"Oh, I'm accustomed to 'Bloody Elizabeth,'" said he. "Was n't it a word of Cardinal Newman's?"

"Yes, I think so," said she. "And since every one is naming his candidate; for the Calendar, you have named mine. I think there never was a saintlier saint than Cardinal Newman."

"What is your Eminence's attitude towards the question of mixed marriages?" Mrs. O'Donovan Florence asked.

Peter pricked up his ears.

"It is not the question of actuality in Italy that it is in England," his Eminence replied; "but in the abstract, and other things equal, my attitude would of course be one of disapproval."

"And yet surely," contended she, "if a pious Catholic girl marries a Protestant man, she has a hundred chances of converting him?"

"I don't know," said the Cardinal. "Would n't it be safer to let the conversion precede the marriage? Afterwards, I 'm afraid, he would have a hundred chances of inducing her to apostatise, or, at least, of rendering her lukewarm."

"Not if she had a spark of the true zeal," said Mrs. O'Donovan Florence. "Any wife can make her husband's life a burden to him, if she will conscientiously lay herself out to do so. The man would be glad to submit, for the sake of peace in his household. I often sigh for the good old days of the Inquisition; but it's still possible, in the blessed seclusion of the family circle, to apply the rack and the thumbscrew in a modified form. I know a dozen fine young Protestant men in London whom I'm labouring to convert, and I feel I 'm defeated only by the circumstance that I'm not in a position to lead them to the altar in the full meaning of the expression."

"A dozen?" the Cardinal laughed. "Aren't you complicating the question of mixed marriages with that of plural marriage?"

"'T was merely a little Hibernicism, for which I beg your Eminence's indulgence," laughed she. "But what puts the most spokes in a proselytiser's wheel is the Faith itself. If we only deserved the reputation for sharp practice and double dealing which the Protestants have foisted upon us, it would be roses, roses, all the way. Why are we forbidden to let the end justify the means? And where are those accommodements avec le ciel of which we've heard? We're not even permitted a few poor accommodements avec le monde."

"Look at my uncle's face," whispered the Duchessa to Peter. The Cardinal's fine old face was all alight with amusement. "In his fondness for taking things by their humorous end, he has met an affinity."

"It will be a grand day for the Church and the nations, when we have an Irish Pope," Mrs. O'Donovan Florence continued. "A good, stalwart, militant Irishman is what's needed to set everything right. With a sweet Irish tongue, he'd win home the wandering sheep; and with a strong Irish arm, he'd drive the wolves from the fold. It's he that would soon sweep the Italians out of Rome."

"The Italians will soon be swept out of Rome by the natural current of events," said the Cardinal. "But an Irish bishop of my acquaintance insists that we have already had many Irish Popes, without knowing it. Of all the greatest Popes he cries, 'Surely, they must have had Irish blood.' He's perfectly convinced that Pius the Ninth was Irish. His very name, his family-name, Ferretti, was merely the Irish name, Farrity, Italianised, the good bishop says. No one but an Irishman, he insists, could have been so witty."

Mrs. O'Donovan Florence looked intensely thoughtful for a moment.... Then, "I 'm trying to think of the original Irish form of Udeschini," she declared.

At which there was a general laugh.

"When you say 'soon,' Eminence, do you mean that we may hope to see the Italians driven from Rome in our time?" enquired Madame de Lafere.

"They are on the verge of bankruptcy—for their sins," the Cardinal answered. "When the crash comes—and it can't fail to come before many years—there will necessarily be a readjustment. I do not believe that the conscience of Christendom will again allow Peter to be deprived of his inheritance."

"God hasten the good day," said Monsignor Langshawe.

"If I can live to see Rome restored to the Pope, I shall die content, even though I cannot live to see France restored to the King," said the old Frenchwoman.

"And I—even though I cannot live to see Britain restored to the Faith," said the Monsignore.

The Duchessa smiled at Peter.

"What a hotbed of Ultramontanes and reactionaries you have fallen into," she murmured.

"It is exhilarating," said he, "to meet people who have convictions."

"Even when you regard their convictions as erroneous?" she asked.

"Yes, even then," he answered. "But I'm not sure I regard as erroneous the convictions I have heard expressed to-night."

"Oh—?" she wondered. "Would you like to see Rome restored to the Pope?"

"Yes," said he, "decidedly—for aesthetic reasons, if for no others."

"I suppose there are aesthetic reasons," she assented. "But we, of course, think there are conclusive reasons in mere justice."

"I don't doubt there are conclusive reasons in mere justice, too," said he.

After dinner, at the Cardinal's invitation, the Duchessa went to the piano, and played Bach and Scarlatti. Her face, in the soft candlelight, as she discoursed that "luminous, lucid" music, Peter thought... But what do lovers always think of their ladies' faces, when they look up from their pianos, in soft candlelight?

Mrs. O'Donovan Florence, taking her departure, said to the Cardinal, "I owe your Eminence the two proudest days of my life. The first was when I read in the paper that you had received the hat, and I was able to boast to all my acquaintances that I had been in the convent with your niece by marriage. And the second is now, when I can boast forevermore hereafter that I've enjoyed the honour of making my courtesy to you."

"So," said Peter, as he walked home through the dew and the starlight of the park, amid the phantom perfumes of the night, "so the Cardinal does n't approve of mixed marriages and, of course, his niece does n't, either. But what can it matter to me? For alas and alas—as he truly said—it's hardly a question of actuality."

And he lit a cigarette.



XX

"So he did meet her, after all?" the Duchessa said.

"Yes, he met her in the end," Peter answered.

They were seated under the gay white awning, against the bright perspective of lawn, lake, and mountains, on the terrace at Ventirose, where Peter was paying his dinner-call. The August day was hot and still and beautiful—a day made of gold and velvet and sweet odours. The Duchessa lay back languidly, among the crisp silk cushions, in her low, lounging chair; and Peter, as he looked at her, told himself that he must be cautious, cautious.

"Yes, he met her in the end," he said.

"Well—? And then—?" she questioned, with a show of eagerness, smiling into his eyes. "What happened? Did she come up to his expectations? Or was she just the usual disappointment? I have been pining—oh, but pining—to hear the continuation of the story."

She smiled into his eyes, and his heart fluttered. "I must be cautious," he told himself. "In more ways than one, this is a crucial moment." At the same time, as a very part of his caution, he must appear entirely nonchalant and candid.

"Oh, no—tutt' altro," he said, with an assumption of nonchalant airiness and candid promptness. "She 'better bettered' his expectations—she surpassed his fondest. She was a thousand times more delightful than he had dreamed—though, as you know, he had dreamed a good deal. Pauline de Fleuvieres turned out to be the feeblest, faintest echo of her."

The Duchessa meditated for an instant.

"It seems impossible. It's one of those situations in which a disenchantment seems the foregone conclusion," she said, at last.

"It seems so, indeed," assented Peter; "but disenchantment, there was none. She was all that he had imagined, and infinitely more. She was the substance—he had imagined the shadow. He had divined her, as it were, from a single angle, and there were many angles. Pauline was the pale reflection of one side of her—a pencil-sketch in profile."

The Duchessa shook her head, marvelling, and smiled again.

"You pile wonder upon wonder," she said. "That the reality should excel the poet's ideal! That the cloud-capped towers which looked splendid from afar, with all the glamour of distance, should prove to be more splendid still, on close inspection! It's dead against the accepted theory of things. And that any woman should be nicer than that adorable Pauline! You tax belief. But I want to know what happened. Had she read his book?"

"Nothing happened," said Peter. "I warned you that it was a drama without action. A good deal happened, no doubt, in Wildmay's secret soul. But externally, nothing. They simply chatted together—exchanged the time o' day—like any pair of acquaintances. No, I don't think she had read his book. She did read it afterwards, though."

"And liked it?"

"Yes—she said she liked it."

"Well—? But then-?" the Duchessa pressed him, insistently. "When she discovered the part she had had in its composition—? Was n't she overwhelmed? Wasn't she immensely interested—surprised—moved?"

She leaned forward a little. Her eyes were shining. Her lips were slightly parted, so that between their warm rosiness Peter could see the exquisite white line of her teeth. His heart fluttered again. "I must be cautious, cautious," he remembered, and made a strenuous "act of will" to steady himself.

"Oh, she never discovered that," he said.

"What!" exclaimed the Duchessa. Her face fell. Her eyes darkened—with dismay, with incomprehension. "Do you—you don't—mean to say that he didn't tell her?" There was reluctance to believe, there was a conditional implication of deep reproach, in her voice.

Peter had to repeat his act of will.

"How could he tell her?" he asked.

She frowned at him, with reproach that was explicit now, and a kind of pained astonishment.

"How could he help telling her?" she cried. "But—but it was the one great fact between them. But it was a fact that intimately concerned her—it was a fact of her own destiny. But it was her right to be told. Do you seriously mean that he did n't tell her? But why did n't he? What could have possessed him?"

There was something like a tremor in her voice. "I must appear entirely nonchalant and candid," Peter remembered.

"I fancy he was possessed, in some measure, by a sense of the liberty he had taken by a sense of what one might, perhaps, venture to qualify as his 'cheek.' For, if it was n't already a liberty to embody his notion of her in a novel—in a published book, for daws to peck at—it would have become a liberty the moment he informed her that he had done so. That would have had the effect of making her a kind of involuntary particeps criminis."

"Oh, the foolish man!" sighed the Duchessa, with a rueful shake of the head. "His foolish British self-consciousness! His British inability to put himself in another person's place, to see things from another's point of view! Could n't he see, from her point of view, from any point of view but his own, that it was her right to be told? That the matter affected her in one way, as much as it affected him in another? That since she had influenced—since she had contributed to—his life and his art as she had, it was her right to know it? Couldn't he see that his 'cheek,' his real 'cheek,' began when he withheld from her that great strange chapter of her own history? Oh, he ought to have told her, he ought to have told her."

She sank back in her chair, giving her head another rueful shake, and gazed ruefully away, over the sunny landscape, through the mellow atmosphere, into the golden-hazy distance.

Peter looked at her—and then, quickly, for caution's sake, looked elsewhere.

"But there were other things to be taken into account," he said.

The Duchessa raised her eyes. "What other things?" they gravely questioned.

"Would n't his telling her have been equivalent to a declaration of love?" questioned he, looking at the signet-ring on the little finger of his left hand.

"A declaration of love?" She considered for a moment. "Yes, I suppose in a way it would," she acknowledged. "But even so?" she asked, after another moment of consideration. "Why should he not have made her a declaration of love? He was in love with her, wasn't he?"

The point of frank interrogation in her eyes showed clearly, showed cruelly, how detached, how impersonal, her interest was.

"Frantically," said Peter. For caution's sake, he kept HIS eyes on the golden-hazy peaks of Monte Sfionto. "He had been in love with her, in a fashion, of course, from the beginning. But after he met her, he fell in love with her anew. His mind, his imagination, had been in love with its conception of her. But now he, the man, loved her, the woman herself, frantically, with just a downright common human love. There were circumstances, however, which made it impossible for him to tell her so."

"What circumstances?" There was the same frank look of interrogation. "Do you mean that she was married?"

"No, not that. By the mercy of heaven," he pronounced, with energy, "she was a widow."

The Duchessa broke into an amused laugh.

"Permit me to admire your piety," she said.

And Peter, as his somewhat outrageous ejaculation came back to him, laughed vaguely too.

"But then—?" she went on. "What else? By the mercy of heaven, she was a widow. What other circumstance could have tied his tongue?"

"Oh," he answered, a trifle uneasily, "a multitude of circumstances. Pretty nearly every conventional barrier the world has invented, existed between him and her. She was a frightful swell, for one thing."

"A frightful swell—?" The Duchessa raised her eyebrows.

"Yes," said Peter, "at a vertiginous height above him—horribly 'aloft and lone' in the social hierarchy." He tried to smile.

"What could that matter?" the Duchessa objected simply. "Mr. Wildmay is a gentleman."

"How do you know he is?" Peter asked, thinking to create a diversion.

"Of course, he is. He must be. No one but a gentleman could have had such an experience, could have written such a book. And besides, he's a friend of yours. Of course he's a gentleman," returned the adroit Duchessa.

"But there are degrees of gentleness, I believe," said Peter. "She was at the topmost top. He—well, at all events, he knew his place. He had too much humour, too just a sense of proportion, to contemplate offering her his hand."

"A gentleman can offer his hand to any woman—under royalty," said the Duchessa.

"He can, to be sure—and he can also see it declined with thanks," Peter answered. "But it wasn't merely her rank. She was horribly rich, besides. And then—and then—! There were ten thousand other impediments. But the chief of them all, I daresay, was Wildmay's fear lest an avowal of his attachment should lead to his exile from her presence—and he naturally did not wish to be exiled."

"Faint heart!" the Duchessa said. "He ought to have told her. The case was peculiar, was unique. Ordinary rules could n't apply to it. And how could he be sure, after all, that she would n't have despised the conventional barriers, as you call them? Every man gets the wife he deserves—and certainly he had gone a long way towards deserving her. She could n't have felt quite indifferent to him—if he had told her; quite indifferent to the man who had drawn that magnificent Pauline from his vision of her. No woman could be entirely proof against a compliment like that. And I insist that it was her right to know. He should simply have told her the story of his book and of her part in it. She would have inferred the rest. He needn't have mentioned love—the word."

"Well," said Peter, "it is not always too late to mend. He may tell her some fine day yet."

And in his soul two voices were contending.

"Tell her—tell her—tell her! Tell her now, at once, and abide your chances," urged one. "No—no—no—do nothing of the kind," protested the second. "She is arguing the point for its abstract interest. She is a hundred miles from dreaming that you are the man—hundreds of miles from dreaming that she is the woman. If she had the least suspicion of that, she would sing a song as different as may be. Caution, caution."

He looked at her—warm and fragrant and radiant, in her soft, white gown, in her low lounging-chair, so near, so near to him—he looked at her glowing eyes, her red lips, her rich brown hair, at the white-and-rose of her skin, at the delicate blue veins in her forehead, at her fine white hands, clasped loosely together in her lap, at the flowing lines of her figure, with its supple grace and strength; and behind her, surrounding her, accessory to her, he was conscious of the golden August world, in the golden August weather—of the green park, and the pure sunshine, and the sweet, still air, of the blue lake, and the blue sky, and the mountains with their dark-blue shadows, of the long marble terrace, and the gleaming marble facade of the house, and the marble balustrade, with the jessamine twining round its columns. The picture was very beautiful—but something was wanting to perfect its beauty; and the name of the something that was wanting sang itself in poignant iteration to the beating of his pulses. And he longed and longed to tell her; and he dared not; and he hesitated....

And while he was hesitating, the pounding of hoofs and the grinding of carriage-wheels on gravel reached his ears—and so the situation was saved, or the opportunity lost, as you choose to think it. For next minute a servant appeared on the terrace, and announced Mrs. O'Donovan Florence.

And shortly after that lady's arrival, Peter took his leave.



XXI

"Well, Trixie, and is one to congratulate you?" asked Mrs. O'Donovan Florence.

"Congratulate me—? On what?" asked Beatrice.

"On what, indeed!" cried the vivacious Irishwoman. "Don't try to pull the wool over the eyes of an old campaigner like me."

Beatrice looked blank.

"I can't in the least think what you mean," she said.

"Get along with you," cried Mrs. O'Donovan Florence; and she brandished her sunshade threateningly. "On your engagement to Mr.—what's this his name is?—to be sure."

She glanced indicatively down the lawn, in the direction of Peter's retreating tweeds.

Beatrice had looked blank. But now she looked—first, perhaps, for a tiny fraction of a second, startled—then gently, compassionately ironical.

"My poor Kate! Are you out of your senses?" she enquired, in accents of concern, nodding her head, with a feint of pensive pity.

"Not I," returned Mrs. O'Donovan Florence, cheerfully confident. "But I 'm thinking I could lay my finger on a long-limbed young Englishman less than a mile from here, who very nearly is. Hasn't he asked you yet?"

"Es-to bete?" Beatrice murmured, pitifully nodding again.

"Ah, well, if he has n't, it's merely a question of time when he will," said Mrs. O'Donovan Florence. "You've only to notice the famished gaze with which he devours you, to see his condition. But don't try to hoodwink me. Don't pretend that this is news to you."

"News!" scoffed Beatrice. "It's news and nonsense—the product of your irrepressible imagination. Mr. What's-this-his-name-is, as you call him, and I are the barest acquaintances. He's our temporary neighbour—the tenant for the season of Villa Floriano—the house you can catch a glimpse of, below there, through the trees, on the other side of the river."

"Is he, now, really? And that's very interesting too. But I wasn't denying it." Mrs. O'Donovan Florence smiled, with derisive sweetness. "The fact of his being the tenant of the house I can catch a glimpse of, through the trees, on the other side of the river, though a valuable acquisition to my stores of knowledge, does n't explain away his famished glance unless, indeed, he's behind with the rent: but even then, it's not famished he'd look, but merely anxious and persuasive. I'm a landlord myself. No, Trixie, dear, you've made roast meat of the poor fellow's heart, as the poetical Persians express it; and if he has n't told you so yet with his tongue, he tells the whole world so with his eyes as often as he allows them to rest on their loadstone, your face. You can see the sparks and the smoke escaping from them, as though they were chimneys. If you've not observed that for yourself, it can only be that excessive modesty has rendered you blind. The man is head over ears in love with you. Nonsense or bonsense, that is the sober truth."

Beatrice laughed.

"I 'm sorry to destroy a romance, Kate," she said; "but alas for the pretty one you 've woven, I happen to know that, so far from being in love with me, Mr. Marchdale is quite desperately in love with another woman. He was talking to me about her the moment before you arrived."

"Was he, indeed?—and you the barest acquaintances!" quizzed Mrs. O'Donovan Florence, pulling a face. "Well, well," she went on thoughtfully, "if he's in love with another woman, that settles my last remaining doubt. It can only be that the other woman's yourself."

Beatrice shook her head, and laughed again.

"Is that what they call an Irishism?" she asked, with polite curiosity.

"And an Irishism is a very good thing, too—when employed with intention," retorted her friend. "Did he just chance, now, in a casual way, to mention the other woman's name, I wonder?"

"Oh, you perverse and stiff-necked generation!" Beatrice laughed. "What can his mentioning or not mentioning her name signify? For since he's in love with her, it's hardly likely that he's in love with you or me at the same time, is it?"

"That's as may be. But I'll wager I could make a shrewd guess at her name myself. And what else did he tell you about her? He's told me nothing; but I'll warrant I could paint her portrait. She's a fine figure of a young Englishwoman, brown-haired, grey-eyed, and she stands about five-feet-eight in her shoes. There's an expression of great malice and humour in her physiognomy, and a kind of devil-may-care haughtiness in the poise of her head. She's a bit of a grande dame, into the bargain—something like an Anglo-Italian duchess, for example; she's monstrously rich; and she adds, you'll be surprised to learn, to her other fascinations that of being a widow. Faith, the men are so fond of widows, it's a marvel to me that we're ever married at all until we reach that condition;—and there, if you like, is another Irishism for you. But what's this? Methinks a rosy blush mantles my lady's brow. Have I touched the heel of Achilles? She IS a widow? He TOLD you she was a widow?... But—bless us and save us!—what's come to you now? You're as white as a sheet. What is it?"

"Good heavens!" gasped Beatrice. She lay back in her chair, and stared with horrified eyes into space. "Good—good heavens!"

Mrs. O' Donovan Florence leaned forward and took her hand.

"What is it, my dear? What's come to you?" she asked, in alarm.

Beatrice gave a kind of groan.

"It's absurd—it's impossible," she said; "and yet, if by any ridiculous chance you should be right, it's too horribly horrible." She repeated her groan. "If by any ridiculous chance you are right, the man will think that I have been leading him on!"

"LEADING HIM ON!" Mrs. O'Donovan Florence suppressed a shriek of ecstatic mirth. "There's no question about my being right," she averred soberly. "He wears his heart behind his eyeglass; and whoso runs may read it."

"Well, then—" began Beatrice, with an air of desperation... "But no," she broke off. "YOU CAN'T be right. It's impossible, impossible. Wait. I'll tell you the whole story. You shall see for yourself."

"Go on," said Mrs. O'Donovan Florence, assuming an attitude of devout attention, which she retained while Beatrice (not without certain starts and hesitations) recounted the fond tale of Peter's novel, and of the woman who had suggested the character of Pauline.

"But OF COURSE!" cried the Irishwoman, when the tale was finished; and this time her shriek of mirth, of glee, was not suppressed. "Of course—you miracle of unsuspecting innocence! The man would never have breathed a whisper of the affair to any soul alive, save to his heroine herself—let alone to you, if you and she were not the same. Couple that with the eyes he makes at you, and you've got assurance twice assured. You ought to have guessed it from the first syllable he uttered. And when he went on about her exalted station and her fabulous wealth! Oh, my ingenue! Oh, my guileless lambkin! And you Trixie Belfont! Where's your famous wit? Where are your famous intuitions?"

"BUT DON'T YOU SEE," wailed Beatrice, "don't you see the utterly odious position this leaves me in? I've been urging him with all my might to tell her! I said... oh, the things I said!" She shuddered visibly. "I said that differences of rank and fortune could n't matter." She gave a melancholy laugh. "I said that very likely she'd accept him. I said she couldn't help being... Oh, my dear, my dear! He'll think—of course, he can't help thinking—that I was encouraging him—that I was coming halfway to meet him."

"Hush, hush! It's not so bad as that," said Mrs. O'Donovan Florence, soothingly. "For surely, as I understand it, the man doesn't dream that you knew it was about himself he was speaking. He always talked of the book as by a friend of his; and you never let him suspect that you had pierced his subterfuge."

Beatrice frowned for an instant, putting this consideration in its place, in her troubled mind. Then suddenly a light of intense, of immense relief broke in her face.

"Thank goodness!" she sighed. "I had forgotten. No, he does n't dream that. But oh, the fright I had!"

"He'll tell you, all the same," said Mrs. O'Donovan Florence.

"No, he'll never tell me now. I am forewarned, forearmed. I 'll give him no chance," Beatrice answered.

"Yes; and what's more, you'll marry him," said her friend.

"Kate! Don't descend to imbecilities," cried Beatrice.

"You'll marry him," reiterated Mrs. O'Donovan Florence, calmly. "You'll end by marrying him—if you're human; and I've seldom known a human being who was more so. It's not in flesh and blood to remain unmoved by a tribute such as that man has paid you. The first thing you'll do will be to re-read the novel. Otherwise, I'd request the loan of it myself, for I 'm naturally curious to compare the wrought ring with the virgin gold—but I know it's the wrought ring the virgin gold will itself be wanting, directly it's alone. And then the poison will work. And you'll end by marrying him."

"In the first place," replied Beatrice, firmly, "I shall never marry any one. That is absolutely certain. In the next place, I shall not re-read the novel; and to prove that I shan't, I shall insist on your taking it with you when you leave to-day. And finally, I'm nowhere near convinced that you're right about my being... well, you might as well say the raw material, the rough ore, as the virgin gold. It's only a bare possibility. But even the possibility had not occurred to me before. Now that it has, I shall be on my guard. I shall know how to prevent any possible developments."

"In the first place," said Mrs. O'Donovan Florence, with equal firmness, "wild horses couldn't induce me to take the novel. Wait till you're alone. A hundred questions about it will come flocking to your mind; you'd be miserable if you had n't it to refer to. In the next place, the poison will work and work. Say what you will, it's flattery that wins us. In the third place, he'll tell you. Finally, you'll make a good Catholic of him, and marry him. It's absurd, it's iniquitous, anyhow, for a young and beautiful woman like you to remain a widow. And your future husband is a man of talent and distinction, and he's not bad-looking, either. Will you stick to your title, now, I wonder? Or will you step down, and be plain Mrs. Marchdale? No—the Honourable Mrs.—excuse me—'Mr. and the Honourable Mrs. Marchdale.' I see you in the 'Morning Post' already. And will you continue to live in Italy? Or will you come back to England?"

"Oh, my good Kate, my sweet Kate, my incorrigible Kate, what an extravagantly silly Kate you can be when the mood takes you," Beatrice laughed.

"Kate me as many Kates as you like, the man is really not bad-looking. He has a nice lithe springy figure, and a clean complexion, and an open brow. And if there's a suggestion of superciliousness in the tilt of his nose, of scepticism in the twirl of his moustaches, and of obstinacy in the squareness of his chin—ma foi, you must take the bitter with the sweet. Besides, he has decent hair, and plenty of it—he'll not go bald. And he dresses well, and wears his clothes with an air. In short, you'll make a very handsome couple. Anyhow, when your family are gathered round the evening lamp to-night, I 'll stake my fortune on it, but I can foretell the name of the book they'll find Trixie Belfont reading," laughed Mrs. O'Donovan Florence.

For a few minutes, after her friend had left her, Beatrice sat still, her head resting on her hand, and gazed with fixed eyes at Monte Sfiorito. Then she rose, and walked briskly backwards and forwards, for a while, up and down the terrace. Presently she came to a standstill, and leaning on the balustrade, while one of her feet kept lightly tapping the pavement, looked off again towards the mountain.

The prospect was well worth her attention, with its blue and green and gold, its wood and water, its misty-blushing snows, its spaciousness and its atmosphere. In the sky a million fluffy little cloudlets floated like a flock of fantastic birds, with mother-of-pearl tinted plumage. The shadows were lengthening now. The sunshine glanced from the smooth surface of the lake as from burnished metal, and falling on the coloured sails of the fishing-boats, made them gleam like sails of crimson silk. But I wonder how much of this Beatrice really saw.

She plucked an oleander from one of the tall marble urns set along the balustrade, and pressed the pink blossom against her face, and, closing her eyes, breathed in its perfume; then, absent-minded, she let it drop, over the terrace, upon the path below.

"It's impossible," she said suddenly, aloud. At last she went into the house, and up to her rose-and-white retiring-room. There she took a book from the table, and sank into a deep easy-chair, and began to turn the pages.

But when, by and by, approaching footsteps became audible in the stone-floored corridor without, Beatrice hastily shut the book, thrust it back upon the table, and caught up another so that Emilia Manfredi, entering, found her reading Monsieur Anatole France's "Etui de nacre."

"Emilia," she said, "I wish you would translate the I Jongleur de Notre Dame' into Italian."



XXII

Peter, we may suppose, returned to Villa Floriano that afternoon in a state of some excitement.

"He ought to have told her—"

"It was her right to be told—"

"What could her rank matter—"

"A gentleman can offer his hand to any woman—"

"She would have despised the conventional barriers—"

"No woman could be proof against such a compliment—"

"The case was peculiar—ordinary rules could not apply to it—"

"Every man gets the wife he deserves—and he had certainly gone a long way towards deserving her—"

"He should simply have told her the story of his book and of her part in it—he need n't have mentioned love—she would have understood—"

The Duchessa's voice, clear and cool and crisp-cut, sounded perpetually in his ears; the words she had spoken, the arguments she had urged, repeated and repeated themselves, danced round and round, in his memory.

"Ought I to have told her—then and there? Shall I go to her and tell her to-morrow?"

He tried to think; but he could not think. His faculties were in a whirl—he could by no means command them. He could only wait, inert, while the dance went on. It was an extremely riotous dance. The Duchessa's conversation was reproduced without sequence, without coherence—scattered fragments of it were flashed before him fitfully, in swift disorder. If he would attempt to seize upon one of those fragments, to detain and fix it, for consideration—a speech of hers, a look, an inflection—then the whole experience suddenly lost its outlines, his recollection of it became a jumble, and he was left, as it were, intellectually gasping.

He walked about his garden, he went into the house, he came out, he walked about again, he went in and dressed for dinner, he sat on his rustic bench, he smoked cigarette after cigarette.

"Ought I to have told her? Ought I to tell her to-morrow?"

At moments there would come a lull in the turmoil, an interval of quiet, of apparent clearness; and the answer would seem perfectly plain.

"Of course, you ought to tell her. Tell her—and all will be well. She has put herself in the supposititious woman's place, and she says, 'He ought to tell her.' She says it earnestly, vehemently. That means that if she were the woman, she would wish to be told. She will despise the conventional barriers—she will be touched, she will be moved. 'No woman could be proof against such a compliment.' Go to her to-morrow, and tell her—and all will be well."

At these moments he would look up towards the castle, and picture the morrow's consummation; and his heart would have a convulsion. Imagination flew on the wings of his desire. She stood before him in all her sumptuous womanhood, tender and strong and glowing. As he spoke, her eyes lightened, her eyes burned, the blood came and went in her cheeks; her lips parted. Then she whispered something; and his heart leapt terribly; and he called her name—"Beatrice! Beatrice!" Her name expressed the inexpressible—the adoring passion, the wild hunger and wild triumph of his soul. But now she was moving towards him—she was holding out her hands. He caught her in his arms—he held her yielding body in his arms. And his heart leapt terribly, terribly. And he wondered how he could endure, how he could live through, the hateful hours that must elapse before tomorrow would be to-day.

But "hearts, after leaps, ache." Presently the whirl would begin again; and then, by and by, in another lull, a contrary answer would seem equally plain.

"Tell her, indeed? My dear man, are you mad? She would simply be amazed, struck dumb, by your presumption. I can see from here her incredulity—I can see the scorn with which she would wither you. It has never dimly occurred to her as conceivable that you would venture to be in love with her, that you would dare to lift your eyes to her—you who are nothing, to her who is all. Yes—nothing, nobody. In her view, you are just a harmless nobody, whose society she tolerates for kindness' sake—and faute de mieux. It is precisely because she deems you a nobody—because she is profoundly conscious of the gulf that separates you from her—that she can condescend to be amiably familiar. If you were of a rank even remotely approximating to her own, she would be a thousand times more circumspect. Remember—she does not dream that you are Felix Wildmay. He is a mere name to her; and his story is an amusing little romance, perfectly external to herself, which she discusses with entirely impersonal interest. Tell her by all means, if you like Say, 'I am Wildmay—you are Pauline.' And see how amazed she will be, and how incensed, and how indignant."

Then he would look up at the castle stonily, in a mood of desperate renunciation, and vaguely meditate packing his belongings, and going home to England.

At other moments a third answer would seem the plain one: something between these extremes of optimism and pessimism, a compromise, it not a reconciliation.

"Come! Let us be calm, let us be judicial. The consequences of our actions, here below, if hardly ever so good as we could hope, are hardly ever so bad as we might fear. Let us regard this matter in the light of that guiding principle. True, she does n't dream that you are Wildmay. True, if you were abruptly to say to her, 'I am Wildmay—you are the woman,' she would be astonished—even, if you will, at first, more or less taken aback, disconcerted. But indignant? Why? What is this gulf that separates you from her? What are these conventional barriers of which you make so much? She is a duchess, she is the daughter of a lord, and she is rich. Well, all that is to be regretted. But you are neither a plebeian nor a pauper yourself. You are a man of good birth, you are a man of some parts, and you have a decent income. It amounts to this—she is a great lady, you are a small gentleman. In ordinary circumstances, to be sure, so small a gentleman could not ask so great a lady to become his wife. But here the circumstances are not ordinary. Destiny has meddled in the business. Small gentleman though you are, an unusual and subtle relation-ship has been established between you and your great lady. She herself says, 'Ordinary rules cannot apply—he ought to tell her.' Very good: tell her. She will be astonished, but she will see that there is no occasion for resentment. And though the odds are, of course, a hundred to one that she will not accept you, still she must treat you as an honourable suitor. And whether she accepts you or rejects you, it is better to tell her and to have it over, than to go on forever dangling this way, like the poor cat in the adage. Tell her—put your fate to the touch—hope nothing, fear nothing—and bow to the event."

But even this temperate answer provoked its counter-answer.

"The odds are a hundred to one, a thousand to one, that she will not accept you. And if you tell her, and she does not accept you, she will not allow you to see her any more, you will be exiled from her presence. And I thought, you did not wish to be exiled from her presence, You would stake, then, this great privilege, the privilege of seeing her, of knowing her, upon a. chance that has a thousand to one against it. You make light of the conventional barriers—but the principal barrier of them all, you are forgetting. She is a Roman Catholic, and a devout one. Marry a Protestant? She would as soon think of marrying a Paynim Turk."

In the end, no doubt, a kind of exhaustion followed upon his excitement. Questions and answers suspended themselves; and he could only look up towards Ventirose, and dumbly wish that he was there. The distance was so trifling—in five minutes he could traverse it—the law seemed absurd and arbitrary, which condemned him to sit apart, free only to look and wish.

It was in this condition of mind that Marietta found him, when she came to announce dinner.

Peter gave himself a shake. The sight of the brown old woman, with her homely, friendly face, brought him back to small things, to actual things; and that, if it was n't a comfort, was, at any rate, a relief.

"Dinner?" he questioned. "Do peris at the gates of Eden DINE?"

"The soup is on the table," said Marietta.

He rose, casting a last glance towards the castle.

Towers and battlements... Bosomed high in tufted trees, Where perhaps some beauty lies, The cynosure of neighbouring eyes."

He repeated the lines in an undertone, and went in to dinner. And then the restorative spirit of nonsense descended upon him.

"Marietta," he asked, "what is your attitude towards the question of mixed marriages?"

Marietta wrinkled her brow.

"Mixed marriages? What is that, Signorino?"

"Marriages between Catholics and Protestants," he explained.

"Protestants?" Her brow was still a network. "What things are they?"

"They are things—or perhaps it would be less invidious to say people—who are not Catholics—who repudiate Catholicism as a deadly and soul-destroying error."

"Jews?" asked Marietta.

"No—not exactly. They are generally classified as Christians. But they protest, you know. Protesto, protestare, verb, active, first conjugation. 'Mi pare che la donna protesta troppo,' as the poet sings. They're Christians, but they protest against the Pope and the Pretender."

"The Signorino means Freemasons," said Marietta.

"No, he does n't," said Peter. "He means Protestants."

"But pardon, Signorino," she insisted; "if they are not Catholics, they must be Freemasons or Jews. They cannot be Christians. Christian—Catholic: it is the same. All Christians are Catholics."

"Tu quoque!" he cried. "You regard the terms as interchangeable? I 've heard the identical sentiment similarly enunciated by another. Do I look like a Freemason?"

She bent her sharp old eyes upon him studiously for a moment. Then she shook her head.

"No," she answered slowly. "I do not think that the Signorino looks like a Freemason."

"A Jew, then?"

"Mache! A Jew? The Signorino!" She shrugged derision.

"And yet I'm what they call a Protestant," he said.

"No," said she.

"Yes," said he. "I refer you to my sponsors in baptism. A regular, true blue moderate High Churchman and Tory, British and Protestant to the backbone, with 'Frustrate their Popish tricks' writ large all over me. You have never by any chance married a Protestant yourself?" he asked.

"No, Signorino. I have never married any one. But it was not for the lack of occasions. Twenty, thirty young men courted me when I was a girl. But—mica!—I would not look at them. When men are young they are too unsteady for husbands; when they are old they have the rheumatism."

"Admirably philosophised," he approved. "But it sometimes happens that men are neither young nor old. There are men of thirty-five—I have even heard that there are men of forty. What of them?"

"There is a proverb, Signorino, which says, Sposi di quarant' anni son mai sempre tiranni," she informed him.

"For the matter of that," he retorted, "there is a proverb which says, Love laughs at locksmiths."

"Non capisco," said Marietta.

"That's merely because it's English," said he. "You'd understand fast enough if I should put it in Italian. But I only quoted it to show the futility of proverbs. Laugh at locksmiths, indeed! Why, it can't even laugh at such an insignificant detail as a Papist's prejudices. But I wish I were a duke and a millionaire. Do you know any one who could create me a duke and endow me with a million?"

"No, Signorino," she answered, shaking her head.

"Fragrant Cytherea, foam-born Venus, deathless Aphrodite, cannot, goddess though she is," he complained. "The fact is, I 'm feeling rather undone. I think I will ask you to bring me a bottle of Asti-spumante—some of the dry kind, with the white seal. I 'll try to pretend that it's champagne. To tell or not to tell—that is the question.

'A face to lose youth for, to occupy age With the dream of, meet death with—

And yet, if you can believe me, the man who penned those lines had never seen her. He penned another line equally pat to the situation, though he had never seen me, either

'Is there no method to tell her in Spanish?"

But you can't imagine how I detest that vulgar use of 'pen' for 'write'—as if literature were a kind of pig. However, it's perhaps no worse than the use of Asti for champagne. One should n't be too fastidious. I must really try to think of some method of telling her in Spanish."

Marietta went to fetch the Asti.



XXIII

When Peter rose next morning, he pulled a grimace at the departed night.

"You are a detected cheat," he cried, "an unmasked impostor. You live upon your reputation as a counsellor—'tis the only reason why we bear with you. La nuit porte conseil! Yet what counsel have you brought to me?—and I at the pass where my need is uttermost. Shall I go to her this afternoon, and unburden my soul—or shall I not? You have left me where you found me—in the same fine, free, and liberal state of vacillation. Discredited oracle!"

He was standing before his dressing-table, brushing his hair. The image in the glass frowned back at him. Then something struck him.

"At all events, we'll go this morning to Spiaggia, and have our hair cut," he resolved.

So he walked to the village, and caught the ten o'clock omnibus for Spiaggia. And after he had had his hair cut, he went to the Hotel de Russie, and lunched in the garden. And after luncheon, of course, he entered the grounds of the Casino, and strolled backwards and forwards, one of a merry procession, on the terrace by the lakeside. The gay toilets of the women, their bright-coloured hats and sunshades, made the terrace look like a great bank of monstrous moving flowers. The band played brisk accompaniments to the steady babble of voices, Italian, English, German. The pure air was shot with alien scents—the women's perfumery, the men's cigarette-smoke. The marvellous blue waters crisped in the breeze, and sparkled in the sun; and the smooth snows of Monte Sfiorito loomed so near, one felt one could almost put out one's stick and scratch one's name upon them.... And here, as luck would have it, Peter came face to face with Mrs. O'Donovan Florence.

"How do you do?" said she, offering her hand.

"How do you do?" said he.

"It's a fine day," said she.

"Very," said he.

"Shall I make you a confidence?" she asked.

"Do," he answered.

"Are you sure I can trust you?" She scanned his face dubiously.

"Try it and see," he urged.

"Well, then, if you must know, I was thirsting to take a table and call for coffee; but having no man at hand to chaperon me, I dared not."

"Je vous en prie," cried Peter, with a gesture of gallantry; and he led her to one of the round marble tables. "Due caffe," he said to the brilliant creature (chains, buckles, ear-rings, of silver filigree, and head-dress and apron of flame-red silk) who came to learn their pleasure.

"Softly, softly," put in Mrs. O'Donovan Florence. "Not a drop of coffee for me. An orange-sherbet, if you please. Coffee was a figure of speech—a generic term for light refreshments."

Peter laughed, and amended his order.

"Do you see those three innocent darlings playing together, under the eye of their governess, by the Wellingtonia yonder?" enquired the lady.

"The little girl in white and the two boys?" asked Peter.

"Precisely," said she. "Such as they are, they're me own."

"Really?" he responded, in the tone of profound and sympathetic interest we are apt to affect when parents begin about their children.

"I give you my word for it," she assured him. "But I mention the fact, not in a spirit of boastfulness, but merely to show you that I 'm not entirely alone and unprotected. There's an American at our hotel, by the bye, who goes up and down telling every one who'll listen that it ought to be Washingtonia, and declaiming with tears in his eyes against the arrogance of the English in changing Washington to Wellington. As he's a respectable-looking man with grown-up daughters, I should think very likely he's right."

"Very likely," said Peter. "It's an American tree, is n't it?"

"Whether it is n't or whether it is," said she, "one thing is undeniable: you English are the coldest-blooded animals south of the Arctic Circle."

"Oh—? Are we?" he doubted.

"You are that," she affirmed, with sorrowing emphasis.

"Ah, well," he reflected, "the temperature of our blood does n't matter. We're, at any rate, notoriously warm-hearted."

"Are you indeed?" she exclaimed. "If you are, it's a mighty quiet kind of notoriety, let me tell you, and a mighty cold kind of warmth."

Peter laughed.

"You're all for prudence and expediency. You're the slaves of your reason. You're dominated by the head, not by the heart. You're little better than calculating-machines. Are you ever known, now, for instance, to risk earth and heaven, and all things between them, on a sudden unthinking impulse?"

"Not often, I daresay," he admitted.

"And you sit there as serene as a brazen statue, and own it without a quaver," she reproached him.

"Surely," he urged, "in my character of Englishman, it behooves me to appear smug and self-satisfied?"

"You're right," she agreed. "I wonder," she continued, after a moment's pause, during which her eyes looked thoughtful, "I wonder whether you would fall upon and annihilate a person who should venture to offer you a word of well-meant advice."

"I should sit as serene as a brazen statue, and receive it without a quaver," he promised.

"Well, then," said she, leaning forward a little, and dropping her voice, "why don't you take your courage in both hands, and ask her?"

Peter stared.

"Be guided by me—and do it," she said.

"Do what?" he puzzled.

"Ask her to marry you, of course," she returned amiably. Then, without allowing him time to shape an answer, "Touche!" she cried, in triumph. "I 've brought the tell-tale colour to your cheek. And you a brazen statue! 'They do not love who do not show their love.' But, in faith, you show yours to any one who'll be at pains to watch you. Your eyes betray you as often as ever you look at her. I had n't observed you for two minutes by the clock, when I knew your secret as well as if you 'd chosen me for your confessor. But what's holding you back? You can't expect her to do the proposing. Now curse me for a meddlesome Irishwoman, if you will—but why don't you throw yourself at her feet, and ask her, like a man?"

"How can I?" said Peter, abandoning any desire he may have felt to beat about the bush. Nay, indeed, it is very possible he welcomed, rather than resented, the Irishwoman's meddling.

"What's to prevent you?" said she.

"Everything," said he.

"Everything is nothing. That?"

"Dear lady! She is hideously rich, for one thing."

"Getaway with you!" was the dear lady's warm expostulation. "What has money to do with the question, if a man's in love? But that's the English of it—there you are with your cold-blooded calculation. You chain up your natural impulses as if they were dangerous beasts. Her money never saved you from succumbing to her enchantments. Why should it bar you from declaring your passion."

"There's a sort of tendency in society," said Peter, "to look upon the poor man who seeks the hand of a rich woman as a fortunehunter."

"A fig for the opinion of society," she cried. "The only opinion you should consider is the opinion of the woman you adore. I was an heiress myself; and when Teddy O'Donovan proposed to me, upon my conscience I believe the sole piece of property he possessed in the world was a corkscrew. So much for her ducats!"

Peter laughed.

"Men, after coffee, are frequently in the habit of smoking," said she. "You have my sanction for a cigarette. It will keep you in countenance."

"Thank you," said Peter, and lit his cigarette.

"And surely, it's a countenance you'll need, to be going on like that about her money. However—if you can find a ray of comfort in the information—small good will her future husband get of it, even if he is a fortunehunter: for she gives the bulk of it away in charity, and I 'm doubtful if she keeps two thousand a year for her own spending."

"Really?" said Peter; and for a breathing-space it seemed to him that there was a ray of comfort in the information.

"Yes, you may rate her at two thousand a year," said Mrs. O'Donovan Florence. "I suppose you can match that yourself. So the disparity disappears."

The ray of comfort had flickered for a second, and gone out.

"There are unfortunately other disparities," he remarked gloomily.

"Put a name on them," said she.

"There's her rank."

His impetuous adviser flung up a hand of scorn.

"Her rank, do you say?" she cried. "To the mischief with her rank. What's rank to love? A woman is only a woman, whether she calls herself a duchess or a dairy-maid. A woman with any spirit would marry a bank manager, if she loved him. A man's a man. You should n't care that for her rank."

"That," was a snap of Mrs. O' Donovan Florence's fingers.

"I suppose you know," said Peter, "that I am a Protestant."

"Are you—you poor benighted creature? Well, that's easily remedied. Go and get yourself baptised directly."

She waved her hand towards the town, as if to recommend his immediate procedure in quest of a baptistery.

Peter laughed again.

"I 'm afraid that's more easily said than done."

"Easy!" she exclaimed. "Why, you've only to stand still and let yourself be sprinkled. It's the priest who does the work. Don't tell me," she added, with persuasive inconsequence, "that you'll allow a little thing like being in love with a woman to keep you back from professing the true faith."

"Ah, if I were convinced that it is true," he sighed, still laughing.

"What call have you to doubt it? And anyhow, what does it matter whether you 're convinced or not? I remember, when I was a school-girl, I never was myself convinced of the theorems of Euclid; but I professed them gladly, for the sake of the marks they brought; and the eternal verities of mathematics remained unshaken by my scepticism."

"Your reasoning is subtle," laughed Peter. "But the worst of it is, if I were ten times a Catholic, she wouldn't have me. So what's the use?"

"You never can tell whether a woman will have you or not, until you offer yourself. And even if she refuses you, is that a ground for despair? My own husband asked me three times, and three times I said no. And then he took to writing verses—and I saw there was but one way to stop him. So we were married. Ask her; ask her again—and again. You can always resort in the end to versification. And now," the lady concluded, rising, "I have spoken, and I leave you to your fate. I'm obliged to return to the hotel, to hold a bed of justice. It appears that my innocent darlings, beyond there, innocent as they look, have managed among them to break the electric light in my sitting-room. They're to be arraigned before me at three for an instruction criminelle. Put what I 've said in your pipe, and smoke it—'tis a mother's last request. If I 've not succeeded in determining you, don't pretend, at least, that I haven't encouraged you a bit. Put what I 've said in your pipe, and see whether, by vigorous drawing, you can't fan the smouldering fires of encouragement into a small blaze of determination."

Peter resumed his stroll backwards and forwards by the lakeside. Encouragement was all very well; but... "Shall I—shall I not? Shall I—shall I not? Shall I—shall I not?" The eternal question went tick-tack, tick-tack, to the rhythm of his march. He glared at vacancy, and tried hard to make up his mind.

"I'm afraid I must be somewhat lacking in decision of character," he said, with pathetic wonder.

Then suddenly he stamped his foot.

"Come! An end to this tergiversation. Do it. Do it," cried his manlier soul.

"I will," he resolved all at once, drawing a deep breath, and clenching his fists.

He left the Casino, and set forth to walk to Ventirose. He could not wait for the omnibus, which would not leave till four. He must strike while his will was hot.

He walked rapidly; in less than an hour he had reached the tall gilded grille of the park. He stopped for an instant, and looked up the straight avenue of chestnuts, to the western front of the castle, softly alight in the afternoon sun. He put his hand upon the pendent bell-pull of twisted iron, to summon the porter. In another second he would have rung, he would have been admitted.... And just then one of the little demons that inhabit the circumambient air, called his attention to an aspect of the situation which he had not thought of.

"Wait a bit," it whispered in his ear. "You were there only yesterday. It can't fail, therefore, to seem extraordinary, your calling again to-day. You must be prepared with an excuse, an explanation. But suppose, when you arrive, suppose that (like the lady in the ballad) she greets you with 'a glance of cold surprise'—what then, my dear? Why, then, it's obvious, you can't allege the true explanation—can you? If she greets you with a glance of cold, surprise, you 'll have your answer, as it were, before the fact you 'll know that there's no manner of hope for you; and the time for passionate avowals will automatically defer itself. But then—? How will you justify your visit? What face can you put on?"

"H'm," assented Peter, "there's something in that."

"There's a great deal in that," said the demon. "You must have an excuse up your sleeve, a pretext. A true excuse is a fine thing in its way; but when you come to a serious emergency, an alternative false excuse is indispensable."

"H'm," said Peter.

However, if there are demons in the atmosphere, there are gods in the machine—("Paraschkine even goes so far as to maintain that there are more gods in the machine than have ever been taken from it.") While Peter stood still, pondering the demon's really rather cogent intervention, his eye was caught by something that glittered in the grass at the roadside.

"The Cardinal's snuff-box," he exclaimed, picking it up.

The Cardinal had dropped his snuff-box. Here was an excuse, and to spare. Peter rang the bell.



XXIV

And, like the lady in the ballad, sure enough, she greeted his arrival with a glance of cold surprise.

At all events, eyebrows raised, face unsmiling, it was a glance that clearly supplemented her spoken "How do you do?" by a tacit (perhaps self-addressed?) "What can bring him here?"

You or I, indeed, or Mrs. O'Donovan Florence, in the fulness of our knowledge, might very likely have interpreted it rather as a glance of nervous apprehension. Anyhow, it was a glance that perfectly checked the impetus of his intent. Something snapped and gave way within him; and he needed no further signal that the occasion for passionate avowals was not the present.

And thereupon befell a scene that was really quite too absurd, that was really childish, a scene over the memory of which, I must believe, they themselves have sometimes laughed together; though, at the moment, its absurdity held, for him at least, elements of the tragic.

He met her in the broad gravelled carriage-sweep, before the great hall-door. She had on her hat and gloves, as if she were just going out. It seemed to him that she was a little pale; her eyes seemed darker than usual, and graver. Certainly—cold surprise, or nervous apprehension, as you will—her attitude was by no means cordial. It was not oncoming. It showed none of her accustomed easy, half-humorous, wholly good-humoured friendliness. It was decidedly the attitude of a person standing off, shut in, withheld.

"I have never seen her in the least like this before," he thought, as he looked at her pale face, her dark, grave eyes; "I have never seen her more beautiful. And there is not one single atom of hope for me."

"How do you do?" she said, unsmiling and waited, as who should invite him to state his errand. She did not offer him her hand but, for that matter, (she might have pleaded), she could not, very well: for one of her hands held her sunshade, and the other held an embroidered silk bag, woman's makeshift for a pocket.

And then, capping the first pang of his disappointment, a kind of anger seized him. After all, what right had she to receive him in this fashion?—as if he were an intrusive stranger. In common civility, in common justice, she owed it to him to suppose that he would not be there without abundant reason.

And now, with Peter angry, the absurd little scene began.

Assuming an attitude designed to be, in its own way, as reticent as hers, "I was passing your gate," he explained, "when I happened to find this, lying by the roadside. I took the liberty of bringing it to you."

He gave her the Cardinal's snuff box, which, in spite of her hands' preoccupation, she was able to accept.

"A liberty!" he thought, grinding his teeth. "Yes! No doubt she would have wished me to leave it with the porter at the lodge. No doubt she deems it an act of officiousness on my part to have found it at all."

And his anger mounted.

"How very good of you," she said. "My uncle could not think where he had mislaid it."

"I am very fortunate to be the means of restoring it," said he.

Then, after a second's suspension, as she said nothing (she kept her eyes on the snuffbox, examining it as if it were quite new to her), he lifted his hat, and bowed, preparatory to retiring down the avenue.

"Oh, but my uncle will wish to thank you," she exclaimed, looking up, with a kind of start. "Will you not come in? I—I will see whether he is disengaged."

She made a tentative movement towards the door. She had thawed perceptibly.

But even as she thawed, Peter, in his anger, froze and stiffened. "I will see whether he is disengaged." The expression grated. And perhaps, in effect, it was not a particularly felicitous expression. But if the poor woman was suffering from nervous apprehension—?

"I beg you on no account to disturb Cardinal Udeschini," he returned loftily. "It is not a matter of the slightest consequence."

And even as he stiffened, she unbent.

"But it is a matter of consequence to him, to us," she said, faintly smiling. "We have hunted high and low for it. We feared it was lost for good. It must have fallen from his pocket when he was walking. He will wish to thank you."

"I am more than thanked already," said Peter. Alas (as Monsieur de la Pallisse has sagely noted), when we aim to appear dignified, how often do we just succeed in appearing churlish.

And to put a seal upon this ridiculous encounter, to make it irrevocable, he lifted his hat again, and turned away.

"Oh, very well," murmured the Duchessa, in a voice that did not reach him. If it had reached him, perhaps he would have come back, perhaps things might have happened. I think there was regret in her voice, as well as despite. She stood for a minute, as he tramped down the avenue, and looked after him, with those unusually dark, grave eyes. At last, making a little gesture—as of regret? despite? impatience?—she went into the house.

"Here is your snuff-box," she said to the Cardinal.

The old man put down his Breviary (he was seated by an open window, getting through his office), and smiled at the snuff box fondly, caressing it with his finger. Afterwards, he shook it, opened it, and took a pinch of snuff.

"Where did you find it?" he enquired.

"It was found by that Mr. Marchdale," she said, "in the road, outside the gate. You must have let it drop this morning, when you were walking with Emilia."

"That Mr. Marchdale?" exclaimed the Cardinal. "What a coincidence."

"A coincidence—?" questioned Beatrice.

"To be sure," said he. "Was it not to Mr. Marchdale that I owed it in the first instance?"

"Oh—? Was it? I had fancied that you owed it to me."

"Yes—but," he reminded her, whilst the lines deepened about his humorous old mouth, "but as a reward of my virtue in conspiring with you to convert him. And, by the way, how is his conversion progressing?"

The Cardinal looked up, with interest.

"It is not progressing at all. I think there is no chance of it," answered Beatrice, in a tone that seemed to imply a certain irritation.

"Oh—?" said the Cardinal.

"No," said she.

"I thought he had shown 'dispositions'?" said the Cardinal.

"That was a mistake. He has shown none. He is a very tiresome and silly person. He is not worth converting," she declared succinctly.

"Good gracious!" said the Cardinal.

He resumed his office. But every now and again he would pause, and look out of the window, with the frown of a man meditating something; then he would shake his head significantly, and take snuff.

Peter tramped down the avenue, angry and sick.

Her reception of him had not only administered an instant death-blow to his hopes as a lover, but in its ungenial aloofness it had cruelly wounded his pride as a man. He felt snubbed and humiliated. Oh, true enough, she had unbent a little, towards the end. But it was the look with which she had first greeted him—it was the air with which she had waited for him to state his errand—that stung, and rankled, and would not be forgotten.

He was angry with her, angry with circumstances, with life, angry with himself.

"I am a fool—and a double fool—and a triple fool," he said. "I am a fool ever to have thought of her at all; a double fool ever to have allowed myself to think so much of her; a triple and quadruple and quintuple idiot ever to have imagined for a moment that anything could come of it. I have wasted time enough. The next best thing to winning is to know when you are beaten. I acknowledge myself beaten. I will go back to England as soon as I can get my boxes packed."

He gazed darkly round the familiar valley, with eyes that abjured it.

Olympus, no doubt, laughed.



XXV

"I shall go back to England as soon as I can get my boxes packed."

But he took no immediate steps to get them packed.

"Hope," observes the clear-sighted French publicist quoted in the preceding chapter, "hope dies hard."

Hope, Peter fancied, had received its death-blow that afternoon. Already, that evening, it began to revive a little. It was very much enfeebled; it was very indefinite and diffident; but it was not dead. It amounted, perhaps, to nothing more than a vague kind of feeling that he would not, on the whole, make his departure for England quite so precipitate as, in the first heat of his anger, the first chill of his despair, he had intended. Piano, piano! He would move slowly, he would do nothing rash.

But he was not happy, he was very far from happy. He spent a wretched night, a wretched, restless morrow. He walked about a great deal—about his garden, and afterwards, when the damnable iteration of his garden had become unbearable, he walked to the village, and took the riverside path, under the poplars, along the racing Aco, and followed it, as the waters paled and broadened, for I forget how many joyless, unremunerative miles.

When he came home, fagged out and dusty, at dinner time, Marietta presented a visiting card to him, on her handsomest salver. She presented it with a flourish that was almost a swagger.

Twice the size of an ordinary visiting-card, the fashion of it was roughly thus:

IL CARDLE UDESCHINI Sacr: Congr: Archiv: et Inscript: Praef:

Palazzo Udeschini.

And above the legend, was pencilled, in a small oldfashioned hand, wonderfully neat and pretty:—

"To thank Mr. Marchdale for his courtesy in returning my snuff-box."

"The Lord Prince Cardinal Udeschini was here," said Marietta. There was a swagger in her accent. There was also something in her accent that seemed to rebuke Peter for his absence.

"I had inferred as much from this," said he, tapping the card. "We English, you know, are great at putting two and two together."

"He came in a carriage," said Marietta.

"Not really?" said her master.

"Ang—veramente," she affirmed.

"Was—was he alone?" Peter asked, an obscure little twinge of hope stirring in his heart.

"No. Signorino." And then she generalised, with untranslatable magniloquence: "Un amplissimo porporato non va mai solo."

Peter ought to have hugged her for that amplissimo porporato. But he was selfishly engrossed in his emotions.

"Who was with him?" He tried to throw the question out with a casual effect, an effect of unconcern.

"The Signorina Emelia Manfredi was with him," answered Marietta, little recking how mere words can stab.

"Oh," said Peter.

"The Lord Prince Cardinal Udeschini was very sorry not to see the Signorino," continued Marietta.

"Poor man—was he? Let us trust that time will console him," said Peter, callously.

But, "I wonder," he asked himself, "I wonder whether perhaps I was the least bit hasty yesterday? If I had stopped, I should have saved the Cardinal a journey here to-day—I might have known that he would come, these Italians are so punctilious—and then, if I had stopped—if I had stopped—possibly—possibly—"

Possibly what? Oh, nothing. And yet, if he had stopped... well, at any rate, he would have gained time. The Duchessa had already begun to thaw. If he had stopped... He could formulate no precise conclusion to that if; but he felt dimly remorseful that he had not stopped, he felt that he had indeed been the least bit hasty. And his remorse was somehow medicine to his reviving hope.

"After all, I scarcely gave things a fair trial yesterday," he said.

And the corollary of that, of course, was that he might give things a further and fairer trial some other day.

But his hope was still hard hurt; he was still in a profound dejection.

"The Signorino is not eating his dinner," cried Marietta, fixing him with suspicious, upbraiding eyes.

"I never said I was," he retorted.

"The Signorino is not well?" she questioned, anxious.

"Oh, yes—cosi, cosi; the Signorino is well enough," he answered.

"The dinner"—you could perceive that she brought herself with difficulty to frame the dread hypothesis—"the dinner is not good?" Her voice sank. She waited, tense, for his reply.

"The dinner," said he, "if one may criticise without eating it, the dinner is excellent. I will have no aspersions cast upon my cook."

"Ah-h-h!" breathed Marietta, a tremulous sigh of relief.

"It is not the Signorino, it is not the dinner, it is the world that is awry," Peter went on, in reflective melancholy. "'T is the times that are out of joint. 'T is the sex, the Sex, that is not well, that is not good, that needs a thorough overhauling and reforming."

"Which sex?" asked Marietta.

"The sex," said Peter. "By the unanimous consent of rhetoricians, there is but one sex the sex, the fair sex, the unfair sex, the gentle sex, the barbaric sex. We men do not form a sex, we do not even form a sect. We are your mere hangers-on, camp-followers, satellites—your things, your playthings—we are the mere shuttlecocks which you toss hither and thither with your battledores, as the wanton mood impels you. We are born of woman, we are swaddled and nursed by woman, we are governessed by woman; subsequently, we are beguiled by woman, fooled by woman, led on, put off, tantalised by woman, fretted and bullied by her; finally, last scene of all, we are wrapped in our cerements by woman. Man's life, birth, death, turn upon woman, as upon a hinge. I have ever been a misanthrope, but now I am seriously thinking of becoming a misogynist as well. Would you advise me to-do so?"

"A misogynist? What is that, Signorino?" asked Marietta.

"A woman-hater," he explained; "one who abhors and forswears the sex; one who has dashed his rose-coloured spectacles from his eyes, and sees woman as she really is, with no illusive glamour; one who has found her out. Yes, I think I shall become a misogynist. It is the only way of rendering yourself invulnerable, 't is the only safe course. During my walk this afternoon, I recollected, from the scattered pigeon-holes of memory, and arranged in consequent order, at least a score of good old apothegmatic shafts against the sex. Was it not, for example, in the grey beginning of days, was it not woman whose mortal taste brought sin into the world and all our woe? Was not that Pandora a woman, who liberated, from the box wherein they were confined, the swarm of winged evils that still afflict us? I will not remind you of St. John Chrysostom's golden parable about a temple and the thing it is constructed over. But I will come straight to the point, and ask whether this is truth the poet sings, when he informs us roundly that 'every woman is a scold at heart'?"

Marietta was gazing patiently at the sky. She did not answer.

"The tongue," Peter resumed, "is woman's weapon, even as the fist is man's. And it is a far deadlier weapon. Words break no bones—they break hearts, instead. Yet were men one-tenth part so ready with their fists, as women are with their barbed and envenomed tongues, what savage brutes you would think us—would n't you?—and what a rushing trade the police-courts would drive, to be sure. That is one of the good old cliches that came back to me during my walk. All women are alike—there's no choice amongst animated fashion-plates: that is another. A woman is the creature of her temper; her husband, her children, and her servants are its victims: that is a third. Woman is a bundle of pins; man is her pin-cushion. When woman loves, 't is not the man she loves, but the man's flattery; woman's love is reflex self-love. The man who marries puts himself in irons. Marriage is a bird-cage in a garden. The birds without hanker to get in; but the birds within know that there is no condition so enviable as that of the birds without. Well, speak up. What do you think? Do you advise me to become a misogynist?"

"I do not understand, Signorino," said Marietta.

"Of course, you don't," said Peter. "Who ever could understand such stuff and nonsense? That's the worst of it. If only one could understand, if only one could believe it, one might find peace, one might resign oneself. But alas and alas! I have never had any real faith in human wickedness; and now, try as I will, I cannot imbue my mind with any real faith in the undesirability of woman. That is why you see me dissolved in tears, and unable to eat my dinner. Oh, to think, to think," he cried with passion, suddenly breaking into English, "to think that less than a fortnight ago, less than one little brief fortnight ago, she was seated in your kitchen, seated there familiarly, in her wet clothes, pouring tea, for all the world as if she was the mistress of the house!"

Days passed. He could not go to Ventirose—or, anyhow, he thought he could not. He reverted to his old habit of living in his garden, haunting the riverside, keeping watchful, covetous eyes turned towards the castle. The river bubbled and babbled; the sun shone strong and clear; his fountain tinkled; his birds flew about their affairs; his flowers breathed forth their perfumes; the Gnisi frowned, the uplands westward laughed, the snows of Monte Sfiorito sailed under every colour of the calendar except their native white. All was as it had ever been—but oh, the difference to him. A week passed. He caught no glimpse of the Duchessa. Yet he took no steps to get his boxes packed.



XXVI

And then Marietta fell ill.

One morning, when she came into his room, to bring his tea, and to open the Venetian blinds that shaded his windows, she failed to salute him with her customary brisk "Buon giorno, Signorino."

Noticing which, and wondering, he, from his pillow, called out, "Buon' giorno, Marietta."

"Buon' giorno, Signorino," she returned but in a whisper.

"What's the matter? Is there cause for secrecy?" Peter asked.

"I have a cold, Signorino," she whispered, pointing to her chest. "I cannot speak."

The Venetian blinds were up by this time; the room was full of sun. He looked at her. Something in her face alarmed him. It seemed drawn and set, it seemed flushed.

"Come here," he said, with a certain peremptoriness. "Give me your hand."

She wiped her brown old hand backwards and forwards across her apron; then gave it to him.

It was hot and dry.

"Your cold is feverish," he said. "You must go to bed, and stay there till the fever has passed."

"I cannot go to bed, Signorino," she replied.

"Can't you? Have you tried?" asked he.

"No, Signorino," she admitted.

"Well, you never can tell whether you can do a thing or not, until you try," said he. "Try to go to bed; and if at first you don't succeed, try, try again."

"I cannot go to bed. Who would do the Signorino's work?" was her whispered objection.

"Hang the Signorino's work. The Signorino's work will do itself. Have you never observed that if you conscientiously neglect to do your work, it somehow manages to get done without you? You have a feverish cold; you must keep out of draughts; and the only place where you can be sure of keeping out of draughts, is bed. Go to bed at once."

She left the room.

But when Peter came downstairs, half an hour later, he heard her moving in her kitchen.

"Marietta!" he cried, entering that apartment with the mien of Nemesis. "I thought I told you to go to bed."

Marietta cowered a little, and looked sheepish, as one surprised in the flagrant fact of misdemeanour.

"Yes, Signorino," she whispered.

"Well—? Do you call this bed?" he demanded.

"No, Signorino," she acknowledged.

"Do you wish to oblige me to put you to bed?" he asked.

"Oh, no, Signorino," she protested, horror in her whisper.

"Then go to bed directly. If you delay any longer, I shall accuse you of wilful insubordination."

"Bene, Signorino," reluctantly consented Marietta.

Peter strolled into his garden. Gigi, the gardener, was working there.

"The very man I most desired to meet," said Peter, and beckoned to him. "Is there a doctor in the village?" he enquired, when Gigi had approached.

"Yes, Signorino. The Syndic is a doctor—Dr. Carretaji."

"Good," said Peter. "Will you go to the village, please, and ask Dr. Carretaji if he can make it convenient to call here to-day? Marietta is not well."

"Yes, Signorino."

"And stop a bit," said Peter. "Are there such things as women in the village?'

"Ah, mache, Signorino! But many, many," answered Gigi, rolling his dark eyes sympathetically, and waving his hands.

"I need but one," said Peter. "A woman to come and do Marietta's work for a day or two—cook, and clean up, and that sort of thing. Do you think you could procure me such a woman?"

"There is my wife, Signorino," suggested Gigi. "If she would content the Signorino?"

"Oh? I was n't aware that you were married. A hundred felicitations. Yes, your wife, by all means. Ask her to come and rule as Marietta's vicereine."

Gigi started for the village.

Peter went into the house, and knocked at Marietta's bed-room door. He found her in bed, with her rosary in her hands. If she could not work, she would not waste her time. In Marietta's simple scheme of life, work and prayer, prayer and work, stood, no doubt, as alternative and complementary duties.

"But you are not half warmly enough covered up," said Peter.

He fetched his travelling-rug, and spread it over her. Then he went to the kitchen, where she had left a fire burning, and filled a bottle with hot water.

"Put this at your feet," he said, returning to Marietta.

"Oh, I cannot allow the Signorino to wait on me like this," the old woman mustered voice to murmur.

"The Signorino likes it—it affords him healthful exercise," Peter assured her.

Dr. Carretaji came about noon, a fat middleaged man, with a fringe of black hair round an ivory-yellow scalp, a massive watch-chain (adorned by the inevitable pointed bit of coral), and podgy, hairy hands. But he seemed kind and honest, and he seemed to know his business.

"She has a catarrh of the larynx, with, I am afraid, a beginning of bronchitis," was his verdict.

"Is there any danger?" Peter asked.

"Not the slightest. She must remain in bed, and take frequent nourishment. Hot milk, and now and then beef-tea. I will send some medicine. But the great things are nourishment and warmth. I will call again to-morrow."

Gigi's wife came. She was a tall, stalwart, blackbrowed, red-cheeked young woman, and her name (Gigi's eyes flashed proudly, as he announced it) her name was Carolina Maddalena.

Peter had to be in and out of Marietta's room all day, to see that she took her beef-tea and milk and medicine regularly. She dozed a good deal. When she was awake, she said her rosary.

But next day she was manifestly worse.

"Yes—bronchitis, as I feared," said the doctor. "Danger? No—none, if properly looked after. Add a little brandy to her milk, and see that she has at least a small cupful every half-hour. I think it would be easier for you if you had a nurse. Someone should be with her at night. There is a Convent of Mercy at Venzona. If you like, I will telephone for a sister."

"Thank you very much. I hope you will," said Peter.

And that afternoon Sister Scholastica arrived, and established herself in the sick-room. Sister Scholastica was young, pale, serene, competent. But sometimes she had to send for Peter.

"She refuses to take her milk. Possibly she will take it from you," the sister said.

Then Peter would assume a half-bluff (perhaps half-wheedling?) tone of mastery.

"Come, Marietta! You must take your milk. The Signorino wishes it. You must not disobey the Signorino."

And Marietta, with a groan, would rouse herself, and take it, Peter holding the cup to her lips.

On the third day, in the morning, Sister Scholastica said, "She imagines that she is worse. I do not think so myself. But she keeps repeating that she is going to die. She wishes to see a priest. I think it would make her feel easier. Can you send for the Parrocco? Please let him know that it is not an occasion for the Sacraments. But it would do her good if he would come and talk with her."

And the doctor, who arrived just then, having visited Marietta, confirmed the sister's opinion.

"She is no worse—she is, if anything, rather better. Her malady is taking its natural course. But people of her class always fancy they are going to die, if they are ill enough to stay in bed. It is the panic of ignorance. Yes, I think it would do her good to see a priest. But there is not the slightest occasion for the Sacraments."

So Peter sent Gigi to the village for the Parrocco. And Gigi came back with the intelligence that the Parrocco was away, making a retreat, and would not return till Saturday. To-day was Wednesday.

"What shall we do now?" Peter asked of Sister Scholastica.

"There is Monsignor Langshawe, at Castel Ventirose," said the sister.

"Could I ask him to come?" Peter doubted.

"Certainly," said the sister. "In a case of illness, the nearest priest will always gladly come."

So Peter despatched Gigi with a note to Monsignor Langshawe.

And presently up drove a brougham, with Gigi on the box beside the coachman. And from the brougham descended, not Monsignor Langshawe, but Cardinal Udeschini, followed by Emilia Manfredi.

The Cardinal gave Peter his hand, with a smile so sweet, so benign, so sunny-bright—it was like music, Peter thought; it was like a silent anthem.

"Monsignor Langshawe has gone to Scotland, for his holiday. I have come in his place. Your man told me of your need," the Cardinal explained.

"I don't know how to thank your Eminence," Peter murmured, and conducted him to Marietta's room.

Sister Scholastica genuflected, and kissed the Cardinal's ring, and received his Benediction. Then she and Peter withdrew, and went into the garden.

The sister joined Emilia, and they walked backwards and forwards together, talking. Peter sat on his rustic bench, smoked cigarettes, and waited.

Nearly an hour passed.

At length the Cardinal came out.

Peter rose, and went forward to meet him.

The Cardinal was smiling; but about his eyes there was a suggestive redness.

"Mr. Marchdale," he said, "your housekeeper is in great distress of conscience touching one or two offences she feels she has been guilty of towards you. They seem to me, in frankness, somewhat trifling. But I cannot persuade her to accept my view. She will not be happy till she has asked and received your pardon for them."

"Offences towards me?" Peter wondered. "Unless excess of patience with a very trying employer constitutes an offence, she has been guilty of none."

"Never mind," said the Cardinal. "Her conscience accuses her—she must satisfy it. Will you come?"

The Cardinal sat down at the head of Marietta's bed, and took her hand.

"Now, dear," he said, with the gentleness, the tenderness, of one speaking to a beloved child, "here is Mr. Marchdale. Tell him what you have on your mind. He is ready to hear and to forgive you."

Marietta fixed her eyes anxiously on Peter's face.

"First," she whispered, "I wish to beg the Signorino to pardon all this trouble I am making for him. I am the Signorino's servant; but instead of serving, I make trouble for him."

She paused. The Cardinal smiled at Peter.

Peter answered, "Marietta, if you talk like that, you will make the Signorino cry. You are the best servant that ever lived. You are putting me to no trouble at all. You are giving me a chance—which I should be glad of, except that it involves your suffering—to show my affection for you, and my gratitude."

"There, dear," said the Cardinal to her, "you see the Signorino makes nothing of that. Now the next thing. Go on."

"I have to ask the Signorino's forgiveness for my impertinence," whispered Marietta.

"Impertinence—?" faltered Peter. "You have never been impertinent."

"Scusi, Signorino," she went on, in her whisper. "I have sometimes contradicted the Signorino. I contradicted the Signorino when he told me that St. Anthony of Padua was born in Lisbon. It is impertinent of a servant to contradict her master. And now his most high Eminence says the Signorino was right. I beg the Signorino to forgive me."

Again the Cardinal smiled at Peter.

"You dear old woman," Peter half laughed, half sobbed, "how can you ask me to forgive a mere difference of opinion? You—you dear old thing."

The Cardinal smiled, and patted Marietta's hand.

"The Signorino is too good," Marietta sighed.

"Go on, dear," said the Cardinal.

"I have been guilty of the deadly sin of evil speaking. I have spoken evil of the Signorino," she went on. "I said—I said to people—that the Signorino was simple—that he was simple and natural. I thought so then. Now I know it is not so. I know it is only that the Signorino is English."

Once more the Cardinal smiled at Peter.

Again Peter half laughed, half sobbed.

"Marietta! Of course I am simple and natural. At least, I try to be. Come! Look up. Smile. Promise you will not worry about these things any more."

She looked up, she smiled faintly.

"The Signorino is too good," she whispered.

After a little interval of silence, "Now, dear," said the Cardinal, "the last thing of all."

Marietta gave a groan, turning her head from side to side on her pillow.

"You need not be afraid," said the Cardinal. "Mr. Marchdale will certainly forgive you."

"Oh-h-h," groaned Marietta. She stared at the ceiling for an instant.

The Cardinal patted her hand. "Courage, courage," he said.

"Oh—Signorino mio," she groaned again, "this you never can forgive me. It is about the little pig, the porcellino. The Signorino remembers the little pig, which he called Francesco?"

"Yes," answered Peter.

"The Signorino told me to take the little pig away, to find a home for him. And I told the Signorino that I would take him to my nephew, who is a farmer, towards Fogliamo. The Signorino remembers?"

"Yes," answered Peter. "Yes, you dear old thing. I remember."

Marietta drew a deep breath, summoned her utmost fortitude.

"Well, I did not take him to my nephew. The—the Signorino ate him."

Peter could hardly keep from laughing. He could only utter a kind of half-choked "Oh?"

"Yes," whispered Marietta. "He was bought with the Signorino's money. I did not like to see the Signorino's money wasted. So I deceived the Signorino. You ate him as a chicken-pasty."

This time Peter did laugh, I am afraid. Even the Cardinal—well, his smile was perilously near a titter. He took a big pinch of snuff.

"I killed Francesco, and I deceived the Signorino. I am very sorry," Marietta said.

Peter knelt down at her bedside.

"Marietta! Your conscience is too sensitive. As for killing Francesco—we are all mortal, he could not have lived forever. And as for deceiving the Signorino, you did it for his own good. I remember that chicken-pasty. It was the best chicken-pasty I have ever tasted. You must not worry any more about the little pig."

Marietta turned her face towards him, and smiled.

"The Signorino forgives his servant?" she whispered.

Peter could not help it. He bent forward, and kissed her brown old cheek.

"She will be easier now," said the Cardinal. "I will stay with her a little longer."

Peter went out. The scene had been childish—do you say?—ridiculous, almost farcical indeed? And yet, somehow, it seemed to Peter that his heart was full of unshed tears. At the same time, as he thought of the Cardinal, as he saw his face, his smile, as he heard the intonations of his voice, the words he had spoken, as he thought of the way he had held Marietta's hand and patted it—at the same time a kind of strange joy seemed to fill his heart, a strange feeling of exaltation, of enthusiasm.

"What a heavenly old man," he said.

In the garden Sister Scholastica and Emilia were still walking together.

They halted, when Peter came out; and Emilia said, "With your consent, Signore, Sister Scholastica has accepted me as her lieutenant. I will come every morning, and sit with Marietta during the day. That will relieve the sister, who has to be up with her at night."

And every morning after that, Emilia came, walking through the park, and crossing the river by the ladder-bridge, which Peter left now permanently in its position. And once or twice a week, in the afternoon, the Cardinal would drive up in the brougham, and, having paid a little visit to Marietta, would drive Emilia home.

In the sick-room Emilia would read to Marietta, or say the rosary for her.

Marietta mended steadily day by day. At the end of a fortnight she was able to leave her bed for an hour or two in the afternoon, and sit in the sun in the garden. Then Sister Scholastica went back to her convent at Venzona. At the end of the third week Marietta could be up all day. But Gigi's stalwart Carolina Maddalena continued to rule as vicereine in the kitchen. And Emilia continued to come every morning.

"Why does the Duchessa never come?" Peter wondered. "It would be decent of her to come and see the poor old woman."

Whenever he thought of Cardinal Udeschini, the same strange feeling of joy would spring up in his heart, which he had felt when he had left the beautiful old man with Marietta, on the day of his first visit. In the beginning he could only give this feeling a very general and indefinite expression. "He is a man who renews one's faith in things, who renews one's faith in human nature." But gradually, I suppose, the feeling crystallised; and at last, in due season, it found for itself an expression that was not so indefinite.

It was in the afternoon, and he had just conducted the Cardinal and Emilia to their carriage. He stood at his gate for a minute, and watched the carriage as it rolled away.

"What a heavenly old man, what a heavenly old man," he thought.

Then, still looking after the carriage, before turning back into his garden, he heard himself repeat, half aloud

"Nor knowest thou what argument Thy life to thy neighbour's creed hath lent."

The words had come to his lips, and were pronounced, were addressed to his mental image of the Cardinal, without any conscious act of volition on his part. He heard them with a sort of surprise, almost as if some one else had spoken them. He could not in the least remember what poem they were from, he could not even remember what poet they were by. Were they by Emerson? It was years since he had read a line of Emerson's.

All that evening the couplet kept running in his head. And the feeling of joy, of enthusiasm, in his heart, was not so strange now. But I think it was intensified.

The next time the Cardinal arrived at Villa Floriano, and gave Peter his hand, Peter did not merely shake it, English fashion, as he had hitherto done.

The Cardinal looked startled.

Then his eyes searched Peter's face for a second, keenly interrogative. Then they softened; and a wonderful clear light shone in them, a wonderful pure, sweet light.

"Benedicat te Omnipotens Deus, Pater, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus," he said, making the Sign of the Cross.



XXVII

Up at the castle, Cardinal Udeschini was walking backwards and forwards on the terrace, reading his Breviary.

Beatrice was seated under the white awning, at the terrace-end, doing some kind of needlework.

Presently the Cardinal came to a standstill near her, and closed his book, putting his finger in it, to keep the place.