Chapter IV: Shears (1)

I

At Lago di Velo the news of the priest's impending departure had greatly distressed the inhabitants. Many, indeed, had been displeased that he had taken Carnesecca into his house, but after he had explained his action from the altar, condemning the pedlar's doctrines, and yet reminding them of the teachings of the gospel, no one had dared raise his voice in censure. The news that Carnesecca was gone and that the curate must leave spread simultaneously.

The "Chief" of the countryside, as he to whom his fellow-peasants freely entrust the handling of all matters of common interest is here called, summoned a meeting of the heads of families, and spoke sensibly and in a religious spirit. There was to be no rioting, no disorder, no inciting of the priest to resist. A priest is a priest, and must obey his superiors. It is to these superiors petition should be made. But these were not the views of all. The women were already declaring that the priest should not leave; that an appeal must be made, if necessary, to the Pope. The Chief persuaded them to be calm, and await the result of the first protests. He himself headed a deputation to the archpriest. But the archpriest repulsed them, giving these honest souls to understand that they were but fools, ignorant countrymen, and bullies. They went home cowed, and the general dissatisfaction grew rapidly.

Don Aurelio, after halving in vain endeavoured privately to dissuade his flock from any attempt to retain him, repeated his exhortations from the altar in language that was both affectionate and firm. Several of the summer visitors, people of position, also went to the archpriest in the name of the inhabitants of Lago, begging him to intercede with the _Curia_. For these the excellent Don Tita had pleasant words, saying that he had had nothing to do with the much-to-be-regretted measure, praising Don Aurelio, and promising to act, to speak, and to write. His flock listened respectfully to Don Aurelio, without the slightest intention of obeying him, and they listened to the report of the second deputation without the slightest faith in the archpriest's promises. The Chief called another meeting, and it was decided that all those present should go in a body to the bishop and seek to obtain at least a postponement. On hearing this Don Aurelio begged them first to listen to something he had to tell them. This was on Friday, and there were five days more before the date upon which he must resign his benefice. The peasants intended going in to Vicenza to the bishop on Sunday morning. But they promised to come to Don Aurelio the next day, Saturday, at noon. On Friday evening Don Aurelio went down to the Villino delle Rose, stopping at the Montanina on the way back. It was nearly eight o'clock, and Giovanni having informed him that the family were still at dinner, he would not allow them to be disturbed, and waited in the drawing-room, examining a small collection of books near the fireplace. They were all works on botany and gardening and belonged to Signor Marcello. Don Aurelio knew little concerning Leila's taste in literature, and would gladly have known more. To a direct question he had asked some days before, the girl had said that her favourite reading was the works of foreign poets. Don Aurelio, who knew little of foreign poets, had not ventured to press her with questions, but later Donna Fedele had confided to him that the two foreign poets preferred by Leila were Shelley and Heine. He knew nothing of the first, but the name of the second conveyed a suggestion of fatal scepticism. The suspicion that Leila's soul contained some bitter dregs of scepticism had been forced upon him by several remarks of hers which Donna Fedele had repeated, wherein she had maintained that the acts of men, even those apparently of a most generous nature, were prompted only by a spirit of egotism, and her words had seemed to point indirectly to Signor Marcello's action, in taking into, his house a living memory of his dead son.

Don Aurelio had been greatly incensed, and his more indulgent friend had found it difficult to pacify him by placing before him the surroundings amongst which Leila had dwelt and the painful origin of her scepticism. Donna Fedele was less uneasy than he concerning Massimo's future should this marriage take place. The girl's eccentricities did not impress her so painfully as they did Don Aurelio. She remembered that her own girlhood had been fanciful and passionate also, and understood so much that to Don Aurelio was incomprehensible.

Having examined all the books, Don Aurelio caught sight of the maid Teresina at a door at the further end of the room. She came silently towards him, advancing on tiptoe, and he went forward to meet her. Teresina had a secret message for Donna Fedele, who, having been less well than usual after her raid upon the parsonage, had not appeared for two days, whereas usually a day rarely passed now without a visit from her.

"If you see her," the woman whispered, "tell her things are worse!"

Don Aurelio failing to understand, Teresina explained. After the affair of the closed bedroom windows she had promised to tell Donna Fedele everything that she considered important concerning Leila.

"And now," said she, "she has got hold of the key of the Velo Park, and, for the last two nights, after dark, she has been there all alone, spending hours there. What she does in the Park I cannot say. She makes me tell lies to the master, and say she is in bed with a headache when he asks for her. Of course he always asks. Then I must go and wait for her at the park gate, at eleven, and, to tell the truth, I am rather afraid. But she won't listen to anything. Last night she was not in until midnight. Please ask Donna Fedele what I am to do. What would you yourself advise, Don Aurelio?"

"First of all I must inform you that I shall not be able to tell Donna Fedele anything," said the priest.

Teresina was astonished and asked the reason of his refusal.

"Never mind the reason," Don Aurelio answered, and added: "You have done very wrong not to speak. You must do so, and at once."

At that moment the dining-room door was thrown open and Signor Marcello himself appeared, protesting against so much ceremony on the part of his friend, who had refused to have his presence announced. Taking him by the arm, he led him into the dining-room.

Leila's greeting was so slight that Signor Marcello spoke to her.

"You absent-minded puss!" said he. "Here is Don Aurelio."

For some days past the priest had thought that her usual coldness towards him had grown. Now he was sure of it. Massimo also seemed to be in a gloomy mood. Don Aurelio told of his call at the Villino and of Donna Fedele's condition, which was far from satisfactory, judging from her look and some vague hints that had escaped her. Leila, who had been won over by Signora Vayla's charm and affection, listened attentively.

"She is a woman who will break down entirely, if she does not have something done for her health, and that at once. You are her friends, and it is your duty to make her take care of herself."

Signor Marcello, more impressed by the tone in which the words were spoken than by the words themselves, asked what they could do, and what the nature of Signora Vayla's disease really was. Don Aurelio replied that he did not know, but that a suspicion had been aroused in his mind by the very, unwillingness of the sufferer to call in a consulting physician, and he believed a consultation to be absolutely necessary.

A painful silence ensued, and then Don Aurelio rose to go. Massimo rose with the intention of accompanying him as far as Sant' Ubaldo. The curate turned to Leila and said impressively:

"Signorina, Donna Fedele is very fond of you. I recommend her particularly to your care. Hers is a life that is useful to many."

Signor Marcello had risen also.

"And so, Don Aurelio," he began, "you are going to have this meeting to-morrow. Will you be able to bring us some good news afterwards?"

"I cannot say, my friend," Don Aurelio replied in his fine Roman accent and rich voice. "I cannot say whether it would be well to remain. But the Lord tells me that obedience is good."

There ensued a short struggle between them, for Signor Marcello would have kissed the hand the priest sought to withdraw in dismay. Then they embraced, and Don Aurelio felt tears upon the old man's face, and went out murmuring "Poor fellow! Poor fellow!"

* * * * *

As they left, Don Aurelio told Massimo that had he not offered to accompany him to Sant' Ubaldo, he himself would have asked him to do so. The young man did not answer, and Don Aurelio, glancing at him, saw that he appeared not to have heard. It was growing dark, and there was no other sound in the air but the gentle voice of Riderella and the deep one of Posina. All Nature seemed filled with a sense of the mystery of that shining city whose myriad portals opened tremblingly, one by one, in the splendid space above. Beyond the gate Don Aurelio paused, and silently put his hand upon his friend's shoulder. In his eyes there shone a new expression which Massimo failed to see, for he was insensible to everything save his own feelings. Perhaps the poetry of the evening increased his fever, but he felt the fever only, not the poetry. Every pulse in him responded to a burning passion that had grown during these last ten days, and had discovered itself in divine moments of contact by a glance or other fleeting, involuntary revelations in spite of the coldness and gloom with which he had to contend. Things that Donna Fedele and Signor Marcello himself had said seemed to breathe a vague encouragement of his hopes, and he could not rid himself of the apparently inexplicable idea that he moved among accomplices. He was bewildered by doubts, and his love for Leila alone radiated the darkness wherein she, too, stood, a dark and half incomprehensible figure. When Don Aurelio placed his hand upon his shoulder the fact that during dinner Leila had neither looked at him nor addressed him was weighing upon his heart. He took his friend's gesture as a warning.

"You have seen?" said he. "Do I give myself away so quickly?"

Don Aurelio's astonished silence revealed to him that it had been only at that moment that he had given himself away.

"Then why," he exclaimed excitedly--"why did you put your hand on my shoulder?"

"Poor Massimo!" Don Aurelio answered smiling, and perceiving that now he did really understand his friend. "And so this time it is serious?"

"Dio! and you can laugh!" cried Alberti.

"Why, yes, yes! Come, we will talk it over!"

So this man, who was being unjustly driven from his humble pastorship, and who saw the moment rapidly approaching when he would not know where to lay his head, set himself to the task of comforting his friend, whom the egotism of love had made oblivious to the other's sorrows.

"You see, this is something that pleases me and will please others as well," he said, as they passed into the deep shadow of the great chestnuts. Massimo stopped short.

"Signor Marcello also? Will it really please him? Really?"

The shadows were so dark that Don Aurelio did not venture to answer, for on the road itself, or within the Montanina grounds, some one might easily overhear them without being seen. It was not until they had reached the point where the road, issuing from the grove and turning to the left, winds along the open hillside of the hollow of Lago, that Don Aurelio revealed Signor Marcello's secret to his trembling friend.

Massimo embraced him impetuously.

"What is all this? What is all this?" the priest exclaimed, freeing himself with difficulty.

"But Signorina Leila?" Massimo panted. "What are Signorina Leila's feelings?"

"Ah! that I really cannot say!" Don Aurelio replied. "I really don't know. I don't understand such matters, but it seems to me that you yourself ought to know."

"But you can see for yourself I don't know. I am completely in the dark."

Don Aurelio was at a loss to know what to say. He told Massimo that he believed he was justified in hoping, for this was also Donna Fedele's opinion. Massimo's joy flamed forth once more, and without pausing to ask how and why Donna Fedele and Don Aurelio had come to discuss this, he inquired what reasons, what signs had led Donna Fedele to form this opinion. But as to that she alone could enlighten him.

"I am going to her now!" the young man cried. But Don Aurelio would not allow it.

"No, my dear fellow, I want you with me now."

Massimo demanded why, but the priest replied that he would tell him when they reached home. A few steps farther on the young man again stopped, begging and praying to be allowed to go on to Villino delle Rose at once. It was then that Don Aurelio asked him sadly if there was really no one else in all the world for him but Leila. His sorrow-laden accents were as a fiery touch to Massimo. With both hands he seized his friend's arm, and would not be appeased until Don Aurelio had embraced him as a sign of pardon. They walked through Lago without speaking, but beyond the village, on the road that winds upwards round the steep, grassy hill on which stands the church of Sant' Ubaldo, Massimo opened his heart to his friend. He told him of the impression he had received from Leila's photograph while poor Andrea was still alive; he spoke of his impression of her on the occasion of their first meeting, of the strange and alluring changes in her mood, of the fascination of the depths which he believed existed in her soul, of the dawn of passion in himself, of his remorse, of Signor Marcello's inexplicable attitude, of the growth of his own infatuation, of the one dream of his days and nights--to turn his back upon the world and forget it, spending his days with her in some mountain solitude, fulfilling the duties of his profession, serving man, and practising religion with that quiet freedom of soul which no despotism may overcome.

Don Aurelio listened in silence. When they reached the church he opened the side door and went in to pray. Massimo followed him, but did not pray--he thought of Leila instead. That same morning, after having treated him with almost contemptuous indifference, she had suddenly sat down at the piano and played Schumann's "Aveu." He had followed the music with keen delight, gazing upwards through the opening in the gallery at a slender, dolomitic peak, swathed in the blue mists like the tremulous outline of a dream. And now, within the little church, he was trying to recall that indescribable moment, that sweet music, and the mountain peak, cleaving the blue ether like a shaft of passion shot skyward.

Lúzia, hearing her master coming, had placed a light in the little room on the ground floor. Don Aurelio took the lamp, and climbed the wooden stairs, followed by Massimo.

"First, we will talk of your affairs," said he, when he had placed the lamp on the writing-table in the study. He motioned Massimo to a chair opposite his own with a certain air of solemnity that startled the young man.

"You must answer a question I am going to ask you. And think well before you answer."

He looked steadily and in silence at his friend's astonished eyes, and saw that they were questioning him.

"It is this," said he. "Do you know whether there was ever any gossip in Milan about yourself and a married woman? Think well."

Massimo's brow cleared, and he smiled at the saintly simplicity of this man, who had lived so far away from the world.

"Certainly there may have been," he answered, "and not with one alone, but with two or perhaps even three. You don't know what Milan is. But did you believe the gossip? Did you doubt me?"

Don Aurelio hastened to declare that he had not doubted, but nevertheless he seemed perplexed. Then Massimo guessed there was something serious, and cried anxiously:

"Ah! now I understand! Signorina Leila believes in it."

No, Don Aurelio did not think that the subject had been mentioned at the Montanina. It had been discussed at the Villino, and though Donna Fedele did not doubt him, Massimo himself must reassure her. Massimo thought it would be better for Don Aurelio to undertake to do this.

"I! my dear boy?"

Don Aurelio thought for a moment, and then added in a low tone:

"I am leaving to-night."

Massimo started from his chair.

"What! you are leaving? What do you mean?"

His first thought was, "He is forsaking me at this time!" His second was, "Why does he leave when there is still hope that he may be allowed to remain? And why to-night? Where will he go?" And he burst into a string of questions.

Don Aurelio checked him at once, and placed his finger upon his lips. Lúzia might hear! No one knew, and no one must know. There was no hope that his superiors would allow him to remain at Lago, and there was danger that the inhabitants might resort to violent measures to prevent his departure. His duty, his positive and absolute duty, was to leave at once, and secretly. He would start on foot during the night, and take the train at Schio at five in the morning for Vicenza. Once there he would go to the Bishop, acquit himself of the accusations he believed had been lodged against him, and then ... place himself in the hands of Divine Providence. He was sure the Bishop would help him to find a living in some other diocese, where he could be even more out of the world than he had been at Sant' Ubaldo.

"Whatever happens," he said, "the Lord will not forsake me." And when Massimo gave vent to his indignation against his supposed persecutors, he checked him. "They think they are doing right. Can you look into their hearts? Can you see into their consciences? We must pray for them. Promise to do so."

So saying, he held out his hand, which the young man seized with both his own, and pressed to his lips.

"And now you must help me," said Don Aurelio, rising.

Together they sorted the books, dividing the ones to be returned to Donna Fedele and to Signor Marcello from those that belonged to Don Aurelio, which Massimo undertook to send wheresoever destiny might determine. The priest could take with him only his breviary, a small pocket Bible, and the "Imitation of Christ." As he handled and laid aside the precious volumes, his hands trembled, but not a single word of complaint escaped him. Only once, on handing a fine edition of the "Confessions of St. Augustine" to Massimo, a book that reminded him of many hours of reading and religious meditation in the shady solitudes of the Velo Park, near the gentle murmur of running water, did he lack strength to say, "This is for Signor Marcello." Massimo, catching a glimpse of his face, guessed the truth, and instead of taking the book, seized his hand, pressing it in sympathy. "For Signor Marcello!" Don Aurelio quickly exclaimed, but he did so with an effort, as if his wandering thoughts alone and not emotion had prevented his speaking before. Not another moment of weakness did he have, and even had a reproof ready for Massimo, who, towards the end, found the strain too severe, and tried to make one last effort to shake his friend's decision. They had scarcely finished when Lúzia appeared, on the pretext of seeing that the shutters were closed. Don Aurelio bade her go to bed.

"Thank you, sir," said the woman gratefully, and withdrew.

Don Aurelio thought for a moment. He must remunerate Lúzia in some way beyond her monthly salary, which he had already put aside for her. Donna Fedele had once given him an alarm-clock that was much too fine for him.

"It is handsome, is it not?" he said to Massimo. "Please sell it for me and give the money to Lúzia."

Ah! Massimo had not considered that the poor priest had perhaps not enough in his pocket to support him for two days away from home. He offered him fifty lire which he had by him. Don Aurelio himself had three lire, and it was with a simplicity truly Franciscan that he accepted twelve more for the journey to Vicenza, and, if necessary, from Vicenza to Milan, where, if the worst came to the worst, he could seek the hospitality which a brother priest had frequently offered to him. Massimo could not make him accept more.

"I should have asked you for those twelve lire any way," he said. Then, with burning cheeks he showed Massimo the drawer in which he kept his linen, a silent witness to his saintly poverty. He would write from Vicenza saying where his few belongings were to be sent. As to the books, the best plan would be to pack them in a case, and get Donna Fedele to keep them for him. His few bits of furniture must also be packed up. Then it came into his mind that Lúzia once said, "If you go away, Don Aurelio, you will leave me the bed, will you not?" After all, it would be better to leave her the bed and not sell the clock. Poor Lúzia! She had never lost an opportunity of saying that her own bed was a wretched, shaky thing, only fit to be burnt.

"But, my dear friend!" Massimo cried, as if suddenly realising the fact, "how can I remain if you go? Ah! why did I not think of this before? I will go with you!"

Don Aurelio embraced him tenderly.

"Can you forgive me," the young man cried, "for not having thought of this at once?"

But Don Aurelio only pressed him closer without speaking. Presently he thrust him gently from him, and kissed him on the brow.

"I do not want you."

"You do not want me? Why not? Well, I shall come even if I am not wanted."

The small petroleum lamp was threatening to go out. Don Aurelio extinguished it.

"We shall need it later," he said, "and I don't know whether there is any more oil in the house. At any rate, I should not be able to find it. Let us sit down."

Dark masses of cloud in a moonless sky loomed dimly through one of the windows. Don Aurelio, whom the darkness hid from Massimo, began talking in a low voice and with the earnestness of a father.

"It is I, dear lad, who will be with you. I have never told you, but I have prayed so hard that God might give you what He is now giving you, a strong and mighty love, rich and holy. You are not made for celibacy, you are made for a union ideally human, ideally Christian, ideally beautiful. You are made to raise up a strong and pure progeny. The tradition of great families, heroically devoted to kings, is at an end. We must found families that shall be heroically devoted to God, in which devotion to God shall be handed down as a title of nobility, as the just and traditional sentiment of nobility. You must found such a family. It is my dream for you. It was the dream of----"

Don Aurelio's voice whispered a name and then was silent.

"Was that indeed so?" Massimo cried.

"Yes, it was poor Benedetto's dream for you."

The vision of a dear, suffering face, with great speaking eyes, flashed across Massimo's brain amidst the darkness of the room. Benedetto had dreamed of happiness in love for him! Once more he saw, for an instant, the face upon the pillow, lifeless and waxen. Tears welled up in his heart, but he forced them back.

"You cannot go away," Don Aurelio went on. "You must see Donna Fedele early to-morrow morning, and reassure her on the point we have discussed. She does not doubt you, but as she is charged with a mission, she wishes to receive this assurance from you. Then she will speak to Signorina Leila at once, to-morrow; she will question her in Signor Marcello's name, for, through me, he has requested her to do so. To-morrow night you will know. Donna Fedele is sure of a favourable answer. Then you yourself can speak."

The table upon which Massimo was leaning, his hands pressed to his temples, shook like a living thing.

"If all goes well," Don Aurelio went on, "send me a telegram to Vicenza, to be called for at the office.... Are you afraid?" he added, for the table still vibrated. "Donna Fedele says the girl's is a self-contained nature difficult to penetrate, but she does not believe her to be bound to a memory; she thinks that she feels the need of love, and of a future. She believes her also to be a very storehouse of moral energies, a little embittered perhaps by her sad experience of life; this Donna Fedele has to admit. But she is sure that certain peculiarities will disappear when these energies are properly ordered and guided by one in whom she has confidence."

Massimo was silent. He, too, looked upon her as a closed paradise, darkened by the shadow of a tree of knowledge of good and evil, which was all too wide-spreading. When Don Aurelio asked him if he had really been unable to discover any clear sign as to her feelings towards himself, he answered, with a sigh:

"I am inclined to think that something in me attracts her, while something else repels her."

"What is it that repels her?"

"Benedetto."

Don Aurelio was amazed. What did this girl know of Benedetto? Massimo hastened to explain. Surely Don Aurelio remembered the conversation at the dinner-table on that first day, and Signorina Leila's words concerning Benedetto, that had offended him? Soon afterwards she had brought up the subject again, speaking in the same hostile tone. She believed him to have been a heretic. She had seemed disposed at the time to listen to Massimo's defence of him, but later she had always openly avoided the subject.

"Well, well!" said Don Aurelio. "But if that is all----"

He could not bring himself to believe that this girl could be so influenced by religious questions as to be willing to sacrifice her future for them. He realised at once that this scepticism, apparently tinged with but slight esteem, had hurt Massimo. He felt for his friend's hands amidst the darkness, and did not mention Leila again.

"It is of Benedetto that I want to speak to you," he said. "I had a letter from Elia Viterbo to-day. He would have written to you, but no one in Rome knows where you are. They take for granted, however, that I know. It was even rumoured in Rome that you had taken refuge at Praglia. Fancy that!"

Don Aurelio could not restrain a short laugh of comment.

"A nice sort of Praglia indeed! He wishes me to tell you that your friends have decided to accept your proposal concerning Benedetto's poor remains, and they beg you to communicate with them. It seems that as you live in the neighbourhood of Oria, they rely on you to help to carry out their intentions."

A few of Benedetto's disciples had proposed some months before to erect a simple monument to his memory in Campo Verano, and had opened a subscription for this purpose. Others among his followers had disapproved of this proposal, both because they foresaw that the sum subscribed would be but small, and because the proposal itself was not in harmony with the Master's spirit. Much dissatisfaction had resulted, and Massimo, who was opposed to the proposal, had sought a peaceful way out of the difficulty, suggested by certain words of Benedetto's on the occasion of a visit they had once paid together to Campo Verano. Benedetto had said: "I shall surely end here, but I should like to rest in the cemetery at Oria. However, that is a vain hope." Massimo had proposed that the idea of a monument should be given up, and that instead this touching desire should be carried out. A small piece of ground, far removed from worldly strife, in the cemetery where Piero Maironi's parents lay sleeping, and where his wife had wished to rest--that would be the most fitting monument. And now it was decided and Benedetto's wish was about to be fulfilled.

"Will you come to Oria on that day?" Massimo asked.

Don Aurelio could not promise this. He did not know whence or how far he might be obliged to travel to reach Oria. But he would come only if the ceremony were free from all unseemly religious manifestations. Then he rose and relighted the lamp.

"It is late," said he, "and you must return to the Montanina." He opened a drawer of the writing-table and drew from it two letters, which he asked Massimo to forward on the following day, after having read them himself. One was for the archpriest, the other for the village Chief. The dying lamp flickered and went out.

"Oh!" Don Aurelio exclaimed. "And I wanted to write a few lines more!"

Massimo struck a match.

"You can do so," said he.

Don Aurelio took a sheet of paper and wrote a few words, while Massimo struck match after match. Presently the priest handed him the paper. "That is for Signorina Leila when she has said 'yes.'"

Massimo read the words, quivering with emotion.

"Allow a poor priest to bless your love in the name of that Infinite Love, from whence may it derive eternal life.

"DON AURELIO."

At that moment they heard a knocking at the street door. Don Aurelio released himself from Massimo, who had flung his arms about him, and hurried to the window. It was Giovanni from the Montanina. Signor Marcello had sent him to see if anything had happened to Signor Alberti.

"No, no, he will come directly!" Don Aurelio replied. He turned from the window and felt Massimo's arms clasping his knees. The young man was kneeling at his feet.

"Go, go!" he whispered, "and may God bless you!" Their parting was perforce a sharp one. Massimo started to his feet, flung himself out of the door and down the stairs, and soon disappeared into the night. Don Aurelio withdrew to his bedroom, and, kneeling before the crucifix, prayed with a keen sense of oppression, and almost as if struggling to overcome an inward enemy, for the two priests of Velo and for all his superiors, who wished to see him shamed, a wanderer, and hungry. "Father, Father, they believe they are serving Thee. They believe they are serving Thee! Forgive them, forgive them!"

Signor Marcello, who was really anxious, imagined all sorts of reasons for Massimo's absence, for at ten o'clock he had not returned, although he could not but be aware that this was the curfew hour at the Montanina. The old man even grew rather annoyed with Leila, because she would not admit that anything had happened.

"He is always in the clouds," said she. "He may have gone to the Villino delle Rose under the impression that he was walking here."

It seemed almost as if Massimo's liking for Donna Fedele were distasteful to the girl. Signor Marcello noticed this, and the allusion to the Villino displeased him. He asked her if she blamed Massimo for liking to go there. She protested hotly. On the contrary! She said no more, but in her heart she was blaming Donna Fedele for her partiality towards Massimo, although she would have been unable to explain the reason why. She dreaded further questions, and so withdrew.

She went to her room determined not to give up her evening walk in the park, and although it was already late, she meant to await the rising of the moon there. The moon would rise at midnight that evening. Signor Marcello would go to bed immediately on Alberti's return, and then she could go downstairs. She did not light the lamp, but flung herself into an easy-chair opposite the wide casement window that looked out upon the upper slopes of the dark forest below the jagged crags of Summano. Once more she turned over in her mind Signor Marcello's words. Did she blame him? And so it would displease Signor Marcello should she even so much as touch his Alberti with the slightest censure. It was not the first time since his reproof to her on a certain day that Signor Marcello had taken up the cudgels for Alberti and against her on matters of trivial importance. And he was so determined to keep him at the Montanina! Was it possible that the poor old man thought him so devoted to the memory of his son that he might not even be tempted to be disloyal to him?

At this point there suddenly flashed across her mind the idea that she was the centre of a comedy. What if all had been pre-arranged, the invitation to Alberti sent through Don Aurelio, and his reception at the Montanina? What if Donna Fedele's sudden change of attitude and her daily visits were all directed towards the same secret end? What if Signor Marcello had been talked over by the priest of Sant' Ubaldo and the mistress of the Villino, and what if they had succeeded in persuading him to accept their plan, who knew by means of what arguments? In a flash all seemed clear to her. Signor Alberti, invited by people who had themselves arranged the part she, Leila, was to play, had come to make the acquaintance of and captivate Signor Trento's heir. In her wrath she grasped the arms of her chair firmly and bit her lip that she might not cry. And she did not cry, but the flood of tears she held in check made her bosom heave and heave again. How maddening it would be if the tears should fall! Contempt, contempt, only contempt!

She lighted the lamp and rang the bell for Teresina, telling her to let her know when Massimo returned. He was not back yet, the woman said. It was with horror that she learned that the Signorina was determined to go down to the park again that night. She begged and implored her not to do so, and even threatened to speak, but a sharp scolding was the only result, and she ended by consoling herself with the hope that this would be the last time. The following morning she was to go to Schio. From the drawer of her writing-desk Leila took a sealed letter that lay there beside the one she had crushed in her hand on the evening of Massimo's arrival.

"The usual thing," she said, handing it to the maid. It contained money that Leila was sending to her father. She was in the habit of sending it through Teresina and from Schio, fearing that some indiscretion on the part of the postal officials of Velo d'Astico might reveal her secret to Signor Marcello. Teresina delighted in this mark of confidence which enabled her to rise somewhat from devotion towards friendship. To-night's act of confidence helped her to start by slow degrees a small rivulet of talk that, like the little rivulets in nature, bend and twist amidst obstacles, and always find a way to the great stream for which they are bound. She began cautiously by alluding to the Signorina's very scanty wardrobe, and by saying she spent too little on her clothes. Even the master had noticed this and reproached her, Teresina, for it. But what could she do? She could only mention it to the Signorina, and so now she had done so. Not extravagance, certainly not. Too much dress would be out of place at the Montanina; but she might dress more elegantly. The master thought she had better get Donna Fedele to help her to choose a good dressmaker. It was true Donna Fedele got her clothes in Turin, but Teresina was quite sure she went only to some fourth-rate house. Leila, who got her clothes in Vicenza, inquired whether Teresina could recommend a good dressmaker in Schio, whereupon the maid protested. Was there not Milan? And which one of Milan's great houses would the all-wise Teresina recommend? At this point the rivulet could find no outlet, and formed a little pool. The pool filled rapidly, and the rivulet presently began to trickle out on one side.

"No, Signorina--I don't know anything about them," the woman at last made answer. "But there are plenty of people who do."

"Now, who would be likely to know?"

This time the rivulet was forced to overflow.

"I suppose Signor Alberti must have some ladies in his family."

This speech formed a very waterfall!

"Let Signor Alberti alone!" exclaimed Leila.

It had been through no confidence on Donna Fedele's part, but rather through a vague undercurrent in her remarks concerning the Signorina, and through a new manner in Signor Marcello's speech and gesture that the clever maid had recognised an unspoken support of the sentiments she had early read in Massimo's expression. She did not know what to make of the Signorina. At one moment she thought one thing, at the next another, and now that she had thrown out the sounding-line, having struck against something unresponsive, she tried again.

"I, Signorina!" said she. "I let him alone? I can see well enough the master is wrapped up in that young man. It is a beautiful sight, I tell you!"

Leila cut her short, and sent her to see if Massimo had returned. She assured herself it was plain that Teresina would not have spoken as she had done without having been prompted. Evidently she was in the conspiracy also. "Ah, no, my friends! No, master fortune-hunter, no, no, no!" She seized an old photograph of Signor Marcello that stood upon the table and tore it across. Here was another bargainer like Alberti, disloyal to a whole religion of memories in order that his Montanina might not fall into the hands of her parents, or into other similar hands. "No, Signor Marcello! Ah, no, all of you!" But where was Teresina? Was it possible that Alberti had already returned, and that the treacherous creature would not come to tell her in order to prevent her going to the park? She stepped into the corridor in a state of great irritation. It was nearly half-past eleven! She listened and heard Teresina's step in the corridor below.

"Well?" She flung the question at her from above.

"Now, Signorina," the other answered softly. "This very minute."

* * * * *

A quarter of an hour later, feeling sure that Signor Marcello and Alberti had gone to their rooms, Leila left the villa and the garden and started towards the wooden gate that opens into the park from the high-road just below the little church of Santa Maria ad Montes. With fierce contempt in her heart for this man, who had come from Milan with a fine plan for a rich marriage ready in his pocket, she said to herself that, had her father and mother been upright people, she would have taken refuge with one or other of them at this time. But she could not live in the same house with her father's mistress, nor could she allow her mother to support her on the old Austrian's money. A thought came to her that had first attracted her when she was but fourteen, and that had persistently haunted her ever since except during the time of Andrea's courtship--the thought of escaping from the world. Yet this morbid idea had never assumed the intensity of a purpose. Even on the evening when she had closed the windows of her room, which was full of lilies and tuberoses, she had not meant to do more than indulge her delight in recklessly facing danger and risk. As a matter of fact, on waking the next morning, with her limbs like lead, her brow tightly clasped as by a band of iron, her nostrils, her mouth, and her throat saturated with the acrid perfume, her first impulse had been to open the window. Neither was she moved by any tragic purpose in visiting the park to-night, although there was a pond in it that in some places was more than two metres deep. She was satisfied with the knowledge that there was a place of refuge for her should she wish to seek it. Nevertheless, her hand trembled a little as she pushed open the small gate and closed it behind her again. She advanced across the open space to where giant trees guard the entrance to the kingdom of Silence. She had trembled lest her step, light as it was, should be heard as she came over the gravel of the garden paths and across the road. Now that she was moving silently and like a spirit across the grass all sense of fear left her, and that all-silent darkness seemed to offer her protection. She listened to the murmur of streams in secret dells, or in the mountains' open ravines; her foot sank often into soft, marshy ground. There was a cool, still air, smelling of dampness, in the shady hollows, but warm upon the sloping banks, and all alive with a wild fragrance. She flung herself upon her back on one of these slopes, as if overcome by all this warm sweetness. Night was indeed a tender mother to all things, and their appealing influence filled Leila with a sense of sweet fellowship with Nature. She lay without thinking, revelling in vague yearnings, as at times in her own bed, when the petals of flowers rained upon her hair and pillow. The voluptuous spirit of the warm, fragrant earth took possession of her, and softened the pride that held her back from love. She tore up a handful of grass and bit it.

Presently she rose, though loth to leave the fragrant spot, and wandered towards the long, dark avenue of horn-beams, whose entrance glimmered faintly on her right. On her left the shadows were unbroken, and rang with the noise of falling water. She turned this way, knowing of a path that led from the avenue to some acacia-trees by the rivulet, the same rivulet that splashes and sings farther on. She found the path and paused among the acacias on the bank of the stream, which she could hear but not see. Instinctively she began to undress herself, at the invitation of that soft voice, then, awaking to a sense of her actions, she dipped her hand in the water. It was cold. All the better; it would do her the more good. And she went on undressing, never heeding where she flung her garments, removing them all except the last. She put her foot into the running water and shivered. She tested the bottom--pebbles beneath a couple of feet of water. She put her other foot in and, her heart gripped by the chill, let herself sink slowly into the water with closed eyes and parted lips, uttering little sighs the while. The water covered her with icy caresses and rippled gently about her neck and heaving bosom. Other sweet voices sounded in the air. Leila opened her eyes and raised herself in amazement. She seemed clothed in light, which shone upon the trembling waters and wrapped the banks and her clothes lying beneath the swaying, whispering trees in a silver radiance. It was the rising of the moon, a mysterious awakening of all things in the dead of night. Flowers were raining from the acacias upon the stream and its banks. The girl pressed her folded arms against her breast, and, under the gathering moonlight, amidst the odours of the woods and the rain of flowers, some indefinable emotion filled her heart with welling tears, which fell hot and silent into the quivering water.

Presently she climbed the bank, dressed herself as best she could, and then, with throbbing heart, with never a glance at the moon shining amongst billowing clouds upon the brow of Monte Paù, fled back along the same path and passed out at the wooden gate, feeling like a castaway who suddenly finds himself safe. Teresina, who was waiting for her beneath the little porch sheltering the entrance to the garden, and who had been trembling with a thousand fears, received her with the same sense of relief.

"Even you, Signorina, were frightened this time!" she said, seeing Leila shudder, and being unaware of the dripping under-garment she wore.

"No, no!" said Leila; "but I shall not go there again."

II

At half-past seven the next morning Massimo was already at the Villino delle Rose. He knew that Donna Fedele always rose at six, but this morning she was still in bed, and the maid confided to him that her mistress must be feeling very unwell indeed thus to break away from her habit of early rising. Donna Fedele could bear much physical pain, and hardly ever mentioned her sufferings, which were such as to alarm any one who looked upon death less fearlessly than she did. But there were times when she was unable to lead her usual life, which was one of wonderful activity, taken up with the care of her house and her roses, visits to the sick and the poor, correspondence, reading, and a few lessons that she gave. She was training the gate-keeper's little girl in composition and arithmetic, and teaching French to the Arsiero doctor's daughter; for, notwithstanding her ill-health, she never refused her aid to those who sought it.

She heard Massimo talking with the maid in the garden, and ringing her bell, sent him word to wait a quarter of an hour for her, if his patience would allow. Massimo understood the meaning she had intended to convey by this phrase, "if his patience would allow," and she entered the drawing-room presently with a smile that bore out the playful allusion. She was pale, and there were black circles under her big eyes, but she was in good spirits, and nothing about her suggested suffering. Massimo began by excusing himself for having come at that hour, but she checked him at once, saying, "Never mind that; never mind!" Then the smile faded from her lips.

"And so he is gone?" she added.

Massimo replied that he believed so.

"Ah! then you were not with him when he started?"

"It was not possible for me to be."

Donna Fedele said nothing, but her silence and her face seemed to say, "It ought to have been possible."

"I wished to go away with him," said he, "but he would not hear of it. I am here this morning at his wish."

"I can quite understand that," Donna Fedele replied, somewhat coldly. She would have liked Massimo to have stayed with Don Aurelio at any cost up to the last. But, not knowing the circumstances, she refrained from passing judgment on his action. She questioned him as to what the fugitive had said and done during those last hours, and while Massimo was talking kept repeating, "Poor Don Aurelio! Poor Don Aurelio!" Massimo told her all he could.

"Now I hope they are satisfied," she said bitterly, rising from her seat. She looked to see that the drawing-room doors were all closed, and then returned to Massimo, saying: "I trust no one. We are living in the realm of spies, to the greater honour and glory of honesty and Christian charity!"

Then she immediately broached the delicate subject, excusing herself for so doing. More tactful than Don Aurelio, she began by asking the young man if she were mistaken in supposing that he was strongly attracted by Signorina Leila, and upon his answer, she told him that for the sake of the friendship between his mother and herself, and also for his own sake after what Don Aurelio had told her about him, she would gladly help him.

"As far as Signor Marcello is concerned, I hardly think you will need my help," she said. "He sees that it would not be fair to the girl that she should sacrifice her whole life, and besides, he is very, attached to you. But how about Leila herself? I believe she cares for you, but she is struggling with herself, partly, perhaps, because she wishes to remain true to a memory, partly, perhaps, not to offend Signor Marcello----"

Here Donna Fedele dropped her voice and continued, smiling:

"Perhaps because of some fancy, for you must see that your Leila is just a little strange."

Massimo smiled also.

"Do you think so?" said he.

"Oh, yes, indeed!" Donna Fedele exclaimed, laughing outright. "And it is partly for that reason you have fallen in love with her! I have done the same, you see. She attracts me, being made much in the same mould as myself--at least, according to what many people say of me, the Velo priests among others, and the goldsmith at Arsiero, to whom my gate-keeper took a gold coin last night, believing it to be false because it did not ring true. What do you think the goldsmith said to him? 'It is just like your mistress--it is good, but slightly cracked!' They think my head is wrong, mainly because I am always going about without a hat, but also because I keep a pluviometer and leave my windows open at night. Even Carnesecca, who has left the 'den' at last, told me that if the world called me mad, I might comfort myself with the thought that it called him mad too! And now will you yourself set me down as mad if I ask you a very bold question, my dear Alberti?"

"I shall only laugh," the young man replied, "and my worldly friends in Milan would laugh even more heartily."

Donna Fedele sat looking at him affectionately for a time, speaking to him with her eyes.

"In that case," said she at last, "I will see Leila this very day, and try to find out how matters stand. Will that suit you?"

Massimo was profuse in his thanks, but his restless manner showed her that he hoped she would start for the Montanina at once.

"I have ordered the carriage at half-past nine," she said, smiling. "Is that early enough? And see what faith I am placing in the answer you gave me a moment since, or rather, what faith I have in you yourself."

Massimo took her hand and raised it to his lips. She accepted his homage laughingly, and then rose. She was expecting a pupil. Massimo might come back for news about two o'clock. That was too late? Then he might come to luncheon. She would tell them at the Montanina that she had invited him. Meanwhile he could stay or go, as he pleased. If he wished to read, the Villino had a small library. If he did not wish to remain, he had four hours before him for a walk.

"Take a good long walk, one of those walks that refresh the soul."

Having given this piece of advice with her air of gentle raillery, she held out her hand to her young friend. He begged her to have patience with him a moment longer. Did she think the rumour of his supposed intrigue in Milan had reached the Signorina's ears? Donna Fedele had no reason to believe she had heard it. But who had spread this story? Donna Fedele, by a virtuous effort, remained silent concerning the Velo priests, and simply alluded to Leila's mother, without further explanation, nor did Massimo venture to press her with questions. Before leaving her, however, he wished her to know of Leila's antipathy towards his Master--Benedetto. But she cut his explanation short, demanding how that could affect matters. Ignorant alike of Modernism and of Anti-modernism, content to believe and to live according to the traditions of her family, Donna Fedele, knowing that both Leila and Massimo were not irreligious, could not conceive of any religious dissension between them. Yet certain words Leila had uttered had given her the impression that the girl's faith sprang from habit rather than from real conviction. It was just for this reason that she would be glad to see her married to one who, like Alberti, was strong in religious belief.

"How can that matter?" she said. "Love will change all that easily enough. Besides, I do not suppose that you expect me also, simply because I am very fond of you, to become an enthusiastic follower of your Master. It seems to me that we need no other Master than the One who has guided us now for some nineteen hundred years."