Chapter XVII: The White Lady of the Roses (2)

A hundred voices began intoning the _De profundis_. When the psalm was half over, the steamer, which was making straight for the dark outline of the point of Caprino, suddenly came to a standstill. The chant was quickly interrupted. A great black shadow, set with shining points, passed within fifty yards of them, cutting across the steamer's path. But few were aware of this shadow, and of the danger of a collision between the ship of Death and that other vessel. Those few shuddered in silence. Once more the pistons creaked, and once more the psalm was taken up. In the broad basin between Campione and Lugano the darkness encompassing the funereal illumination that shone on the fore-deck appeared less deep. On all sides majestic profiles stood out in black relief against the sky. The lights of Lugano outlined the curve of the bay. As the boat sped towards Caprino, the lights of Castagnola, of Gandria, and at last the formidable summits and the distant waters of Valsolda, with the lightning flashes from the torpedo-boat, were revealed in rapid succession. Massimo took Don Aurelio's arm.

"You are going to speak?" he asked.

Don Aurelio replied that he was, and as he felt the young man draw him towards him, immediately understood that there was something further he wished to say.

"I have returned to Christ and the Church!" said Massimo, trembling violently. "I have returned but now!"

Don Aurelio folded him in a close embrace, and whispered softly, in a voice that was full of joy:

"Dear, dear friend, let us thank God! You have lifted a great weight from my heart!"

Don Aurelio told him presently that he was much pleased with these young men who had come from Rome, and that the misrepresentations and intemperance of certain innovators had produced a salutary reaction in their minds, so much so that, were it not too late, he would have greatly preferred to entrust the task of speaking at the grave to one of them.

Meanwhile the boat had passed Gandria. The dazzling eye of the torpedo-boat flashed upon Don Aurelio and Massimo, who were going towards the fore-deck. The brilliance swept the vessel fore and aft, following it on its way, then suddenly forsook it. Upon the black brow of Bisgnago, over against the sky, the electric signals were glowing like flames upon a sublime altar, whence prayers were ascending for the valleys below. The shore at Oria was crowded with people who had come from Castello and from San Mamette, to meet the body. Those who, from this spot, witnessed the slow growth of the point of light advancing out of the west across the black waters, the flashing around it of the silvery ray that seemed to be guarding its path, the sublime flames upon the mountain-top, and the silent eagerness of the crowd, were filled with a sense as of a mysterious solemnity in which both heaven and earth were taking part. And aboard the boat also the travellers, as they approached the end of their journey, were experiencing a feeling of trepidation for which they could not account. The parish priest gave an order; the black pall was removed; Massimo and Benedetto's other youthful disciples stood forth, ready to raise the bier. The woman who seemed to be a maid came on deck, asked a question, and going down to the first-class cabin once more, presently reappeared with the veiled lady. They went as far astern as possible, evidently desiring to be the last to leave the boat. The steamer came alongside the pier, and the gangway was thrown across. Six young men, of whom Massimo was again one, raised the bier. Some orders were heard and a few words of warning or reproof, but immediately all was silence once more. The parish priest stepped ashore first, then came the disciples with their burden, while the bearers of candles followed close behind. Then slowly and decorously the other passengers crossed the gangway, the two women last of all. The silent procession passed under a portico, across a small square, through a first dark passage, and then through a second, which lay beneath the house that had belonged to the dead man, and so reached the church, the very church where, but a few years before, Don Giuseppe Flores had learned of the flight of him who was now brought here for his humble burial. The candles on the high-altar were already alight. In an instant the church was full of people and of lighted candles. The veiled lady would not have been able to enter at all had not the crowd parted before her, moved by instinctive respect. The two took up their position in the last row of benches near the holy-water font, and were much stared at. No one knew who they were. Only Massimo and Don Aurelio had any idea as to the identity of the veiled lady, but the two friends exchanged no word concerning her, respect for the past forbidding either to confide in the other.

The funeral service began, and the voice of the congregation was raised in response to the priest. Massimo, upon his knees, his face buried in his hands, remained absorbed in prayer during the entire service, and so also did the veiled lady. There was some slight disturbance, first at the main door and then at a side entrance, because a lad who had come from San Mamette with a letter for Dr. Alberti was trying to force his way in. He did not succeed, however, and the letter, which some one took from him, could not possibly be delivered to Massimo until later on. When the service was over Massimo and his five companions raised the bier once more, and moved forward behind the priest. The church was soon empty, and the last person to rise from her seat and go out was the veiled lady; but seeing that the path was very rough, and that the candle-bearers were already far ahead, she returned to the church again. Among the stragglers behind the procession her companion found a boatman who was willing to undertake to row them to Lugano later on.

While the procession was traversing the short distance that separates the church from the cemetery, lightning flashes began to break from the banks of heavy cloud, and a sudden gust of wind blew out almost all the candles. The coffin was put down at the head of the flight of steps leading to the gate of the cemetery, and the bearers of the few candles that were still alight took up their position on either side. A second gust extinguished these last candles also, and went whistling away through the olive-groves that slope down to the lake. Don Aurelio, who had remained behind, forced his way through the crowd, and reached the steps. Some one tried to strike a match, that he might not stumble on the unfamiliar stairs, but it was immediately blown out. Then a hand grasped his and guided him upwards. Only those who were nearest could see him, the others heard only his ringing tones, carrying above the noise of the wind and of the waves breaking against the embankments far below.

"He is come," Don Aurelio began, "the much afflicted wayfarer, unto his last resting-place, succoured once more by the prayers of Holy Church, who, when he died in her maternal arms, commended him to Divine mercy. It was neither his friends nor his disciples who, to his pain and vexation, proclaimed him a saint, but simple souls from amongst the people, souls full of faith and imaginings. When the Church prays for a dead son, she does so in no spirit of criticism, but, in her austere wisdom, considers only the universal frailty of man, the universal misery of hidden or apparent sin before the inscrutable mystery of Divine justice. But the Church, remembering the tears that Jesus shed by the tomb of Lazarus, allows poor human hearts to utter words of love and grief beside the grave, allows them to voice the praises which, indeed, are contained in their tears. Love, pain, and praise all now rush to my lips for utterance, but I cannot find words to express them, for I feel within me I know not what hidden influence restraining me; I believe this influence is that of the dead; I believe he desires neither expressions of pain nor of praise, but I also believe that I hear the words he wishes me to speak."

The speaker paused with heaving breast. A quiver of emotion ran through the crowd that thronged the steps. A few voices said softly, "Yes, yes!"

"Peace!" Don Aurelio went on--"peace to thee, O spirit of Piero Maironi! O spirit of Benedetto! I will not speak my own words, the words of love and pain and praise, but rather those that thou biddest me speak! Let these hills of thine send their wind, not to destroy my words, but to waft them far afield, wheresoever thou hast been named with affection and respect, or with anger and insult.

"Listen, my friends! This man spoke much of religion, of faith and of works. Being neither a prophet nor the Sovereign Pontiff, speaking from his high place, he may sometimes have been led astray; he may sometimes have put forward views that the authority of the Church would be justified in rejecting. The true character of his mission was not to agitate theological questions, wherein he might deviate from the true path, but to bring back the faithful, of all orders and conditions, to the spirit of the gospel; it was to reinspire the world with this spirit. He never failed to proclaim his humble submission to the authority of the Church, to the Holy See of the Roman Pontiff. Were he still alive he would glory in giving proof of this as an example to the world. It is in his name that I declare this! He knew that the world despises religious obedience as cowardice. He, on his part, fiercely despised the contempt of the world, that glorifies military obedience and the sacrifices it imposes, although military authority is assisted by prisons and chains, by powder and lead, while religious authority has no such support. He loved the Church above all things on earth. In thinking of the Church he was wont to compare himself with the smallest stone of the greatest temple, which, had it a soul, would glory in its small ministry. Yes, he did indeed think he could perceive the evil spirits which hell lets loose within Holy Church; which we know cannot prevail against her--we have the Divine promise for this--but which, nevertheless, may inflict cruel wounds upon her by conspiring with those other evil spirits that work their fiendish havoc in the world. He thought he recognised them, and it was an irresistible impulse of filial affection, of filial sorrow, that carried him, a suppliant, to the feet of the Sovereign Pontiff, the Father of the faithful.

"He wishes me to pardon in his name all those who, possessing no ecclesiastical authority, passed judgment upon him, condemning him as a Theosophist, a Pantheist, and as one who shunned the Sacraments; but that the scandal of these accusations may be destroyed, he also wishes me to proclaim, in a loud voice, that such errors were ever abominations in his sight, and that from the moment when he, a miserable sinner, turned from the world to God, he did always and in all things suit his actions to the beliefs and the prescriptions of the Catholic Church, and this unto the very hour of his death.

"He died trusting firmly that one day, when the spirits of evil that afflict the Church shall have been driven back behind the gates of hell, all men who have received baptism, and who call upon the name of Christ, will be united in one great religious body around the Holy Throne of the Roman Pontiff. He implores all those who are his friends to pray for this end.

"Friends and brothers, all you who resented the false accusations brought against this man by Catholic laymen, journalists, and libellers, let us unite with him in forgiving them all. Let us also pardon such as derided and insulted him for his faith. _Nesciebant_, all of them! We ourselves are too ignorant to dare to judge of the ignorance of others. Wanderers amidst the darkness, we question the stars as we grope blindly on our way, we call to each other with voices that ask, that advise, that encourage; we cry out the good news when we have discovered the right path, that others may hasten towards it. But let us not judge him who fails to answer our call, for we know not whether the obstacles that lie between him and us be not greater than his strength may overcome. Let us pray for one and all, as we pass through the darkness, longing for the dawn of the day of God.

"Poor body, that was once so dear to us, rest in peace until the coming of that glorious dawn!"

The coffin was lowered to the side of Elisa Maironi, the last prayers were recited, the grave was closed. The priest had returned to the church to lay aside his robes, and the crowd was fast dispersing. Massimo, Don Aurelio, and the young Romans who had lingered long beside the grave, were descending the steps, and the sexton was about to close the gates, when the woman who seemed to be a maid came to beg that they should be allowed to remain open a few minutes longer. As the sexton hesitated, Don Aurelio and Massimo intervened, and persuaded him to consent. Hereupon the maid withdrew and joined the veiled lady, who was waiting in the lane, to the west of the cemetery. Not until that moment did the person who had taken the letter which the messenger had brought from San Mamette remember to deliver it to Massimo. Between the gusts of wind Massimo succeeded in reading it by the light of a match:

"Our friend is very ill. Come as soon as possible.
"LEILA."

Massimo implored Don Aurelio to go with him. Don Aurelio should have returned to Milan at once, but he gave up his intention of doing so on hearing what had happened. The two took a hurried farewell of their young friends, who were left behind to wonder at their sudden flight. During the confusion of leave-taking the veiled lady and her companion passed the group of disciples without being seen by them. Presently, however, they noticed that the maid was standing with the sexton at the gate. They saw how inconsiderate it would be to remain there, but as they had retained the services of the steamer, they felt bound to take the two strangers on board. One of the young men went up to the gate and spoke to the woman who was waiting there, but she refused his offer with something like dismay. Hereupon the friends started on their way towards Oria. The sexton saw the tall, slim figure of the veiled lady kneeling by the grave upon the upturned sod. She remained there motionless for a few minutes, and then went down the steps, leaning on the arm of the maid, who told her of the offer, and of her refusal. Her mistress made no comment. On the Oria road they met the boatman, who had come to tell them that the lake was very rough, and that a second pair of oars would be necessary. The lady made a sign, and the maid ordered him to engage another boatman to help him. Shortly before reaching the church-place of Oria they met the parish priest, who was carrying a lantern and offered to guide them through the dark and winding lanes of the village. The veiled lady pressed her companion's arm as a sign that she was to refuse, but the maid, who had no desire to break her neck, saw fit to accept. Mistress and maid then held a whispered consultation, and presently the servant begged the priest to stop. Producing her purse from a bag that hung upon her arm, she took out a gold coin, and offered it to him.

"From my mistress," she said, "for your poor."

The steamer had not yet started on its way when, by the light of a couple of lanterns, the veiled lady and her companion stepped aboard a boat which lay rocking on the waves. Shot vigorously forward by two pairs of oars, the boat passed alongside the steamer, and was seen in the light that shone from the first-class cabin. The young men were watching it with great curiosity from the deck. The lady had thrown back her veil, and they saw that she was both young and lovely. One of them exclaimed:

"I know who she is! She must be the woman on whose account Benedetto fled from the world."

"Who is she?" another inquired.

All were more or less vaguely acquainted with the main facts of the matter, but no one knew the lady's name. More curious than ever, they hastened to the fore-deck, seeking to catch another glimpse of the little boat, against which they could hear the waves plashing in the distance. Again they saw it for an instant in the light of the electric ray from the torpedo-boat, and then Jeanne vanished from their sight for that night and for ever.

VI

Shortly after twelve o'clock Donna Fedele had become suddenly and alarmingly worse. She was suffering no pain, but the fever, which had risen rapidly, convinced the doctor that there was nothing further he could do for her. The end could not be far away now. The sufferer, who was perfectly conscious and aware of her condition, desired to see a priest at once and receive the last Sacrament. The parish priest of San Mamette was summoned, and by five o'clock everything had been done. Greatly impressed by the poor woman's piety, faith, and resignation, the parish priest had given her Extreme Unction. Massimo's telegram from Porto Ceresio troubled her visibly. She did not say so, but Leila saw plainly that she thought he might have arranged not to go there. After having received the consolations of her religion, the young man's return seemed to be the one thought that troubled her. She asked for him so often that at last she begged Leila to forgive her.

"I know I am foolish," she said, taking the girl's hand, "for according to his telegram he cannot possibly be here yet. I have a few words to say to him, and I am much afraid he will not arrive in time."

Leila sought to reassure her, but could not do so, for a lump in her throat prevented her speaking. She envied Cousin Eufemia, who appeared perfectly calm. The old woman's affection for Donna Fedele amounted almost to adoration, but her fear of not being able to accept the will of the Almighty with sufficient humility oppressed her even more sorely. She was unceasing in her attentions to the sufferer, but she came and went gravely and calmly, and with dry eyes. Only once was she on the verge of failing in her determination to be strong, and that was when the invalid, reaching out to take her hand, said with the shadow of her old smile:

"Give my dear love to your sisters."

The poor old cousin bit her lips, but did not answer. The pious gentleness of the dying woman and Cousin Eufemia's fortitude, both pointing to a state of the soul at once so humble and so lofty, were a revelation to Leila, and filled her with amazement and reverence. At six o'clock the parish priest withdrew, promising to return at seven, and Donna Fedele, begging the doctor and Cousin Eufemia to leave them alone for a few minutes, called Leila to her side, and signed to her to kneel down, that she might place her arm around her neck.

"Dearest," said she, "tell Massimo that after thinking of him and of his poor mother, I died with a pain in my heart, and a hope also. Will you tell him so?"

Torn by an inner conflict caused by the belief that she knew the nature of that pain and of that hope in which she might not participate, and also because she shrank from the idea of being appointed by another to bring pressure to bear upon Massimo's spirit, while, at the same time, to refuse would be horrible, Leila breathed a "yes" which did not deceive the dying woman. Donna Fedele sighed and withdrew her arm, murmuring that she had much to say to her, but that her strength failed her. She asked for a crucifix, and then lay without speaking until nine o'clock. At nine she inquired for Massimo once more. Half an hour later Leila, who was standing at the west window, saw a light appear in the distance amidst the surrounding darkness. The doctor recognised the special steamer, and announced its arrival to the invalid, who begged that a note might be sent to Massimo, asking him to come at once. Hereupon there ensued a period of extreme unrest for her. She seemed to have lost all notion of time and space, and was continually asking, first if the boat had arrived, and then, when it had been seen to stop at Oria, if Massimo were come. And so the time dragged on, and at last it was eleven o'clock. Leila herself was uneasy, for they had heard nothing from the boy who had carried the note. She could not understand how Massimo, having received the note, had not hastened to San Mamette. Shortly after eleven the proprietor, who had sent some one towards Albogasio, came rushing upstairs, and announced: "He is coming! he is coming!" Leila hastened downstairs, and met the two men in the vestibule. She had not expected to see Don Aurelio, who, perceiving her embarrassment, left her in the midst of a rapid explanation to Massimo and hastened upstairs. The proprietor accompanied him to the door of Donna Fedele's room. The well-known voice and familiar face, from which radiated content and kindness, revived Donna Fedele somewhat.

"Oh, Don Aurelio!" she cried. "And Massimo?"

Placing his lips near the dying woman's ear, Don Aurelio began speaking so softly that the parish priest, the doctor, and Cousin Eufemia, standing at a little distance, could not even hear his voice. But they heard Donna Fedele's short and feeble exclamations uttered with an indescribable accent of astonishment and delight.

"Here he is!" said Don Aurelio, raising his head as Massimo entered.

* * * * *

From that moment Donna Fedele appeared transformed. The chamber of death seemed to have become the chamber of convalescence, so much that for a moment the watchers believed that a very serious, but favourable, crisis had been passed. The first indication of this was when Donna Fedele asked Massimo if he had read a letter from Sior Momi, and pointed to Leila, implying that she would show it to him. To satisfy her he held before his eyes, but without distinguishing a single syllable of it, the letter in which Sior Momi gave his consent, protesting at the same time that he desired to vacate the Montanina, as he had discovered that the air of those regions did not suit him. The letter further contained kind messages for Massimo, and solicited the favour of a few lines from him, endorsing what Leila had said concerning the accounts to be rendered.

Presently Donna Fedele begged Don Aurelio and the two young people to draw near to her.

"I was unkind to the archpriest and the chaplain of Velo," she said. "Please let them know that I am sorry."

"Yes, yes! I will see it is done," said Don Aurelio. She thanked him with a long glance full of ineffable meaning, and signed to him that she wished to kiss his hand.

Towards three o'clock they saw from the nervous movements of her hands and the restless twitching of her lips that she wanted something and could not express herself. With her eyes she drew their attention to a glass in which the roses from the Villino were still languishing. Cousin Eufemia placed her ear near the sufferer's lips, and asked:

"Is it the roses?"

The dying woman moved her head in acquiescence, while her hands plucked at the sheet. Her cousin, convinced that she wished to have the roses upon her bed, went to bring them to her, but Donna Fedele shook her head as vigorously as she could. Poor Eufemia was distressed at not being able to understand. Massimo and Leila understood but did not dare to speak. Don Aurelio, who was more familiar with death, ventured to intervene.

"She wishes to have them scattered upon her afterwards," he explained. Again Donna Fedele thanked him with her eyes.

At last the beautiful dark eyes were closed--those eyes that for two-and-fifty years had shed so much spiritual radiance, so many sweet and gentle smiles. The hands rested quietly upon the Crucifix. Don Emanuele bent over the still face. He was not sure that the end had come, for the long lashes still trembled slightly.

"Dear friend," said he in a loud voice, "pray for us. Are you suffering?"

Her eyes remained closed, but her waxen lips moved. Don Aurelio believed he caught the words, "I am happy!"

* * * * *

He repeated this to the watchers. "She says, 'I am happy!'"

With his eyes still fixed upon the dying woman he signed to the others to kneel.

A few minutes of silence.

"Yes, she is happy!" he added at last in a loud voice. "Let us worship and rejoice!"

* * * * *

The sun was rising and Donna Fedele Vayla di Brea, clad in black and clasping the Crucifix, lay upon her bed, where side by side with the faded roses from the Villino, there rested many bright blossoms of Valsolda. Death had restored her sweet smile. It shone through the closed lids like the light of a secret vision of delight. It rested gently on her waxen lips. No youthful, living countenance could surpass the beauty of that ivory face, smiling beneath its arch of thick, snowy hair. And thus, having lived according to the faith of her fathers and the spirit of the gospel, having redeemed her promise to Signor Marcello, and consummated her supreme sacrifice, did the White Lady of the Roses rest, in the first light of her mystic dawn.

FINIS