Chapter XII: Concerning a Soul

I

The service for the repose of the soul of Signor Marcello was to begin at ten o'clock. Donna Fedele was not well enough to attend. She had written to Camin, begging that Leila might be allowed to stay with her until the morrow, for the cousin to whom she had written was not expected until the following day, and Leila would not hear of leaving the Villino until her arrival. However, no answer had come from the Montanina. About half-past nine o'clock Leila and the maid started to walk to Velo.

* * * * *

Leila refused her father's invitation to sit beside him on the bench that had been covered with black drapery, and sat down near the door, that she might be able to go out as soon as the service was over. But before it began the archpriest's sister-in-law, all smiles and blushes, came to her side, and begged her to look in at the parsonage after the service, as Don Emanuele wished to speak to her. Leila, who was absorbed in one thought, and perfectly indifferent to anything Don Emanuele might have to say to her, was not even astonished at the request. She would have preferred not to go, both because she had come to detest the two Velo priests and because she longed to be alone. But foreseeing further demands and annoyances, she concluded it would be best to comply at once for the sake of future peace. She slipped quickly out of church on catching sight of her father coming towards her with Molesin, who was already preparing himself for the introduction. Siora Bettina joined her outside the church, and conducted her to the parsonage with a show of politeness and amiability that cost her many sharp pangs, which nevertheless she endured for the sake of Don Emanuele. She discussed the impressive way in which the service had been conducted, spoke of Don Emanuele's solemn dignity and edifying devotion while officiating, praising him even above her own brother-in-law, whom she described as "a saint, but easy-going." Then she went on to speak of his skill as a spiritual adviser, remarkable in one so young, and she declared that any conscience would be safe in his charge. Leila paid no attention to any of her remarks, but kept her eyes fixed on the door, longing for this tiresome priest to come and get the interview over quickly.

She had been to confession to him two or three times, but he had at last requested her to go to the archpriest in the future, putting forward as an excuse that his superior might feel hurt that she had not preferred him. Ever since her boarding-school days confession had been a mere formality for her, and she cared little whether it were addressed to one priest or to another.

Poor Siora Bettina herself, having exhausted her conversation, had begun to glance anxiously at the door, when it was opened at last, revealing the chaplain's lank figure. Bettina bestowed a parting smile on Leila, and murmuring a farewell, rose to go.

Don Emanuele was approaching this interview with the firm intention of working for the greater glory of God and the good of a soul. His grave face and dignified bearing revealed so strong a consciousness of authority that an unfriendly observer might have mistaken it for pride. Pride is so subtle an intruder, and its presence is so difficult to trace, that Don Emanuele may indeed have been honestly deceived in his belief that he was free from it and a humble instrument of the Lord. He was unconscious of his own complacence and pride in the immense power exercised by the priesthood to which he belonged; and while the recognition of this power renders other and better ministers of the Church humble, not only before God but before men, and fearful of exercising it too rigorously, the chaplain's complacency inclined him to wield it without moderation. As the arrogant menial often usurps the master's authority, so did Don Emanuele persuade himself that in all things he was interpreting the Divine Will. His spirit waged fierce war against his flesh, and gained the mastery none too easily, yet so far from being thereby inclined to leniency in dealing with sinners he was the more relentless towards them.

His reason for acting no longer as Leila's confessor lay in the fact that his senses were troubled by the faint suggestion of essence of rose that she brought to the confessional. To the peasant nature of Don Tita the perfume would have suggested nothing; but to Don Emanuele it spoke of crafty wiles for the beguiling and stirring of the senses, and herein arose the desire, prompted still further by the subsequent news of Leila's desperate attempt at suicide, to win her for the cloister. To snatch her from Signora Vayla's pernicious influence, to use her as a means of getting rid of that scandalous housekeeper, to take advantage of her isolation at the Montanina, and of her aversion to her father, to inspire her with the longing for a religious life--such was the undertaking in which his interview with Molesin had been the first step, and which had already borne fruit in the departure of Carolina. He had not taken the archpriest into his confidence for several reasons; one may have been that he knew of Don Tita's hope of bringing about a marriage between the Signorina and a certain young Vicentine. Signora Bettina was certainly aware of it. The latter, with many groans, was now bravely seeking to overcome her aversion to any contact with Signorina da Camin, and all out of pure devotion to Don Emanuele, who wished her to try to become Leila's friend in place of Signora Vayla, and to exert a wholesome religious influence over her.

On catching sight of the chaplain Siora Bettina hoped that, at any rate for the time being, she was going to be released, and she rose, intending to withdraw. Without so much as a glance in her direction the priest detained her by a gesture of his hand, and having saluted Leila, calmly seated himself on the sofa, while Signora Fantuzzo wriggled uneasily in her chair, eyeing the chaplain meanwhile with an air of humble entreaty, until a frown from him reduced her to a state of subjection. On hearing that Don Emanuele had a favour to ask of Signorina da Camin and herself, she stared wildly. The bare idea of doing anything in collaboration with the young girl sent the blood flaming to her cheeks. She hastened to declare that she was good for nothing, that she was quite incapable in every way.

"Pardon me," said Don Emanuele in the serenely authoritative manner of a superior imposing silence oh his inferior, "pardon me." The frightened woman turned her scarlet face towards Leila and murmured, nervously rubbing her hands together in her lap, as if seeking to wring from them her reasons for resisting, "It is true--really, it is quite true!"

Don Emanuele took no further notice of her, and addressed to Leila the long speech he had prepared. The pith of it was this: The local Board of Charity had the administering of a legacy for the benefit of mothers of families who were incapacitated for work by illness or by childbirth. As there were many complaints in the parish concerning this legacy, the chaplain had persuaded the Board to consent to the nomination of two lady visitors, and had proposed the names of Signora Fantuzzo and Signorina da Camin. At every second word the chaplain uttered Signora Fantuzzo groaned Gèsummaria! She was willing enough to help the poor from a distance, but coming into personal contact with them was not to her taste. Don Emanuele, with perfect unconcern, begged the ladies to make some arrangements at once for their future co-operation.

"If you cannot stop now, this afternoon or to-morrow Signora Fantuzzo can go to Villa da Camin, and you will then be able to talk the matter over. Meanwhile I will prepare a list of the mothers to be visited at once."

Leila shook off her indifference, and observed that she was not sure of being at the villa on the morrow. She had, indeed, determined in her own mind not to leave the Villino until after the arrival of the cousin from Santhià. Don Emanuele, who was somewhat perplexed, remained silent, but at that moment there was a knock at the door, and Don Tita appeared. He greeted Leila heartily, as if the encounter at the Posina Bridge had never taken place, called the chaplain aside and told him something in an undertone, and then mentioned to his sister-in-law to withdraw. She left the room, followed by Don Emanuele. The archpriest came over to Leila, who had risen.

"One moment, Siora Leila," said he. "One moment! Papa is here."

The door opened slowly and revealed Sior Momi's red-and-yellow countenance, his twitching eyelids, and parti-coloured beard.

"Come in, Signor da Camin," said the archpriest. "Is everything in readiness?"

"I should say it was, sir," Momi answered, employing the conditional as a mood expressive of much deferential hesitation, and, turning to his daughter, he greeted her with a timid "Ciao! How are you?" that might have been one of his familiar "ahos." Leila was in the dark as to what was on foot, and from Sior Momi's gaping mouth there issued no further word of explanation. The good-natured archpriest quickly intervened, however, declaring that her father really did not know his duties, but that he, the archpriest, had undertaken to instruct him. Thus Sior Momi would have allowed Leila to go home on foot, in all the heat, but he, the archpriest, had advised him to send to Arsiero for a comfortable carriage and pair. Leila at once scented a conspiracy between her father and the archpriest to get her back to the Montanina. She could not guess that it had been Molesin who had advised a little stratagem of this sort, or that her father, who had pretended to fall in with the plan, in Molesin's absence, had begged the archpriest to intervene, and to preach her a little sermon on the duty of filial obedience and of returning to her own home without delay. But the little sermon never passed Don Tita's lips, for the girl promptly checked it by declaring imperiously that she intended to walk. Sior Momi immediately acquiesced. "Well, well, well!" said he, and Leila took her departure, with the very slightest of bows, while her meek parent sought to convince his astonished accomplice that the obstinate girl would have flung herself out of the carriage rather than submit to the deceit.

II

A few hours before the time fixed for Leila's departure from the Villino--she was leaving in obedience to Donna Fedele's wishes rather than to Sior Momi's--the cousin arrived from Santhià. Eufemia Magis was a little, old woman, so bowed and shrivelled that she seemed more in need of care herself than able to bestow it. Although Donna Fedele was very ill, the sight of Cousin Eufemia sufficed to open the wellsprings both of affection and of fun. Whenever Eufemia was her guest she was anxious that no want or desire of hers should be neglected; but nevertheless she could not refrain from teasing her most unmercifully, rallying her concerning the old-fashioned cut of her clothes, her enormous black cap, trimmed with violet ribbons, the supposed love affairs of her youth, the imaginary matter of her frequent confessions, and her quaint ejaculations whenever she dropped her spectacles or a knitting-pin. Eufemia was present when Leila said goodbye to her friend.

"I hope your father will often let you come to see me," said Donna Fedele.

Leila's eyes flashed.

"I should like to see him try to prevent me!" she cried.

Donna Fedele took her hands, and patting them tenderly, whispered, "Be a good girl! Be good! Be good!"

Leila glanced at Cousin Eufemia, who slipped meekly and silently from the room. The young girl flung her arms around her friend, and laid her head on the pillow beside her. The invalid placed her hand upon Leila's hair, and said gently:

"Did the letter wound you?"

No word, no sign answered her question.

"Do you really not wish me to tell him anything about you?"

Donna Fedele said this very softly and hesitatingly. She had noted the look Leila had bestowed upon Cousin Eufemia, and believed she had something to tell her in confidence. Leila's shoulders heaved, and she shook her head violently.

"Is there anything else you wish me to do?"

Although she spoke caressingly, the invalid's sweet, youthful voice held a faint note of impatience that seemed to say, "Do speak out!" And there was the same impatience in the large brown eyes. Leila could not see them, but she knew what they were saying. She raised her tear-stained face from the pillow, kissed her friend, and then left the house.

III

On the following afternoon she returned. Donna Fedele was sitting up reading in her bedroom. Leila flung herself on her knees before her friend and protested vehemently that it was impossible for her to stay at the Montanina any longer. The invalid patted her head softly, murmuring words of gentle reproof.

"What has happened?" she said at last. "Get up and tell me about it."

It was some time before she could persuade Leila to raise her head, which she had buried in her friend's lap, and tell her story. As a matter of fact nothing had happened, save that she had been brought face to face with a reality of which she had never really been ignorant. On perceiving how upset she was Donna Fedele's mind had immediately flown to Signor Camin's housekeeper. She did not know how to question Leila concerning her, and so inquired for Teresina instead, and was informed that Teresina had consented to remain because "that other creature" had taken herself off. But not even Teresina could stand the house, the master, and "those other people" any longer. "Those other people" stood for Dr. Molesin alone, who was about to leave, thank Heaven! Leila detested that slimy individual, who had sought to ingratiate himself by discoursing of the Camin ancestry, of an old priest who used to say Mass at the Carmelite Church, and of a venerable nun who had been famous as a pastry-cook. And her father? Was he unkind to her? No, no! Leila only wished he were! But, on the contrary, he was nauseatingly humble and obsequious. He would not move so much as a chair in the house without asking her permission, and had even asked her leave to have the grass cut. He was equally obsequious with Teresina, and Leila was convinced he had even been confidential with the maid at times. She said this with such utter contempt that Donna Fedele cried out, "Oh, Leila!"

"What do I care?" said the girl.

But she refrained from describing how Signor Momi, after a futile attempt at familiarity with his daughter, would beat a sudden retreat, uttering his silly "Aho! aho!" as if he had been in jest. With his timid advances and his hasty retreats, he was like one who stretches out his hand to a hedge of roses in the dark, hoping to grasp a flower, and encounters the thorns instead.

The very walls of the Montanina were no longer the same. Formerly they had been full of life and affection. Now Leila felt that they were dead and indifferent to her. Her father's spirit had contaminated everything. Had she not feared to shock Donna Fedele she would have confessed her monstrous suspicion that she was not the daughter of this man. Could she possibly remain at the Montanina under such conditions? She paused for an answer to this question.

"Bring me a glass of water," said her friend, "and the bottle with the drop-stopper, from the bedside table."

Leila obeyed in silence. Donna Fedele, who was past-mistress in the art of not hearing when she did not wish to, swallowed her medicine, and then went on calmly:

"I know what you wanted to tell me yesterday."

Leila had never become accustomed to her friend's voluntary deafness. It always irritated her.

"Answer me!" she said impatiently. "Am I not justified in not wishing to return? Are you afraid I shall plant myself upon you, here?"

The thoughtless words lighted a flame in Donna Fedele's eyes, but she controlled herself.

"I know what you wanted to tell me yesterday," she repeated coldly, accentuating every syllable. "You were going to confess that you love him."

The moment was ill-chosen. Leila started, and knit her brows as if an insolent hand had touched her cheek.

"No!" she cried. "Never!"

She sprang angrily to her feet, knocking over her chair against the door at the very moment when Cousin Eufemia was pushing it carefully open with one hand, while in the other she bore a cup of broth on a tray. The broth splashed over her gown. "Mercy on us!" cried the little old woman. Donna Fedele forced a short laugh. If she did not laugh heartily, she was, nevertheless, glad to show her indifference to Leila's dramatic violence, and to avail herself of her cousin's presence in order to cut short an unpleasant conversation. She stopped Eufemia, who was already starting to fetch more broth, and sent her to the writing-desk for a letter, which she requested her to give to Leila.

"Now you can go," said she to the little old woman. When Eufemia had left the room, Leila laid the letter down.

"Read it!" said Donna Fedele.

"Why should I?" the girl retorted. "It will do no good."

"How do you know?" Donna Fedele insisted. "It is not from Alberti."

The letter was from Don Aurelio. He had found a good many pupils and was quite happy on this point. But he complained greatly of Alberti, who had left Milan without even an attempt to see him, and without sending him a line. He had heard of his departure through Engineer Alberti, Massimo's uncle and benefactor. To Don Aurelio the young man's act appeared in the light of a mere caprice. He could only explain it as a result of the bitter disappointment of Signorina Leila's repulse, and he added the following words:

"His having left me thus makes me fear he is undergoing a crisis so severe as to affect even his religious conscience. I have reasons for fearing this. Ah! what a blessing it would have been had a certain person but understood him better!"

Leila laid the letter down in silence.

"Do you see?" said Donna Fedele.

"Why do you make me read these letters?" the girl cried angrily. "I refuse to admit that they touch me in any way."

"So the evil you may cause does not touch you in any way?"

"What evil? This religious crisis? I have passed through mine, and I am glad of it," Leila retorted bitterly. "I leave Catholicism to my father and Dr. Molesin, who went to Mass together this morning; I leave it to the chaplain who officiated, to the archpriest----"

"And to me also, I suppose?" said Donna Fedele freezingly.

Leila was silent. She had not intended to wound her friend, but nevertheless, she was glad she had spoken as she had. Presently Donna Fedele added:

"Thank you!"

She took up the book she had been reading when Leila arrived, the verses of a great Catholic poet, Adam Mickiewitz, a Catholic, not of Don Emanuele's stamp, but a follower of Dante. Leila felt that she was dismissed. She thought she saw tears in Donna Fedele's eyes, and was on the point of flinging her arms about her neck, but she choked the good impulse in its birth, and turned to go instead.

She had already opened the door when her friend called her back.

"We have both been disagreeable," said she. "Come and be friends again!" And she held out her hand.

Leila seized it in hers, kissed it, and then rushed away.

IV

On reaching the Posina Bridge she paused to gaze into the silent, rapid stream. She had never passed the spot since that momentous night without being assailed by regret for the promise she had made Donna Fedele, without a shiver of desire and repulsion. She had never since stopped to look down, but to-day she did so almost against her will, as if compelled by some unknown force, and to acknowledge, also unwillingly, that she no longer had any desire to die. Only then, as she peered into the depths, was this new, unfathomable state of her own mind made clear to her. Her bewildered soul slowly opened, revealing, in its depths, the instinctive hope of love and happiness, triumphing over all previsions of reason, all generous resolutions of renunciation. Her heart was beating fast as she withdrew from the parapet and started again on her way. She seemed to feel the life imprisoned in all things straining towards love and joy, and their dumb eagerness entered into her. All nature seemed to speak in the roaring of the whirlpool at Perale and to call to her, "For you also! For you also!" And her heart throbbed back, "For me also! For me also!" The very air of the woods seemed alive. She would have liked to follow the path that led upwards on the left of the bridge, and there among the trees to have abandoned herself entirely to dreams and fancies. But the mouth of the path had been closed with logs and brambles, and the main road seemed the only way. She passed some carts and several people, and her excitement cooled somewhat; but she trembled at herself, at the violent outburst of desire that had blazed within her, and had then shrunk back, like some startled wild animal, into the deep recesses of her soul. She thought of Donna Fedele, who had evidently doubted the strength of her "no" and of her "never," and she resolved to write to her in unmistakable language, thus binding herself irrevocably.

* * * * *

At the chestnut-tree she met her father, who inquired timidly if she was on her way from the Villino. He might have been inquiring, half boldly, half shrinkingly, if she had been keeping some shameful tryst. Her sharp and challenging answer, made him blink rapidly.

"The priests ... on account of the priests, you see ..." he stammered with a smile.

This concise utterance meant a great many things. It meant that the priests disapproved of her friendship for Donna Fedele, and that he would advise her to comply with their wishes, but that he would not presume beyond simple advice.

The priests had been to the Montanina with Signora Fantuzzo during Leila's absence. The chaplain's expression had been absolutely funereal, but Siora Bettina had looked as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Sior Momi, steering warily between clerical rocks and filial shoals, had gone the length of promising the lady a visit from Leila. "She will come herself--come herself!" He had listened attentively to the archpriest's conversation, who seemed more interested in Leila's parent than in Leila herself, seeing in him a new elector, a future town-councillor, a strong and mighty cat's-paw, working for the parsonage in the Council, and a precious ally of his successor.

That meek and smiling utterance of her father's, "The priests ..." irritated Leila even more than a rebuke or a protest would have done. Her overwrought nerves were deprived of the relief of violent rebellion. She shut herself up in her room and refused to leave it even at dinner-time, in order to avoid meeting her father. She tried to write to Donna Fedele as she had determined, but found it impossible to do so. The knowledge of her father's presence in the house, the thought that at any moment she might hear his voice or step, made concentration of thought impossible. As soon as Teresina had assured her, shortly after ten o'clock, that he had retired, she showed such eagerness to be left alone, that the maid, remembering what had happened that night at the Villino, became alarmed. When Leila told her to go, she could not help exclaiming, "What are you going to do now, Signorina?" Leila replied that she wanted to be alone to write some letters. Poor Teresina spent the night in the corridor, seated on a trunk. She heard the key turn in the lock, and then Leila moving about the room at intervals. From time to time she caught the sound of sobbing, and the noise of paper being torn in pieces. Once she heard a window opened, and was on the point of flinging herself against the door. But after a long silence steps sounded again, the dressing-room door creaked, and she heard water being poured into the basin. Teresina became less anxious, but did not dare to leave her post. She closed her eyes, however, and after a brief struggle, sleep overcame her.

A sharp voice roused her: "What are you doing here?"

She started to her feet. "Gèsu!" she exclaimed, and that was all she could say.

"You foolish creature!" said Leila. "Go down and open the door of the covered passage for me. My head aches, and I want some air," she added more gently.

It was dawn. The Torraro was sweeping joyously through the Posina valley, through the birches and poplars of the Montanina. Leila went up to the chestnuts, and flung herself on the ground like a tired child beneath their great branches, in the grass still heavy with dew. She had written, but had not yet fastened up her letter, undecided whether to send it or not. As she lay in the damp grass, the words she had written stood out in front of her, and her mind was torn by indecision.

"Please never mention that _great_ person to me again." She had arrived at this after many attempts and after tearing up seven or eight sheets of paper. The expression had pleased her, conveying, as she meant it to convey, a retort to a certain reference to herself in Massimo's letter. But now she doubted whether it would not be better not to show herself influenced by resentment, that her answer might appear the more decisive. She thought she would read the letter through again, and so returned to the house. On the way she met Teresina, who was coming to say she had made some strong coffee.

"Mother of Mercy!" she cried, as she walked along behind Leila. "You look as if you had been----" She stopped, and did not add "in the water," for the very word reminded her of what had been uppermost in her mind all the night, namely, that a man had but lately drowned himself in the Posina close by.

* * * * *

No, "great person" would not do at all! Nor would it do to strike out the word "great." She must give another tone to the whole letter, and remove every trace of resentment and contempt. She tore the sheet in two, and wrote as follows:

"DEAR FRIEND,--Please never speak to me again of a person I may indeed respect, but who inspires me with an antipathy it is impossible to overcome. My unkindness to you yesterday was caused by the same feeling that now urges me to write in this way. Forgive me.

"LEILA."

She read the lines again and decided that she had expressed herself clearly and to the purpose. There was no need of further corrections or regrets. When that letter had gone all would be over for ever. She flung herself upon her bed completely exhausted both in mind and body, and slept for an hour, and on awaking, sprang up in bed, troubled because she had slept she knew not how long, and bewildered as to what had previously taken place. At sight of the note lying open on the writing-table, consciousness began slowly to return, making her heart throb with a dull pain. She bathed her face and did her hair. The heartache grew, and waves of tears rose, but she did not weep. She took the note up to examine it again, but her hands trembled so violently and her sight was so troubled that she was unable to do so. She went out to read it in the open air, in the garden, where her nerves would not dare to rebel in this manner. She was so weary, there was such peace in the fresh breeze, in the waving of the ripe grasses, in the ceaseless murmuring of the Riderella, that for a long time she sat there beneath the walnut-trees, dazed and motionless, the note slipping from her lap to the grass. Something else slipped from her mind at the same time, and she paid no heed to either. At last she stooped and picked up the note, and began slowly tearing it into strips, her eyes fixed dreamily on the grass. As she tore the thought came to her that she was performing a solemn rite, to which it seemed strange that surrounding nature should remain so indifferent, that the wind should sway the grasses as before, that the water should be still murmuring. When she had completely destroyed the note, her heart began throbbing violently, as if her lover's arms were about her shoulders and his lips on hers. She sprang from her seat, frightened and aflame with excitement, gathered together the scraps of paper and flung them into the Riderella, watching until every tell-tale scrap had disappeared, and the very act itself seemed to have been annulled.

V

In the afternoon Signora Fantuzzo reappeared at the Montanina, but this time she came alone and was received by Teresina. Leila had a headache, and even had this not been the case she would have invented one as an excuse. Official works of charity were not to her liking, especially when they were to be carried out in such company. Sior Momi had scented the coming storm on the preceding day, and had determined to avoid it by a little trip to Padua. Siora Bettina was fairly well disposed towards Sior Momi, in spite of her brother-in-law's somewhat ambiguous description of him. The chaplain, however, to whom she looked up as to an oracle, had spoken otherwise of him. Don Emanuele knew him as well as the archpriest did, and even better, but until Leila should be fairly started on her way to the convent, he saw in Momi a valuable ally. He therefore declared to Siora Bettina, with an expression of deepest compunction and many twistings of words and phrases, that perhaps the archpriest, in his saintly simplicity and inborn honesty, had attached overmuch importance to slanderous rumours and unduly harsh judgments. Signor da Camin had been unfortunate in business, and was, perhaps, not exempt from certain human frailties, but he was a man of pure faith, free from all taint of modern error, a man who practised his religion, and an excellent Catholic. He was, in short, a man to make the clergy and the people of Velo thank God that the Montanina had fallen into his hands instead of into those of the young man from Milan.

As neither Leila nor Sior Momi were visible, Bettina seized the welcome opportunity of a few moments' conversation with Teresina. She was fond of the maid's company, not only because she was at her ease with her, but because Teresina was a woman of good sense and piety. Moreover, she was always so willing to tell all she knew, and she told it in a characteristic way. Teresina, for her part, liked being with Siora Bettina, who was so devout, and who treated her with so much consideration. They met but seldom, but when they did meet their faces always brightened, and they would twitter their bits of gossip like a couple of canary-birds, mingling comments in a wise and God-fearing spirit, and to their mutual satisfaction. Signora Fantuzzo had never seen any part of the Montanina save the drawing-room, and Teresina now volunteered to show her the rest of the house, all save Leila's room and Sior Momi's, the door of which he had locked himself.

"He is a good Christian, is he not?" said the visitor. Teresina gazed at her in amazement, but seeing she was quite in earnest, answered quickly:

"Of course! Of course!"

"And the young mistress also?" Signora Fantuzzo went on, her face assuming an ambiguous expression.

"Of course--she also!" said Teresina.

"I mean as concerns religion."

Once more Teresina, somewhat troubled this time, replied:

"Of course, of course!"

They had passed from the billiard-room to the open verandah, and here Siora Bettina sat herself down. With much embarrassment and a very red face, she asked whether Teresina did not think that the influence of the lady at Arsiero, who had so little reverence for the clergy, and had been the friend of that bad priest at Lago, had shaken the girl's faith.

"Oh, no, I don't think so at all!" Teresina cried with conviction.

"Because you know ... don't you?"

At the moment Teresina did not understand what it was she was expected to know, and the two women stood staring at each other, one filled with amazement, the other with compunction. Bettina hesitated an instant, and then hinted at the attempt to commit suicide. Teresina understood at once, her face quickly betraying the fact, and she dropped her eyes in silence. Siora Bettina also looked down, that she might collect her thoughts, and recall the chaplain's instructions should she happen to have any conversation with the maid. She inquired with great sweetness if the young girl were in the habit of saying her morning and evening prayers. Teresina, annoyed at such a personal question, flushed angrily, and answered shortly enough that she did not know. And had the Signorina any religious books? She had a beautiful New Testament, that had been a present from poor Signor Marcello. Nothing else? And Siora Bettina heaved a sigh of relief on learning that Leila possessed a prayer-book and a volume entitled "The Road to Paradise"; both were books she had had at the convent. But did she read them? Teresina might have answered that she had never seen any one of the three books in Leila's hands, but her only reply was a vague "Who can say?" Siora Bettina then braced herself to say, sweetly, that up at the parsonage they had anxiously hoped that, after what had happened on that eventful night, the young girl would soon come to confession. Don Emanuele, who knew more about the events of that awful night than did the archpriest, was especially distressed. In making this speech Siora Bettina had been in no wise conscious of setting a trap, but a trap it proved for Teresina, who promptly walked into it. As a good Catholic she also longed that Leila should go to confession, and now her feelings got the better of her.

"Of course she should go!" she said fervently.

Once more Siora Bettina communed with herself.

"How much better it would have been had the Trentos never taken the girl into their house!" she said. "In her grief at her lover's death she would probably have decided to withdraw from the world, but not in the way she meant on that fatal night. She would have dedicated herself to the Lord!"

"Oh, no! I don't believe she would!" cried Teresina, irritated at any blame being cast upon her old master and mistress. But why not? Ma! Who knows! That "ma" was as a casket full of golden reasons, but carefully locked. Teresina did not see fit to open the casket, and Signora Fantuzzo therefore concluded it was empty.

"It would have been a great blessing!" said she, and was about to add that it might still come to pass, but remembered in time that Don Emanuele had warned her not to go too far. The maid expressed her regret that her work would not allow her to enjoy Siora Bettina's society any longer, and hereupon the visitor rose.

"If only the confession could be managed!" said she.

"I wish it could," Teresina replied.

She went with Signora Fantuzzo as far as the small gate. At the last moment the lady hinted that Leila might get some one to accompany her to Vicenza, and make her confession at Monte Berico. Perhaps she would be more willing to do it there.

"Perhaps she would," Teresina acquiesced, and Signora Fantuzzo observed that her father would be the proper person to propose the Monte Berico excursion to Leila.

"Dio!" thought the maid.