Chapter II: Distaffs and Threads (1)

I

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

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

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

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

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

"Signor Alberti, I believe?" she said.

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

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

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

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

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

"Then you are Signora----?"

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

Massimo was obliged humbly to admit that it had been.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A foresta! Foresta! Foresta!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When Mass was over, Donna Fedele whispered to Massimo:

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thank Heaven, you have come!"

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

"Lúzia!"

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

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

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

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

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

"And this gentleman?..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Massimo! Will you come in now?"

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

"Why do you smile?" he asked.

The priest did not answer.

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

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

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

"Gèsumarite! He is not here!"

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

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

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

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

"He has forgotten his watch," she added.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don Aurelio interrupted him.

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Jonah! Not Jopha!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another sip of coffee.

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

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

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

"I forbid your doing that!"

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

Don Aurelio was beside himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

II

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

"Well? Did you find him?"

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

III