Chapter XVII: The White Lady of the Roses (1)

Leila rose from her bed before dawn, and, without waiting to dress, sat down at her table and wrote as follows:

"The night is still dark; I am very tired, but, nevertheless, I find it impossible to stay in bed. I have been feeling as if you were going away from me. I must talk to you. Last night, between nine and ten, I went up to the church place once more, to the place where we said goodbye. In memory I went over all the paths we had travelled along during the day, especially the one in the wood, where we went soon after our meeting. I should like to go there now if I could. I believe I should be able to find the exact place, the very tree near which we passed, and from which I pulled a leaf on our return. I am covering that leaf with kisses now. Ah, I am still Leila, Leila, Leila! But I promise you to become Leila! Please love Leila also!

"Now I am going to write what I should never have the courage to say. Perhaps, at the bottom of your heart, you despise me because I have come to you thus, like a mad creature. You will despise me still more when you learn that I came without intending to ask anything of you, because I feel I have no right to do so, because whatsoever you may do for me, for my honour, for my life, for my love, will be simply a noble gift. My love for you is no sudden thing. I loved you even before I knew you, before you came to the Montanina. The night you arrived I listened with a beating heart to the whistle of your train. Then I rebelled against love. Why? From pride. The more I loved you the more unkind and haughty did my attitude towards you become. This is the truth. I deserved all the bitter thoughts you harboured against me. I came here to tell you this, and also to place myself in your hands. And, after all, I told you only of my love, but ah! I had no need to tell you more.

"I feared you would cast me off as unworthy. I should have said, 'It is what I deserve!' I should not have taken my life, for I have given my word not to do that. I should not have entered a convent, for I have lost my faith. I should have arranged, in some way, to live near you, seeing you sometimes without being seen. But you were kind and generous. You took pity on one who has been both proud and sinful. Your lips have pronounced absolution, for you have said, _for ever!_--you have said, _my wife!_ The memory of this will be a never-ending joy to me! But your gentleness terrifies me. I tremble lest I may cause you unhappiness, lest I be unable to maintain what I promise, lest I fail to become Leila. I tremble because of the evil blood that flows in my veins. Had I not possessed this evil blood I could not have deceived my father, my devoted maid, and that poor creature who accompanied me to Vicenza, deceived them by acting a part, with perfect naturalness and without remorse.

"But still, still ... still, when I reflect that you are going to make me yours for ever, I feel that no worshipper has ever served and adored his God as I shall serve and adore you. I have written that I have lost my faith. I am a creature of passion rather than of reason. I cannot analyse my religious sentiments clearly for you. As long as I could I clung to the religion of my convent school. You may perhaps recall my aversion to innovation in religion, to destructive yet not reconstructive ideas. As long as I could I accepted the religion of the archpriest and of the chaplain of Velo. Even Signor Marcello's religion and Donna Fedele's did not seem entirely pure to me. They spoke of the gospel as if they had a right to interpret it, and I knew well enough that no layman had such a right. I said to myself, 'The whole, or nothing.' As long as I could I accepted everything, and then, when I came to know really well some of those who represent that whole, and to see them intriguing together--the archpriest, the chaplain, the archpriest's sister-in-law, my own father, and a certain friend of his called Molesin--I could stand it no longer, and I said, 'It shall be nothing.'

"But this nothing does not satisfy me, and I turn to you, rejoicing that you are freed from your old beliefs, from your ideas of a renovated Catholicism. I ask you to give me a God whom I can worship in the forests of Dasio, in the gorge where the waterfall murmurs, upon the lake, and in the bridal chamber, a God who shall not force official mediators upon me; a God who shall ask me for love only, and forbid me only to hate; a God who will not torment my intelligence with incomprehensible dogmas, nor annoy me with tedious practices, nor expect to delight me with a paradise and terrify me with a hell.

"Shall I see you to-morrow? Did my window overlook the street, I think I should stand by it all day long, hoping! But my room overlooks the courtyard. Shall I be doing wrong if I start from San Mamette this afternoon at three o'clock, and go and sit on the grass, opposite the waterfall? Shall I be doing wrong if I linger near a half-ruined chapel, where the path begins to descend, and where a view of the whole valley, the rocks of Dasio, and the dolomitic peak suddenly breaks into sight? Would there be any harm in your passing that spot on your way to visit your mayors?

"Perhaps Leila should not write these things.

"POOR LEILA."

Returning to bed, she slept the deep sleep of fatigue and youth until the sun was high. She could not wait for Alberti's messenger and sent the boy who had been her guide to Dasio with the letter.

She did not leave her room again until two o'clock, and spent the time in gazing upon the hills, the lake, the clouds, the play of light and shadow, and in dreaming and writing. She wrote to Donna Fedele, telling of her joy at being loved and forgiven, craving pardon once more for having left without informing her friend of her intention, telling of the letter she had written to her father, and begging for news of the invalid's condition. She directed her letter to the hospital in Turin, fearing it would not find Donna Fedele at Arsiero. At two she went out to buy some stamps, and on the threshold met a messenger who was the bearer of a letter from Massimo. He wrote:

"Yesterday was such a dream, Leila, that your letter of this morning was welcome to me if only as a proof of the reality of those heavenly hours. And last night, on my way to Muzzaglio, I saw once more, and in reality, the wood where, in less than an instant, we blotted out all the bitterness, all the pain of the past. I did not pluck a leaf, but I lingered there, for the delight of the memory was overpowering. In that precious instant you were still Leila to me. Please never again speak unkindly of Leila; it hurts me. Do not speak of kindness on my part, much less of noble actions. Do not use the word 'pity' in connection with the sentiment which you aroused in me when we first met, and against which I also struggled at its birth. Never again utter that horrible thought--which you have never really believed--that I could despise a woman capable of such a miracle of love and humility. And, on my part, I will not ask you to forgive me for my harsh early judgment of you. I will tell you only that my love for Leila now fills and stirs my soul like an eternal melody.

"Dearest, we will seek a faith together. I remember your aversion to my Master and to my ideals at the time, though I thought then that you probably spoke in ignorance and only because you disliked me so. Now I understand better. But--forgive me--I still feel that if you knew those first ideals of mine you would see that, in themselves, they were no barrier to a religion such as you desire and long for, a religion of the open fields and watercourses, a religion of love and freedom from ritual. From my letters to Donna Fedele you have learned what is my present attitude towards dogmatic beliefs and of the grief the overthrow of these has caused me. Only yesterday did I cease to dwell upon this sorrow, and I would not think of it to-day, nor to-morrow, nor for all the time that I might have your love, were it not for a fast approaching event to which I cannot even allude without a feeling of deep emotion and sadness. One who is dead has come forth from his grave, and is drawing near me, is seeking for me. He is my Master, the man I have loved best in this world, the man whose wonderful faith embraced all sinners. His body is to be brought here the day after to-morrow in the evening. I have this morning had a telegram to tell me. I must go to meet him. Dearest Leila, you and I will indeed seek for a faith together, but the thought of this meeting has paralysed me, I cannot tell you how my mind is torn.

"It will not be possible for me to meet you as you have arranged. I must be at Cima at half-past two to see the mayor. Please start from San Mamette at that hour, and get some one to accompany you to the Sanctuary of Caravina. When you have passed the village of Cressogno, dismiss your guide. You cannot miss the way, for the sanctuary stands alone. Should we not have met before, wait for me at the church. We will proceed to Cima together, and you can return thence by boat to San Mamette, while I go up to Dasio alone. Leila, my own!

"M."

A whistle! A steamer arriving from Oria. Leila had forgotten to wind up her watch. She consulted a time-table that had been placed in her room, and concluded it must be nearly half-past two. She sent for the boy who had accompanied her before, and they immediately started out, walking rapidly, and in half an hour's time she found herself at the farther extremity of Cressogno, in sight of Caravina. Here she dismissed her guide and went on alone.

She had brought Massimo's letter with her, and now read it through once more, as she sauntered slowly along the pleasant level path beneath the olives and among the vineyards of the sunny hillside, sloping gently downward to the lake. At about a hundred paces from the cypresses that faced the sanctuary she raised her eyes, and her face beamed. Massimo was coming towards her.

For a time they were silent, partly from emotion, partly for another reason. Each felt that the other was thinking of a shadow cast by a dead man, and a diffidence constrained them both.

"You are sad," Leila said at last softly. "Can I do anything to comfort you?"

"Dearest," he began impulsively, as if he had been waiting only for a word from her to pour out his heart, "there were several things in my letter that do not in the least express my true feelings. I felt this somewhat while writing, but still more strongly after the letter had left me. As long as I possess your love I shall never feel contempt for any one. I shall feel nothing but pity for those to whom such a love is denied."

Leila did not speak, but gazed upon him with tender eyes. Presently she ventured to inquire timidly about the dead friend. She remembered that one evening after dinner, at the Montanina, she had asked where Benedetto was buried, and that Massimo had answered, "At Campo Verano, for the time being."

Massimo now told her everything, but without touching upon the mental trouble he had referred to in his letter. Leila approached it gently. She repeated her question softly:

"Can I do anything to comfort you?"

As Massimo made no answer, she added:

"I can see how much you still love your Master."

"Yes," said Massimo, "I love him still."

He spoke excitedly and as if there were further words to follow. At that moment a cloud cast a rapid shadow over olives and vineyards, over the path, and a long, pale-green strip of slumbering lake along the shore. Massimo paused. Leila, convinced that he was about to speak, gazed anxiously at him as she waited. He did indeed wish to speak, and was struggling to find his way amid the tumult of thoughts and feelings that were warring within him. The words seemed so close to his lips and then they sank back again. He was so fully conscious of this that he never doubted she would not understand him when he cried sadly at last:

"I cannot!"

He stepped away from the olive-tree against which he had been leaning, and begged Leila to go on, for the sky looked threatening over towards Lugano, and a suspicious mist hung over Caprino and San Salvatore. She obeyed sadly. She was pained that he should not have relieved his feelings, and also because she vaguely realised her own powerlessness. Massimo, feeling that he had grieved her, took her arm, and began stroking her hand tenderly. She laid her right hand upon her left, that both might share in his caresses, and so, in silence, they advanced towards Cima. In the village they heard an old piano quavering: _Sola, furtiva al tempio...._

Massimo paused, and stood listening.

"The prelude to love!" said he. Leila glanced at him in astonishment. What could he mean? On learning that Massimo had been greatly moved by that melody, which he had heard on the night of his arrival at the Montanina, while the whole house slept, she blushed and smiled.

"It was not I who was playing," she said.

"Not you?"

"No; it was Signor Marcello."

She had flushed hotly, fearing he would be disappointed, and his face did indeed show some slight disappointment. But he saw at once her distressed look, and laughed heartily at his own mistake. She joined in so readily, that he began to suspect she had been jesting, and begged her to tell him the truth.

"It _was_ you who was playing!" he cried.

"Yes, yes!" said she, flinging up her head and smiling, as was her wont at happy moments. "Yes, I was playing!"

Massimo did not know whether to believe her or not, and both laughed in turn, without further discussion, until the noise of distant wheels told them that the steamer had left Porlezza, and was nearing Cima. Now there was a little tussle. Massimo, half serious, half in jest, proposed that they should not meet on the morrow. They might expect an answer from Leila's father or from Donna Fedele by Monday. Leila protested. No matter what the answer might be, it could not change anything, and on Monday, answer or no answer, she was going with him to meet Benedetto's body. It was decided at last that early on the following morning he would send her a letter containing the plans for the day.

Once on board the boat, she took up her position near the stern, and remained gazing at Massimo, who was standing on the landing-stage, as long as she could see him.

II

At six o'clock she dined in her own room, and then sat down to write to Massimo. Towards seven she heard the whistle of the steamer from Oria, and went to the window to see it pass, returning afterwards to her writing. Suddenly there was a knock at her door. It was the housemaid. Two ladies had arrived by the boat, and were asking for the Signorina. Leila inquired their names. The girl did not know. What were they like, then? They were both elderly; one was short and the other tall. The tall one had white hair, and appeared to be very ill. Leila sprang to her feet. Donna Fedele! Was it possible? Bewildered and in silence she stared at the girl, who went on to say that she had heard the lady with the white hair inquire of the proprietor if Dr. Alberti were also at the hotel. No further doubt was possible. At a bound Leila reached the door, thrust the girl aside, and flew down the stairs.

In the narrow entrance-hall she saw Donna Fedele sitting, while Cousin Eufemia stood near, talking with the proprietor.

"You?" she cried, and would have flung herself into her friend's arms had not the old cousin restrained her.

"The poor Signora," said the proprietor, who was holding a tray with a small glass of Marsala, "is greatly fatigued."

Donna Fedele, whose face was as colourless as her hair, forced a sweet smile, while her beautiful voice said painfully:

"This is a surprise, is it not? Are you quite well, and did you have a pleasant journey?"

Leila could not keep back her tears.

"Tut, tut!" said Donna Fedele. "What in the world are you crying about? Are you sorry to see me here?"

"Poor Signorina!" said the sympathetic proprietor; "it is only because she is so delighted." He was sure there was some mystery, but he did not know what it was.

Meanwhile Cousin Eufemia was trying to persuade the invalid to taste the Marsala. Donna Fedele had almost fainted on entering the hotel. They had hastened to place her upon a chair, and some minutes had elapsed before she was able to ask the proprietor if a young lady, travelling alone, were stopping in his house, and if Dr. Alberti were there also.

The Marsala restored her somewhat, and Leila also succeeded in calming herself. She arranged that the invalid should have her room, which was the best double-room that was available, and that she should have a small one next to it.

Donna Fedele now declared that she felt strong enough to mount the stairs and go to bed, adding, with a touch of her old love of teasing, that her companion, having excited the admiration and curiosity of the natives, was now at liberty to go for a walk and show herself.

"Nonsense, nonsense!" laughed the delighted Eufemia. "The Lord and Our Lady be praised, you are better again!"

With difficulty, leaning upon Leila's arm and pausing at every step, Donna Fedele reached the top at last, and entered her room, where Leila and Cousin Eufemia hastened to get her into bed.

As she helped to undress her friend Leila was horrified by her emaciation, and by the signs of illness. She said nothing in Cousin Eufemia's presence, but as soon as the little old woman had gone out of the room, Leila flung herself upon her knees, and seizing the hand that hung beside the bed, kissed it passionately.

"What have you done, child?" said Donna Fedele.

She did not understand that the young girl was shedding tears of compassion for her, for the sublime and single-hearted woman whom she had wronged, and who had come to her, sick and fainting, as the tenderest of mothers might have come; while she herself, absorbed in her love, had given so little thought to her and to her terrible sufferings. Leila sobbed out:

"I am happy, dear friend--so happy! I did wrong not to tell you, but I did right in coming here."

"You did right?"

"Yes. He loves me--he is going to marry me. He is so noble, so good! We had written to you all about it."

"'He is going to marry me'!" Donna Fedele repeated. "I should think so after what has happened!"

Leila, still on her knees, raised her head.

"Why?" said she. "It is not his duty for him to marry me."

Donna Fedele silently withdrew her hand from Leila's clasp, and placing it upon her head, said softly:

"Who knows what strange ideas of duty this little head may contain!"

It was dark in the room, and Donna Fedele could not see the sudden flame in Leila's eyes, but she heard it in her voice and in her excited utterance.

"Why should it be his duty? It was I who came to him. He loves me, but at the same time something brotherly in his affection would protect me even against myself, if that were necessary."

Donna Fedele smiled and stroked the young girl's hair tenderly.

"It is necessary--very necessary," said she.

Leila took the hand that had been caressing her hair, and pressing her face upon it, murmured:

"Perhaps it is."

"For shame, for shame!" her friend cried.

While Donna Fedele, who had withdrawn her hand, was thus chiding the kneeling girl, patting her head somewhat sharply the while, the searchlight flashed through the room, and they heard a scream from Cousin Eufemia. Even Donna Fedele had been startled. Her terrified cousin came bustling in to close the windows, exclaiming: "Oh, poor me! What an awful thunderstorm we are going to have!" and Leila had to explain where the light came from before she went away, soothed. Donna Fedele now wanted every detail of Leila's life during the past three days. The girl gave a colourless account of her doings, and then asked permission to inform Massimo at once of their friend's arrival. Donna Fedele herself desired this, but protested that she would not see him until the morrow. Leila went into the next room and wrote a few hurried lines, telling Massimo also how ill Donna Fedele was, and then begged the hotel proprietor to have the note carried to Dasio immediately.

Cousin Eufemia, who, in spite of her fatigue, was fully determined not to go to bed until all her preparations for the night were completed, and a supply of broth, mineral water, and Marsala placed in the invalid's room, took Leila aside and implored her, with tears in her eyes, to arrange so that, should it prove necessary, a physician might be sent for. She trembled for Fedele, who, by this time, ought to have been in the Turin hospital.

"She thinks she will die," said Eufemia. "She went to confession and received Communion the day before yesterday, and yesterday she sent for her confessor again. If we could only get off to Turin to-morrow! But I am sure she will not wish to go."

Leila, frightened and distressed, went to inquire about the doctor. The physician who was on duty for the time being lived at Cadate, not ten minutes' walk from San Mamette. Leila insisted upon relieving poor old Eufemia, and sitting up with the invalid at least part of the night. But Eufemia would not agree to this.

"I must sit on a chair," said she, "for if I lie down, even in my clothes, I shall go fast asleep at once. With my rosary, and my mind fixed on Our Blessed Lady of Consolation, I shall be better off than in bed."

Leila was obliged to give way. She sent word to the proprietor that the person to whom she had sent the note might perhaps come, some time before midnight, to inquire for the invalid. She did not go to bed, but often went to listen at her friend's door. Once she heard Donna Fedele ordering her cousin to lie down. Eufemia resisted for a time, but Fedele raised her voice, and the old woman was obliged to obey, having first stipulated that she would not undress. Again Donna Fedele made a request in a low tone, and Cousin Eufemia began reciting the rosary. The young girl brought a chair and sat down by the door, determined to spend the night there, prepared to enter the room should it be necessary.

She was sure that Alberti would start as soon as he received her note, and was therefore not surprised when he arrived towards half-past eleven. Hearing voices at the door of the hotel, Leila went downstairs. Massimo was very troubled, and was still more distressed by the account of the invalid. They discussed the advisability of his seeing Donna Fedele at once, should she be awake. Leila did not think it wise, and so he went to the room he had ordered for himself, begging Leila to call him immediately in case of need, and to send for the Cadate doctor as well.

Leila was alone in the dark corridor, while the entire household slept. Yesterday there had been light in her heart, and to-day there was shadow. For her sake, entirely for her sake, Donna Fedele lay there suffering, perhaps dying. She felt almost as if she now loved Massimo less, and she wept silently, biting her lip that she might not sob aloud. A small voice did indeed whisper to her that Donna Fedele had not been obliged to come, that it had not been necessary, and that she would have done better to go to Turin. Leila would have listened to this voice willingly enough, had her motherly friend come to her in good health, and with reproaches on her lips. But she had come in so pitiful a plight, so kindly, and with such tenderness in her words and upon her face! And to whom did she owe her happiness if not to this friend, who had paved the way to it?

Towards two o'clock she feared she would fall asleep, and rising softly, went to her room and stood by the open window that the cool air might banish her drowsiness. She saw a light shining beyond another open window. Perhaps Massimo was lying awake in that room. She withdrew from the window, for she shrank from seeing him and being seen by him at that moment. She listened to the whisperings of the night, the gentle lap of the placid lake, the leap of a fish, the hooting of an owl in the distance, and presently, on resuming her post at Donna Fedele's door, she became conscious that her love was undergoing a transformation, that contact with painful reality was imparting to it an earnestness and a depth it had lacked before.

At four she heard Donna Fedele ask for something. Cousin Eufemia got out of bed, and ran against a chair, at which Donna Fedele laughed softly. After this all was quiet until morning.

III

At half-past six Cousin Eufemia, who had come out of the room at six, leaving Donna Fedele asleep, cautiously opened the door again, and seeing that the invalid was awake, entered on tiptoe.

"Dr. Alberti is here," said she.

Donna Fedele turned painfully on her side, so that her face was towards the door, and said:

"Let him come in."

Massimo entered briskly, his tall person slightly bent, his face wearing an expression of eager satisfaction.

"What a pleasure!" he exclaimed, partly from force of habit, partly to deceive himself and her, although he was fully aware that those words were not the most appropriate he could have uttered on meeting a friend whose condition was so much more serious than when he had last seen her.

Donna Fedele smiled.

"I don't know about the pleasure!" said she, and held out her hand, which he kissed.

"But why did you undertake this trying journey? I assure you it was entirely unnecessary. How could you doubt----"

Massimo had been about to add "that I should act as a Christian and a gentleman?" But he checked himself, and flushed hotly, for the word "Christian," after his last letter to the woman who was now listening to him, would have scorched his lips.

Donna Fedele gazed at him in silence, but with a scrutiny so penetrating that his colour deepened still more.

"It will depend upon you and Leila," she said, "to make this the best action of my whole life."

Failing to grasp her meaning, Massimo made no answer.

"And now," said he at last, breaking a silence that was embarrassing, "allow me to act the part of a doctor."

But with a slow shake of her forefinger, the invalid refused. Greatly disappointed, Massimo asked the reason of this refusal. She replied that she did not need a doctor, that indeed she herself had come to act the part of physician both to Leila and himself. But not at once. At present she wished to know what these young people intended to do. On hearing that Leila had written to her father, and was waiting for an answer, she pointed out that it was absolutely certain to be a refusal, and that, answer or no answer, the girl could not remain here.

"God will give me strength to take her back to her own home," said she, "or at least to the Villino for a few days."

Thereupon Massimo told her what Leila had written to her father, and the reason for anticipating a favourable answer. Donna Fedele readily admitted this, and was furthermore pleased to learn that Massimo had hopes of being appointed physician to the Commune of Valsolda. But it was none the less necessary that Leila should go away with her, and Massimo at once recognised this necessity. He believed, however, that it would be difficult to persuade Leila, but this he did not say.

"Call her," said Donna Fedele.

Leila came, but on learning what was proposed the colour fled from her face.

"No, no!" she cried, rather beseechingly than in protest.

Donna Fedele called her a foolish child, and assured her that, as she and Massimo had come to an understanding, matters would of necessity take their natural course. Was it possible she could not see the impropriety, the impossibility of her remaining in Valsolda? Leila hastened to explain. She had hoped Donna Fedele would remain a few days, that this rest and quiet might benefit her. Then she, Leila, would have gone to Turin with her friend. Of course she was sorry to leave Valsolda, but it was the bare thought of returning to Velo that horrified her. Her coming of age and becoming her own mistress was simply a question of months now, of a very few months. Donna Fedele pointed out that in Turin she would be left entirely on her own resources.

"If your father would consent," she said, after a few moments' reflection, "I could leave you at Santhià, with my cousin."

After a brief discussion it was decided that Donna Fedele should rest to-day, see the Cadate doctor to-morrow, and, should he consent, start with Leila, sending a telegram to another cousin to meet the girl at the Santhià station, while Eufemia, who had recovered her box, over which she had begun to sigh frequently in private, should continue the journey with the invalid. Letters coming to San Mamette for Leila would be sent on to the Santhià address. Donna Fedele determined to act without waiting for Sior Momi's permission. He had always shown himself most deferential towards her, while her cousin's house at Santhià was so safe a refuge, and Leila so abhorred the idea of going back to Velo, that she felt she had the right to decide on her own responsibility.

The long talk had exhausted her small stock of strength, and she begged for an hour's rest and silence. She made another request, that Massimo would return to Dasio, and that Leila would make up her mind not to see him again until that evening between six and seven o'clock, and then only in her, Donna Fedele's, presence. She felt the share she had had in bringing about Leila's mad flight, and her responsibility weighed upon her more than it would upon a real mother. Leila showed signs of rebellion.

"Leila, dearest Leila!" said Massimo, with a smile. As by enchantment the little wild animal, with flaming eyes, was tamed. He wished it to be so, and that was enough. Donna Fedele started.

"How is this? You have changed your name?"

"Only for him," said Leila, blushing. "But for him, I have really changed it."

"But why?"

With a rapid gesture Leila checked Massimo's explanation, and implored Donna Fedele not to press her for reasons.

"It will be far better for you to call me Leila, also," said she.

Donna Fedele shook her head, and made a gesture as if to say: "Who can make anything out of this extraordinary pair?" And here the conversation ended.

IV

It was Sunday, and on Saturday, in obedience to Donna Fedele's orders, Cousin Eufemia had sought information concerning the whereabouts of the church and the hours of the different services. She had learned that the church, on the hillside above the town, could only be reached by a flight of very steep steps, and that the one Mass celebrated there was at nine o'clock. Nor were there any other churches in the neighbourhood which were easier of access. She saw well enough that her cousin was in no condition to go to Mass, but nevertheless, she did not dare to go herself without informing the invalid of her intention. At half-past eight, therefore, she told her. Donna Fedele sent for Leila.

"Go to Mass with Eufemia," said she. "Unfortunately, I am not well enough to go. You must hear it for me."

Leila was anxious to stay with her, but she would not hear of this. "No, dear," said she, "I insist upon your going," and added that, had it been necessary, Eufemia could have stopped with her. As Leila still hesitated, she asked with a smile if, in order to obtain a favour from her, she must call her Leila. The young girl made no answer, but started immediately with Cousin Eufemia.

Donna Fedele was suffering. Sharp pains had begun to torment her during her interview with Massimo, and still continued. This was no new form of suffering--she had had these pains before; now, however, she could not help recognising how weak was her power of resistance. She took her Prayer Book and sought to read the prayers of the Mass, but she could not, and presently her hand sank heavily upon the coverlet, and the little book fell to the floor. A heavy perspiration drenched her brow, and coursed down her thin cheeks; but no groan escaped her lips. Shortly before her cousin and Leila returned from Mass the pains grew less severe, and during the first moment of comparative ease she murmured aloud to herself:

"My dear Fedele, you will never leave this place!"

However, she found strength to receive them calmly on their return, and in answer to their anxious questions, said she had indeed been suffering some slight pain, but that she was better now. She asked for a little Marsala, and her voice betrayed extreme exhaustion. Leila proposed sending for the doctor.

"Send for him if you will," said the invalid, smiling, "but mind you send for the right one!"

Leila blushed, and explained that she had meant to allude to the Cadate doctor, and not to Massimo at all.

Cousin Eufemia's heart was full of misgivings, for she reflected that, if Fedele consented to see the doctor, she must be feeling very ill indeed. The sufferer sent her to see that the physician was summoned, and then begged Leila to pick up the Prayer Book, and read her the following words of St. Augustine's:

"And now it is time that I should come to Thee for all eternity. Open Thy door to me, and teach me how to reach Thy threshold. I possess nought save a willing heart, and I know nothing save that the things of the world and all frailties are to be shunned, while the things of eternity and of truth are to be sought after. This is all my wisdom; and how to reach Thee I know not. I beseech Thee, therefore, to watch for me, to enlighten me, and to set my feet upon the right path. If those who find a refuge in Thee reach Thee through faith, then give me faith; if this be obtained through virtue, then grant me to be virtuous; and if knowledge lead to Thee, then give me knowledge. Cause faith, hope, and charity to increase within me, through Thine own admirable and singular bounty."

At the opening words Leila had shuddered. Was this a forewarning of the end? As she read on, it no longer appeared so, but her first impression did not fade, and it sounded in her voice until the end of the paragraph.

"Thank you," said Donna Fedele, gently and seriously. "When I shall have crossed that threshold I hope you will sometimes pray thus, in memory of your poor old friend."

Leila seized her hand and kissed it. After that the invalid lay without speaking until the arrival of the doctor. His visit was to little purpose, for he was not allowed to make the thorough examination that alone could have enlightened him. Donna Fedele told him of the operation, and said that she had intended leaving for Turin on the morrow, but would not do so without his permission. She therefore requested him to come again the next morning and give his verdict. Meeting Leila in the corridor, the doctor told her he had found the patient's heart in an extremely weak state, and that he feared the worst.

Massimo came at six o'clock. The invalid was free from pain. Cousin Eufemia, greatly distressed because Fedele had left off teasing her, kept glancing from Leila to Massimo with questioning eyes which were full of dread and anguish. Silence and the absence of the familiar smile terrified the watchers, but each shrank from confessing this fear to the others. At seven o'clock Donna Fedele begged her cousin to leave the room for a time, and signed to the two young people to come to her bedside. She asked Leila if she had received an answer from Velo. No, it was not possible yet.

It was apparent that she intended to introduce another topic, and was finding it difficult to connect it with this preamble. She thought for a time, and presently spoke.

"If Leila has really made up her mind to give up her fortune," she began, "there is no use discussing the matter. But she is young. The day will come when the Montanina will be at your disposal, and I entreat you both not to forsake it. Did I not fear to burden you with such a charge, I would also beg you to have a Mass celebrated once a year, for the repose of my soul, at Santa Maria ad Montes, and----"

She paused, stretched out her thin hands to the two young people, and, finding her familiar smile once more, finished the sentence.

"--and to be present at it."

They pressed her hands in silence, and the sufferer's beautiful dark eyes shone. She seemed to be a little stronger, and requested Massimo to look out the trains for her, in case she should be able to start on the morrow. By leaving San Mamette shortly after ten, the travellers would reach Santhià at six in the afternoon, and Turin at half-past seven. Massimo would go with them as far as Porto Ceresio. Leila asked timidly:

"Why not as far as Milan?"

He explained to her in an undertone that he could not do so. That other traveller from Rome would reach Porto Ceresio from Milan eight minutes before their arrival there from Lugano, and the steamer he had chartered would start for Oria at once.

"You cannot come?" said Donna Fedele, who had not heard his explanation. "Ah!" she added. "Perhaps for the reason of which Don Aurelio informed me."

Massimo was unaware that she had met Don Aurelio in Milan, and they now spoke of him, of his poverty, and of his untroubled soul. Donna Fedele mentioned the conditions that had made him decide to accompany the body.

"Could they not have left those poor bones to rest in peace in Rome?" she said.

Leila glanced at Massimo, who made no answer.

* * * * *

Towards midnight Donna Fedele had another attack of severe pain. By dawn she was easier, but the doctor from Cadate who saw her at six found her feverish, and naturally pronounced the journey to be impossible. At ten Massimo started for Porto Ceresio, expecting to be back at Oria with the private steamer by two in the afternoon. From the Albogasio cemetery, where Benedetto was to be buried, it was only a quarter of an hour's walk to San Mamette.

V

Pale, and with a beating heart, Massimo stood at the entrance to the Porto Ceresio station, waiting to see among the passengers by the train from Milan, which was late, the familiar faces of Don Aurelio and of the friends from Rome, who were expected to arrive at the same time as the body. There was no one of his acquaintance in the train. The first impression, which was almost a relief, was quickly followed by one of vexation that he should not have been notified of the delay, and that he should have left Leila and Donna Fedele so much earlier than was necessary. He consulted the station-master, who could give him no information, but promised to telegraph to Milan for news. Massimo went to wait at the station café, on the railed terrace overlooking the lake.

Here, in the presence of the peaceful waters reflecting the green mountains, his quiet thoughts also reflected three figures. One was that of the beloved and fiery-souled girl; a second was that of the sweet woman who had come for the sake of the fiery-souled girl and for his own sake, who had come to die, perhaps, in a strange house, moved by a love of a nature different indeed, but infinitely more lofty and serene. A third figure was that of Benedetto, standing at a greater distance, and at once loved and feared. This last figure suddenly drew near to him, and stood alive before him once more. He felt his dying Master's hand upon his head, could almost feel his arm about his neck, the arm that was too weak to press him close. He heard the feeble voice saying, "Be holy!" and he heard the words, "Let each one perform his religious duties as the Church prescribes, according to strict justice, and with perfect obedience." He reflected that yesterday--Sunday--he had neglected to go to Mass. This had never happened before. The breaking away from the Church in thought had been an easier matter than the breaking away from her external practices, than the breaking with long-standing habits, an act which seemed almost an offence to his beloved dead. A slight twinge of conscience roused him, admonishing him to assert his will against these dangerous impulses, proceeding from a sentiment but imperfectly dominated by reason. The painful conflict that for days had been going on within his soul, and that had become more violent on the news of the arrival of the dead Benedetto, was now reaching the acute stage. The oft-repeated and alternating prevalence of one impulse over another was weakening that of reason, while the impulse of sentiment--a force that never lies dormant, that knows no doubt, and tends constantly to reconquer lost ground--grew ever more vigorous as the meeting with the dead friend grew nearer.

Massimo scanned the surface of the distant waters over towards the point of Melide for the special steamer that, by this time, should have been in port. The lake was deserted in that direction. There were only two small boats to be seen between Morcote and Brusino Arsizio. This second delay was a mystery also. Once more he sought out the station-master. Milan had answered that nothing had arrived there, but that some other persons having also made inquiries, a telegram had been sent to Bologna, and that the answer would be forwarded to Porto Ceresio as soon as it was received. Massimo went back to the café, and at last discovered the white prow of a steamer coming from Melide, and keeping well in the middle of the lake. A slight breeze had sprung up. Now a breath would break the surface of the water into azure ripples above the green reflections of the mountains; then the breath would die down, and the reflections reappear. This new unrest of wind and lake seemed to the young man an unrest of waiting, like his own.

To Massimo's amazement the special steamer arrived crowded with people. The fact was quickly explained, however. The people of Albogasio looked upon Piero Maironi as a benefactor. They had chartered the steamer to Oria at their own expense, and had started, more than one hundred strong and led by their parish priest, to meet the dead son of Franco and Luisa.

On learning that there was no news of the body, these poor souls were somewhat disconcerted, but presently the station-master came to tell Massimo that he had been notified from Milan that the body would reach Porto Ceresio at eight in the evening. It was then half-past two. Massimo telegraphed news of the delay to San Mamette. The Albogasio people, who had feared that they had gone to useless expense, and had lost a day's work as well, now appeared quite satisfied, despite the prospect of a wait of nearly six hours. There was some grumbling on the part of those who had come unprovided either with food or money, but they grumbled submissively. These good people would have suffered the pangs of hunger uncomplainingly, had not Massimo and their parish priest arranged to provide them with bread at least, while those provident ones who had brought food with them showed themselves willing to share with the others. A sense of gentle pity and of gratitude towards the deceased, gentle memories of other dear departed souls, a solemn demonstration of deep and unsullied faith, bore witness to the presence of so many other virtues in the hearts of this humble flock, that Massimo was profoundly touched. The parish priest made known to him a woman called Leu, who remembered Benedetto's parents, and who could not say enough in praise of _Sciora Luisa_. But the others were discussing the man who had disappeared years ago from Oria, leaving no trace, and whose dead body was now returning. They spoke of the sensation that disappearance had caused, of the many mistaken suppositions, and of the good priest, a stranger in these parts, who had seen to it that the charitable dispositions of him who had disappeared were carried out. A few old people remembered the other Piero, the uncle, Engineer Ribera.

Shortly after five o'clock a telegram from Don Aurelio informed Massimo that he was about to start from Milan with the body. When Massimo had read the telegram he handed it to the priest from Albogasio, and walking away without a word, began to follow a deserted path along the shore, on the left of the landing-stage. He continued walking slowly up and down here for nigh on three hours, without being able to formulate a single thought, until evening's welcome shadows fell.

When the train entered the station the darkness was profound, for storm-clouds now lay massed in the sky, where no moon shone. The people from Albogasio had invaded the station, carrying lighted candles and flaring torches, and led by their priest, in surplice and stole. Don Aurelio and Massimo's Roman friends alighted silently and with grave faces. Massimo, shaken by a nervous trembling, bit his lip that he might not sob aloud. Short and measured greetings marked the solemnity of the moment, and many of the bystanders were weeping. Railway employees, carrying lanterns, opened the freight-car that contained the body. Massimo and the young men from Rome stepped forward. Some slight confusion ensued, and excited voices were heard. Don Aurelio commanded silence in a tone of authority, and once more all was quiet as the coffin appeared, borne towards the station entrance on the shoulders of six young men, of whom Massimo was one. The few passengers the train had brought had all passed out. One woman only, dressed in mourning, and accompanied by a maid, followed the funeral procession on board the steamer. No one knew who she was, and even the glare of the torches failed to reveal her face, hidden by a thick veil.

Amidst deep silence the bier was placed upon the fore-deck, and covered with a black pall ornamented with a silver fringe. Amidst deep silence also those who bore lights lined up on either side of the deck. The priest took up his position in front of the pilot-house, and facing the bier. Still in deep silence the rest of the little flock huddled in the stern, leaving the space clear between the candle-bearers and the bier. Don Aurelio, Massimo, and the young men from Rome stationed themselves beside the priest. Without a word of command, the gang-plank was withdrawn from the landing-stage, the crew pushed the steamer off, the captain bent over his speaking-tube, the pistons creaked, and slowly and heavily the paddles beat upon the water. When the boat had swung half round, and brought her prow towards the upper lake, the parish priest of Albogasio began intoning the rosary. The assembly responded, and the combined and steady sounds of the pistons, the paddles, and the water, cleft by the prow, formed a deep-toned accompaniment to the monotonous chant. Like a phantom ship the vessel thus broke the silence of the quiet lake and of the sleeping shores, broke the darkness with two shining lines of funeral candles.

Massimo kept his eyes fixed on the black pall with its silver fringe. The love that the dead man had once borne him, the calumnies, the insults, the outrages of every description for which that poor body and the spirit that moved it had been the mark; the thought of his own desertion, which had come so near accomplishment, while others, like these friends from Rome standing here beside him, had remained loyal to the beloved memory, despite the contempt, the derision, and the animosity of the world--all these thoughts formed within him a confused tumult of love, grief, and remorse that completely unmanned him, and slipping away quietly, he went down to the cabin and wept bitterly, his sobs mingling with the combined and steady sounds of the pistons, the paddles, and the flying foam.

"No, no, dear friend! I will not forsake you! I am coming back to you! I am coming back!"

He had not noticed the presence at the farther end of the cabin of the two women who had been in the train. When his sobbing had become less violent, and he had risen to his feet, seeking to compose himself before going on deck once more, she who appeared to be the maid rose and came towards him.

"I beg your pardon, sir," said she, "but can you tell me whether any one will speak at the grave?"

Massimo, who was taken by surprise, hesitated an instant, and then replied in the affirmative. The maid thanked him, and then returned to the dark corner where the lady in mourning was sitting. The young man went up the steps, and had nearly reached the deck when the maid addressed him once more.

"I beg your pardon, sir, but are you going to speak?"

"No," said Massimo.

The woman thanked him.

This was a fresh grief to Massimo, for it showed him that there were those who expected the favourite disciple to speak the last farewell, while he had refused, and now, at this eleventh hour, he would be entirely unable to find fitting language. Grief he felt, and astonishment as well. Why had these women supposed he would speak? Did they know him? Presently he went back to the place where he had stood before. The priest had finished reciting the rosary, and now all was silent, only the sounds of moving things could be heard, while the shadows that were cleft at the prow of the phantom ship by the glow of the candles foregathered once more about the stern, in a darkness that was deeper still. When they had passed the Melide Bridge, some one standing behind the priest said, in a loud voice:

"_De profundis._"