Chapter IV: Shears (3)

Leila was sent for, but she had gone out, taking the key of the little church with her.

"Then you will see her in passing," said Signor Marcello, and silently gave up the idea of walking with Massimo as far as the church. The young man went down alone, asking himself whether to enter the chapel or to pass on, as it was plain the Signorina wished to avoid seeing him. On reaching the porch he paused, still hesitating.

Leila recognised his step, and on hearing him pause guessed his indecision. Rising from her knees, she also stood hesitating whether to remain where she was or to go out and meet him. She hoped he would pass on, but presently both arrived at the same conclusion, that it would be best to act with complete indifference. And so it came about that she started to leave the church and he to enter it. They met upon the threshold.

"You are going?" she said, without offering him her hand. "I wish you a pleasant journey and _au revoir_!"

"We shall hardly meet again," Massimo suggested, smiling. "But I shall never forget the days I have spent under your roof."

"My roof! Oh, no!" Leila broke in.

"And I wish you all possible happiness for long years to come," he went on, disregarding her interruption. "I do so from my heart, Signorina."

"Thank you," said Leila.

Massimo bowed, and walked quickly away, glad to have shown himself less embarrassed and more haughty than the girl herself, to have spoken as if he should never see her again, and as if this thought did not affect him at all.

III

Leila had gone to the church in order to avoid, if possible, taking leave of Alberti. Their short interview left her dissatisfied with herself, as usual, and she chafed at the tone of almost contemptuous indifference he had so successfully assumed. She twisted her own meaning into it. It was the tone of one, she thought, who had witnessed the defeat of his plan rather than of one who had been disappointed in love. Instead of returning to the house she followed the path along the Riderella and presently sank upon a rustic seat under the walnut-trees. She was mortally weary, and sat listening half unconsciously and with an aching heart to the small, soft voice of the little waterfall close by. Teresina had brought her a letter from her father, whose habit it was to address his letters to the maid, "Teresina Scotz, Post-office, Schio." She had already, read the letter, and had put it in her belt, intending to throw it into the Riderella, but she had forgotten its contents, and so proceeded to read it over again. It contained but a few lines. Her father inquired if the preceding letter had gone astray, and asked for an answer, the very answer Teresina had that day carried to Schio. Leila tore the sheet into small pieces and threw them into the stream.

She was accustomed to send her father the greater part of the allowance Signor Marcello made her for her personal expenses, accompanying the enclosures with a few short sentences. She despised her father, and knew that she was justified in her contempt of him. She sent him the money as a contemptible thing flung to a contemptible person. She knew he was deeply in debt, but nevertheless she had no belief in the poverty he was always pleading. Her life at home had convinced her that he was an adept in the art of cheating his creditors, and that, while he made a display of poverty, he carefully concealed his money. But what was this to her? Had her mother asked her for money, she would have sent it to her also. But her mother, who wrote to her from time to time, asked for her affection only, in terms of religious unction. Leila never answered her letters, and had, on one occasion, quickly returned her mother's pious gift of a rosary, that had been blessed by the Holy Father. "The Trento fortune would be put to fine purposes should it come into my hands!" she reflected. Once more a doubt assailed her concerning the mistaken conclusion at which Signor Marcello might have arrived after that kiss of hers. How should she rectify this? She dismissed the thought, wearily, and sat motionless, her eyes fixed upon the tiny waterfall. Amongst other pictures that floated into her tired mind, there came a vision of the dark lake, encircled by, the bending, peering hornbeam-trees.

* * * * *

It was a great trial to Leila, two hours later, to come down from her room to dinner. She felt she could not eat, and she dreaded Signor Marcello's questions that were always more searching when he was in an affectionate mood. She knew if she did not go down he would come up and worry her to death with endless questions. And so she went down, and invented a headache as an excuse for her want of appetite, and, as she had foreseen, Signor Marcello's innumerable questions forced her to tell a string of untruths. Partly from shame at her own deceit and partly from impatience, she was once on the point of declaring angrily that there was nothing at all the matter with her. But she restrained herself, and presently Signor Marcello lapsed into grieved silence, even more inclined to conclude that Donna Fedele was right, and that the girl was indeed suffering on account of Massimo's departure. He remained silent until the dinner was over. As soon as Giovanni had withdrawn, and before Leila had finished her coffee, he inquired if she had seen Alberti, who had wished to say goodbye to her. She answered in the affirmative, half indifferently, half in annoyance, finished her coffee, and, rising, asked permission to retire.

"Go, if you like, dear," Signor Marcello replied, but he called her back again before she had reached the door.

"Listen, my child," he said. "I give you my blessing now, whether you may decide to marry at some future time or continue to live alone. But if you choose to live alone, I hope you will not accuse me of selfishness because I had hoped----"

And he smiled his pathetic smile, so full of sadness and tenderness.

"Thank you, Papa," Leila murmured. And she could not refrain from adding, as she thought of the misapprehension under which he was probably labouring: "I am not sure I deserve your blessing."

The coldness of her words wounded the poor old man. Leila felt she had hurt him, and was sorry, but she could not regret words which were intended to free him from harmful illusions. She slipped silently from the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Signor Marcello did not move. Not for a long time had the house seemed so sad and empty. He drew towards him one of the two glass bowls that ornamented the table, and contained two cyclamen plants that had not yet blossomed. This style of table decoration was one of Leila's fancies, and Signor Marcello disapproved of it. He gazed with affectionate compassion upon the little plant, with its dark leaves, streaked with pale green, that had been torn from its nest of moss at the foot of some chestnut-tree and placed in these unnatural surroundings. He had always greatly loved flowers and carefully cultivated them, feeling that they returned a kind of real affection for any care that he bestowed upon them. This little tortured plant that sought to please him with its rich greenness seemed to him to show more affection for him than Leila. He would have liked to press his lips to this small, living thing, had he not been ashamed of what might appear foolish sentimentality.

A long, dull peal of thunder from Priaforà, which all day long had worn a threatening aspect, interrupted his fancyings. He remembered that the large window in the drawing-room was open, and, in order not to disturb Giovanni, who was having his dinner, went to shut it himself. He then made the tour of the ground-floor, closing all the windows, faithful to his habit of sparing the servants as much as possible. Presently he returned to the drawing-room. It was rapidly growing dark, although it was an hour before sunset. There was a flash of lightning, and more thunder. Giovanni came in to attend to the windows, and catching sight of his master as a flash illumined the room, asked if he would have a light. Signor Marcello did not wish for a light. He sent the man to close the upstair windows, and then stood gazing out into the shadows, cloven repeatedly by the lightning that flashed out of Val d'Astico. The usual noisy precautions against thunderstorms sounded above his head--excited voices, hurried footsteps, and the banging of shutters. The great, tragic cliffs of Barco gleamed white for an instant and then were lost again in the darkness. The poplars along the Riderella, standing transfixed in the motionless air, like the outposts of a reserve force, waited in rigid silence for the approach of the battle that was raging along their line. Suddenly the rain came pouring down, the flashes ceased, and all was darkness. Signor Marcello stood gazing into the sounding shadows until he heard Giovanni come in again to light the lamps. As usual when there were no guests, and the Signorina did not spend the evening in the drawing-room, he ordered him not to light up. His own brass lamp would be enough. When the man had brought it Signor Marcello put on his glasses and began to read the newspaper. Contrary to his habit, he soon wearied of it. But it was only half-past nine, and he was not sleepy, and as he had been suffering recently from insomnia, he did not wish to go to bed at this early hour. He felt no desire to play, for his heart was cold and heavy. He felt physically well, and no further symptoms had followed his fit of unconsciousness. Had he perhaps been mistaken about it? Must he look forward to long years of such a life as this? At least, if he must live, he would fain do so to some useful purpose. Some years ago a friend's advice had made him think of starting an agricultural school. Why not take up that plan again? He might at least write to his friend and ask his opinion again. And he reflected how to word his letter. But the idea began to fade from his mind almost as soon as he had formed it. By an effort of his will he rose to his feet, determined to prevent its complete escape by writing immediately; but still he hesitated, and stood lost in thought, his lamp in his hand. The sound of the rain had sunk to an even and melancholy whisper. The old man set down the lamp and went into the open verandah to look upon the night.

There was no wind, but the rain was coming down persistently, as it does in the autumn, and it hid the mountains and the lights of Arsiero. This was the spot where Don Aurelio and he had their coffee on those occasions when the priest said Mass at Santa Maria ad Montes. And he was gone also, dear Don Aurelio! He was gone for ever. He would never see him again.

The old man returned to the drawing-room with a heavy heart. Bitter words against the priests of Velo rose to his lips, and agitated his face as he took up his lamp again, meaning to go to bed, for he had now lost all desire to write. At sight of the Bible and of the "Imitation of Christ," on his bedside table, he was immediately filled with remorse for having yielded to impulse, and for having harboured uncharitable thoughts. He confessed his shortcomings in prayer, then, as a castaway clings to a rope, he clasped the little Bible in both hands until peace once more encompassed his spirit. As he laid the Bible down again he determined to go to confession on the morrow to the archpriest himself. Quieted by this determination, he proceeded to enter the day's expenditures in his account-book, as was his habit. As it was the last day of the month, and he had forgotten to pay the servants' wages, he counted the amounts out carefully, placing them in separate piles on his writing-table. He also set aside his monthly dole to the poor. The melancholy patter of the rain reminded him of the plants of cyclamen in the dining-room. He hunted in a cupboard until he had found the two pots from which they had been removed--cruelly, as he thought--to be placed in the glass bowls. Then he restored them to the pots, delighting in the kindly action, and carried them out lovingly, regardless of the rain, and set them side by side, behind the villa, on the edge of a grassy slope. As he stood upright again his head swam, but this did not trouble him. Even in his youth he had often been seized with giddiness on resuming an upright posture after bending over some plant. He waited until the giddiness passed away, and then returned to his room, said his evening prayers upon his knees, undressed himself, and got into bed. At that moment the dizziness returned with renewed violence. He rested his head against the head-board. A thunderbolt seemed to tear through him from his neck downwards. He thought he cried out, but in reality he made no sound. He felt his arms becoming as blocks of ice, and he recognised that this was death. He tried in vain to move his lips and pronounce the words, _In manus tuas, Domine_. Then all was over, and the only life the room contained was in the heedless flame of the little lamp that illumined the quiet face of yellow marble resting against the head-board, and the only heart that throbbed was the small and heedless one of the watch upon the bedside table.