</p>

<p>"Certainly."</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"It is more or less the story of my life," he
said, almost indifferently.</p>

<p>She turned her head slowly and tried to see his
face. She could just distinguish the features, cold
and impassive.</p>

<p>"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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_318" id="Page_V2_318">[318]</a></span>
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."</p>

<p>"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!"</p>

<p>"Yes. I suppose that is the word," said Griggs,
indifferently. "Sacrilege, suicide, and probably
murder to come."</p>

<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_319" id="Page_V2_319">[319]</a></span></p>

<p>"What is the matter?" he asked.</p>

<p>"Nothing," she said.</p>

<p>"I thought something hurt you."</p>

<p>"No&mdash;nothing."</p>

<p>She was silent again.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Please&mdash;please do not speak of it all like
that&mdash;" Francesca felt herself growing angry
with him.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Have you no heart?" she asked suddenly.</p>

<p>"No, I am dead," he answered, in his clear, lifeless
voice, that might have been a ghost's.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_320" id="Page_V2_320">[320]</a></span>
thousands of silent ones in the labyrinths under
her feet, and she alone alive in the midst of so
much death.</p>

<p>"What do you mean?" she asked, and her own
voice trembled in spite of herself.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"But why? What has happened to you?" asked
Francesca.</p>

<p>"You know. You sent me those letters."</p>

<p>"What letters?"</p>

<p>"The package Reanda gave you before he
died."</p>

<p>"Yes. What was in it? I told you that I did
not know, when I wrote to you. I remember every
word I wrote."</p>

<p>"I know. But I thought that you at least
guessed. They were Gloria's letters to her husband."</p>

<p>"Her old letters, before&mdash;" Francesca stopped
short.</p>

<p>"No," he answered, with the same unnatural
quiet. "All the letters she wrote him afterwards&mdash;when
we were together."</p>

<p>"All those letters?" cried Francesca, suddenly
understanding. "Oh no&mdash;no! It is not possible!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_321" id="Page_V2_321">[321]</a></span>
He could not, he would not, have done anything so
horrible."</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_322" id="Page_V2_322">[322]</a></span>
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."</p>

<p>"I know you did. I cannot understand how you
can speak of her at all." Francesca wondered at
the man.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"No. Why should I? That is&mdash;" he hesitated.
"I could not explain it," he said, and was
silent.</p>

<p>"It does not seem human," said Francesca.
"You would have a memory of her&mdash;something&mdash;some
touch of sadness&mdash;I wonder whether you
really loved her as much as you thought you did?"</p>

<p>Griggs turned upon Francesca slowly, his hands
clasped upon one knee.</p>

<p>"You do not know what such love means," he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_323" id="Page_V2_323">[323]</a></span>
said slowly. "It is God&mdash;faith&mdash;goodness&mdash;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."</p>

<p>"Is it not a little for her sake that you wish to
save her father?" asked Francesca.</p>

<p>"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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_324" id="Page_V2_324">[324]</a></span>
to do them, though the things and their consequences
are all one to me, now."</p>

<p>"It cannot last," said Francesca, sadly. "You
will change as you grow older."</p>

<p>"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&mdash;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."</p>

<p>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?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_325" id="Page_V2_325">[325]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"My suffering seems very small, compared with
yours," she said softly, almost to herself.</p>

<p>Somehow she knew that he would understand
her, though perhaps her knowledge was only hope.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I do," she answered, in a low voice. "Indeed
I do."</p>

<p>"You are wrong. You are not to blame. Dalrymple
was&mdash;Maria Braccio&mdash;I&mdash;Gloria&mdash;we
four. But you! What have you done? Compared
with us you are a saint on earth!"</p>

<p>She hesitated a moment before she spoke. Then
her voice came in a broken way.</p>

<p>"I loved Angelo Reanda. I know it, now that
I have lost him."</p>

<p>Griggs barely heard the last words, but he bent
his head gravely, and said nothing in answer.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_326" id="Page_V2_326">[326]</a></span></p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>CHAPTER XLVIII.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">The</span> 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_327" id="Page_V2_327">[327]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Where are you?" she asked, in a startled voice.</p>

<p>Then, looking round, she saw him standing by
the rail. She understood why he had moved&mdash;that
she might not feel that he was watching her
and seeing her tears.</p>

<p>"I am not ashamed," she said. "At least you
know me, now."</p>

<p>"Yes. I know."</p>

<p>She also rose and stood up, and leaned upon the
balustrade and looked into his face.</p>

<p>"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."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_328" id="Page_V2_328">[328]</a></span></p>

<p>"Nor kind&mdash;nor anything," he said.</p>

<p>"No. It is as though I had spoken to the grave&mdash;or
to eternity. It is safe with you."</p>

<p>"Yes. Quite safe. Safer than with the dead."</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"Yes," answered Griggs, wondering a little at
her speech and tone. "It was very human."</p>

<p>"And you forgive him for it?"</p>

<p>"I?" There was surprise in his tone.</p>

<p>"Yes," she answered. "I want your forgiveness
for him. He died without your forgiveness. It is
the only thing I ask of you&mdash;I have not the right
to ask anything, I know, but is it so very much?"</p>

<p>"It is nothing," said Griggs. "There is no such
thing as forgiveness in my world. How could
there be? I resent nothing."</p>

<p>"But then, if you do not resent what he did,
you have forgiven him. Have you not?"</p>

<p>"I suppose so." He was puzzled.</p>

<p>"Will you not say it?" she pleaded.</p>

<p>"Willingly," he answered. "I forgive him. I
remember nothing against him."</p>

<p>"Thank you. You are a good man."</p>

<p>He shook his head gravely, but he took her outstretched
hand and pressed it gently.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_329" id="Page_V2_329">[329]</a></span></p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"Yes," said Griggs, thoughtfully. "I understand."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Will you come with me?" she asked at last,
looking up.</p>

<p>He did not guess what she meant to do, but he
left the step on which he was standing and stood
ready.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Not yet," she answered. "If you will come
with me&mdash;" she hesitated.</p>

<p>"Yes?"</p>

<p>"I will say a prayer for the dead," she said, in a
low voice. "I always do, every night, since he
died."</p>

<p>Griggs bent his head, and she came down from<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_330" id="Page_V2_330">[330]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>"I should like to go to the Piet&agrave;," she said
timidly. "It seems so far. Do you mind?"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Guided by it, they went forward, and the solitary
ray showed them the marble rail. They
knelt down side by side.</p>

<p>"Let us pray for them all," said Francesca, very
softly.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Let us pray for them all," she repeated. "For
Maria Braccio, for Gloria&mdash;for Angelo Reanda."</p>

<p>She lowered her head upon her hands. Then,
presently, she looked up again, and Griggs heard
her sweet voice in the darkness repeating the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_331" id="Page_V2_331">[331]</a></span>
ancient Commemoration for the Dead, from the
Canon of the Mass.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Let us be friends," she said simply.</p>

<p>"Such as I am, I am yours."</p>

<p>Then their hands clasped. They both started
and looked down, for the fingers were cold and wet
and dark.</p>

<p>It was the blood of Angus Dalrymple that had
sealed their friendship.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>There Paul Griggs found him, lying on his back,
stretched to his length in the dim shadow between<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_332" id="Page_V2_332">[332]</a></span>
the rail and the altar. He had paid the price at
last, a loving, sinning, suffering, faithful, faultful
man.</p>

<p>But the friendship that was so grimly consecrated
on that night, was the truest that ever was between
man and woman.</p>


<h3>END OF VOL. II.</h3>


<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_x" id="Page_V2_x">[x]</a></span></p>

<h2>THE RALSTONS.</h2>

<h4>BY</h4>

<h3>F. MARION CRAWFORD.</h3>
<div class='center'>&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;<br />
2 vols. 16mo. Cloth. $2.00.<br />
&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;<br /></div>
<h3>PRESS COMMENTS.</h3>

<div class="blockquot"><p>"The interest is unflagging throughout. Never has the
author done more brilliant, artistic work than here."&mdash;<i>Ohio
State Journal.</i></p>

<p>"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."&mdash;<i>Boston
Beacon.</i></p>

<p>"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."&mdash;<i>Chicago
Herald.</i></p>

<p>"The whole group of character studies is strong and vivid."&mdash;<i>The
Literary World.</i></p>

<p>"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."&mdash;<i>New Orleans Picayune.</i></p></div>

<div class='center'>&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;<br />
MACMILLAN &amp; CO.,<br />
66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.<br />
</div>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_xi" id="Page_V2_xi">[xi]</a></span></p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h3>UNIFORM EDITION</h3>

<div class='center'>OF THE WORKS OF</div>

<h2>F. MARION CRAWFORD.</h2>

<h4><b>12mo. Cloth. Price $1.00 per volume.</b></h4>
<div class='center'>&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;<br />
</div>
<h2>KATHARINE LAUDERDALE.</h2>

<h4>The first of a series of novels dealing with New York life.</h4>

<div class="blockquot"><p>"Mr. Crawford at his best is a great novelist, and in 'Katharine Lauderdale'
we have him at his best."&mdash;<i>Boston Daily Advertiser.</i></p>

<p>"A most admirable novel, excellent in style, flashing with humor, and
full of the ripest and wisest reflections upon men and women."&mdash;<i>The Westminster
Gazette.</i></p>

<p>"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."&mdash;<i>Life.</i></p>

<p>"It need scarcely be said that the story is skilfully and picturesquely
written, portraying sharply individual characters in well-defined surroundings."&mdash;<i>New
York Commercial Advertiser.</i></p>

<p>"'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."&mdash;<i>San Francisco Evening Bulletin.</i></p></div>


<h2><br />PIETRO GHISLERI.</h2>

<div class="blockquot"><p>"The imaginative richness, the marvellous ingenuity of plot, the power
and subtlety of the portrayal of character, the charm of the romantic environment,&mdash;the
entire atmosphere, indeed,&mdash;rank this novel at once among
the great creations."&mdash;<i>The Boston Budget.</i></p></div>

<div class='center'>&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;<br />
MACMILLAN &amp; CO.,<br />
66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.<br />
</div>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_xii" id="Page_V2_xii">[xii]</a></span></p>


<h2><br />WITH THE IMMORTALS.</h2>

<div class="blockquot"><p>"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."&mdash;<i>Boston Saturday Evening Gazette.</i></p>

<p>"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."&mdash;<i>Boston Advertiser.</i></p></div>


<h2><br />MARZIO'S CRUCIFIX.</h2>

<div class="blockquot"><p>"We take the liberty of saying that this work belongs to the highest
department of character-painting in words."&mdash;<i>Churchman.</i></p>

<p>"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."&mdash;<i>New
York Commercial Advertiser.</i></p></div>


<h2><br />KHALED.</h2>

<h4>A Story of Arabia.</h4>

<div class="blockquot"><p>"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.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;. 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."&mdash;<i>The Chicago Times.</i></p></div>


<h2><br />PAUL PATOFF.</h2>

<div class='center'>&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;<br /><br />
MACMILLAN &amp; CO.,<br />
66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.<br />
</div>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_xiii" id="Page_V2_xiii">[xiii]</a></span></p>


<h2><br />ZOROASTER.</h2>

<div class="blockquot"><p>"The field of Mr. Crawford's imagination appears to be unbounded.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.
In 'Zoroaster' Mr. Crawford's winged fancy ventures a daring flight.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;. 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."&mdash;<i>The
Times.</i></p></div>


<h2><br />A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH.</h2>

<div class="blockquot"><p>"It is a pleasure to have anything so perfect of its kind as this brief and
vivid story.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;. 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."&mdash;<i>Critic.</i></p>

<p>"Of all the stories Mr. Crawford has written, it is the most dramatic, the
most finished, the most compact.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;. 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.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;. It has no defects. It is neither trifling nor trivial.
It is a work of art. It is perfect."&mdash;<i>Boston Beacon.</i></p></div>


<h2><br />AN AMERICAN POLITICIAN.</h2>

<div class='center'>&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;<br /><br />
MACMILLAN &amp; CO.,<br />
66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.<br />
</div>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_xiv" id="Page_V2_xiv">[xiv]</a></span></p>


<h2><br />A CIGARETTE-MAKER'S ROMANCE.</h2>

<div class="blockquot"><p>"It is a touching romance, filled with scenes of great dramatic power."&mdash;<i>Boston
Commercial Bulletin.</i></p>

<p>"It is full of life and movement, and is one of the best of Mr. Crawford's
books."&mdash;<i>Boston Saturday Evening Gazette.</i></p>

<p>"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.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.
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."&mdash;<i>New
York Tribune.</i></p></div>


<h2><br />GREIFENSTEIN.</h2>

<div class="blockquot"><p>"'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.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;. 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."&mdash;<i>New York Tribune.</i></p></div>


<h2><br />A ROMAN SINGER.</h2>

<div class="blockquot"><p>"One of Mr. Crawford's most charming stories&mdash;a love romance pure
and simple."&mdash;<i>Boston Home Journal.</i></p>

<p>"'A Roman Singer' is one of his most finished, compact, and successful
stories, and contains a splendid picture of Italian life."&mdash;<i>Toronto Mail.</i></p></div>

<div class='center'>&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;<br /><br />
MACMILLAN &amp; CO.,<br />
66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.<br />
</div>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_xv" id="Page_V2_xv">[xv]</a></span></p>


<h2><br />MR. ISAACS.</h2>

<h4>A Tale of Modern India.</h4>

<div class="blockquot"><p>"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.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.
There is a strong tinge of mysticism about the book which is one of its
greatest charms."&mdash;<i>Boston Transcript.</i></p>

<p>"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."&mdash;<i>The Daily News, London.</i></p></div>


<h2><br />DR. CLAUDIUS.</h2>

<h4>A True Story.</h4>

<div class="blockquot"><p>"There is a suggestion of strength, of a mastery of facts, of a fund of
knowledge, that speaks well for future production.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;. 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."&mdash;<i>St. Louis Spectator.</i></p>

<p>"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."&mdash;<i>Living Church.</i></p></div>


<h2><br />TO LEEWARD.</h2>

<div class="blockquot"><p>"A story of remarkable power."&mdash;<i>Review of Reviews.</i></p>

<p>"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."&mdash;<i>Cottage
Hearth.</i></p></div>

<div class='center'>&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;<br /><br />
MACMILLAN &amp; CO.,<br />
66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.<br />
</div>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_xvi" id="Page_V2_xvi">[xvi]</a></span></p>


<h2><br />SARACINESCA.</h2>

<div class="blockquot"><p>"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,&mdash;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.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;. The
story is exquisitely told."&mdash;<i>Boston Traveler.</i></p>

<p>"One of the most engrossing novels we have ever read."&mdash;<i>Boston
Times.</i></p></div>


<h2><br />SANT' ILARIO.</h2>

<h4>A sequel to "Saracinesca."</h4>

<div class="blockquot"><p>"The author shows steady and constant improvement in his art. 'Sant'
Ilario' is a continuation of the chronicles of the Saracinesca family.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.
A singularly powerful and beautiful story.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;. Admirably developed,
with a naturalness beyond praise.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;. 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."&mdash;<i>New York
Tribune.</i></p></div>


<h2><br />DON ORSINO.</h2>

<h4>A continuation of "Saracinesca" and "Sant' Ilario."</h4>

<div class="blockquot"><p>"The third in a rather remarkable series of novels dealing with three
<ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'generat ons'">generations</ins> 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.'"&mdash;<i>Boston Budget.</i></p>

<p>"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."&mdash;<i>Evening
Bulletin.</i></p></div>

<div class='center'>&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;<br /><br />
MACMILLAN &amp; CO.,<br />
66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.<br />
</div>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_V2_xvii" id="Page_V2_xvii">[xvii]</a></span></p>


<h2><br />THE THREE FATES.</h2>

<div class="blockquot"><p>"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.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;. 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."&mdash;<i>Boston
Beacon.</i></p></div>


<h2><br />CHILDREN OF THE KING.</h2>

<h4>A Tale of Southern Italy.</h4>

<div class="blockquot"><p>"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."&mdash;M. L. B. in <i>Syracuse
Journal</i>.</p></div>


<h2><br />THE WITCH OF PRAGUE.</h2>

<h4>A Fantastic Tale.</h4>

<div class='center'><span class="smcap">Illustrated by W. J. Hennessy.</span></div>

<div class="blockquot"><p>"'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.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;. It is a romance of singular daring and power."&mdash;<i>London
Academy.</i></p>

<p>"Mr. Crawford has written in many keys, but never in so strange a one
as that which dominates 'The Witch of Prague.' .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. The artistic skill
with which this extraordinary story is constructed and carried out is admirable
and delightful.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;. Mr. Crawford has scored a decided triumph, for
the interest of the tale is sustained throughout.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;. A very remarkable,
powerful, and interesting story."&mdash;<i>New York Tribune.</i></p></div>

<div class='center'>&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;<br /><br />
MACMILLAN &amp; CO.,<br />
66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.<br />
</div>
<hr style='width: 65%;' />
<div class='tnote'><h3>Transcriber's Notes:</h3>
<p>Obvious punctuation errors repaired.</p>
<p>The List of Illustrations for Volume II lists the final illustration as being
on page 331. While the text is correct for that caption, the actual illustration
is the frontispiece of the book. The link has been ammended to reflect that
location.</p>
<p>The remaining corrections made are indicated by dotted lines under the corrections. Scroll the mouse over the word and the original text will <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'apprear'">appear</ins>.</p></div>







<pre>





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