CASA BRACCIO

[Illustration: Emblem]

[Illustration: "He looked at her long and sadly. "--Vol. I. , p. 239. ]

CASA BRACCIO

BY

F. MARION CRAWFORD

AUTHOR OF "SARACINESCA, " "PIETRO GHISLERI, " ETC. 

IN TWO VOLUMES

VOL. I. 

_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY A. CASTAIGNE_

 =New York= MACMILLAN AND CO. AND LONDON 1895

 _All rights reserved_

 COPYRIGHT, 1894, BY F. MARION CRAWFORD. 

 =Norwood Press= J. S. Cushing & Co. --Berwick & Smith Norwood Mass. U. S. A. 

 THIS STORY, BEING MY TWENTY-FIFTH NOVEL, IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED TO MY WIFE

 SORRENTO, 1895

CONTENTS. 

 PART I. SISTER MARIA ADDOLORATA 1

 PART II. GLORIA DALRYMPLE 225

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 

VOL. I. 

 PAGE

 Nanna and Annetta 15

 Maria Addolorata 25

 "Sor Tommaso was lying motionless" 78

 "She had covered her face with the veil" 126

 "An evil death on you!" 218

 "He looked at her long and sadly" 239

 "Fire and sleet and candle-light; And Christ receive thy soul" 324

PART I. 

_SISTER MARIA ADDOLORATA. _

CASA BRACCIO. 

PART I. 

_SISTER MARIA ADDOLORATA. _

CHAPTER I. 

SUBIACO lies beyond Tivoli, southeast from Rome, at the upper end of awild gorge in the Samnite mountains. It is an archbishopric, and gives atitle to a cardinal, which alone would make it a town of importance. Itshares with Monte Cassino the honour of having been chosen by SaintBenedict and Saint Scholastica, his sister, as the site of a monasteryand a convent; and in a cell in the rock a portrait of the holy man isstill well preserved, which is believed, not without reason, to havebeen painted from life, although Saint Benedict died early in the fifthcentury. The town itself rises abruptly to a great height upon a mass ofrock, almost conical in shape, crowned by the cardinal's palace, andsurrounded on three sides by rugged mountains. On the third, it looksdown the rapidly widening valley in the direction of Vicovaro, nearwhich the Licenza runs into the Anio, in the neighbourhood of Horace'sfarm. It is a very ancient town, and in its general appearance it doesnot differ very much from many similar ones amongst the Italianmountains; but its position is exceptionally good, and its importancehas been stamped upon it by the hands of those who have thought it worthholding since the days of ancient Rome. Of late it has, of course, acquired a certain modernness of aspect; it has planted acacia trees inits little piazza, and it has a gorgeously arrayed municipal band. Butfrom a little distance one neither hears the band nor sees the trees, the grim medięval fortifications frown upon the valley, and thetime-stained dwellings, great and small, rise in rugged irregularityagainst the lighter brown of the rocky background and the green ofscattered olive groves and chestnuts. Those features, at least, have notchanged, and show no disposition to change during generations to come. 

In the year 1844, modern civilization had not yet set in, and Subiacowas, within, what it still appears to be from without, a somewhat gloomystronghold of the Middle Ages, rearing its battlements and towers in ashadowy gorge, above a mountain torrent, inhabited by primitive andpassionate people, dominated by ecclesiastical institutions, and, though distinctly Roman, a couple of hundred years behind Rome itself inall matters ethic and ęsthetic. It was still the scene of the Santacrocemurder, which really decided Beatrice Cenci's fate; it was still thegathering place of highwaymen and outlaws, whose activity found anadmirable field through all the region of hill and plain between theSamnite range and the sea, while the almost inaccessible fortresses ofthe higher mountains, towards Trevi and the Serra di Sant' Antonio, offered a safe refuge from the halfhearted pursuit of Pope Gregory'slazy soldiers. 

Something of what one may call the life-and-death earnestness of earliertimes, when passion was motive and prejudice was law, survived at thattime and even much later; the ferocity of practical love and hatreddominated the theory and practice of justice in the public life of thesmaller towns, while the patriarchal system subjected the family inalmost absolute servitude to its head. 

There was nothing very surprising in the fact that the head of the houseof Braccio should have obliged one of his daughters to take the veil inthe Convent of Carmelite nuns, just within the gate of Subiaco, as hissister had taken it many years earlier. Indeed, it was customary in thefamily of the Princes of Gerano that one of the women should be aCarmelite, and it was a tradition not unattended with worldly advantagesto the sisterhood, that the Braccio nun, whenever there was one, shouldbe the abbess of that particular convent. 

Maria Teresa Braccio had therefore yielded, though very unwillingly, toher father's insistence, and having passed through her novitiate, hadfinally taken the veil as a Carmelite of Subiaco, in the year 1841, onthe distinct understanding that when her aunt died she was to be abbessin the elder lady's stead. The abbess herself was, indeed, in excellenthealth and not yet fifty years old, so that Maria Teresa--in religionMaria Addolorata--might have a long time to wait before she was promotedto an honour which she regarded as hereditary; but the prospect of suchpromotion was almost her only compensation for all she had left behindher, and she lived upon it and concentrated her character upon it, andpractised the part she was to play, when she was quite sure that she wasnot observed. 

Nature had not made her for a recluse, least of all for a nun of such arigid Order as the Carmelites. The short taste of a brilliant sociallife which she had been allowed to enjoy, in accordance with an ancienttradition, before finally taking the veil, had shown her clearly enoughthe value of what she was to abandon, and at the same time hadaltogether confirmed her father in his decision. Compared with thefreedom of the present day, the restrictions imposed upon a young girlin the Roman society of those times were, of course, tyrannical in theextreme, and the average modern young lady would almost as willingly gointo a convent as submit to them. But Maria Teresa had received animpression which nothing could efface. Her intuitive nature had divinedthe possible semi-emancipation of marriage, and her temperament had feltin a certain degree the extremes of joyous exaltation and of thatentrancing sadness which is love's premonition, and which tells maidenswhat love is before they know him, by making them conscious of thebreadth and depth of his yet vacant dwelling. 

She had learned in that brief time that she was beautiful, and she hadfelt that she could love and that she should be loved in return. She hadseen the world as a princess and had felt it as a woman, and she hadunderstood all that she must give up in taking the veil. But she hadbeen offered no choice, and though she had contemplated opposition, shehad not dared to revolt. Being absolutely in the power of her parents, so far as she was aware, she had accepted the fatality of their will, and bent her fair head to be shorn of its glory and her broad foreheadto be covered forever from the gaze of men. And having submitted, shehad gone through it all bravely and proudly, as perhaps she would havegone through other things, even to death itself, being a daughter of anold race, accustomed to deify honour and to make its divinities oftradition. For the rest of her natural life she was to live on thememories of one short, magnificent year, forever to be contented withthe grim rigidity of conventual life in an ancient cloister surroundedby gloomy mountains. She was to be a veiled shadow amongst veiledshades, a priestess of sorrow amongst sad virgins; and though, if shelived long enough, she was to be the chief of them and their ruler, hervery superiority could only make her desolation more complete, until herown shadow, like the others, should be gathered into eternal darkness. 

Sister Maria Addolorata had certain privileges for which her companionswould have given much, but which were traditionally the right of suchladies of the Braccio family as took the veil. For instance, she had acell which, though not larger than the other cells, was better situated, for it had a little balcony looking over the convent garden, and highenough to afford a view of the distant valley and of the hills whichbounded it, beyond the garden wall. It was entered by the last door inthe corridor within, and was near the abbess's apartment, which wasentered from the corridor, through a small antechamber which also gaveaccess to the vast linen-presses. The balcony, too, had a littlestaircase leading down into the garden. It had always been the custom tocarry the linen to and from the laundry through Maria Addolorata's cell, and through a postern gate in the garden wall, the washing being done inthe town. By this plan, the annoyance was avoided of carrying the hugebaskets through the whole length of the convent, to and from the mainentrance, which was also much further removed from the house of SoraNanna, the chief laundress. Moreover, Maria Addolorata had charge of allthe convent linen, and the employment thus afforded her was an undoubtedprivilege in itself, for occupation of any kind not devotional wasexcessively scarce in such an existence. 

In the eyes of the other nuns, the constant society of the abbessherself was also a privilege, and one not by any means to be despised. After all, the abbess and her niece were nearly related, they could talkof the affairs of their family, and the abbess doubtless received manyletters from Rome containing all the interesting news of the day, andall the social gossip--perfectly innocent, of course--which was thechronicle of Roman life. These were valuable compensations, and the nunsenvied them. The abbess, too, saw her brother, the archbishop andtitular cardinal of Subiaco, when the princely prelate came out fromRome for the coolness of the mountains in August and September, and hisconversation was said to be not only edifying, but fascinating. Thecardinal was a very good man, like many of the Braccio family, but hewas also a man of the world, who had been sent upon foreign missions ofimportance, and had acquired some worldly fame as well as muchecclesiastical dignity in the course of his long life. It must bedelightful, the nuns thought, to be his own sister, to receive longvisits from him, and to hear all he had to say about the busy world ofRome. To most of them, everything beyond Rome was outer darkness. 

But though the nuns envied the abbess and Maria Addolorata, they did notventure to say so, and they hardly dared to think so, even when theywere all alone, each in her cell; for the concentration of conventuallife magnifies small spiritual sins in the absence of anything reallysinful, and to admit that she even faintly wishes she might be some oneelse is to tarnish the brightness of the nun's scrupulously polishedconscience. It would be as great a misdeed, perhaps, as to allow theattention to wander to worldly matters during times of especialdevotion. Nevertheless, the envy showed itself, very perceptibly andmuch against the will of the sisters themselves, in a certain colddeference of manner towards the young and beautiful nun who was one dayto be the superior of them all by force of circumstances for which shedeserved no credit. She had the position among them, and something ofthe isolation, of a young royal princess amongst the ladies of her queenmother's court. 

There was about her, too, an undefinable something, like the shadow offuture fate, a something almost impossible to describe, and yetdistinctly appreciable to all who saw her and lived with her. It cameupon her especially when she was silent and abstracted, when she waskneeling in her place in the choir, or was alone upon her little balconyover the garden. At such times a luminous pallor gradually took theplace of her fresh and healthy complexion, her eyes grew unnaturallydark, with a deep, fixed fire in them, and the regular features tookupon them the white, set straightness of a death mask. Sometimes, atsuch moments, a shiver ran through her, even in summer, and she drew herbreath sharply once or twice, as though she were hurt. The expressionwas not one of suffering or pain, but was rather that of a personconscious of some great danger which must be met without fear orflinching. 

She would have found it very hard to explain what she felt just then. She might have said that it was a consciousness of something unknown. She could not have said more than that. It brought no vision with it, beatific or horrifying; it was not the consequence of methodicalcontemplation, as the trance state is; and it was followed by noreaction nor sense of uneasiness. It simply came and went as the darkshadow of a thundercloud passing between her and the sun, and leaving notrace behind. 

There was nothing to account for it, unless it could be explained byheredity, and no one had ever suggested any such explanation to Maria. It was true that there had been more than one tragedy in the Bracciofamily since they had first lifted their heads above the level of theircontemporaries to become Roman Barons, in the old days before suchtitles as prince and duke had come into use. But then, most of the oldfamilies could tell of deeds as cruel and lives as passionate as anyremembered by Maria's race, and Italians, though superstitious inunexpected ways, have little of that belief in hereditary fate which iscommon enough in the gloomy north. 

"Was Sister Maria Addolorata a great sinner, before she became a nun?"asked Annetta, Sora Nanna's daughter, of her mother, one day, as theycame away from the convent. 

"What are you saying!" exclaimed the washerwoman, in a tone of rebuke. "She is a great lady, and the niece of the abbess and of the cardinal. Sometimes certain ideas pass through your head, my daughter!"

And Sora Nanna gesticulated, unable to express herself. 

"Then she sins in her throat, " observed Annetta, calmly. "But you do noteven look at her--so many sheets--so many pillow-cases--and good day!But while you count, I look. "

"Why should I look at her?" inquired Nanna, shifting the big emptybasket she carried on her head, hitching her broad shoulders andwrinkling her leathery forehead, as her small eyes turned upward. "Doyou take me for a man, that I should make eyes at a nun?"

"And I? Am I a man? And yet I look at her. I see nothing but her facewhen we are there, and afterwards I think about it. What harm is there?She sins in her throat. I know it. "

Sora Nanna hitched her shoulders impatiently again, and said nothing. The two women descended through the steep and narrow street, slipperyand wet with slimy, coal black mud that glittered on the roughcobble-stones. Nanna walked first, and Annetta followed close behindher, keeping step, and setting her feet exactly where her mother hadtrod, with the instinctive certainty of the born mountaineer. With headserect and shoulders square, each with one hand on her hip and the otherhanging down, they carried their burdens swiftly and safely, with aswinging, undulating gait as though it were a pleasure to them to move, and would require an effort to stop rather than to walk on forever. Theywore shoes because they were well-to-do people, and chose to show thatthey were when they went up to the convent. But for the rest they wereclad in the costume of the neighbourhood, --the coarse white shift, closeat the throat, the scarlet bodice, the short, dark, gathered skirt, andthe dark blue carpet apron, with flowers woven on a white stripe acrossthe lower end. Both wore heavy gold earrings, and Sora Nanna had eightor ten strings of large coral beads around her throat. 

Annetta was barely fifteen years old, brown, slim, and active as alizard. She was one of those utterly unruly and untamable girls of whomthere are two or three in every Italian village, in mountain or plain, acreature in whom a living consciousness of living nature took the placeof thought, and with whom to be conscious was to speak, without reasonor hesitation. The small, keen, black eyes were set under immense andarched black eyebrows which made the eyes themselves seem larger thanthey were, and the projecting temples cast shadows to the cheek whichhid the rudimentary modelling of the coarse lower lids. The ears wereflat and ill-developed, but close to the head and not large; the teethvery short, though perfectly regular and exceedingly white; the lipslong, mobile, brown rather than red, and generally parted like thoseof a wild animal. The girl's smoothly sinewy throat moved with everystep, showing the quick play of the elastic cords and muscles. Herblue-black hair was plaited, though far from neatly, and the braids weretwisted into an irregular flat coil, generally hidden by the flap of thewhite embroidered cloth cross-folded upon her head and hanging downbehind. 

[Illustration: Nanna and Annetta. --Vol. I. , p. 15. ]

For some minutes the mother and daughter continued to pick their waydown the winding lanes between the dark houses of the upper village. Then Sora Nanna put out her right hand as a signal to Annetta that shemeant to stop, and she stood still on the steep descent and turneddeliberately till she could see the girl. 

"What are you saying?" she began, as though there had been no pause inthe conversation. "That Sister Maria Addolorata sins in her throat! Buthow can she sin in her throat, since she sees no man but the gardenerand the priest? Indeed, you say foolish things!"

"And what has that to do with it?" inquired Annetta. "She must have seenenough of men in Rome, every one of them a great lord. And who tells youthat she did not love one of them and does not wish that she weremarried to him? And if that is not a sin in the throat, I do not knowwhat to say. There is my answer. "

"You say foolish things, " repeated Sora Nanna. 

Then she turned deliberately away and began to descend once more, withan occasional dissatisfied movement of the shoulders. 

"For the rest, " observed Annetta, "it is not my business. I would ratherlook at the Englishman when he is eating meat than at Sister Maria whenshe is counting clothes! I do not know whether he is a wolf or a man. "

"Eh! The Englishman!" exclaimed Sora Nanna. "You will look so much atthe Englishman that you will make blood with Gigetto, who wishes youwell, and when Gigetto has waited for the Englishman at the corner ofthe forest, what shall we all have? The galleys. What do you see in theEnglishman? He has red hair and long, long teeth. Yes--just like a wolf. You are right. And if he pays for meat, why should he not eat it? If hedid not pay, it would be different. It would soon be finished. Heavensend us a little money without any Englishman! Besides, Gigetto said theother day that he would wait for him at the corner of the forest. AndGigetto, when he says a thing, he does it. "

"And why should we go to the galleys if Gigetto waits for theEnglishman?" inquired Annetta. 

"Silly!" cried the older woman. "Because Gigetto would take yourfather's gun, since he has none of his own. That would be enough. Weshould have done it!"

Annetta shrugged her shoulders and said nothing. 

"But take care, " continued Sora Nanna. "Your father sleeps with one eyeopen. He sees you, and he sees also the Englishman every day. He saysnothing, because he is good. But he has a fist like a paving-stone. Itell you nothing more. "

They reached Sora Nanna's house and disappeared under the dark archway. For Sora Nanna and Stefanone, her husband, were rich people for theirstation, and their house was large and was built with an arch wideenough and high enough for a loaded beast of burden to pass through witha man on its back. And, within, everything was clean and well kept, excepting all that belonged to Annetta. There were airy upper rooms, with well-swept floors of red brick or of beaten cement, furnished withhigh beds on iron trestles, and wooden stools of well-worn brown oak, and tables painted a vivid green, and primitive lithographs of SaintBenedict and Santa Scholastica and the Addolorata. And there were loftsin which the rich autumn grapes were hung up to dry on strings, andwhere chestnuts lay in heaps, and figs were spread in symmetrical orderon great sheets of the coarse grey paper made in Subiaco. There wereapples, too, though poor ones, and there were bins of maize and wheat, waiting to be picked over before being ground in the primeval householdmill. And there were hams and sides of bacon, and red peppers, andbundles of dried herbs, and great mountain cheeses on shelves. There wasalso a guest room, better than the rest, which Stefanone and his wifeoccasionally let to respectable travellers or to the merchants who camefrom Rome on business to stay a few days in Subiaco. At the present timethe room was rented by the Englishman concerning whom the discussion hadarisen between Annetta and her mother. 

Angus Dalrymple, M. D. , was not an Englishman, as he had tried to explainto Sora Nanna, though without the least success. He was, as his nameproclaimed, a Scotchman of the Scotch, and a doctor of medicine. It wastrue that he had red hair, and an abundance of it, and long white teeth, but Sora Nanna's description was otherwise libellously incomplete andwholly omitted all mention of the good points in his appearance. In thefirst place, he possessed the characteristic national build in asuperior degree of development, with all the lean, bony energy which hasdone so much hard work in the world. He was broad-shouldered, long-armed, long-legged, deep-chested, and straight, with sinewy handsand singularly well-shaped fingers. His healthy skin had that mottledlook produced by countless freckles upon an almost childlike complexion. The large, grave mouth generally concealed the long teeth objected to bySora Nanna, and the lips, though even and narrow, were strong ratherthan thin, and their rare smile was both genial and gentle. There werelines--as yet very faint--about the corners of the mouth, which told ofa nervous and passionate disposition and of the strong Scotch temper, aswell as of a certain sensitiveness which belongs especially to northernraces. The pale but very bright blue eyes under shaggy auburn brows werefiery with courage and keen with shrewd enterprise. Dalrymple wasassuredly not a man to be despised under any circumstances, intellectually or physically. 

His presence in such a place as Subiaco, at a time when hardly anyforeigners except painters visited the place, requires some explanation;for he was not an artist, but a doctor, and had never been even temptedto amuse himself with sketching. In the first place, he was a youngerson of a good family, and received a moderate allowance, quitesufficient in those days to allow him considerable latitude ofexpenditure in old-fashioned Italy. Secondly, he had entirely refused tofollow any of the professions known as 'liberal. ' He had no taste forthe law, and he had not the companionable character which alone can makelife in the army pleasant in time of peace. His beliefs, or his lack ofbelief, together with an honourable conscience, made him naturallyopposed to all churches. On the other hand, he had been attracted almostfrom his childhood by scientific subjects, at a period when thediscoveries of the last fifty years appeared as misty but beatificvisions to men of science. To the disappointment and, to some extent, tothe humiliation of his family, he insisted upon studying medicine, atthe University of St. Andrew's, as soon as he had obtained his ordinarydegree at Cambridge. And having once insisted, nothing could turn himfrom his purpose, for he possessed English tenacity grafted upon Scotchoriginality, with a good deal of the strength of both races. 

While still a student he had once made a tour in Italy, and like manynortherners had fallen under the mysterious spell of the South from thevery first. Having a sufficient allowance for all his needs, as has beensaid, and being attracted by the purely scientific side of hisprofession rather than by any desire to become a successfulpractitioner, it was natural enough that on finding himself free to gowhither he pleased in pursuit of knowledge, he should have visited Italyagain. A third visit had convinced him that he should do well to spendsome years in the country; for by that time he had become deeplyinterested in the study of malarious fevers, which in those days werecompletely misunderstood. It would be far too much to say that youngDalrymple had at that time formed any complete theory in regard tomalaria; but his naturally lonely and concentrated intellect hadcontemptuously discarded all explanations of malarious phenomena, and, communicating his own ideas to no one, until he should be in possessionof proofs for his opinions, he had in reality got hold of the beginningof the truth about germs which has since then revolutionized medicine. 

The only object of this short digression has been to show that AngusDalrymple was not a careless idler and tourist in Italy, only halfresponsible for what he did, and not at all for what he thought. On thecontrary, he was a man of very unusual gifts, of superior education, andof rare enterprise; a strong, silent, thoughtful man, abouteight-and-twenty years of age, and just beginning to feel his power assomething greater than he had suspected, when he came to spend theautumn months in Subiaco, and hired Sora Nanna's guest room, with alittle room leading off it, which he kept locked, and in which he had atable, a chair, a microscope, some books, a few chemicals and somesimple apparatus. 

His presence had at first roused certain jealous misgivings in the heartof the town physician, Sor Tommaso Taddei, commonly spoken of simply as'the Doctor, ' because there was no other. But Dalrymple was not withouttact and knowledge of human nature. He explained that he came as aforeigner to learn from native physicians how malarious fevers weretreated in Italy; and he listened with patient intelligence to SorTommaso's antiquated theories, and silently watched his still moreantiquated practice. And Sor Tommaso, like all people who think thatthey know a vast deal, highly approved of Dalrymple's submissivesilence, and said that the young man was a marvel of modesty, and thatif he could stay about ten years in Subiaco and learn something from SorTommaso himself, he might really some day be a fairly gooddoctor, --which were extraordinarily liberal admissions on the part ofthe old practitioner, and contributed largely towards reassuringStefanone concerning his lodger's character. 

For Stefanone and his wife had their doubts and suspicions. Of coursethey knew that all foreigners except Frenchmen and Austrians wereProtestants, and ate meat on fast days, and were under the most especialprotection of the devil, who fattened them in this world that they mightburn the better in the next. But Stefanone had never seen the realforeigner at close quarters, and had not conceived it possible that anyliving human being could devour so much half-cooked flesh in a day asDalrymple desired for his daily portion, paid for, and consumed. Moreover, there was no man in Subiaco who could and did swallow suchportentous draughts of the strong mountain wine, without suffering anyapparent effects from his potations. Furthermore, also, Dalrymple didstrange things by day and night in the small laboratory he had arrangednext to his bedroom, and unholy and evil smells issued at times throughthe cracks of the door, and penetrated from the bedroom to the stairsoutside, and were distinctly perceptible all over the house. ThereforeStefanone maintained for a long time that his lodger was in league withthe powers of darkness, and that it was not safe to keep him in thehouse, though he paid his bill so very regularly, every Saturday, andnever quarrelled about the price of his food and drink. On the whole, however, Stefanone abstained from interfering, as he had at first beeninclined to do, and entering the laboratory, with the support of theparish priest, a basin of holy water, and a loaded gun--all three ofwhich he considered necessary for an exorcism; and little by little, SorTommaso, the doctor, persuaded him that Dalrymple was a worthy youngman, deeply engaged in profound studies, and should be respected ratherthan exorcised. 

"Of course, " admitted the doctor, "he is a Protestant. But then he has apassport. Let us therefore let him alone. "

The existence of the passport--indispensable in those days--was a strongargument in the eyes of the simple Stefanone. He could not conceivethat a magician whose soul was sold to the devil could possibly have apassport and be under the protection of the law. So the matter wassettled. 

CHAPTER II. 

[Illustration: Maria Addolorata. --Vol. I. , p. 25. ]

SISTER MARIA ADDOLORATA sat by the open door of her cell, looking acrossthe stone parapet of her little balcony, and watching the changingrichness of the western sky, as the sun went down far out of sightbehind the mountains. Though the month was October, the afternoon waswarm; it was very still, and the air had been close in the choir duringthe Benediction service, which was just over. She leaned back in herchair, and her lips parted as she breathed, with a perceptible desirefor refreshment in the breath. She held a piece of needlework in herheavy white hands; the needle had been thrust through the linen, but thestitch had remained unfinished, and one pointed finger pressed thedoubled edge against the other, lest the material should slip before shemade up her mind to draw the needle through. Deep in the garden underthe balcony the late flowers were taking strangely vivid colours out ofthe bright sky above, and some bits of broken glass, stuck in the mortaron the top of the opposite wall as a protection against thieving boys, glowed like a line of rough rubies against the misty distance. Even thewhite walls of the bare cell and the coarse grey blanket lying acrossthe foot of the small bed drank in a little of the colour, and lookedless grey and less grim. 

From the eaves, high above the open door, the swallows shot down intothe golden light, striking great circles and reflecting the red gold ofthe sky from their breasts as they wheeled just beyond the wall, withsteady wings wide-stretched, up and down; and each one, turning at fullspeed, struck upwards again and was out of sight in an instant, abovethe lintel. The nun watched them, her eyes trying to follow each of themin turn and to recognize them separately as they flashed into sightagain and again. 

Her lips were parted, and as she sat there she began to sing very softlyand quite unconsciously. She could not have told what the song was. Thewords were strange and oddly divided, and there was a deadly sadness ina certain interval that came back almost with every stave. But the voiceitself was beautiful beyond all comparison with ordinary voices, full ofdeep and touching vibrations and far harmonics, though she sang sosoftly, all to herself. Notes like hers haunt the ears--and sometimesthe heart--when she who sang them has been long dead, and many wouldgive much to hear but a breath of them again. 

It was hard for Maria Addolorata not to sing sometimes, when she wasall alone in her cell, though it was so strictly forbidden. Singing is agift of expression, when it is a really natural gift, as much as speechand gesture and the smile on the lips, with the one difference that itis a keener pleasure to him or her that sings than gesture or speech canpossibly be. Music, and especially singing, are a physical as well as anintellectual expression, a pleasure of the body as well as a'delectation' of the soul. To sing naturally and spontaneously is mostgenerally an endowment of natures physically strong and rich by thesenses, independently of the mind, though melody may sometimes be theaudible translation of a silent thought as well as the unconsciousspeech of wordless passion. 

And in Maria's song there was a strain of that something unknown andfatal, which the nuns sometimes saw in her face and which was in hereyes now, as she sang; for they no longer followed the circling of theswallows, but grew fixed and dark, with fiery reflexions from the sunsetsky, and the regular features grew white and straight and square againstthe deepening shadows within the narrow room. The deep voice trembled alittle, and the shoulders had a short, shivering movement under theheavy folds of the dark veil, as the sensation of a presence ran throughher and made her shudder. But the voice did not break, and she sang on, louder, now, than she realized, the full notes swelling in her throat, and vibrating between the narrow walls, and floating out through theopen door to join the flight of the swallows. 

The door of the cell opened gently, but she did not hear, and sang on, leaning back in her chair and gazing still at the pink clouds above themountains. 

 "Death is my love, dark-eyed death--"

she sang. 

"Maria!"

The abbess was standing in the doorway and speaking to her, but she didnot hear. 

 "His hands are sweetly cold and gentle-- Flowers of leek, and firefly-- Holy Saint John!"

"Maria!" cried the abbess, impatiently. "What follies are you singing? Icould hear you in my room!"

Maria Addolorata started and rose from her seat, still holding herneedlework, and turning half round towards her superior, with suddenlydowncast eyes. The elder lady came forward with slow dignity and walkedas far as the door of the balcony, where she stood still for a moment, gazing at the beautiful sky. She was not a stately woman, for she wastoo short and stout, but she had that calm air of assured superioritywhich takes the place of stateliness, and which seems to belongespecially to those who occupy important positions in the Church. Herlarge features, though too heavy, were imposing in their excessivepallor, while the broad, dark brown shadows all around and beneath thelarge black eyes gave the face a depth of expression which did not, perhaps, wholly correspond with the original character. It was astriking face, and considering the wide interval between the ages of theabbess and her niece, and the natural difference of colouring, there wasa strong family resemblance in the two women. 

The abbess sat down upon the only chair, and Maria remained standingbefore her, her sewing in her hands. 

"I have often told you that you must not sing in your cell, " said theabbess, in a coldly severe tone. 

Maria's shoulders shook her veil a little, but she still looked at thefloor. 

"I cannot help it, " she answered in a constrained voice. "I did not knowthat I was singing--"

"That is ridiculous! How can one sing, and not know it? You are notdeaf. At least, you do not sing as though you were. I will not have it. I could hear you as far away as my own room--a love-song, too!"

"The love of death, " suggested Maria. 

"It makes no difference, " answered the elder lady. "You disturb thepeace of the sisters with your singing. You know the rule, and you mustobey it, like the rest. If you must sing, then sing in church. "

"I do. "

"Very well, that ought to be enough. Must you sing all the time? Supposethat the Cardinal had been visiting me, as was quite possible, whatimpression would he have had of our discipline?"

"Oh, Uncle Cardinal has often heard me sing. "

"You must not call him 'Uncle Cardinal. ' It is like the common peoplewho say 'Uncle Priest. ' I have told you that a hundred times at least. And if the Cardinal has heard you singing, so much the worse. "

"He once told me that I had a good voice, " observed Maria, stillstanding before her aunt. 

"A good voice is a gift of God and to be used in church, but not in sucha way as to attract attention or admiration. The devil is everywhere, mydaughter, and makes use of our best gifts as a means of temptation. TheCardinal certainly did not hear you singing that witch's love-song whichI heard just now. He would have rebuked you as I do. "

"It was not a love-song. It is about death--and Saint John's eve. "

"Well, then it is about witches. Do not argue with me. There is a rule, and you must not break it. "

Maria Addolorata said nothing, but moved a step and leaned against thedoor-post, looking out into the evening light. The stout abbess satmotionless in her straight chair, looking past her niece at the distanthills. She had evidently said all she meant to say about the singing, and it did not occur to her to talk of anything else. A long silencefollowed. Maria was not timid, but she had been accustomed from herchildhood to look upon her aunt as an immensely superior person, movingin a higher sphere, and five years spent in the convent as novice andnun had rather increased than diminished the feeling of awe which theabbess inspired in the young girl. There was, indeed, no other sister inthe community who would have dared to answer the abbess's rebuke at all, and Maria's very humble protest really represented an extraordinarydegree of individuality and courage. Conventual institutions can onlyexist on a basis of absolute submission. 

The abbess was neither harsh nor unkind, and was certainly not a veryterrifying figure, but she possessed undeniable force of character, strengthened by the inborn sense of hereditary right and power, and herkindness was as imposing as her displeasure was lofty and solemn. Shehad very little sympathy for any weakness in others, but she was alwaysready to dispense the mercy of Heaven, vicariously, so to say, and witha certain royally suppressed surprise that Heaven should be merciful. On the whole, considering the circumstances, she admitted that MariaAddolorata had accepted the veil with sufficient outward grace, thoughwithout any vocation, and she took it for granted that with suchopportunities the girl must slowly develop into an abbess not unlike herpredecessors. She prayed regularly, of course, and with especialintention, for her niece, as for the welfare of the order, and assumedas an unquestionable result that her prayers were answered with perfectregularity, since her own conscience did not reproach her withnegligence of her young relative's spiritual education. 

To the abbess, religion, the order and its duties, presented themselvesas a vast machine controlled for the glory of God by the Pope. She andher nuns were parts of the great engine which must work with perfectregularity in order that God might be glorified. Her mind was naturallyreligious, but was at the same time essentially of the material order. There is a material imagination, and there is a spiritual imagination. There are very good and devout men and women who take the world, presentand to come, quite literally, as a mere fulfilment of their ownlimitations; who look upon what they know as being all that need beknown, and upon what they believe of God and Heaven as the mechanicalconsequence of what they know rather than as the cause and goal, respectively, of existence and action; to whom the letter of the law isthe arbitrary expression of a despotic power, which, somehow, must belooked upon as merciful; who answer all questions concerning God's logicwith the tremendous assertion of God's will; whose God is a magnifiedman, and whose devil is a malignant animal, second only to God inunderstanding, while extreme from God in disposition. There are good menand women who, to use a natural but not flippant simile, take it forgranted that the soul is cast into the troubled waters of life withoutthe power to swim, or even the possibility of learning to float, dependent upon the bare chance that some one may throw it the life-buoyof ritual religion as its only conceivable means of salvation. And theopponents of each particular form of faith invariably take just suchgood men and women, with all their limitations, as the only trueexponents of that especial creed, which they then proceed to tear inpieces with all the ease such an undue advantage of false premise givesthem. None of them have thought of intellectual mercy as being, perhaps, an integral part of Christian charity. Faith they have in abundance, andhope also not a little; but charity, though it be for men's earthly illsand, theoretically, if not always practically, for men's spiritualshortcomings, is rigidly forbidden for the errors of men's minds. Why?No thinking man can help asking the little question which grows great inthe unanswering silence that follows it. 

All this is not intended as an apology for what the young nun, MariaAddolorata, afterwards did, though much of it is necessary inexplanation of her deeds, which, however they may be regarded, broughtupon her and others their inevitable logical consequences. Still less isit meant, in any sense, as an attack upon the conventual system of thecloistered orders, which system was itself a consequence of spiritual, intellectual and political history, and has a prime right to be judgedupon the evidence of its causes, and not by the shortcomings of itsresults in changed times. What has been said merely makes clear the factthat the characters, minds, and dispositions of Maria Addolorata and ofher aunt, the abbess, were wholly unsuited to one another. And this onefact became a source of life and death, of happiness and misery, ofcomedy and tragedy, to many individuals, even to the present day. 

The nun remained motionless, pressing her cheek against the door-postand looking out. Her aunt had not quite shut the door by which she hadentered, and a cool stream of air blew outward from the corridor andthrough the cell, bringing with it that peculiar odour which belongs toall large and old buildings inhabited by religious communities. It ismade up of the cold exhalations from stone walls and paved floors inwhich there is always some dampness, of the acrid smell of the heavy, leathern, wadded curtains which shut off the main drafts of air, as theswinging doors do in a mine, of a faint but perceptible suggestion ofincense which penetrates the whole building from the church or thechapel, and, not least, of the fumes from the cookery of the greatquantities of vegetables which are the staple food of the brethren orthe sisters. It is as imperceptible to the monks and nuns themselves asthe smell of tobacco to the smoker. 

It had been very close in the little cell, and Maria was glad of thecoolness that came in through the open door. Her eyes were fixed on thesky with a longing look. Again the words of her song rose to her lips, but she checked them, remembering her aunt's presence, and with theeffort to be silent came the strong wish to be free, to be over thereupon those purple hills at evening, to look beyond and watch the sunsinking into the distant sea, to breathe her fill of the mountain air, to run along the crests of the hills till she should be tired, to sleepunder the open sky, to see, in dreams, to-morrow's sun rising throughthe trees, to be waked by the song of birds and to find that the dreamwas true. 

Instead of that, and instead of all it meant to her, there was to bethe silent evening meal, the close, lighted chapel, the wearily nasalchant of the sisters, her lonely cell, with its close darkness, theunrefreshing sleep, broken by the bell calling her to another office inthe chapel; then, at last, the dawn, and the day that would seem as mucha prisoner as herself within the convent walls, and the praying andnasal chanting, and the counting of sheets and pillow-cases, and doing alittle sewing, and singing to herself, perhaps, and then the beingreproved for it--the whole varied by meals of coarse food, andperiodical stations in her seat in the choir. The day! The very sunseemed imprisoned in his corner of the garden wall, dragging slowly athis chain, in a short half-circle, from morning till evening, like awatch-dog tied up in a yard beside his kennel. The night was better. Sometimes she could see the moon-rays through the cracks of the balconydoor, as she lay in her bed. She could see them against the darkness, and the ends of them were straight white lines and round white spots onthe floor and on the walls. Her thoughts played in them, and her maidenfancies caught them and followed them lightly out into the white nightand far away to the third world, which is dreamland. And in her dreamsshe sang to the midnight stars, and clasped her bare arms round themoon's white throat, kissing the moon-lady's pale and passionate cheek, till she lost herself in the mysterious eyes, and found herself oncemore, bathed in cool star-showers, the queen of a tender dream. 

There sat the abbess, in the only chair, stolid, righteous, imposing. The incarnation and representative of the ninety and nine who need noforgiveness, exasperatingly and mathematically virtuous as a dogma, awoman against whom no sort of reproach could be brought, and at the meresight of whom false witnesses would shrivel up and die, like jelly-fishin the sun. She not only approved of the convent life, but she liked it. She was at liberty to do a thousand things which were not permitted tothe nuns, but she had not the slightest inclination to do any of them, any more than she was inclined to admit that any of them could possiblybe unhappy if they would only pray, sing, sleep, and eat boiled cabbageat the appointed hours. What had she in common with Maria Addolorata, except that she was born a princess and a Braccio?

Of what use was it to be a princess by birth, like a dozen or more ofthe sisters, or even a noble, like all the others? Of what use oradvantage could anything be, where liberty was not? An even plainer andmore desperate question rose in the young nun's heart, as she leaned hercheek against the door-post, still warm with the afternoon sun. Of whatuse was life, if it was to be lived in the tomb with the accompanimentof a lifelong funeral service? Why should not God be as well pleasedwith suicide as with self-burial? Why should not death all at once, bythe sudden dash of cleanly steel, be as noble and acceptable a sacrificeas death by sordid degrees of orderly suffering, systematic starvation, and rigidly regulated misery? Was not life, life--and blood, blood--whether drawn by drops, or shed from a quick wound in thesplendid redness of one heroic instant? Surely it would be as grand athing, if a mere sacrifice were the object, to be laid down stark dead, with the death-thrust in the heart, at the foot of the altar, in all herradiant youth and full young beauty, untempted and unsullied, as to fastand pray through forty querulous years of misery in prison. 

But then, there was the virtue of patience. Therein, doubtless, lay thedifference. It was not the death alone that was to please God, but thelong manner of it, the summed-up account of suffering, the interest paidon the capital of life after it was invested in death. God was to bepleased with items, and the sum of them. Item, a sleepless night. Item, a bad cold, caught by kneeling on the damp stones. Item, a dish ofsweets refused on a feast-day. Item, the resolution not to laugh when afly settled on the abbess's nose. Item, the resolution not to wish thather hair had never been cut off. Item, being stifled in summer andfrozen in winter, in her cell. Item, appreciating that it was the bestcell, and that she was better off than the other sisters. 

Repeat the items for half a century, sum them up, and offer them to Godas a meet and fitting sacrifice--the destruction, by fine degrees ofpetty suffering, of one woman's whole life, almost from the beginning, and quite to the end, with the total annihilation of all its humanpossibilities, of love, of motherhood, of reasonable enjoyment andlegitimate happiness. That was the formula for salvation which MariaAddolorata had received with the veil. 

And not only had she received it. It had been thrust upon her, becauseshe chanced to be the only available daughter of the ancient house ofBraccio, to fill the hereditary seat beneath the wooden canopy, asabbess of the Subiaco Carmelites. If there had been another sister, lessfair, more religiously disposed, that sister would have been chosen inMaria's stead. But there was no other; and there must be a young Braccionun, to take the place of the elder one, when the latter should havefilled her account to overflowing with little items to be paid for withthe gold of certain salvation. 

That a sinful woman, full of sorrows, and weary of the world, mightsilently bow her head under the nun's veil, and wear out with prayerfulausterity the deep-cut letters of her sin's story, that, at least, was athing Maria could understand. There were faces amongst the sisters thathaunted her in her solitude, lips that could have told much, but whichsaid only 'Miserere'; eyes that had looked on love, and that fixedthemselves now only on the Cross; cheeks blanched with grief andhollowed as the marble of an ancient fountain by often flowing tears;hearts that had given all, and had been beaten and bruised and rejected. The convent was for them; the life was a life for them; for them therewas no freedom beyond these walls, in the living world, nor anywhere onthis side of death. They had done right in coming, and they did right instaying; they were reasonable when they prayed that they might havetime, before they died, to be sorry for their sins and to touch againthe hem of the garment of innocence. 

But even they, if they were told that it would be right, would they notrather shorten their time to a day, even to one instant, of aggregatedpain, and offer up their sacrifice all at once? And why should it not beright? Did God delight in pain and suffering for its own sake? Thepassionate girl's heart revolted angrily against a Being that couldenjoy the sufferings of helpless creatures. 

But then, there was that virtue of patience again, which was beyond hercomprehension. At last she spoke, her face still to the sunset. 

"What difference can it make to God how we die?" she asked, scarcelyconscious that she was speaking. 

The abbess must have started a little, for the chair creaked suddenly, several seconds before she answered. Her face did not relax, however, nor were her hands unclasped from one another as they lay folded on herknees. 

"That is a foolish question, my daughter, " she said at last. "Do youthink that God was not pleased by the sufferings of the holy martyrs, and did not reward them for what they bore?"

"No, I did not mean that, " answered Maria, quickly. "But why should wenot all be martyrs? It would be much quicker. "

"Heaven preserve us!" exclaimed the abbess. "What are you thinking of, child?"

"It would be so much quicker, " repeated Maria. "What are we here for? Tosacrifice our lives to God. We wish to make this sacrifice, and Godpromises to accept it. Why would it be less complete if we were led tothe altar as soon as we have finished our novitiate and quickly killed?It would be the same, and it would be much quicker. What difference canit make how we die, since we are to die in the end, withoutaccomplishing anything except dying?"

By this time the abbess's pale hands were unclasped, and one of thempressed each knee, as she leaned far forward in her seat, with anexpression of surprise and horror, her dark lips parted and all thelines of her colourless face drawn down. 

"Are you mad, Maria?" she asked in a low voice. 

"Mad? No. Why should you think me mad?" The nun turned and looked downat her aunt. "After all, it is the great question. Our lives are but apreparation for death. Why need the preparation be so long? Why shouldthe death be so slow? Why should it be right to kill ourselves for theglory of God by degrees, and wrong to do it all at once, if one has thecourage? I think it is a very reasonable question. "

"Indeed, you are beside yourself! The devil suggests such things to youand blinds you to the truth, my child. Penance and prayer, prayer andpenance--by the grace of Heaven it will pass. "

"Penance and prayer!" exclaimed Maria, sadly. "That is it--a slow death, but a sure one!"

"I am more than sixty years old, " replied the abbess. "I have donepenance and prayed prayers all my life, and you see--I am well. I amstout. "

"For charity's sake, do not say so!" cried Maria, making the sign of thehorns with her fingers, to ward off the evil eye. "You will certainlyfall ill. "

"Our lives are of God. It is our own eyes that are evil. You must notmake horns with your fingers. It is a heathen superstition, as I haveoften told you. But many of you do it. Maria, I wish to speak to youseriously. "

"Speak, mother, " answered the young nun, the strong habit of submissionreturning instantly with the other's grave tone. 

"These thoughts of yours are very wicked. We are placed in the world, and we must continue to live in it, as long as God wills that we should. When God is pleased to deliver us, He will take us in good time. You andI and the sisters should be thankful that during our brief stay on earththis sanctuary has fallen to our lot, and this possibility of a holylife. We must take every advantage of it, thanking Heaven if our stay belong enough for us to repent of our sins and obtain indulgence for ourvenial shortcomings. It is wicked to desire to shorten our lives. It iswicked to desire anything which is not the will of God. We are here tolive, to watch and to pray--not to complain and to rebel. "

The abbess was stout, as she herself admitted, and between her suddensurprise at her niece's wholly unorthodox, not to say blasphemous, suggestion of suicide as a means of grace, and her own attempt ateloquence, she grew rapidly warm, in spite of the comparatively cooldraft which was passing out from the interior of the building. Shecaught the end of her loose over-sleeve and fanned herself slowly whenshe had finished speaking. 

But Maria Addolorata did not consider that she was answered. There inthe cell of a Carmelite convent, in the heart of a young girl who hadperhaps never heard of Shakespeare and who certainly knew nothing ofHamlet, the question of all questions found itself, and she found for itsuch speech as she could command. It broke out passionately andimpatiently. 

"What are we? And why are we what we are? Yes, mother--I know that youare good, and that all you say is true. But it is not all. There is allthe world beyond it. To live, or not to live--but you know that this isnot living! It is not meant to be living, as the people outsideunderstand what living means. What does it all signify but death, whenwe take the veil, and lie before the altar, and are covered with afuneral pall? It means dying--then why not altogether dying? Has not Godangels, in thousands, to praise Him and worship Him, and pray forsinners on earth? And they sing and pray gladly, because they areblessed and do not suffer, as we do. Why should God want us, poor littlenuns, to live half dead, and to praise Him with voices that crack withthe cold in winter, and to kneel till we faint with the heat in summer, and to wear out our bodies with fasting and prayer and penance, till itis all we can do to crawl to our places in the choir? Not I--I am youngand strong still--nor you, perhaps, for you are strong still, though youare not young. But many of the sisters--yes, they are the best ones, Iknow--they are killing themselves by inches before our eyes. You knowit--I know it--they know it themselves. Why should they not find someshorter way of death for God's glory? Or if not, why should they notlive happily, since many of them could? Why should God, who made us, wish us to destroy ourselves--or if He does, then why may we not do itin our own way? Ah--it would be so short--a knife-thrust, and then thegreat peace forever!"

The abbess had risen and was standing before Maria, one hand resting onthe back of the rush-bottomed chair. 

"Blasphemy!" she cried, finding breath at last. "It is blasphemy, ormadness, or both! It is the evil one's own doing! Forgive her, good God!She does not know what she is saying! Almighty and most merciful God, forgive her!"

For a moment Maria Addolorata was silent, realizing how far she hadforgotten herself, and startled by the abbess's terrified eyes andexcited tone. But she was naturally a far more daring woman than sheherself knew. Though her face was pale, her lips smiled at her goodaunt's fright. 

"But that is not an answer--just to cry 'blasphemy!'" she said. "Thequestion is clear--"

She did not finish the sentence. The abbess was really beside herselfwith religious terror. With almost violent hands she dragged and thrusther niece down till Maria fell upon her knees. 

"Pray, child! Pray, before it is too late!" she cried. "Pray on yourknees that this possession may pass, before your soul is lost forever!"

She herself knelt beside the girl upon the stones, still clasping herand pressing her down. And she prayed aloud, long, fervently, almostwildly, appealing to God for protection against a bodily tempting devil, who by his will, and with evil strength, was luring and driving a humansoul to utter damnation. 

CHAPTER III. 

"IT is well, " said Stefanone. "The world is come to an end. I will notsay anything more. "

He finished his tumbler of wine, leaned back on the wooden bench againstthe brown wall, played with the broad silver buttons of his dark bluejacket, and stared hard at Sor Tommaso, the doctor, who sat opposite tohim. The doctor returned his glance rather unsteadily and betook himselfto his snuffbox. It was of worn black ebony, adorned in the middle ofthe lid with a small view of Saint Peter's and the colonnades in mosaic, with a very blue sky. From long use, each tiny fragment of the mosaicwas surrounded by a minute black line, which indeed lent some tone tothe intensely clear atmosphere of the little picture, but gave thearchitecture represented therein a dirty and neglected appearance. Thesnuff itself, however, was of the superior quality known as Sicilian inthose days, and was of a beautiful light brown colour. 

"And why?" asked the doctor very slowly, between the operations ofpinching, stuffing, snuffing, and dusting. "Why is the world come to anend?"

Stefanone's eyes grew sullen, with a sort of dull glare in theirunwinking gaze. He looked dangerous just then, but the doctor did notseem to be in the least afraid of him. 

"You, who have made it end, should know why, " answered the peasant, after a short pause. 

Stefanone was a man of the Roman type, of medium height, thick set andnaturally melancholic, with thin, straight lips that were clean shaven, straight black hair, a small but aggressively aquiline nose and heavyhands, hairy on the backs of the fingers, between the knuckles. Hiswife, Sora Nanna, said that he had a fist like a paving-stone. He alsolooked as though he might have the constitution of a mule. He was atthat time about five-and-thirty years of age, and there were a fewstrong lines in his face, notably those curved ones drawn from thebeginning of the nostrils to the corners of the mouth, which are said todenote an uncertain temper. 

He wore the dress of the richer peasants of that day, a coarse butspotless white shirt, very open at the throat, a jacket and waistcoat ofstout dark blue cloth, with large and smooth silver buttons, knee-breeches, white stockings, and heavy low shoes with steel buckles. He combined the occupations of farmer, wine-seller, and carrier. When hewas on the road between Subiaco and Rome, Gigetto, already mentioned, was supposed to represent him. It was understood that Gigetto was tomarry Annetta--if he could be prevailed upon to do so, for he was theyounger son of a peasant family which held its head even higher thanStefanone, and the young man as well as his people looked upon Annetta'swild ways with disapproval, though her fortune, as the only child ofStefanone and Sora Nanna, was a very strong attraction. In the meantime, Gigetto acted as though he were the older man's partner in thewine-shop, and as he was a particularly honest, but also a particularlyidle, young man with a taste for singing and playing on the guitar, theposition suited him admirably. 

As for Sor Tommaso, with whom Stefanone seemed inclined to quarrel onthis particular evening, he was a highly respectable personage in anarrow-shouldered, high-collared black coat with broad skirts, and asnuff-coloured waistcoat. He wore a stock which was decidedly shabby, but decent, and the thin cuffs of his shirt were turned back over thetight sleeves of his coat, in the old fashion. He also wore amazinglytight black trousers, strapped closely over his well-blacked boots. Totell the truth, these nether garments, though of great naturalresistance, had lived so long at a high tension, so to say, that theywere no longer equally tight at all points, and there were, undoubtedly, certain perceptible spots on them; but, on the whole, the general effectof the doctor's appearance was fashionable, in the fashion of severalyears earlier and judged by the standard of Subiaco. He wore his hairrather long, in a handsome iron-grey confusion, his face wasclose-shaven, and, though he was thin, his complexion was somewhatapoplectic. 

Having duly and solemnly finished the operation of taking snuff, thedoctor looked at the peasant. 

"I do not wish to have said anything, " he observed, by way of a generalretraction. "These are probably follies. "

"And for not having meant to say anything, you have planted this knifein my heart!" retorted Stefanone, the veins swelling at his temples. "Thank you. I wish to die, if I forget it. You tell me that thisdaughter of mine is making love with the Englishman. And then you saythat you do not wish to have said anything! May he die, the Englishman, he, and whoever made him, with the whole family! An evil death on himand all his house!"

"So long as you do not make me die, too!" exclaimed Sor Tommaso, withrather a pitying smile. 

"Eh! To die--it is soon said! And yet, people do die. You, who are adoctor, should know that. And you do not wish to have said anything!Bravo, doctor! Words are words. And yet they can sting. And after athousand years, they still sting. You--what can you understand? Are youperhaps a father? You have not even a wife. Oh, blessed be God! You donot even know what you are saying. You know nothing. You think, perhaps, because you are a doctor, that you know more than I do. I will tell youthat you are an ignorant!"

"Oh, beautiful!" cried the doctor, angrily, stung by what is stillalmost a mortal insult. "You--to me--ignorant! Oh, beautiful, mostbeautiful, this! From a peasant to a man of science! Perhaps you toohave a diploma from the University of the Sapienza--"

"If I had, I should wrap half a pound of sliced ham--fat ham, youknow--in it, for the first customer. What should I do with yourdiplomas! I ask you, what do you know? Do you know at all what adaughter is? Blood of my blood, heart of my heart, hand of this hand. But I am a peasant, and you are a doctor. Therefore, I know nothing. "

"And meanwhile you give me 'ignorant' in my face!" retorted Sor Tommaso. 

"Yes--and I repeat it!" cried Stefanone, leaning forwards, his clenchedhand on the table. "I say it twice, three times--ignorant, ignorant, ignorant! Have you understood?"

"Say it louder! In that way every one can hear you! Beast of asheep-grazer!"

"And you--crow-feeder! Furnisher of grave-diggers. And then--ignorant!Oh--this time I have said it clearly!"

"And it seems to me that it is enough!" roared the doctor, across thetable. "Ciociaro! Take that!"

"Ciociaro? I? Oh, your soul! If I get hold of you with my hands!"

A 'ciociaro' is a hill-man who wears 'cioce, ' or rags, bound upon hisfeet with leathern sandals and thongs. He is generally a shepherd, andis held in contempt by the more respectable people of the largermountain towns. To call a man a 'ciociaro' is a bitter insult. 

Stefanone in his anger had half risen from his seat. But the woodenbench on which he had been sitting was close to the wall behind him, andthe heavy oak table was pushed up within a few inches of his chest, sothat his movements were considerably hampered as he stretched out hishands rather wildly towards his adversary. The latter, who possessedmore moral than physical courage, moved his chair back and prepared tomake his escape, if Stefanone showed signs of coming round the table. 

At that moment a tall figure darkened the door that opened upon thestreet, and a quiet, dry voice spoke with a strong foreign accent. Itwas Angus Dalrymple, returning from a botanizing expedition in thehills, after being absent all day. 

"That is a very uncomfortable way of fighting, " he observed, as he stoodstill in the doorway. "You cannot hit a man across a table broader thanyour arm is long, Signor Stefano. "

The effect of his words was instantaneous. Stefanone fell back into hisseat. The doctor's anxious and excited expression resolved itselfinstantly into a polite smile. 

"We were only playing, " he said suavely. "A little discussion--a merejest. Our friend Stefanone was explaining something. "

"If the table had been narrower, he would have explained you awayaltogether, " observed Dalrymple, coming forward. 

He laid a tin box which he had with him upon the table, and shook handswith Sor Tommaso. Then he slipped behind the table and sat down close tohis host, as a precautionary measure in case the play should be resumed. Stefanone would have had a bad chance of being dangerous, if thepowerful Scotchman chose to hold him down. But the peasant seemed tohave become as suddenly peaceful as the doctor. 

"It was nothing, " said Stefanone, quietly enough, though his eyes werebloodshot and glanced about the room in an unsettled way. 

At that moment Annetta entered from a door leading to the staircase. Hereyes were fixed on Dalrymple's face as she came forward, carrying apolished brass lamp, with three burning wicks, which she placed upon thetable. Dalrymple looked up at her, and seeing her expression of inquiry, slowly nodded. With a laugh which drew her long red-brown lips back fromher short white teeth, the girl produced a small flask and a glass, which she had carried behind her and out of sight when she came in. Sheset them before Dalrymple. 

"I saw you coming, " she said, and laughed again. "And then--it is alwaysthe same. Half a 'foglietta' of the old, just for the appetite. "

Sor Tommaso glanced at Stefanone in a meaning way, but the girl's fatheraffected not to see him. Dalrymple nodded his thanks, poured a few dropsof wine into the glass and scattered them upon the brick floor accordingto the ancient custom, both for rinsing the glass and as a libation, andthen offered to fill the glasses of each of the two men, who smiled, shook their heads, and covered their tumblers with their right hands. Atlast Dalrymple helped himself, nodded politely to his companions, andslowly emptied the glass which held almost all the contents of thelittle flask. The 'foglietta, ' or 'leaflet' of wine, is said to havebeen so called from the twisted and rolled vine leaf which generallyserves it for a stopper. A whole 'foglietta' contained a scant pint. 

"Will you eat now?" asked Annetta, still smiling. 

"Presently, " answered Dalrymple. "What is there to eat? I am hungry. "

"It seems that you have to say so!" laughed the girl. "It is a newthing. There is beefsteak or mutton, if you wish to know. And ham--afresh ham cut to-day. It is one of the Grape-eater's, and it seems good. You remember, Sor Tommaso, the--speaking with respect to your face--thepig we called the Grape-eater last year? Speaking with respect, he was agood pig. It is one of his hams that we have cut. There is also salad, and fresh bread, which you like. And wine, I will not speak of it. Eh, he likes wine, the Englishman! He comes in with a long, long face--andwhen he goes to bed, his face is wide, wide. That is the wine. But then, it does nothing else to him. It only changes his face. When I look athim, I seem to see the moon waxing. "

"You talk too much, " said Stefanone. 

"Never mind, papa! Words are not pennies. The more one wastes, the moreone has!"

Dalrymple said nothing; but he smiled as she turned lightly with a tossof her small dark head and left the room. 

"Fine blood, " observed the doctor, with a conciliatory glance at thegirl's father. 

"You will be wanted before long, Sor Tommaso, " said Dalrymple, gravely. "I hear that the abbess is very ill. "

The doctor looked up with sudden interest, and put on his professionalexpression. 

"The abbess, you say? Dear me! She is not young! What has she? Who toldyou, Sor Angoscia?"

Now, 'Sor Angoscia' signifies in English 'Sir Anguish, ' but the doctorin spite of really conscientious efforts could not get nearer to thepronunciation of Angus. Nevertheless, with northern persistency, Dalrymple corrected him for the hundredth time. The doctor's firstattempt had resulted in his calling the Scotchman 'Sor Langusta, ' whichmeans 'Sir Crayfish'--and it must be admitted that 'Anguish' was animprovement. 

"Angus, " said Dalrymple. "My name is Angus. The abbess has caught asevere cold from sitting in a draught when she was overheated. It hasimmediately settled on her lungs, and you may be sent for at any moment. I passed by the back of the convent on my way down, and the gardener wasjust coming out of the postern. He told me. "

"Dear me, dear me!" exclaimed Sor Tommaso, shaking his head. "Cold--bronchitis, pleurisy, pneumonia--it is soon done! One would beenough! Those nuns, what do they eat? A little grass, a little boiledpaste, a little broth of meat on Sundays. What strength should theyhave? And then pray, pray, sing, sing! It needs a chest! Poor lungs! Iwill go to my home and get ready--blisters--mustard--a lancet--theywill not allow a barber in the convent to bleed them. Well--I makemyself the barber! What a life, what a life! If you wish to die young, be a doctor at Subiaco, Sor Angoscia. Good night, dear friend. Goodnight, Stefanone. I wish not to have said anything--you know--thatlittle affair. Let us speak no more about it. I am more beast than you, because I said anything. Good night. "

Sor Tommaso got his stick from a dark corner, pressed his broad catskinhat upon his head, and took his respectability away on its tightlyencased black legs. 

"And may the devil go with you, " said Stefanone, under his breath, asthe doctor disappeared. 

"Why?" inquired Dalrymple, who had caught the words. 

"I said nothing, " answered the peasant, thoughtfully trimming one wickof the lamp with the bent brass wire which, with the snuffers, hung by achain from the ring by which the lamp was carried. 

"I thought you spoke, " said the Scotchman. "Well--the abbess is veryill, and Sor Tommaso has a job. "

"May he do it well! So that it need not be begun again. "

"What do you mean?" Dalrymple slowly sipped the remains of his littlemeasure of wine. 

"Those nuns!" exclaimed Stefanone, instead of answering the question. "What are they here to do, in this world? Better make saints ofthem--and good night! There would be one misery less. Do you know whatthey do? They make wine. Good! But they do not drink it. They sell itfor a farthing less by the foglietta than other people. The devil takethem and their wine!"

Dalrymple glanced at the angry peasant with some amusement, but did notmake any answer. 

"Eh, Signore!" cried Stefanone. "You who are a foreigner and aProtestant, can you not say something, since it would be no sin foryou?"

"I was thinking of something to say, Signor Stefanone. But as for that, who does the business for the convent? They cannot do it themselves, Isuppose. Who determines the price of their wine for them? Or the priceof their corn?"

"They are not so stupid as you think. Oh, no! They are not stupid, thenuns. They know the price of this, and the cost of that, just as well asyou and I do. But Gigetto's father, Sor Agostino, is their steward, ifthat is what you wish to know. And his father was before him, andGigetto will be after him, with his pumpkin-head. And the rest is sungby the organ, as we say when mass is over. For you know about Gigettoand Annetta. "

"Yes. And as you cannot quarrel with Sor Agostino on that account, I donot see but that you will either have to bear it, or sell your wine afarthing cheaper than that of the nuns. "

"Eh--that is soon said. A farthing cheaper than theirs! That means halfa baiocco cheaper than I sell it now. And the best is only five baiocchithe foglietta, and the cheapest is two and a half. Good bye profit--apleasant journey to Stefanone. But it is those nuns. They are to blame, and the devil will pay them. "

"In that case you need not, " observed Dalrymple, rising. "I am going towash my hands before supper. "

"At your pleasure, Signore, " answered Stefanone, politely. 

As Dalrymple went out, Annetta passed him at the door, bringing inplates and napkins, and knives and forks. The girl glanced at his faceas he went by. 

"Be quick, Signore, " she said with a laugh. "The beefsteak of mutton isgrilling. "

He nodded, and went up the dark stairs, his heavy shoes sending backechoes as he trod. Stefanone still sat at the table, turning the glasswine measure upside down over his tumbler, to let the last drops runout. He watched them as they fell, one by one, without looking up at hisdaughter, who began to arrange the plates for Dalrymple's meal. 

"I will teach you to make love with the Englishman, " he said slowly, still watching the dropping wine. 

"Me!" cried Annetta, with real or feigned astonishment, and she tossed aknife and fork angrily into a plate, with a loud, clattering noise. 

"I am speaking with you, " answered her father, without raising his eyes. "Do you know? You will come to a bad end. "

"Thank you!" replied the girl, contemptuously. "If you say so, it mustbe true! Now, who has told you that the Englishman is making love to me?An apoplexy on him, whoever he may be!"

"Pretty words for a girl! Sor Tommaso told me. A little more, and Iwould have torn his tongue out. Just then, the Englishman came in. SorTommaso got off easily. "

The girl's tone changed very much when she spoke again, and there was adull and angry light in her eyes. Her long lips were still parted, andshowed her gleaming teeth, but the smile was altogether gone. 

"Yes. Too easily, " she said, almost in a whisper, and there was a lowhiss in the words. 

"In the meanwhile, it is true--what he said, " continued Stefanone. "Youmake eyes at him. You wait for him and watch for him when he comes backfrom the mountains--"

"Well? Is it not my place to serve him with his supper? If you are notsatisfied, hire a servant to wait on him. You are rich. What do I carefor the Englishman? Perhaps it is a pleasure to roast my face over thecharcoal, cooking his meat for him. As for Sor Tommaso--"

She stopped short in her speech. Her father knew what the tone meant, and looked up for the first time. 

"O-č!" he exclaimed, as one suddenly aware of a danger, and warning someone else. 

"Nothing, " answered Annetta, looking down and arranging the knives andforks symmetrically on the clean cloth she had laid. 

"I might have killed him just now in hot blood, when the Englishman camein, " said Stefanone, reflectively. "But now my blood has grown cold. Ishall do nothing to him. "

"So much the better for him. " She still spoke in a low voice, as sheturned away from the table. 

"But I will kill you, " said Stefanone, "if I see you making eyes at theEnglishman. "

He rose, and taking up his hat, which lay beside him, he edged his wayout along the wooden bench, moving cautiously lest he should shake thetable and upset the lamp or the bottles. Annetta had turned again, atthe threat he had uttered, and stood still, waiting for him to get outinto the room, her hands on her hips, and her eyes on fire. 

"You will kill me?" she asked, just as he was opposite to her. "Well--kill me, then! Here I am. What are you waiting for? For theEnglishman to interfere? He is washing his hands. He always takes a longtime. "

"Then it is true that you have fallen in love with him?" askedStefanone, his anger returning. 

"Him, or another. What does it matter to you? You remind me of the oldwoman who beat her cat, and then cried when it ran away. If you want meto stay at home, you had better find me a husband. "

"Do you want anything better than Gigetto? Apoplexy! But you haveideas!"

"You are making a good business of it with Gigetto, in truth!" cried thegirl, scornfully. "He eats, he drinks, and then he sings. But he doesnot marry. He will not even make love to me--not even with an eye. Andthen, because I love the Englishman, who is a great lord, though he sayshe is a doctor, I must die. Well, kill me!" She stared insolently at herfather for a moment. "Oh, well, " she added scornfully, "if you have nottime now, it must be for to-morrow. I am busy. "

She turned on her heel with a disdainful fling of her short, dark skirt. Stefanone was exasperated, and his anger had returned. Before she wasout of reach, he struck her with his open hand. Instead of striking hercheek, the blow fell upon the back of her head and neck, and sent herstumbling forwards. She caught the back of a chair, steadied herself, and turned again instantly, at her full height, not deigning to raiseher hand to the place that hurt her. 

"Coward!" she exclaimed. "But I will pay you--and Sor Tommaso--for thatblow. "

"Whenever you like, " answered her father gruffly, but already sorry forwhat he had done. 

He turned his back, and went out into the night. It was now almost quitedark, and Annetta stood still by the chair, listening to his retreatingfootsteps. Then she slowly turned and gazed at the flaring wicks of thelamp. With a gesture that suggested the movement of a young animal, sherubbed the back of her neck with one hand and leisurely turned her headfirst to one side and then to the other. Her brown skin was unusuallypale, but there was no moisture in her eyes as she stared at the lamp. 

"But I will pay you, Sor Tommaso, " she said thoughtfully and softly. 

Then turning her eyes from the lamp at last, she took up one of theknives from the table, looked at it, felt the edge, and laid it downcontemptuously. In those days all the respectable peasants in the Romanvillages had solid silver forks and spoons, which have long since goneto the melting-pot to pay taxes. But they used the same blunt, pointlessknives with wooden handles, which they use to-day. 

Annetta started, as she heard Dalrymple's tread upon the stone steps ofthe staircase, but she recovered herself instantly, gave a finishingtouch to the table, rubbed the back of her head quickly once more, andmet him with a smile. 

"Is the beefsteak of mutton ready?" inquired the Scotchman, cheerfully, with his extraordinary accent. 

Annetta ran past him, and returned almost before he was seated, bringingthe food. The girl sat down at the end of the table, opposite the streetdoor, and watched him as he swallowed one mouthful of meat afteranother, now and then stopping to drink a tumbler of wine at a draught. 

"You must be very strong, Signore, " said Annetta, at last, her chinresting on her doubled hand. 

"Why?" inquired Dalrymple, carelessly, between two mouthfuls. 

"Because you eat so much. It must be a fine thing to eat so much meat. We eat very little of it. "

"Why?" asked the Scotchman, again between his mouthfuls. 

"Oh, who knows? It costs much. That must be the reason. Besides, it doesnot go down. I should not care for it. "

"It is a habit. " Dalrymple drank. "In my country most of the people eatoats, " he said, as he set down his glass. 

"Oats!" laughed the girl. "Like horses! But horses will eat meat, too, like you. As for me--good bread, fresh cheese, a little salad, a drinkof wine and water--that is enough. "

"Like the nuns, " observed Dalrymple, attacking the ham of the'Grape-eater. '

"Oh, the nuns! They live on boiled cabbage! You can smell it a mileaway. But they make good cakes. "

"You often go to the convent, do you not?" asked the Scotchman, fillinghis glass, for the first mouthful of ham made him thirsty again. "Youtake the linen up with your mother, I know. "

"Sometimes, when I feel like going, " answered the girl, willing to showthat it was not her duty to carry baskets. "I only go when we have thesmall baskets that one can carry on one's head. I will tell you. Theyuse the small baskets for the finer things, the abbess's linen, and thealtar cloths, and the chaplain's lace, which belongs to the nuns. Butthe sheets and the table linen are taken up in baskets as long as a man. It takes four women to carry one of them. "

"That must be very inconvenient, " said Dalrymple. "I should think thatsmaller ones would always be better. "

"Who knows? It has always been so. And when it has always been so, itwill always be so--one knows that. "

Annetta nodded her head rhythmically to convey an impression of theimmutability of all ancient customs and of this one in particular. 

Dalrymple, however, was not much interested in the question of thebaskets. 

"What do the nuns do all day?" he asked. "I suppose you see them, sometimes. There must be young ones amongst them. "

Annetta glanced more keenly at the Scotchman's quiet face, and thenlaughed. 

"There is one, if you could see her! The abbess's niece. Oh, that one isbeautiful. She seems to me a painted angel!"

"The abbess's niece? What is she like? Let me see, the abbess is aprincess, is she not?"

"Yes, a great princess of the Princes of Gerano, of Casa Braccio, youknow. They are always abbesses. And the young one will be the next, whenthis one dies. She is Maria Addolorata, in religion, but I do not knowher real name. She has a beautiful face and dark eyes. Once I saw herhair for a moment. It is fair, but not like yours. Yours is red as atomato. "

"Thank you, " said Dalrymple, with something like a laugh. "Tell me moreabout the nun. "

"If I tell you, you will fall in love with her, " objected Annetta. "Theysay that men with red hair fall in love easily. Is it true? If it is, Iwill not tell you any more about the nun. But I think you are in lovewith the poor old Grape-eater. It is good ham, is it not? By Bacchus, Ifed him on chestnuts with my own hands, and he was always stealing thegrapes. Chestnuts fattened him and the grapes made him sweet. Speakingwith respect, he was a pig for a pope. "

"He will do for a Scotch doctor then, " answered Dalrymple. "Tell me, what does this beautiful nun do all day long?"

"What does she do? What can a nun do? She eats cabbage and prays likethe others. But she has charge of all the convent linen, so I see herwhen I go with my mother. That is because the Princes of Gerano firstgave the linen to the convent after it was all stolen by the Turks in1798. So, as they gave it, their abbesses take care of it. "

Dalrymple laughed at the extraordinary historical allusion compounded ofthe very ancient traditions of the Saracens in the south, and of themore recent wars of Napoleon. 

"So she takes care of the linen, " he said. "That cannot be very amusing, I should think. "

"They are nuns, " answered the girl. "Do you suppose they go aboutseeking to amuse themselves? It is an ugly life. But Sister MariaAddolorata sings to herself, and that makes the abbess angry, because itis against the rules to sing except in church. I would not live in thatconvent--not if they would fill my apron with gold pieces. "

"But why did this beautiful girl become a nun, then? Was she unhappy, orcrossed in love?"

"She? They did not give her time! Before she could shut an eye and say, 'Little youth, you please me, and I wish you well, ' they put her in. Andthat door, when it is shut, who shall open it? The Madonna, perhaps? Butshe was of the Princes of Gerano, and there must be one of them for anabbess, and the lot fell upon her. There is the whole history. You mayhear her singing sometimes, if you stand under the garden wall, on thenarrow path after the Benediction hour and before Ave Maria. But I am afool to tell you, for you will go and listen, and when you have heardher voice you will be like a madman. You will fall in love with her. Iwas a fool to tell you. "

"Well? And if I do fall in love with her, who cares?" Dalrymple slowlyfilled a glass of wine. 

"If you do?" The young girl's eyes shot a quick, sharp glance at him. Then her face suddenly grew grave as she saw that some one was at thestreet door, looking in cautiously. "Come in, Sor Tommaso!" she called, down the table. "Papa is out, but we are here. Come in and drink a glassof wine!"

The doctor, wrapped in a long broadcloth cloak with a velvet collar, and having a case of instruments and medicines under his arm, glancedround the room and came in. 

"Just a half-foglietta, my daughter, " he said. "They have sent for me. The abbess is very ill, and I may be there a long time. If you thinkthey would remember to offer a Christian a glass up there, you are verymuch mistaken. "

"They are nuns, " laughed Annetta. "What can they know?"

She rose to get the wine for the doctor. There had not been a trace ofdispleasure in her voice nor in her manner as she spoke. 

CHAPTER IV. 

SOR TOMMASO was rarely called to the convent. In fact, he could notremember that he had been wanted more than half a dozen times in thelong course of his practice in Subiaco. Either the nuns were hardly everill, or else they must have doctored themselves with such simpleremedies as had been handed down to them from former ages. Possibly theyhad been as well off on the whole as though they had systematicallysubmitted to the heroic treatment which passed for medicine in thosedays. As a matter of fact, they suffered chiefly from bad colds; andwhen they had bad colds, they either got well, or died, according totheir several destinies. Sor Tommaso might have saved some of them; buton the other hand, he might have helped some others rather precipitatelyfrom their cells to that deep crypt, closed, in the middle of the littlechurch, by a single square flag of marble, having two brass studs in it, and bearing the simple inscription: 'Here lie the bones of the ReverendSisters of the order of the Blessed Virgin Mary of Mount Carmel. ' On thewhole, it is doubtful whether the practice of not calling in the doctoron ordinary occasions had much influence upon the convent's statisticsof mortality. 

But though the abbess had more than once had a cold in her life, she hadnever suffered so seriously as this time, and she had made littleobjection to her niece's strong representations as to the necessity ofmedical aid. Therefore Sor Tommaso had been sent for in the evening andin great haste, and had taken with him a supply of appropriate materialsufficient to kill, if not to cure, half the nuns in the convent. Allthe circumstances which he remembered from former occasions wereaccurately repeated. He rang at the main gate, waited long in thedarkness, and heard at last the slapping and shuffling of shoes alongthe pavement within, as the portress and another nun came to let him in. Then there were faint rays of light from their little lamp, quiveringthrough the cracks of the old weather-beaten door upon the crackedmarble steps on which Sor Tommaso was standing. A thin voice asked whowas there, and Sor Tommaso answered that he was the doctor. Then heheard a little colloquy in suppressed tones between the two nuns. Theone said that the doctor was expected and must be let in withoutquestion. The other observed that it might be a thief. The first saidthat in that case they must look through the loophole. The second saidthat she did not know the doctor by sight. The first speaker remarkedwith some truth that one could tell a respectable person from ahighwayman, and suddenly a small square porthole in the door was openedinwards, and a stream of light fell upon Sor Tommaso's face, as the nunsheld up their little flaring lamp behind the grating. Behind the lamp hecould distinguish a pair of shadowy eyes under an overhanging veil, which was also drawn across the lower part of the face. 

"Are you really the doctor?" asked one of the voices, in a doubtfultone. 

"He himself, " answered the physician. "I am the Doctor Tommaso Taddei ofthe University of the Sapienza, and I have been called to renderassistance to the very reverend the Mother Abbess. "

The light disappeared, and the porthole was shut, while a secondcolloquy began. On the whole, the two nuns decided to let him in, andthen there was a jingling of keys and a clanking of iron bars and agrinding of locks, and presently a small door, cut and hung in one leafof the great, iron-studded, wooden gate, was swung back. Sor Tommasostooped and held his case before him, for the entrance was low andnarrow. 

"God be praised!" he exclaimed, when he was fairly inside. 

"And praised be His holy name, " answered both the sisters, promptly. 

Both had dropped their veils, and proceeded to bolt and bar the littledoor again, having set down the lamp upon the pavement. The rays madethe unctuous dampness of the stone flags glisten, and Sor Tommasoshivered in his broadcloth cloak. Then, as before, he was conducted insilence through arched ways, and up many steps, and along labyrinthinecorridors, his strong shoes rousing sharp, metallic echoes, while thenuns' slippers slapped and shuffled as one walked on each side of him, the one on the left carrying the lamp, according to the ancient rules ofpoliteness. At last they reached the door of the antechamber at the endof the corridor, through which the way led to the abbess's privateapartment, consisting of three rooms. The last door on the left, as SorTommaso faced that which opened into the antechamber, was that of MariaAddolorata's cell. The linen presses were entered from within theanteroom by a door on the right, so that they were actually in theabbess's apartment, an old-fashioned and somewhat inconvenientarrangement. Maria Addolorata, her veil drawn down, so that she couldnot see the doctor, but only his feet, and the folds of it drawn acrossher chin and mouth, received him at the door, which she closed behindhim. The other two nuns set down their lamp on the floor of thecorridor, slipped their hands up their sleeves, and stood waitingoutside. 

The abbess was very ill, but had insisted upon sitting up in herparlour to receive the doctor, dressed and veiled, being propped up inher great easy-chair with a pillow which was of green silk, but wascovered with a white pillow-case finely embroidered with open work ateach end, through which the vivid colour was visible--that high greenwhich cannot look blue even by lamplight. Both in the anteroom and inthe parlour there were polished silver lamps of precisely the samepattern as the brass ones used by the richer peasants, excepting thateach had a fan-like shield of silver to be used as a shade on one side, bearing the arms of the Braccio family in high boss, and attached to theoil vessel by a movable curved arm. The furniture of the room was verysimple, but there was nevertheless a certain ecclesiastical solemnityabout the high-backed, carved, and gilt chairs, the black and whitemarble pavement, the great portrait of his Holiness, Gregory theSixteenth, in its massive gilt frame, the superb silver crucifix whichstood on the writing-table, and, altogether, in the solidity ofeverything which met the eye. 

It was no easy matter to ascertain the good lady's condition, muffled upand veiled as she was. It was only as an enormous concession tonecessity that Sor Tommaso was allowed to feel her pulse, and it neededall Maria Addolorata's eloquent persuasion and sensible argument toinduce her to lift her veil a little, and open her mouth. 

"Your most reverend excellency must be cured by proxy, " said SorTommaso, at his wit's end. "If this reverend mother, " he added, turningto the young nun, "will carry out my directions, something may be done. Your most reverend excellency's life is in danger. Your most reverendexcellency ought to be in bed. "

"It is the will of Heaven, " said the abbess, in a very weak and hoarsevoice. 

"Tell me what to do, " said Maria Addolorata. "It shall be done as thoughyou yourself did it. "

Sor Tommaso was encouraged by the tone of assurance in which the wordswere spoken, and proceeded to give his directions, which were many, andhis recommendations, which were almost endless. 

"But if your most reverend excellency would allow me to assist you inperson, the remedies would be more efficacious, " he suggested, as helaid out the greater part of the contents of his case upon the hugewriting-table. 

"You seem to forget that this is a religious house, " replied the abbess, and she might have said more, but was interrupted by a violent attack ofcoughing, during which Maria Addolorata supported her and tried to easeher. 

"It will be better if you go away, " said the nun, at last. "I will doall you have ordered, and your presence irritates her. Come backto-morrow morning, and I will tell you how she is progressing. "

The abbess nodded slowly, confirming her niece's words. Sor Tommaso veryreluctantly closed his case, placed it under his arm, gathered up hisbroadcloth cloak with his hat, and made a low obeisance before the sicklady. 

"I wish your most reverend excellency a good rest and speedy recovery, "he said. "I am your most reverend excellency's most humble servant. "

Maria Addolorata led him out into the antechamber. There she paused, andthey were alone together for a moment, all the doors being closed. Thedoctor stood still beside her, waiting for her to speak. 

"What do you think?" she asked. 

"I do not wish to say anything, " he answered. 

"What do you wish me to say? A stroke of air, a cold, a bronchitis, apleurisy, a pneumonia. Thanks be to Heaven, there is little fever. Whatdo you wish me to say? For the stroke of air, a little good wine; forthe cold, warm covering; for the bronchitis, the tea of marshmallows;for the pleurisy, severe blistering; for the pneumonia, a good mustardplaster; for the general system, the black draught; above all, nothingto eat. Frictions with hot oil will also do good. It is the practice ofmedicine by proxy, my lady mother. What do you wish me to say? I amdisposed. I am her most reverend excellency's very humble servant. But Icannot perform miracles. Pray to the Madonna to perform them. I havenot even seen the tip of her most reverend excellency's most wisetongue. What can I do?"

"Well, then, come back to-morrow morning, and I will see you here, " saidMaria Addolorata. 

Sor Tommaso found the nuns waiting for him with their little lamp in thecorridor, and they led him back through the vaulted passages andstaircases and let him out into the night without a word. 

The night was dark and cloudy. It had grown much darker since he hadcome up, as the last lingering light of evening had faded altogetherfrom the sky. The October wind drew down in gusts from the mountainsabove Subiaco, and blew the doctor's long cloak about so that it flappedsoftly now and then like the wings of a night bird. After descendingsome distance, he carefully set down his case upon the stones andfumbled in his pockets for his snuffbox, which he found with somedifficulty. A gust blew up a grain of snuff into his right eye, and hestamped angrily with the pain, hurting his foot against a rolling stoneas he did so. But he succeeded in getting his snuff to his nose at last. Then he bent down in the dark to take up his case, which was close tohis feet, though he could hardly see it. The gusty south wind blew thelong skirts of his cloak over his head and made them flap about hisears. He groped for the box. 

[Illustration: "Sor Tommaso was lying motionless. "--Vol. I. , p. 78. ]

Just then the doctor heard light footsteps coming down the path behindhim. He called out, warning that he was in the way. 

"O-č, gently, you know!" he cried. "An apoplexy on the wind!" he addedvehemently, as his head and hands became entangled more and more in thefolds of his cloak. 

"And another on you!" answered a woman's voice, speaking low throughclenched teeth. 

In the darkness a hand rose and fell with something in it, three timesin quick succession. A man's low cry of pain was stifled in folds ofbroadcloth. The same light footsteps were heard for a moment again inthe narrow, winding way, and Sor Tommaso was lying motionless on hisface across his box, with his cloak over his head. The gusty south windblew up and down between the dark walls, bearing now and then a fewwithered vine leaves and wisps of straw with it; and the night grewdarker still, and no one passed that way for a long time. 

CHAPTER V. 

WHEN Angus Dalrymple had finished his supper, he produced a book and satreading by the light of the wicks of the three brass lamps. Annetta hadtaken away the things and had not come back again. Gigetto strolled inand took his guitar from the peg on the wall, and idled about the room, tuning it and humming to himself. He was a tall young fellow with awoman's face and beautiful velvet-like eyes, as handsome and idle ayouth as you might meet in Subiaco on a summer's feast-day. He exchangeda word of greeting with Dalrymple, and, seeing that the place wasotherwise deserted, he at last slung his guitar over his shoulder, pulled his broad black felt hat over his eyes, and strolled out throughthe half-open door, presumably in search of amusement. Gigetto's chiefvirtue was his perfectly childlike and unaffected taste for amusinghimself, on the whole very innocently, whenever he got a chance. It wasnatural that he and the Scotchman should not care for one another'ssociety. Dalrymple looked after him for a moment and then went back tohis book. A big glass measure of wine stood beside him not half empty, and his glass was full. 

He was making a strong effort to concentrate his attention upon thelearned treatise, which formed a part of the little library he hadbrought with him. But Annetta's idle talk about the nuns, and especiallyabout Maria Addolorata and her singing, kept running through his head inspite of his determination to be serious. He had been living the life ofa hermit for months, and had almost forgotten the sound of an educatedwoman's voice. To him Annetta was nothing more than a rather pretty wildanimal. It did not enter his head that she might be in love with him. Sora Nanna was simply an older and uglier animal of the same species. Toa man of Dalrymple's temperament, and really devoted to the pursuit of aserious object, a woman quite incapable of even understanding what thatobject is can hardly seem to be a woman at all. 

But the young Scotchman was not wanting in that passionate and fantasticimagination which so often underlies and even directs the hardy northernnature, and the young girl's carelessly spoken words had roused it tosudden activity. In spite of himself, he was already forming plans forlistening under the convent wall, if perchance he might catch the soundof the nun's wonderful voice, and from that to the wildest schemes forcatching a momentary glimpse of the singer was only a step. At the sametime, he was quite aware that such schemes were dangerous if notimpracticable, and his reasonable self laughed down his unreasoningromance, only to be confronted by it again as soon as he tried to turnhis attention to his book. 

He looked up and saw that he had not finished his wine, though at thathour the measure was usually empty, and he wondered why he was lessthirsty than usual. By force of habit he emptied the full glass andpoured more into it, --by force of that old northern habit of drinking acertain allowance as a sort of duty, more common in those days than itis now. Then he began to read again, never dreaming that his strong headand solid nerves could be in any way affected by his potations. But hisimagination this evening worked faster and faster, and his sober reasonwas recalcitrant and abhorred work. 

The nun had fair hair and dark eyes and a beautiful face. Those weremuch more interesting facts than he could find in his work. She had awonderful voice. He tried to recall all the extraordinary voices he hadheard in his life, but none of them had ever affected him very much, though he had a good ear and some taste for music. He wondered what sortof voice this could be, and he longed to hear it. He shut up his bookimpatiently, drank more wine, rose and went to the open door. The gustysouth wind fanned his face pleasantly, and he wished he were to sleepout of doors. 

The Sora Nanna, who had been spending the evening with a friend in theneighbourhood, came in, her thin black overskirt drawn over her head tokeep the embroidered head-cloth in its place. By and by, as Dalrymplestill stood by the door, Stefanone appeared, having been to play a gameof cards at a friendly wine-shop. He sat down by Sora Nanna at thetable. She was mixing some salad in a big earthenware bowl adorned withgreen and brown stripes. They talked together in low tones. Dalrymplehad nodded to each in turn, but the gusty air pleased him, and heremained standing by the door, letting it blow into his face. 

It was growing late. Italian peasants are not great sleepers, and it istheir custom to have supper at a late hour, just before going to bed. Bythis time it was nearly ten o'clock as we reckon the hours, or about'four of the night' in October, according to old Italian custom, whichreckons from a theoretical moment of darkness, supposed to begin at AveMaria, half an hour after sunset. 

Suddenly Dalrymple heard Annetta's voice in the room behind him, speaking to her mother. He had no particular reason for supposing thatshe had been out of the house since she had cleared the table and lefthim, but unconsciously he had the impression that she had been away, and was surprised to hear her in the room, after expecting that sheshould pass him, coming in from the street, as the others had done. Heturned and walked slowly towards his place at the table. 

"I thought you had gone out, " he said carelessly, to Annetta. 

The girl turned her head quickly. 

"I?" she cried. "And alone? Without even Gigetto? When do I ever go outalone at night? Will you have some supper, Signore?"

"I have just eaten, thank you, " answered Dalrymple, seating himself. 

"Three hours ago. It was not yet an hour of the night when you ate. Well--at your pleasure. Do not complain afterwards that we make you dieof hunger. "

"Bread, Annetta!" said Stefanone, gruffly but good-naturedly. "Andcheese, and salt--wine, too! A thousand things! Quickly, my daughter. "

"Quicker than this?" inquired the girl, who had already placed most ofthe things he asked for upon the table. 

"I say it to say it, " answered her father. "'Hunger makes long jumps, 'and I am hungry. "

"Did you win anything?" asked Sora Nanna, with both her elbows on thetable. 

"Five baiocchi. "

"It was worth while to pay ten baiocchi for another man's bad wine, forthe sake of winning so much!" replied Sora Nanna, who was a carefulsoul. "Of course you paid for the wine?"

"Eh--of course. They pay for wine when they come here. One takes alittle and one gives a little. This is life. "

Annetta busied herself with the simple preparations for supper, whilethey talked. Dalrymple watched her idly, and he thought she was pale, and that her eyes were very bright. She had set a plate for herself, buthad forgotten her glass. 

"And you? Do you not drink?" asked Stefanone. "You have no glass. "

"What does it matter?" She sat down between her father and mother. 

"Drink out of mine, my little daughter, " said Stefanone, holding hisglass to her lips with a laugh, as though she had been a little child. 

She looked quietly into his eyes for a moment, before she touched thewine with her lips. 

"Yes, " she answered, with a little emphasis. "I will drink out of yourglass now. "

"Better so, " laughed Stefanone, who was glad to be reconciled, for heloved the girl, in spite of his occasional violence of temper. 

"What does it mean?" asked Sora Nanna, her cunning peasant's eyeslooking from one to the other, and seeming to belie her stupid face. 

"Nothing, " answered Stefanone. "We were playing together. SignorEnglishman, " he said, turning to Dalrymple, "you must sometimes wishthat you were married, and had a wife like Nanna, and a daughter likeAnnetta. "

"Of course I do, " said Dalrymple, with a smile. 

Before very long, he took his book and went upstairs to bed, being tiredand sleepy after a long day spent on the hillside in a fruitless searchfor certain plants which, according to his books, were to be found inthat part of Italy, but which he had not yet seen. He fell asleep, thinking of Maria Addolorata's lovely face and fair hair, on which hehad never laid eyes. In his dreams he heard a rare voice ringing true, that touched him strangely. The gusty wind made the panes of his bedroomwindow rattle, and in the dream he was tapping on Maria Addolorata'scasement and calling softly to her, to open it and speak to him, orcalling her by name, with his extraordinary foreign accent. And hethought he was tapping louder and louder, upon the glass and upon thewooden frame, louder and louder still. Then he heard his name calledout, and his heart jumped as though it would have turned upside down inits place, and then seemed to sink again like a heavy stone falling intodeep water; for he was awake, and the voice that was calling him wascertainly not that of the beautiful nun, but gruff and manly; also thetapping was not tapping any more upon a casement, but was a vigorouspounding against his own bolted door. 

Dalrymple sat up suddenly and listened, wide awake at once. The squareof his window was faintly visible in the darkness, as though the dawnwere breaking. He called out, asking who was outside. 

"Get up, Signore! Get up! You are wanted quickly!" It was Stefanone. 

Dalrymple struck a light, for he had a supply of matches with him, aconvenience of modern life not at that time known in Subiaco, except asan expensive toy, though already in use in Rome. As he was, he openedthe door. Stefanone came in, dressed in his shirt and breeches, palewith excitement. 

"You must dress yourself, Signore, " he said briefly, as he glanced atthe Scotchman, and then set down the small tin and glass lantern hecarried. 

"What is the matter?" inquired Dalrymple, yawning, and stretching hisgreat white arms over his head, till his knuckles struck the lowceiling; for he was a tall man. 

"The matter is that they have killed Sor Tommaso, " answered the peasant. 

Dalrymple uttered an exclamation of surprise and incredulity. 

"It is as I say, " continued Stefanone. "They found him lying across theway, in the street, with knife-wounds in him, as many as you please. "

"That is horrible!" exclaimed Dalrymple, turning, and calmly trimminghis lamp, which burned badly at first. 

"Then dress yourself, Signore!" said Stefanone, impatiently. "You mustcome!"

"Why? If he is dead, what can I do?" asked the northern man, coolly. "Iam sorry. What more can I say?"

"But he is not dead yet!" Stefanone was growing excited. "They havetaken him--"

"Oh! he is alive, is he?" interrupted the Scotchman, dashing at hisclothes, as though he were suddenly galvanized into life himself. "Thenwhy did you tell me they had killed him?" he asked, with a curious, drycalmness of voice, as he instantly began to dress himself. "Get someclean linen, Signor Stefano. Tear it up into strips as broad as yourhand, for bandages, and set the women to make a little lint of oldlinen--cotton is not good. Where have they taken Sor Tommaso?"

"To his own house, " answered the peasant. 

"So much the better. Go and make the bandages. "

Dalrymple pushed Stefanone towards the door with one hand, while hecontinued to fasten his clothes with the other. 

Stefanone was not without some experience of similar cases, so hepicked up his lantern and went off. In less than a quarter of an hour, he and Dalrymple were on their way to Sor Tommaso's house, which was inthe piazza of Subiaco, not far from the principal church. Half a dozenpeasants, who had met the muleteers bringing the wounded doctor homefrom the spot where he had been found, followed the two men, talkingexcitedly in low voices and broken sentences. The dawn was grey abovethe houses, and the autumn mists had floated up to the parapet on theside where the little piazza looked down to the valley, and hungmotionless in the still air, like a stage sea in a theatre. In thedistance was heard the clattering of mules' shoes, and occasionally thedeep clanking of the goats' bells. Just as the little party reached thesmall, dark green door of the doctor's house the distant convent bellstolled one, then two quick strokes, then three again, and then five, andthen rang out the peal for the morning Angelus. The door of the dirtylittle coffee shop in the piazza was already open, and a faint lightburned within. The air was damp, quiet and strangely resonant, as itoften is in mountain towns at early dawn. The gusty October wind hadgone down, after blowing almost all night. 

The case was far from being as serious as Dalrymple had expected, and hesoon convinced himself that Sor Tommaso was not in any great danger. Hehad fainted from fright and some loss of blood, but neither of the twothrusts which had wounded him had penetrated to his lungs, and the thirdwas little more than a scratch. Doubtless he owed his safety in part tothe fact that the wind had blown his cloak in folds over his shouldersand head. But it was also clear that his assailant had possessed noexperience in the use of the knife as a weapon. When the group of men atthe door were told that Sor Tommaso was not mortally wounded, they wentaway somewhat disappointed at the insignificant ending of the affair, though the doctor was not an unpopular man in the town. 

"It is some woman, " said one of them, contemptuously. "What can a womando with a knife? Worse than a cat--she scratches, and runs away. "

"Some little jealousy, " observed another. "Eh! Sor Tommaso--who knowswhere he makes love? But meanwhile he is growing old, to be so gay. "

"The old are the worst, " replied the first speaker. "Since it isnothing, let us have a baiocco's worth of acquavita, and let us goaway. "

So they turned into the dirty little coffee shop to get their pennyworthof spirits. Meanwhile Dalrymple was washing and binding up his friend'swounds. Sor Tommaso groaned and winced under every touch, and theScotchman, with dry gentleness, did his best to reassure him. Stefanonelooked on in silence for some time, helping Dalrymple when he wasneeded. The doctor's servant-woman, a somewhat grimy peasant, wassitting on the stairs, sobbing loudly. 

"It is useless, " moaned Sor Tommaso. "I am dead. "

"I may be mistaken, " answered Dalrymple, "but I think not. "

And he continued his operations with a sure hand, greatly to theadmiration of Stefanone, who had often seen knife-wounds dressed. Gradually Sor Tommaso became more calm. His face, from having beennormally of a bright red, was now very pale, and his watery blue eyesblinked at the light helplessly like a kitten's, as he lay still on hispillow. Stefanone went away to his occupations at last, and Dalrymple, having cleared away the litter of unused bandages and lint, and setthings in order, sat down by the bedside to keep his patient company fora while. He was really somewhat anxious lest the wounds should havetaken cold. 

"If I get well, it will be a miracle, " said Sor Tommaso, feebly. "I mustthink of my soul. "

"By all means, " answered the Scotchman. "It can do your soul no harm, and contemplation rests the body. "

"You Protestants have not human sentiment, " observed the Italian, movinghis head slowly on the pillow. "But I also think of the abbess. I wasto have gone there early this morning. She will also die. We shall bothdie. "

Dalrymple crossed one leg over the other, and looked quietly at thedoctor. 

"Sor Tommaso, " he said, "there is no other physician in Subiaco. I am adoctor, properly licensed to practise. It is evidently my duty to takecare of your patients while you are ill. "

"Mercy!" cried Sor Tommaso, with sudden energy, and opening his eyesvery wide. 

"Are you afraid that I shall kill them, " asked Dalrymple, with a smile. 

"Who knows? A foreigner! And the people say that you have converse withthe devil. But the common people are ignorant. "

"Very. "

"And as for the convent--a Protestant--for the abbess! They would ratherdie. Figure to yourself what sort of a scandal there would be! AProtestant in a convent, and then, in that convent, too! The abbesswould much rather die in peace. "

"At all events, I will go and offer my services. If the abbess prefersto die in peace, she can answer to that effect. I will ask her what shethinks about it. "

"Ask her!" repeated Sor Tommaso. "Do you imagine that you could see her?But what can you know? I tell you that last night she was muffled up inher chair, and her face covered. It needed the grace of Heaven, that Imight feel her pulse! As for her tongue, God knows what it is like! Ihave not seen it. Not so much as the tip of it! Not even her eyes did Isee. And to-day I was not to be admitted at all, because the abbesswould be in bed. Imagine to yourself, with blisters and sinapisms, and ahundred things. I was only to speak with Sister Maria Addolorata, who isher niece, you know, in the anteroom of the abbess's apartment. Theywould not let you in. They would give you a bath of holy water throughthe loophole of the convent door and say, 'Go away, sinner; this is areligious house!' You know them very little. "

"You are talking too much, " observed Dalrymple, who had listenedattentively. "It is not good for you. Besides, since you are able tospeak, it would be better if you told me who stabbed you last night, that I may go to the police, and have the person arrested, if possible. "

"You do not know what you are saying, " answered Sor Tommaso, with suddengravity. "The woman has relations--who could handle a knife better thanshe. "

And he turned his face away. 

CHAPTER VI. 

THE sun was high when Dalrymple left Sor Tommaso in charge of the oldwoman-servant and went back to Stefanone's house to dress himself withmore care than he had bestowed upon his hasty toilet at dawn. And nowthat he had plenty of time, he was even more careful of his appearancethan usual; for he had fully determined to attempt to take Sor Tommaso'splace in attendance upon the abbess. He therefore put on a coat of asober colour and brushed his straight red hair smoothly back from hisforehead, giving himself easily that extremely grave and trust-inspiringair which distinguishes many Scotchmen, and supports their solidqualities, while it seems to deny the possibility of any adventurous andromantic tendency. 

At that hour nobody was about the house, and Dalrymple, stick in hand, sallied forth upon his expedition, looking for all the world as thoughhe were going to church in Edinburgh instead of meditating an entranceinto an Italian convent. He had said nothing more to the doctor on thesubject. The people in the streets had most of them seen him often andknew him by name, and it did not occur to any one to wonder why aforeigner should wear one sort of coat rather than another, when he tookhis walks abroad. He walked leisurely; for the sky had cleared, and thesun was hot. Moreover, he followed the longer road in order to keep hisshoes clean, instead of climbing up the narrow and muddy lane in whichSor Tommaso had been attacked. He reached the convent door at last, brushed a few specks of dust from his coat, settled his high collar andthe broad black cravat which was then taking the place of the stock, andrang the bell with one steady pull. There was, perhaps, no occasion fornervousness. At all events, Dalrymple was as deliberate in his movementsand as calm in all respects as he had ever been in his life. Only, justafter he had pulled the weather-beaten bell-chain, a half-humorous smilebent his even lips and was gone again in a moment. 

There was the usual slapping and shuffling of slippers in the vaultedarchway within, but as it was now day, the loophole was openedimmediately, and the portress came alone. Dalrymple explained instrangely accented but good Italian that Sor Tommaso had met with anaccident in the night; that he, Angus Dalrymple, was a friend of thedoctor's and a doctor himself, and had undertaken all of Sor Tommaso'sduties, and, finally, that he begged the portress to find Sister MariaAddolorata, to repeat his story, and to offer his humble services inthe cause of the abbess's recovery. All of which the veiled nun withinheard patiently to the end. 

"I will speak to Sister Maria Addolorata, " she said. "Have the goodnessto wait. "

"Outside?" inquired Dalrymple, as the little shutter of the loophole wasalmost closed. 

"Of course, " answered the nun, opening it again, and shutting it as soonas she had spoken. 

Dalrymple waited a long time in the blazing sun. The main entrance ofthe convent faced to the southeast, and it was not yet midday. He grewhot, after his walk, and softly wiped his forehead, and carefully foldedhis handkerchief again before returning it to his pocket. At last heheard the sound of steps again, and in a few seconds the loophole wasonce more opened. 

"Sister Maria Addolorata will speak with you, " said the portress'svoice, as he approached his face to the little grating. 

He felt an odd little thrill of pleasant surprise. But so far as seeinganything was concerned, he was disappointed. Instead of one veiled nun, there were now two veiled nuns. 

"Madam, " he began, "my friend Doctor Tommaso Taddei has met with anaccident which prevents him from leaving his bed. " And he went on torepeat all that he had told the portress, with such furtherexplanations as he deemed necessary and persuasive. 

While he spoke, Maria Addolorata drew back a little into the deepershadow away from the loophole. Her veil hung over her eyes, and thefolds were drawn across her mouth, but she gradually raised her head, throwing it back until she could see Dalrymple's face from beneath theedge of the black material. In so doing she unconsciously uncovered hermouth. The Scotchman saw a good part of her features, and gazed intentlyat what he saw, rightly judging that as the sun was behind him, shecould hardly be sure whether he were looking at her or not. 

As for her, she was doubtless inspired by a natural curiosity, but atthe same time she understood the gravity of the case and wished to forman opinion as to the advisability of admitting the stranger. A glancetold her that Dalrymple was a gentleman, and she was reassured by thegravity of his voice and by the fact that he was evidently acquaintedwith the abbess's condition, and must, therefore, be a friend of SorTommaso. When he had finished speaking, she immediately looked downagain, and seemed to be hesitating. 

"Open the door, Sister Filomena, " she said at last. 

The portress shook her head almost imperceptibly as she obeyed, but shesaid nothing. The whole affair was in her eyes exceedingly irregular. Maria Addolorata should have retired to the little room adjoining theconvent parlour, and separated from it by a double grating, andDalrymple should have been admitted to the parlour itself, and theyshould have said what they had to say to one another through the bars, in the presence of the portress. But Maria Addolorata was the abbess'sniece. The abbess was too ill to give orders--too ill even to speak, itwas rumoured. In a few days Maria Addolorata might be 'Her most ReverendExcellency. ' Meanwhile she was mistress of the situation, and it wassafer to obey her. Moreover, the portress was only a lay sister, an oldand ignorant creature, accustomed to do what she was told to do by theladies of the convent. 

Dalrymple took off his hat and stooped low to enter through the smallside-door. As soon as he had passed the threshold, he stood up to hisheight and then made a low bow to Maria Addolorata, whose veil now quitecovered her eyes and prevented her from seeing him, --a fact which herealized immediately. 

"Give warning to the sisters, Sister Filomena, " said Maria Addolorata tothe portress, who nodded respectfully and walked away into the gloomunder the arches, leaving the nun and Dalrymple together by the door. 

"It is necessary to give warning, " she explained, "lest you should meetany of the sisters unveiled in the corridors, and they should bescandalized. "

Dalrymple again bowed gravely and stood still, his eyes fixed upon MariaAddolorata's veiled head, but wandering now and then to her heavy butbeautifully shaped white hands, which she held carelessly clasped beforeher and holding the end of the great rosary of brown beads which hungfrom her side. He thought he had never seen such hands before. They werehigh-bred, and yet at the same time there was a strongly materialattraction about them. 

He did not know what to say, and as nothing seemed to be expected ofhim, he kept silence for some time. At last Maria Addolorata, as thoughimpatient at the long absence of the portress, tapped the pavementsoftly with her sandal slipper, and turned her head in the direction ofthe arches as though to listen for approaching footsteps. 

"I hope that the abbess is no worse than when Doctor Taddei saw her lastnight, " observed Dalrymple. 

"Her most reverend excellency, " answered Maria Addolorata, with a littleemphasis, as though to teach him the proper mode of addressing theabbess, "is suffering. She has had a bad night. "

"I shall hope to be allowed to give some advice to her most reverendexcellency, " said Dalrymple, to show that he had understood the hint. 

"She will not allow you to see her. But you shall come with me to theantechamber, and I will speak with her and tell you what she says. "

"I shall be greatly obliged, and will do my best to give good advicewithout seeing the patient. "

Another pause followed, during which neither moved. Then MariaAddolorata spoke again, further reassured, perhaps, by Dalrymple's quietand professional tone. She had too lately left the world to have lostthe habit of making conversation to break an awkward silence. Years ofseclusion, too, instead of making her shy and silent, had given hersomething of the ease and coolness of a married woman. This was naturalenough, considering that she was born of worldly people and had acquiredthe manners of the world in her own home, in childhood. 

"You are an Englishman, I presume, Signor Doctor?" she observed, in atone of interrogation. 

"A Scotchman, Madam, " answered Dalrymple, correcting her and drawinghimself up a little. "My name is Angus Dalrymple. "

"It is the same--an Englishman or a Scotchman, " said the nun. 

"Pardon me, Madam, we consider that there is a great difference. TheScotch are chiefly Celts. Englishmen are Anglo-Saxons. "

"But you are all Protestants. It is therefore the same for us. "

Dalrymple feared a discussion of the question of religion. He did notanswer the nun's last remark, but bowed politely. She, of course, couldnot see the inclination he made. 

"You say nothing, " she said presently. "Are you a Protestant?"

"Yes, Madam. "

"It is a pity!" said Maria Addolorata. "May God send you light. "

"Thank you, Madam. "

Maria Addolorata smiled under her veil at the polite simplicity of thereply. She had met Englishmen in Rome. 

"It is no longer customary to address us as 'Madam, '" she answered, amoment later. "It is more usual to speak to us as 'Sister' or 'ReverendSister'--or 'Sister Maria. ' I am Sister Maria Addolorata. But you knowit, for you sent your message to me. "

"Doctor Taddei told me. "

At this point the portress appeared in the distance, and MariaAddolorata, hearing footsteps, turned her head from Dalrymple, raisingher veil a little, so that she could recognize the lay sister withoutshowing her face to the young man. 

"Let us go, " she said, dropping her veil again, and beginning to walkon. "The sisters are warned. "

Dalrymple followed her in silence and at a respectful distance, congratulating himself upon his extraordinary good fortune in having gotso far on the first attempt, and inwardly praying that Sor Tommaso'swounds might take a considerable time in healing. It had all come aboutso naturally that he had lost the sensation of doing somethingadventurous which had at first taken possession of him, and he nowregarded everything as possible, even to being invited to a friendly cupof tea in Sister Maria Addolorata's sitting-room; for he imagined her ashaving a sitting-room and as drinking tea there in a semi-luxuriousprivacy. The idea would have amused an Italian of those days, when teawas looked upon as medicine. 

They reached the end of the last corridor. Dalrymple, like Sor Tommaso, was admitted to the antechamber, while the portress waited outside toconduct him back again. But Maria did not take him into the abbess'sparlour, into which she went at once, closing the door behind her. Dalrymple sat down upon a carved wooden box-bench, and waited. The nunwas gone a long time. 

"I have kept you waiting, " she said, as she entered the little roomagain. 

"My time is altogether at your service, Sister Maria Addolorata, " heanswered, rising quickly. "How is her most reverend excellency?"

"Very ill. I do not know what to say. She will not hear of seeing you. I fear she will not live long, for she can hardly breathe. "

"Does she cough?"

"Not much. Not so much as last night. She complains that she cannot drawher breath and that her lungs feel full of something. "

The case was evidently serious, and Dalrymple, who was a physician bynature, proceeded to extract as much information as he could from thenun, who did her best to answer all his questions clearly. The longconversation, with its little restraints and its many attempts at amutual understanding, did more to accustom Maria Addolorata toDalrymple's presence and personality than any number of polite speecheson his part could have done. There is an unavoidable tendency tointimacy between any two people who are together engaged in taking careof a sick person. 

"I can give you directions and good advice, " said Dalrymple, at last. "But it can never be the same as though I could see the patient myself. Is there no possible means of obtaining her consent? She may die for thewant of just such advice as I can only give after seeing her. Would nother brother, his Eminence the Cardinal, perhaps recommend her to let mevisit her once?"

"That is an idea, " answered the nun, quickly. "My uncle is a man ofbroad views. I have heard it said in Rome. I could write to him thatDoctor Taddei is unable to come, and that a celebrated foreign physicianis here--"

"Not celebrated, " interrupted Dalrymple, with his literal Scotchveracity. 

"What difference can it make?" uttered Maria Addolorata, moving hershoulders a little impatiently. "He will be the more ready to use hisinfluence, for he is much attached to my aunt. Then, if he can persuadeher, I can send down the gardener to the town for you this afternoon. Itmay not be too late. "

"I see that you have some confidence in me, " said Dalrymple. "I am of anewer school than Doctor Taddei. If you will follow my directions, Iwill almost promise that her most reverend excellency shall not diebefore to-morrow. "

He smiled now, as he gave the abbess her full title, for he began tofeel as though he had known Maria Addolorata for a long time, though hehad only had one glimpse of her eyes, just when she had raised her headto get a look at him through the loophole of the gate. But he had notforgotten them, and he felt that he knew them. 

"I will do all you tell me, " she answered quietly. 

Dalrymple had some English medicines with him on his travels, and notknowing what might be required of him at the convent, he had broughtwith him a couple of tiny bottles. 

"This when she coughs--ten drops, " he said, handing the bottles to thenun. "And five drops of this once an hour, until her chest feels freer. "

He gave her minute directions, as far as he could, about the generaltreatment of the patient, which Maria repeated and got by heart. 

"I will let you know before twenty-three o'clock what the cardinal saysto the plan, " she said. "In this way you will be able to come up bydaylight. "

As Dalrymple took his leave, he held out his hand, forgetting that hewas in Italy. 

"It is not our custom, " said Maria Addolorata, thrusting each of her ownhands into the opposite sleeve. 

But there was nothing cold in her tone. On the contrary, Dalrymplefancied that she was almost on the point of laughing at that moment, andhe blushed at his awkwardness. But she could not see his face. 

"Your most humble servant, " he said, bowing to her. 

"Good day, Signor Doctor, " she answered, through the open door, as theportress jingled her keys and prepared to follow Dalrymple. 

So he took his departure, not without much satisfaction at the result ofhis first attempt. 

CHAPTER VII. 

SOR TOMMASO recovered but slowly, though his injuries were of themselvesnot dangerous. His complexion was apoplectic and gouty, he was no longeryoung, and before forty-eight hours had gone by his wounds weredecidedly inflamed and he had a little fever. At the same time he was byno means a courageous man, and he was ready to cry out that he was dead, whenever he felt himself worse. Besides this, he lost his temper severaltimes daily with Dalrymple, who resolutely refused to bleed him, and heinsisted upon eating and drinking more than was good for him, at a timewhen if he had been his own patient he would have enforced starvation asnecessary to recovery. 

Meanwhile the cardinal had exerted his influence with his sister, theabbess, and had so far succeeded that Dalrymple, who went every day tothe convent, was now made to stand with his back to the abbess's opendoor, in order that he might at least ask her questions and hear her ownanswers. Many an old Italian doctor can tell of even stranger and moreabsurd precautions observed by the nuns of those days. As soon as theoral examination was over, Maria Addolorata shut the door and came outinto the parlour, where Dalrymple finished his visit, prolonging it inconversation with her by every means he could devise. 

Though encumbered with a little of the northern shyness, Dalrymple wasnot diffident. There is a great difference between shyness anddiffidence. Diffidence distrusts itself; shyness distrusts the mereoutward impression made on others. At this time Dalrymple had no objectbeyond enjoying the pleasure of talking with Maria Addolorata, and nohope beyond that of some day seeing her face without the veil. As forher voice, his present position as doctor to the convent made it foolishfor him to run the risk of being caught listening for her songs behindthe garden wall. But he had not forgotten what Annetta had told him, andMaria Addolorata's soft intonations and liquid depths of tone inspeaking led him to believe that the peasant girl had not exaggeratedthe nun's gift of singing. 

One day, after he had seen her and talked with her more than half adozen times, he approached the subject, merely for the sake ofconversation, saying that he had been told of her beautiful voice bypeople who had heard her across the garden. 

"It is true, " she answered simply. "I have a good voice. But it isforbidden here to sing except in church, " she added with a sigh. "Andnow that my aunt is ill, I would not displease her for anything. "

"That is natural, " said Dalrymple. "But I would give anything in theworld to hear you. "

"In church you can hear me. The church is open on Sundays at theBenediction service. We are behind the altar in the choir, of course. But perhaps you would know my voice from the rest because it is deeper. "

"I should know it in a hundred thousand, " asseverated the Scotchman, with warmth. 

"That would be a great many--a whole choir of angels!" And the nunlaughed softly, as she sometimes did, now that she knew him so muchbetter. 

There was something warm and caressing in her laughter, short and low asit was, that made Dalrymple look at those full white hands of hers andwonder whether they might not be warm and caressing too. 

"Will you sing a little louder than the rest next Sunday afternoon, Sister Maria?" he asked. "I will be in the church. "

"That would be a great sin, " she answered, but not very gravely. 

"Why?"

"Because I should have to be thinking about you instead of about theholy service. Do you not know that? But nothing is sinful according toyou Protestants, I suppose. At all events, come to the church. "

"Do you think we are all devils, Sister Maria?" asked Dalrymple, with asmile. 

"More or less. " She laughed again. "They say in the town that you have acompact with the devil. "

"Do you hear what is said in the town?"

"Sometimes. The gardener brings the gossip and tells it to the cook. OrSora Nanna tells it to me when she brings the linen. There are athousand ways. The people think we know nothing because they never seeus. But we hear all that goes on. "

Dalrymple said nothing in answer for some time. Then he spoke suddenlyand rather hoarsely. 

"Shall I never see you, Sister Maria?" he asked. 

"Me? But you see me every day--"

"Yes, --but your face, without the veil. "

Maria Addolorata shook her head. 

"It is against all rules, " she answered. 

"Is it not against all rules that we should sit here and makeconversation every day for half an hour?"

"Yes--I suppose it is. But you are here as a doctor to take care of myaunt, " she added quickly. "That makes it right. You are not a man. Youare a doctor. "

"Oh, --I understand. " Dalrymple laughed a little. "Then I am never to seeyour beautiful face?"

"How do you know it is beautiful, since you have never seen it?"

"From your beautiful hands, " answered the young man, promptly. 

"Oh!" Maria Addolorata glanced at her hands and then, with a movementwhich might have been quicker, concealed them in her sleeves. 

"It is a sin to hide what God has made beautiful, " said Dalrymple. 

"If I have anything about me that is beautiful, it is for God's glorythat I hide it, " answered Maria, with real gravity this time. 

Dalrymple understood that he had gone a little too far, though he didnot exactly regret it, for the next words she spoke showed him that shewas not really offended. Nevertheless, in order to exhibit a properamount of contrition he took his leave with a little more formality thanusual on this particular occasion. Possibly she was willing to show thatshe forgave him, for she hesitated a moment just before opening thedoor, and then, to his great surprise, held out her hand to him. 

"It is your custom, " she said, just touching his eagerly outstretchedfingers. "But you must not look at it, " she added, drawing it backquickly and hiding it in her sleeve with another low laugh. And shebegan to shut the door almost before he had quite gone through. 

Dalrymple walked more slowly on that day, as he descended through thesteep and narrow streets, and though he was surefooted by nature andhabit, he almost stumbled once or twice on his way down, because, somehow, though his eyes looked towards his feet, he did not see exactlywhere he was going. 

There is no necessity for analyzing his sensations. It is enough to sayat once that he was beginning to be really in love with MariaAddolorata, and that he denied the fact to himself stoutly, though itforced itself upon him with every step which took him further from theconvent. He felt on that day a strong premonitory symptom in the shapeof a logical objection, as it were, to his returning again to see thenun. The objection was the evident and total futility of the almostintimate intercourse into which the two were gliding. The day must sooncome when the abbess would no longer need his assistance. In allprobability she would recover, for the more alarming symptoms haddisappeared, and she showed signs of regaining her strength by slowdegrees. It was quite clear to Dalrymple that, after her ultimaterecovery, his chance of seeing and talking with Maria Addolorata wouldbe gone forever. Sor Tommaso, indeed, recovered but slowly. Of the twohis case was the worse, for fever had set in on the third day and hadnot left him yet, so that he assured Dalrymple almost hourly that hislast moment was at hand. But he also was sure to get well, in theScotchman's opinion, and the latter knew well enough that his owntemporary privileges as physician to the convent would be withdrawn fromhim as soon as the Subiaco doctor should be able to climb the hill. 

It was all, therefore, but a brief incident in his life, which could notpossibly have any continuation hereafter. He tried in vain to form plansand create reasons for seeing Maria Addolorata even once a month forsome time to come, but his ingenuity failed him altogether, and he grewangry with himself for desiring what was manifestly impossible. 

With true masculine inconsequence, so soon as he was displeased withhimself he visited his displeasure upon the object that attracted him, and on the earliest possible occasion, on their very next meeting. Heassumed an air of coldness and reserve such as he had certainly notthought necessary to put on at his first visit. Almost without anypreliminary words of courtesy, and without any attempt to prolong theshort conversation which always took place before he was made to standwith his back to the abbess's open door, he coldly inquired about thegood lady's condition during the past night, and made one or twoobservations thereon with a brevity almost amounting to curtness. 

Maria Addolorata was surprised; but as her face was covered, and herhands were quietly folded before her, Dalrymple could not see that hisbehaviour had any effect upon her. She did not answer his last remark atall, but quietly bowed her head. 

Then followed the usual serio-comic scene, during which Dalrymple stoodturned away from the open door, asking questions of the sick woman, andlistening attentively for her low-spoken answers. To tell the truth, hejudged of her condition more from the sound of her voice than fromanything else. He had also taught Maria Addolorata how to feel thepulse; and she counted the beats while he looked at his watch. His chiefanxiety was now for the action of the heart, which had been weakened bya lifetime of unhealthy living, by food inadequate in quality, even whensufficient in quantity, by confinement within doors, and lack oflife-giving sunshine, and by all those many causes which tend to reducethe vitality of a cloistered nun. 

When the comedy was over, Maria Addolorata shut the door as usual; andshe and Dalrymple were alone together in the abbess's parlour, as theywere every day. The abbess herself could hear that they were talking, but she naturally supposed that they were discussing the details of hercondition; and as she felt that she was really recovering, so far asshe could judge, and as almost every day, after Dalrymple had gone, Maria Addolorata had some new direction of his to carry out, the elderlady's suspicions were not aroused. On the contrary, her confidence inthe Scotch doctor grew from day to day; and in the long hours duringwhich she lay thinking over her state and its circumstances, she madeplans for his conversion, in which her brother, the cardinal, bore aprincipal part. She was grateful to Dalrymple, and it seemed to her thatthe most proper way of showing her gratitude would be to save his soul, a point of view unusual in the ordinary relations of life. 

On this particular day, Maria Addolorata shut the door, and came forwardinto the parlour as usual. As usual, too, she sat down in the abbess'sown big easy-chair, expecting that Dalrymple would seat himself oppositeto her. But he remained standing, with the evident intention of goingaway in a few moments. He said a few words about the patient, gave oneor two directions, and then stood still in silence for a moment. 

Maria Addolorata lifted her head a little, but not enough to show himmore than an inch of her face. 

"Have I displeased you, Signor Doctor?" she asked, in her deep, warmvoice. "Have I not carried out your orders?"

"On the contrary, " answered Dalrymple, with a stiffness which heresented in himself. "It is impossible to be more conscientious than youalways are. "

Seeing that he still remained standing, the nun rose to her feet, andwaited for him to go. She believed that she was far too proud to detainhim, if he wished to shorten the meeting. But something hurt her, whichshe could not understand. 

Dalrymple hesitated a moment, and his lips parted as though he wereabout to speak. The silence was prolonged only for a moment or two. 

"Good morning, Sister Maria Addolorata, " he said suddenly, and bowed. 

"Good morning, Signor Doctor, " answered the nun. 

She bent her head very slightly, but a keener observer than Dalrymplewas, just then, would have noticed that as she did so, her shouldersmoved forward a little, as though her breast were contracted by somesudden little pain. Dalrymple did not see it. He bowed again, lethimself out, and closed the door softly behind him. 

When he was gone, Maria Addolorata sat down in the big easy-chair again, and uncovered her face, doubling her veil back upon her head, andwithdrawing the thick folds from her chin and mouth. Her features werevery pale, as she sat staring at the sky through the window, and hereyes fixed themselves in that look which was peculiar to her. Her fullwhite hands strained upon each other a little, bringing the colour tothe tips of her fingers. During some minutes she did not move. Then sheheard her aunt's voice calling to her hoarsely. She rose at once, andwent into the bedroom. The abbess's pale face was very thin and yellownow, as it lay upon the white pillow; the coverlet was drawn up to herchin, and a grimly carved black crucifix hung directly above her head. 

"The doctor did not stay long to-day, " she said, in a hollow tone. 

"No, mother, " answered the young nun. "He thinks you are doing verywell. He wishes you to eat a wing of roast chicken. "

"If I could have a little salad, " said the abbess. "Maria, " she addedsuddenly, "you are careful to keep your face covered when you are in thenext room, are you not?"

"Always. "

"You generally do not raise your veil until you come into this room, after the doctor is gone, " said the elder lady. 

"He went so soon, to-day, " answered Maria Addolorata, with perfectlyinnocent truth. "I stayed a moment in the parlour, thinking over hisdirections, and I lifted my veil when I was alone. It is close to-day. "

"Go into the garden, and walk a little, " said the abbess. "It will doyou good. You are pale. "

If she had felt even a faint uneasiness about her niece's conduct, itwas removed by the latter's manner. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

ONCE more Dalrymple was sitting over his supper at the table in thevaulted room on the ground floor which Stefanone used as a wine shop. Totell the truth, it was very superior to the ordinary wine shops ofSubiaco and had an exceptional reputation. The common people never camethere, because Stefanone did not sell his cheap wine at retail, but sentit all to Rome, or took it thither himself for the sake of getting ahigher price for it. He always said that he did not keep an inn, andperhaps as much on account of his relations with Gigetto's family, heassumed as far as possible the position of a wine-dealer rather thanthat of a wine-seller. The distinction, in Italian mountain towns, isvery marked. 

"They can have a measure of the best, if they care to pay for it, " hesaid. "If they wish a mouthful of food, there is what there is. But I amnot the village host, and Nanna is not a wine-shop cook, to fry tripeand peel onions for Titius and Caius. "

The old Roman expression, denoting generally the average public, survives still in polite society, and Stefanone had caught it from SorTommaso. 

Dalrymple was sitting as usual over his supper, by the light of thetriple-beaked brass lamp, his measure of wine beside him, and abeefsteak, which on this occasion was really of beef, before him. Stefanone was absent in Rome, with a load of wine. Sora Nanna sat onDalrymple's right, industriously knitting in Italian fashion, one of theneedles stuck into and supported by a wooden sheath thrust into herwaist-band, while she worked off the stitches with the others. Annettasat opposite the Scotchman, but a little on one side of the lamp, sothat she could see his face. 

"Mother, " she said suddenly, without lifting her chin from the hand inwhich it rested, "you do not know anything! This Signor Englishman ismaking love with a nun in the convent! Eh--what do you think of it? Onlythis was wanting. A little more and the lightning will fall upon theconvent! These Protestants! Oh, these blessed Protestants! They respectnothing, not even the saints!"

"My daughter! what are you saying?"

Sora Nanna's fingers did not pause in their work, nor did her eyes lookup, but the deep furrow showed itself in her thick peasant's forehead, and her coarse, hard lips twitched clumsily with the beginning of asmile. 

"What am I saying? The truth. Ask rather of the Signore whether it isnot true. "

"It is silly, " said Dalrymple, growing unnaturally red, and looking upsharply at Annetta, before he took his next mouthful. 

"Look at him, mother!" laughed the girl. "He is red, red--he seems to mea boiled shrimp. Eh, this time I have guessed it! And as for SisterMaria Addolorata, she no longer sees with her eyes! To-day, when youwere carrying in the baskets, you and the other women who went with us, I asked her whether the abbess was satisfied with the new doctor, andshe answered that he was a very wise man, much wiser than Sor Tommaso. So I told her that it was a pity, because Sor Tommaso was getting welland would not allow the English doctor to come instead of him muchlonger. Then she looked at me. By Bacchus, I was afraid. Certain eyes!Not even a cat when you take away her kittens! A little more and shewould have eaten me. And then her face made itself of marble--like thatface of a woman that is built into the fountain in the piazza. Arch-priest! What a face!"

The girl stared hard at Dalrymple, and her mouth laughed wickedly at hisevident embarrassment, while there was something very different fromlaughter in her eyes. During the long speech, Sora Nanna had stoppedknitting, and she looked from her daughter to the Scotchman with a sortof half-stupid, half-cunning curiosity. 

"But these are sins!" she exclaimed at last. 

"And what does it matter?" asked the girl. "Does he go to confession? Sowhat does it matter? He keeps the account himself, of his sins. I shouldnot like to have them on my shoulders. But as for Sister MariaAddolorata--oh, she! I told you that she sinned in her throat. Well, thesin is ready, now. What is she waiting for? For the abbess to die? Orfor Sor Tommaso to get well? Then she will not see the Signor Englishmanany more. It would be better for her. When she does not see him anymore, she will knead her pillow with tears, and make her bread of it, tobite and eat. Good appetite, Sister Maria!"

"You talk, you talk, and you conclude nothing, " observed Sora Nanna. "You have certain thoughts in your head! And you do not let the Signoresay even a word. "

"What can he say? He will say that it is not true. But then, who willbelieve him? I should like to see them a little together. I am sure thatshe shows him her face, and that it is 'Signor Doctor' here, and 'DearSignor Doctor' there, and a thousand gentlenesses. Tell the truth, Signore. She shows you her face. "

"No, " said Dalrymple, who had regained his self-possession. "She nevershows me her face. "

"What a shame for a Carmelite nun to show her face to a man!" cried thegirl. 

"But I tell you she is always veiled to her chin, " insisted Dalrymple, with perfect truth. 

"Eh! It is you who say so!" retorted Annetta. "But then, what can itmatter to me? Make love with a nun, if it goes, Signore. Youth is aflower--when it is withered, it is hay, and the beasts eat it. "

"This is true, " said Sora Nanna, returning to her knitting. "But do notpay attention to her, Signore. She is stupid. She does not know what shesays. Eat, drink, and manage your own affairs. It is better. What can achild understand? It is like a little dog that sees and barks, withoutunderstanding. But you are a much instructed man and have been round thewhole world. Therefore you know many things. It seems natural. "

Though Dalrymple was not diffident, as has been said, he was far fromvain, on the whole, and in particular he had none of that contemptiblevanity which makes a man readily believe that every woman he meets is inlove with him. He had not the slightest idea at that time that Annetta, the peasant girl, looked upon him with anything more than the curiosityand vague interest usually bestowed on a foreigner in Italy. 

He was annoyed, however, by what she said this evening, though he wasalso secretly surprised and delighted. The contradiction is a commonone. The miser is half mad with joy on discovering that he has muchmore than he supposed, and bitterly resents, at the same time, anynotice which may be taken of the fact by others. 

Annetta did not enjoy his discomfiture and evident embarrassment, forshe was far more deeply hurt herself than she realized, and every wordshe had spoken about Maria Addolorata had hurt her, though she had takena sort of vague delight in teasing Dalrymple. She relapsed into silencenow, alternately wishing that he loved her, and then, that she mightkill him. If she could not have his heart, she would be satisfied withhis blood. There was a passionate animal longing in the instinct to havehim for herself, even dead, rather than that any other woman should gethis love. 

Dalrymple was aware only that the girl's words had annoyed him, whileinwardly conscious that if what she said were true, the truth would makea difference in his life. He showed no inclination to talk any more, andfinished his supper in a rather morose silence, turning to his book assoon as he had done. Then Gigetto came in with his guitar and sang andtalked with the two women. 

But he was restless that night, and did not fall asleep until the moonhad set and his window grew dark. And even in his dreams he was restlessstill, so that when he awoke in the morning he said to himself that hehad been foolish in his behaviour towards Maria Addolorata on theprevious day. He felt tired, too, and his colour was less brilliantthan usual. It was Sunday, and he remembered that if he chose he couldgo in the afternoon to the Benediction in the convent church and hearMaria's voice perhaps. But at the usual hour, just before noon, he wentto make his visit to the abbess. 

It was his intention to forget his stiff manner, and to behave as he hadalways behaved until yesterday. Strange to say, however, he felt aconstraint coming upon him as soon as he was in the nun's presence. Shereceived him as usual, there was the usual comic scene at the abbess'sdoor, and, as every day, the two were alone together after her door wasshut. 

"Are you ill?" asked Maria Addolorata, after a moment's silence which, short as it was, both felt to be awkward. 

Dalrymple was taken by surprise. The tone in which she had spoken wascold and distant rather than expressive of any concern for his welfare, but he did not think of that. He only realized that his manner must seemto her very unusual, since she asked such a question. An Italian wouldhave observed that his own face was pale, and would have told her thathe was dying of love. 

"No, I am not ill, " answered the Scotchman, simply, and in his mostnatural tone of voice. 

"Then what is the matter with you since yesterday?" asked MariaAddolorata, less coldly, and as though she were secretly amused. 

"There is nothing the matter--at least, nothing that I could explain toyou. "

She sat down in the big easy-chair and, as formerly, he took his seatopposite to her. 

"There is something, " she insisted, speaking thoughtfully. "You cannotdeceive a woman, Signor Doctor. "

Dalrymple smiled and looked at her veiled head. 

"You said the other day that I was not a man, but a doctor, " heanswered. "I suppose I might answer that you are not a woman, but anun. "

"And is not a nun a woman?" asked Maria Addolorata, and he knew that shewas smiling, too. 

"You would not forgive me if I answered you, " he said. 

"Who knows? I might be obliged to, since I am obliged to meet you everyday. It may be a sin, but I am curious. "

"Shall I tell you?"

As though instinctively, Maria was silent for a moment, and turned herveiled face towards the abbess's door. But Dalrymple needed no suchwarning to lower his voice. 

"Tell me, " she said, and under her veil she could feel that her eyeswere growing deep and the pupils wide and dark, and she knew that shehad done wrong. 

"How should I know whether you are a saint or only a woman, since I havenever seen your face?" he asked. "I shall never know--for in a few daysDoctor Taddei will be well again, and you will not need my services. "

He saw the quick tightening of one hand upon the other, and the slightstart of the head, and in a flash he knew that all Annetta had told himwas true. The silence that followed seemed longer than the awkward pausewhich had preceded the conversation. 

"It cannot be so soon, " she said in a very low tone. 

"It may be to-morrow, " he answered, and to his own astonishment hisvoice almost broke in his throat, and he felt that his own hands weretwisting each other, as though he were in pain. "I shall die withoutseeing you, " he added almost roughly. 

Again there was a short silence in the still room. 

Suddenly, with quick movements of both hands at once, Maria Addoloratathrew back the veil from her face, and drew away the folds that coveredher mouth. 

"There, see me!" she exclaimed. "Look at me well this once!"

Her face was as white as marble, and her dark eyes had a wild andstartled look in them, as though she saw the world for the first time. A ringlet of red-gold hair had escaped from the bands of white thatcrossed her forehead in an even line and were drawn down straight oneither side, for in the quick movement she had made she had loosened thepin that held them together under her chin, and had freed the dazzlingthroat down to the high collar. 

[Illustration: "She had covered her face with the veil. "--Vol. I. , p. 126. ]

Dalrymple's pale, bright blue eyes caught fire, and he looked at herwith all his being, at her face, her throat, her eyes, the ringlet ofher hair. He breathed audibly, with parted lips, between his clenchedteeth. 

Gradually, as he looked, he saw the red blush rise from the throat tothe cheeks, from the cheeks to the forehead, and the marble grew morebeautiful with womanly life. Then, all at once, he saw the hot tearswelling up in her eyes, and in an instant the vision was gone. With apassionate movement she had covered her face with the veil, and throwingherself sideways against the high back of the chair, she pressed thedark stuff still closer to her eyes and mouth and cheeks. Her whole bodyshook convulsively, and a moment later she was sobbing, not audibly, butvisibly, as though her heart were breaking. 

Dalrymple was again taken by surprise. He had been so completely lost inthe utterly selfish contemplation of her beauty that he had been veryfar from realizing what she herself must have felt as soon as sheappreciated what she had done. He at once accused himself of havinglooked too rudely at her, but at the same time he was himself too muchdisturbed to argue the matter. Quite instinctively he rose to his feetand tried to take one of her hands from her veil, touching itcomfortingly. But she made a wild gesture, as though to drive him away. 

"Go!" she cried in a low and broken voice, between her sobs. "Go! Goquickly!"

She could not say more for her sobbing, but he did not obey her. He onlydrew back a little and watched her, all his blood on fire from the touchof her soft white hand. 

She stifled her sobs in her veil, and gradually grew more calm. She evenarranged the veil itself a little better, her face still turned awaytowards the back of the chair. 

"Maria! Maria!" The abbess's voice was calling her, hoarsely and almostdesperately, from the next room. 

She started and sat up straight, listening. Then the cry was heardagain, more desperate, less loud. With a quick skill which seemedmarvellous in Dalrymple's eyes, Maria adjusted her veil almost beforeshe had sprung to her feet. 

"Wait!" she said. "Something is the matter!"

She was at the bedroom door in an instant, and in an instant more shewas at her aunt's bedside. 

"Maria--I am dying, " said the abbess's voice faintly, as she felt thenun's arm under her head. 

Dalrymple heard the words, and did not hesitate as he hastily felt forsomething in his pocket. 

"Come!" cried Maria Addolorata. 

But he was already there, on the other side of the bed, pouringsomething between the sick lady's lips. 

It was fortunate that he was there at that moment. He had indeedanticipated the possibility of a sudden failure in the action of theheart, and he never came to the convent without a small supply of apowerful stimulant of his own invention. The liquid, however, was ofsuch a nature that he did not like to leave the use of it to MariaAddolorata's discretion, for he was aware that she might easily bemistaken in the symptoms of the collapse which would really require itsuse. 

The abbess swallowed a sufficient quantity of it, and Dalrymple allowedher head to lie again upon the pillow. She looked almost as though shewere dead. Her eyes were turned up, and her jaw had dropped. MariaAddolorata believed that all was over. 

"She is dead, " she said. "Let us leave her in peace. "

It is a very ancient custom among Italians to withdraw as soon as adying person is unconscious, if not even before the supreme moment. 

"She will probably live through this, " answered Dalrymple, shaking hishead. 

Neither he nor the nun spoke again for a long time. Little by little, the abbess revived under the influence of the stimulant, the heart beatless faintly, and the mouth slowly closed, while the eyelids shutthemselves tightly over the upturned eyes. The normal regular breathingbegan again, and the crisis was over. 

"It is passed, " said Dalrymple. "It will not come again to-day. We canleave her now, for she will sleep. "

"Yes, " said the abbess herself. "Let me sleep. " Her voice was faint, butthe words were distinctly articulated. 

Then she opened her eyes and looked about her quite naturally. Herglance rested on Dalrymple's face. Suddenly realizing that she was notveiled, she drew the coverlet up over her face. It is a peculiarity ofsuch cases, that the patient returns almost immediately to ordinaryconsciousness when the moment of danger is past. 

"Go!" she said, with more energy than might have been expected. "This isa religious house. You must not be here. "

Dalrymple retired into the parlour again, shutting the door behind him, and waited for Maria Addolorata, for it was now indispensable that heshould give her directions for the night. During the few minutes whichpassed while he was alone, he stood looking out of the window. Theexcitement of the last half-hour had cut off from his present state ofmind the emotion he had felt before the abbess's cry for help, but hadnot decreased the impression it had left. While he was helping the sicklady there had not been one instant in which he had not felt that therewas more than the life of a half-saintly old woman in the balance, andthat her death meant the end of his meetings with Maria Addolorata. Annetta's words came back to him, 'she will knead her pillow with tearsand make her bread of it. '

Several minutes passed, and the door opened softly and closed again. Maria Addolorata came up to him, where he stood by the window. She didnot speak for a moment, but he saw that her hand was pressed to herside. 

"I have spent a bad half-hour, " she said at last, with something like agasp. 

"It is the worst half-hour I ever spent in my life, " answered Dalrymple. "I thought it was all over, " he added. 

"Yes, " she said, "I thought it was all over. "

He could hear his heart beating in his ears. He could almost hear hers. His hand went out toward her, cold and unsteady, but it fell to his sideagain almost instantly. But for the heart-beats, it seemed to him thatthere was an appalling stillness in the air of the quiet room. Hismanly face grew very pale. He slowly bit his lip and looked out of thewindow. An enormous temptation was upon him. He knew that if she movedto leave his side he should take her and hold her. There was a tiny dropof blood on his lip now. Something in him made him hope against himselfthat she would speak, that she would say some insignificant dry words. But every inch of his strong fibre and every ounce of his hot bloodhoped that she would move, instead of speaking. 

She sighed, and the sigh was broken by a quick-drawn breath. SlowlyDalrymple turned his white face and gleaming eyes to her veiled head. Still she neither spoke nor moved. He, in memory, saw her face, hermouth, and her eyes through the thick stuff that hid them. The silencebecame awful to him. His hands opened and shut convulsively. 

She heard his breath and she saw the uncertain shadow of his hand, moving on the black and white squares of the pavement. She made aslight, short movement towards him and then stepped suddenly back, overcoming the temptation to go to him. 

"No!"

He uttered the single word with a low, fierce cry. In an instant hisarms were around her, pressing her, lifting her, straining her, almostbruising her. In an instant his lips were kissing a face whiter than hisown, eyes that flamed like summer lightning between his kisses, lipscrushed and hurt by his, but still not kissed enough, hands that wereraised to resist, but lingered to be kissed in turn, lest anythingshould be lost. 

A little splintering crash, the sound of a glass falling upon a stonefloor in the next room, broke the stillness. Dalrymple's arms relaxed, and the two stood for one moment facing one another, pale, with fire intheir eyes and hearts beating more loudly than before. Dalrymple raisedhis hand to his forehead, as though he were dazed, and made an uncertainstep in the direction of the door. Maria raised her white hands towardshim, and her eyelids drooped, even while she looked into his face. 

He kissed her once more with a kiss in which all other kisses seemed tomeet and live and die a lingering, sweet death. She sank into the deepold easy-chair, and when she looked up, he was gone. 

CHAPTER IX. 

IT rained during the afternoon, and Dalrymple sat in his smalllaboratory, among his books and the simple apparatus he used for hisexperiments. His little window was closed, and the southwest wind drovethe shower against the clouded panes of glass, so that the rain camethrough the ill-fitted strips of lead which joined them, and ran down insmall streams to the channel in the stone sill, whence the water foundits way out through a hole running through the wall. He sat in hisrush-bottomed chair, sideways by the deal table, one long leg crossedover the other. His hand lay on an open book, and his fingersoccasionally tapped the page impatiently, while his eyes were fixed onthe window, watching the driving rain. 

He was not thinking, for he could not think. Over and over again thescene of the morning came back to him and sent the hot blood rushing tohis throat. He tried to reflect, indeed, and to see whether what he haddone was to have any consequences for him, or was to be left behind inhis life, like a lovely view seen from a carriage window on a swiftjourney, gone before it is half seen, and never to be seen again, except in dreams. But he was utterly unable to look forward and reasonabout the future. Everything dragged him back, up the steep ascent tothe convent, through the arched ways and vaulted corridors, to the roomin which he had passed the supreme moments of his life. The onlydistinct impression of the future was the strong desire to feel againwhat he had felt that day; to feel it again and again, and always, aslong as feeling could last; to stretch out his hands and take, to closethem and hold, to make his, indubitably, what had been but questionablyhis for an instant, to get the one thing worth having, for himself, andonly for himself. For the passion of a strong man is loving and taking, and the passion of a good woman is loving and giving. Dalrymple reasonedwell enough, later, --too well, perhaps, --but during those hours he spentalone on that day, there was no power of reasoning in him. The world wasthe woman he loved, and the world's orbit was but the circle of hisclasping arms. Beyond them was chaos, without form and void, clouded asthe rain-streaked panes of his little window. 

He looked at his watch more than once. At last he rose, threw a cloakover his shoulders and went out, locking the door of the littlelaboratory behind him as he always did, and thrusting the unwieldy keyinto his pocket. 

He climbed the hill to the convent, taking the short cut through thenarrow lanes. The rain had almost ceased, and the wet mist that blewround the corners of the dark houses was pleasant in his face. But hescarcely knew what he saw and felt on his way. He reached the conventchurch and went in, and stood by one of the pillars near the door. 

It was a small church, built with a great choir for the nuns behind thehigh altar; from each side of the latter a high wooden screen extendedto the walls, completely cutting off the space. It was dark, too, especially in such weather, and almost deserted, save for a number ofold women who knelt on the damp marble pavement, some leaning againstthe backs of chairs, some resting one arm upon the plastered bases ofthe yellow marble columns. There were many lights on the high altar. Twoacolytes, rough-headed boys of Subiaco, knelt within the altar rail, dressed in black cassocks and clean linen cottas. Two priests and ayoung deacon sat side by side on the right of the altar, with smallblack books in their hands. The nuns were chanting, unseen in the choir. No one noticed Dalrymple, wrapped in his cloak, as he leaned against thepillar near the door. His head was a little inclined, involuntarilyrespectful to ceremonies he neither believed in nor understood, butwhich had in them the imposing element of devout earnestness. Yet hiseyes were raised and looked up from under his brows, steadily andwatchfully, for he knew that Maria Addolorata was behind the screen, andfrom the first moment of entering the church it seemed to him that hecould distinguish her voice from the rest. 

He knew that it was hers, though he had never heard her sing. There wasin all those sweet, colourless tones one tone that made ringingharmonies in his strong heart. Amongst all those mingling accents, therewas one accent that touched his soul. Amidst the echoes that died softlyaway under the dim arches, there was one echo that died not, but rang onand on in his ears. There was a voice not like other voices there, norlike any he had ever heard. Many were strong and sweet; this one was notsweet and strong only, but alive with a divine life, winged with divinewings, essential of immortality, touching beyond tears, passionate asthe living, breathing, sighing, dying world, grand as a flood of light, sad as the twilight of gods, full as a great water swinging to the tideof the summer's moon, fine-drawn as star-rays--a voice of gold. 

As Dalrymple stood there in the shadow, he heard it singing to him andtelling him all that he had not been told in words, all that he felt, and more also. For there was in it the passion of the woman, and thepassionate remorse of the nun, the towering love of Maria Braccio, woman and princess, and the deep despair of Maria Addolorata, nun andsinner, unfaithful spouse of the Lord Christ, accused and self-accusing, self-wronged, self-judged, but condemned of God and foretasting theultimate tragedy that is eternal--the tragedy of supreme hell. 

The man who stood there knew that it was his doing, and the burden ofhis deeds bowed him bodily as he stood. But still he listened, and, asshe sung, he watched her lips in the dark, inner mirror of sin's memory, and they drew him on. 

Little by little, he heard only her voice, and the others chanted butfaintly as from an infinite distance. And then, not in his thought, butin deed, she was singing alone, and the words of 'O Salutaris Hostia, 'sounded in the dim church as they had never sounded before, nor couldever sound again, the appeal of a lost soul's agony to God, the glory ofgolden voice, the accent of transcendent genius, the passion, thestrength, the despair, of an ancient race. 

In the dark church the coarse, sad peasant women bowed themselves uponthe pavement. One of them sobbed aloud and beat her breast. AngusDalrymple kneeled upon one knee and pressed his brow against the foot ofthe pillar, kneeling neither to God, nor to the Sacred Host, nor toman's belief in Heaven or Hell, neither praying nor blaspheming, neither hoping nor dreading, but spell-bound upon a wrack of torturethat was heart-breaking delight, his senses torn and strained to theutmost of his strong endurance, to the very scream of passion, his soulcrucified upon the exquisite loveliness of his sin. 

Then all was still for an instant. Again there was a sound of voices, asthe nuns sang in chorus the 'Tantum Ergo. ' But the voice of voices wassilent among them. The solemn Benediction blessed the just and theunjust alike. The short verses and responses of the priests broke theair that still seemed alive and trembling. 

Dalrymple rose slowly, and wrapped his cloak about him. Above thefootsteps of the women going out of the church, he could hear the softsound of all the nuns moving together as they left the choir. He knewthat she was with them, and he stood motionless in his place tillsilence descended as a curtain between him and what had been. Then, withbent head, he went out into the rain that poured through the dimtwilight. 

CHAPTER X. 

THEY were together on the following day. The abbess was better, and asyet there had been no return of the syncope which Dalrymple dreaded. 

Contrary to her habit, Maria Addolorata sat on a high chair by thetable, her head veiled and turned away, her chin supported in her hand. Dalrymple was seated not far from her, leaning forward, and trying tosee her face, silent, and in a dangerous mood. She had refused to lethim come near her, and even to raise her veil. When she spoke, her voicewas full of a profound sadness that irritated him instead of touchinghim, for his nerves were strung to passion and out of tune with regret. 

"The sin of it; the deadly sin!" she said. 

"There is no sin in it, " he answered; but she shook her veiled head. 

And there was silence again, as on the day before, but the stillness wasof another kind. It was not the awful lull which goes before thebursting of the storm, when the very air seems to start at the fall of aleaf for fear lest it be already the thunder-clap. It was more like thenoiseless rising of the hungry flood that creeps up round the doomedhouse, wherein is desperate, starving life, higher and higher, inch byinch--the flood of rising fate. 

"You say that there is no sin in it, " she said, after a time. "You sayit, but you do not think it. You are a man--you have honour to lose--youunderstand that, at least--"

"You are a woman, and you have humanity's right to be free. It is anhonourable right. You gave it up when you took that veil, not knowingwhat it was that you gave up. You have done no wrong. You have donenothing that any loving maiden need be ashamed of. I kissed you, for youcould not help yourself. That is the monstrous crime which you say is tobe punished with eternal damnation. It is monstrous that you shouldthink so. It is blasphemy to say that God made woman to lead a life ofsuffering and daily misery, chained to a cross which it is agony to lookat, and shame to break from. "

"Go--leave me. You are tempting me again. " She spoke away from him, notchanging her position. 

"If truth is temptation, I am tempting you, for I am showing you thetruth. The truth is this. When you were almost a child they began tobend you and break you in the way they meant you to grow. You bent, butyou were not broken. Your nature is too strong. There is a life of yourown in you. It was against your will, and when you were just grown up, they buried you, your beauty, your youth, your fresh young heart, yourvoice and your genius--for it is nothing less. It was all done withdeliberate intention for the glory of your family, blasphemouslyasserted to be the glory of God. It was pressed upon you, before youknew what you were doing, and made pleasant to you before you knew whatit all meant. Your cross was cushioned for you and your crown of thornswas gilded. They made the seat under the canopy seem a seat in heaven. They even made you believe that the management of two or three scoresuffering women was government and power. It seemed a great thing to beabbess, did it not?"

Maria Addolorata bent her veiled head slowly twice or three times, in aheavy-hearted way. 

"They made you believe all that, " continued Dalrymple, with coldearnestness, "and much more besides--a great deal of which I knowlittle, I suppose--the life to come, and saintship, and the glories ofheaven. You have found out what it is all worth. We have found it outtogether. And they frightened you with hell. Do you know what hell is? Alife without love, when one knows what love can mean. I am not eloquent;I wish I were. But I am plain, and I can tell you the truth. "

"It is not the truth, " answered the nun, slowly. "You tell me it is, totempt me. I cannot drive you away by force. Will you not go? I cannotcry out for help--it would ruin me and you. Will you not leave me? Butfor God's grace, I am at your mercy, and there is little grace for me, asinner. "

"No, I will not go away, " said Dalrymple, and it seemed to Maria thathis voice was the voice of her fate. 

"Then God have mercy!" she cried, in a low tone, and as her head sankforward, it was her forehead that rested in her right hand, instead ofher chin. 

"Love is more merciful than God, " he answered. 

There was a sudden softness in his voice which she had never heard, noteven yesterday. Rising, he stole near to her, and standing, bent downand leaned upon the table by her side and spoke close to her ear. But hedid not touch her. She could feel his breath through her veil when hespoke again. It was vital and fierce, and softly hot, like the breathingof a powerful wild beast. 

"You are my God, " he said. "I worship you, and adore you. But I musthave you for mine always. I would rather kill you, and have no God, thanlose you alive. Come with me. You are free. You can get through thegarden at night--with good horses we can reach the sea to-morrow. Thereis an English ship of war at anchor in Civita Vecchia. The officers aremy friends. Before to-morrow night we can be safe--married--happy. Noone will know--no one will follow us. Maria--come--come--come!"

His voice sank to a vibrating whisper as he repeated the word again andagain, closer and closer to her ear. Her hands had dropped from herforehead and lay upon the table. With bent head she listened. 

"Come, my darling, " he continued, fast and low. "I have a beautifulhome, my father's home, my mother's--your laws and vows are nothing tothem. You shall be honoured, loved--ah, dear! adored, worshipped--you donot know what we will do for you, to fill your life with sweet things. All your life, Maria, from to-morrow. Instead of pain and penance andeverlasting suffering and weariness, you shall have all that the worldholds of love and peace and flowers. And you shall sing your whole heartout when you will, and have music to play with from year's beginning toyear's end and year's end again. Sweet, let me tell you how I loveyou--how you are alive in every drop of my blood, beating through melike living fire, through heart and soul and head and hand--"

With a quick movement she pressed her palms against her veil upon herears to shut out the sound of his words. She rocked herself a little, asthough the pain were almost greater than she could bear. But his handsmoved too, stealthily, strongly, as a tiger's velvet feet, with avibration all through them, to the very ends of his fingers. For he wasin earnest. And the arm went softly round her, and closed gently uponher as her figure swayed in her chair; and the other sought hers, andfound it cold as ice and trembling, and not strong to stop her hearing. And again she listened. 

Wild and incoherent words fell from his lips, hot and low, with noreason in them but the overwhelming reason of love itself. For he wasnot an eloquent man, and now he took no thought of what he said. He wasfar too natural to be eloquent, and far too deeply stirred to care forthe shape his love took in speech. There was in his words the strongrush of out-bursting truth which even the worst passion has when it isreal to the roots. Words terrible and gentle, blasphemous and devout, wove themselves into a new language such as Maria Addolorata had neverheard, nor dared to think of hearing. But he dared everything, to tellher, to hold her, against God and devil, heaven and earth, and allmankind. And he promised all he had, and all that was not his to promisenor to give, rending her beliefs to shreds, trampling on the brokenfragments of all she had worshipped, tearing her chains link from linkand scattering them like straw down the storm of passionate contempt. And then, again, pouring out love, and more love, and love again, as astream of liquid fire let loose to flood all it meets with dazzlingdestruction and hot death. 

It is not every woman that knows what it is to be so loved and to listento such words, so spoken. Those who have heard and felt can understand, but not the rest. Gradually as he spoke, her veiled face was drawntoward his; gradually her hand raised the thick veil and drew it back;and again a little, and the hand that had struggled long and silentlyagainst his, lay still at last, and the face that had appealed in vainto Heaven, hid itself against the heart of the strong man. 

"The Lord have mercy upon my sinful soul!" she softly prayed. 

"I love you!" whispered Dalrymple, folding her to him with both hisarms, and pressing his lips to her head. "That is all the world holds. That is all the Heaven there is, and we have it for our own. "

But presently she drew back from him, clinging to him with her hands asthough to hold him, and yet separating from him and looking up into hisface. 

"And to-morrow?" she said, with a despairing question in her tone. 

"We will go away to-night, " he answered, "and to-morrow will be ours, too, and all the to-morrows after that. "

But she shook her head, and her hands loosened their hold upon his arms, still lingering on his sleeves. 

"And leave her to die?" she asked, with a quick glance at the abbess'sdoor. 

Then she looked at him, with something of sudden fear as she met hiseyes again. And almost instantly she turned from him, and threw herselfforward upon the table as she sat. 

"The sin, the deadly sin!" she moaned. "Oh, the horror of it all--thesin, the shame, the disgrace! That is the worst to bear--the shame! Theundying shame of it!"

Dalrymple's brows bent themselves in a heavy frown, for he was in notemper to be thwarted, desperate as the risk might be. For himself, heknew that he was setting his life on the chances, if she consented, andthat life would not be worth having if she refused. He knew well enoughthat they must almost certainly be pursued, and that there would belittle hesitation about shooting him or cutting his throat if they werecaught and if he resisted, as he knew that he should. He had been inlove with her for days. The last twenty-four hours had made himdesperate. And a desperate man is not to be played with, more especiallyif he chance to have any Highland blood in his veins. 

"What do you believe in most?" he asked suddenly and almost brutally. 

She turned, startled, and looked him in the face. 

"Because, if you believe in God, as I suppose you do, I take God towitness that I shall be a dead man this night, unless you promise to gowith me. "

She stared, and turned white to the lips, as he had never seen her turnpale before. She leaned forward, gazing into his eyes and breathinghard. 

"You do not mean that, " she said, as though trying hard to convinceherself. 

"I mean it, " he answered slowly, pale himself, and knowing what he said. 

She leaned nearer to him and took his arms with her hands, for she couldnot speak. The terrible question was in his eyes. 

"You would kill yourself, if I refused--if I would not go with you?"Still she could not believe him. 

"Yes, " he answered. 

Once more the room was very still, as the two looked into one another'seyes. But Maria Addolorata said nothing. The frown deepened onDalrymple's face, and his strong mouth was drawn, as a man draws in hislips at the moment of meeting death. 

"Good-bye, " he said, gently loosening himself from her hold. 

Her hands dropped and she turned half round, following him as he wenttowards the door. His hand was almost on the latch. He did not turn. But as he heard her swift feet behind him, he bent his head a little. Her arms went round his throat, reaching up to his great height. 

"No! No!" she cried, drawing his head down to her. 

But he took her by the wrists and held her away from him at his arms'length. 

"Are you in earnest?" he asked fiercely. "If you play with me any more, you shall die, too. "

"But not to-day!" she answered imploringly. "Not to-night! Give metime--a day--a little while--"

"To lose you? No. I have been near losing you. I know what it means. Make up your mind. Yes, or no. "

"To-night? But how? There is not time--these clothes I wear--"

She turned her head distractedly to one side and the other as she spoke, while he held her wrists. Dalrymple saw that there was reason in theobjections she made. So dangerous a flight could not be undertakenwithout some preparation. He loosed her hands and began to pace theroom, concentrating his mind upon the details. She watched him insilence, leaning against the back of the easy-chair. Then he stoppedjust before her. 

"My cloak would come down to your feet, " he said, measuring her heightwith his eyes. "I have a plaid which would cover your head. Once onhorseback, no one would notice anything. Can you ride?"

"No. I never learned. "

"That is unlucky. But we can manage it. The main thing would be to get along start if possible--that you should not be missed--to get away justat the beginning of the longest time during which the nuns would notexpect to see you. Where is your own room? Is it near this?"

Maria Addolorata told him, and explained the position of the balconywith the steps leading down into the garden. He asked her who kept thekey of the postern. It was in the possession of the gardener, who tookit away with him at night, but the lock was on the inside, anduncovered, as old Italian locks are. By raising the curved spring onecould push back the bolt. There was a handle on the latter, for thatpurpose. There would be no difficulty about getting out, nor aboutletting Dalrymple in, provided that the night were dark. 

"The moon is almost full, " said Dalrymple, thoughtfully, and he began towalk up and down again. "Never mind. It must be to-morrow night. In yourdark dress, when the sisters are asleep, if you keep in the shadow alongthe wall, there is not the slightest risk. I will be waiting for you onthe other side of the gate with my cloak and plaid. I will have thehorses ready, a little higher up. There is a good mule path which goesdown into the valley on that side. You have only to reach the gate andlet yourself out. It is very easy. Tell me at what time to be waiting. "

Maria leaned heavily upon the chair, with bent head. 

"I cannot do it--oh, I cannot!" she said despairingly. "The shame of it!To be the talk of Rome--the scandal of the day--a disgrace to my fatherand mother!"

Dalrymple frowned, and biting his lip, he struck his clenched fistsoftly with the palm of his hand, making a few quick steps backward andforward. He stopped suddenly and looked at her with dangerous eyes. 

"I have told you, " he said. "I will not repeat it. You must choose. "

"Oh, you cannot be in earnest--"

"You shall see. It is plain enough, " he added, with an accent of scorn. "You are more afraid of a little talk and gossip in Rome, than of beingtold to-morrow morning that I died in the night. That is Italiancourage, I suppose. "

She hung her head for a moment. Then, as she heard his footsteps, shethrew her veil back and saw that he was going towards the door without aword. 

"You are cruel, " she said, half catching her breath. "You know that youmake me suffer--that I cannot live without you. "

"I shall certainly not live without you, " he answered. "I mean to haveyou at any price, or I will die in the attempt to get you. "

The words have a melodramatic look on paper. But he spoke them not onlywith his lips, but with his whole self. They were not out of keepingwith his nature. There is no more desperate blood in the world's veinsthan that of the Celt when he is driven to bay or exasperated bypassion. In him the reckless fatalism of the Asiatic is blended with thecool daring of the northerner. 

Maria Addolorata had little experience of the world or of men, but shehad the hereditary instincts of her sex, and as she looked at Dalrympleshe recognized in him the man who would do what he said, or forfeit hislife in trying to do it. There is no mistaking the truth about such men, at such moments. 

"I believe you would, " she said, and she felt pride in saying it. 

Her own life was in the balance. She bent her head again. Her templeswere throbbing, and it was hard to think at all connectedly. 

"I want your answer, " he said, still standing near the door. "Yes orno--for to-morrow night?"

"I cannot live without you, " she answered slowly, and still lookingdown. "I must go. "

But she did not meet his eyes, for she knew that she was wavering still, and almost as uncertain as before. All at once Dalrymple's mannerchanged. He came quietly to her side and took one of her hands, whichhung idly over the back of the chair, in both of his. 

"You must be in earnest, as I am, my dear, " he said, very calmly andgently. "You must not play with a man's life and heart, as though theywere worth nothing but play. You called me cruel, dear, a moment ago. But you are more cruel than I, for I do not hesitate. "

"I must go, " she repeated, still avoiding his look. "Yes, I must go. Ishould die without you. "

"But to-morrow when I come, you will hesitate again, " he said, stillspeaking very quietly. "I must be sure. You must give me some promise, something more than you have given me yet. "

She looked up with startled eyes. 

"You do not believe me?" she asked. "What shall I do? I--I promise! Youyourself have never said that you promised. "

"Does it need that?" He pressed the hand he held, with softly increasingstrength, between his palms. 

"No, " she answered, looking at him. "I can see it. You will do what yousay. I have promised, too. "

He gazed incredulously into her face. 

"Do you doubt me?" she asked. 

"Have I not reason to doubt? You change your mind easily. I do not blameyou. But how am I to believe?"

She grew impatient of his unbelief. Yet as he pressed her hand, thepower he had over her increased with every second. 

"But I will, I will!" she cried, in a low voice. "And still you doubt--Isee it in your eyes. Have I not promised? What more can I do?"

"I do not know, " he answered. "But you must make me believe you. " Thestrength of his eyes seemed to be forcing something from her. 

"I say it--I promise it--I swear it! Do I not love you? Am I not givingmy soul for you? Have I not given it already? What more can I do orsay?"

"I do not know, " he answered a second time, holding her with his eyes. "I must believe you before I go. "

He spoke honestly and earnestly, not meaning to exasperate her, searching in her look for what was unmistakably in his own. His handsshook, not weakly, as they held hers. His piercing eyes seemed to seethrough and through her. She trembled all over, and the colour rose toher face, more in despair of convincing him than in a blush of shame. 

"Believe me!" she said, imperiously, and her eyelids contracted with theeffort of her will. 

But he said nothing. She felt that he was immeasurably stronger thanshe. But just then, he was not more desperate. There was a short, intense silence. Her face grew pale and was set with the fatal look shesometimes had. 

"I pledge you with my blood!" she said suddenly. 

Her eyes did not waver from his, but she wrenched her right hand fromhim, and before he could take it again, her even teeth had met in theflesh. The bright scarlet drops rose high and broke, and trickled invivid stripes across her hand as she held it before his face. Her ownwas very white, but without a trace of pain. Something in the fierceaction appealed strongly to the fiery Celtic nature of the man. Hisfeatures relaxed instantly. 

"I believe you, " he said, and she knew it as his arms went round her;and the pain of the wound made his kisses sweeter. 

CHAPTER XI. 

WHEN Dalrymple left Maria on that day, he returned as usual toStefanone's house. Sora Nanna was alone, for Stefanone was still absentin Rome, and Annetta had gone on the previous day with a number of womento the fair at Civitella San Sisto, which took place on Sunday. She wasexpected to return on Monday afternoon. It is usual enough for a partyof women, with two or three men, to go to the fairs in neighbouringtowns and to spend the night with the friends of some one of thecompany. It was more common still, in those days. 

Sora Nanna gave Dalrymple his dinner and kept him company for a while. But he was gloomy and preoccupied, and before long she retired to theregions of the laundry, which was installed in a long low building thatran out into the vegetable garden at the back of the house. Monday wasgenerally the day for ironing the heavy linen of the convent, which wastaken up on Tuesdays in the huge baskets carried by four women, slung toa pole which rested on their shoulders in the old primitive fashion, just as litters are still carried in many parts of Asia. It hadoccurred more than once to Dalrymple, during the last two days, that hecould hide almost anything he chose in one of these baskets, which werealways delivered directly to Maria Addolorata and which she was atliberty to unpack in the privacy of the linen room if she chose. 

He thought of this again as he sat over his dinner, and heard theendless song of the women, far off, at their work. He knew the habits ofthe house thoroughly and all the customs regarding the carrying up ofthe baskets, and he remembered that several of them would surely betaken to the convent on the morrow. He thought that if he could procuresome more suitable clothes for Maria to wear, this would be a safe meansof conveying them to her. She could put them on in her cell, just beforethe hour at which she was to expect him, so that there would be no timelost and the danger of detection during their flight would be greatlydiminished. But there were all sorts of difficulties in the way, and herealized them one by one, until he almost abandoned the scheme in favourof the cloak and plaid which he had first proposed. 

He pushed back his chair and went upstairs to his own room. Theimpression made upon him by Maria Addolorata, when she had bitten herhand, had been a strong one, but the man's nature, though not exactlydistrustful, was melancholic and pessimistic. Two hours and more hadpassed since they had been together, and things had a different look. Herealized more clearly the strength of the ties which bound Maria to herconvent life, and the effort it must be to her to break them. Heremembered the arguments he had used, and he saw that they had beenthose of passion rather than of reason. Their effect could not belasting, when he himself was not there to lend them his words and thepersuasion of his strength. Maria would repent of her promise, and therewas nothing to bind her to it. Hitherto there had been no risk, nocommon danger. By a chain of natural circumstances he had made his wayinto a most extraordinary position, but it was in her power, in a momentof repentance, to force him from it. While the abbess was ill, Maria wasvirtually mistress of the convent. At a word from her the doors might beshut in his face. She might promise again, and bite her hand again, butwhen it came to his waiting outside the garden gate, she might be seizedby a fit of repentance, and he might wait till morning. 

As he sat in his room he realized all this, and more, for he knew thaton calm reflexion he meant to do what he had that morning threatened inhis haste. He had never been attached to life for its own sake. Melancholic men often are not. He had many times thought over thesubject of suicide with a sort of grim interest in it, which indicatedthe direction his temper would take if he were ever absolutely defeatedin a matter which he had at heart. 

Nothing he had ever felt in his life had taken hold of him as his lovefor Maria Addolorata, for he had never really been in love before and hehad completely abandoned himself to it, as such a man was sure to do insuch surroundings. She was beautiful, but that was not all. Since he hadheard her sing, he knew that her voice and her rare talent together weregenius and nothing less. But that was far from being all. She was of hisown class, and he had been seeing her daily, when the peasant womenamongst whom he lived were little more than good-natured animals; buteven that was not all. He was at that time of life when a man'scharacter is apt to take a violent and sudden turn in its ultimatedirection, when the forces that have been growing show themselves all atonce, when passion, having appealed as yet but to the man, has climbedand is within reach of his soul, to take hold of it and twist it, or tobe finally conquered, perhaps, in a holy life. But Dalrymple was veryfar from being the kind of man who could have taken refuge againsthimself in higher things. At a time when materialism was beginning toseem a great thing, he was a strong materialist in scientificquestions. He grasped what he could see and held it, but what he couldnot see had no existence for him. Nothing transcendental attracted himbeyond the sphere of mathematics. Yet he had not the materialist'stemperament, for the Highland blood in his veins brought strong fanciesand sudden passions to his head and heart, such as his chemistry couldnot explain; and when the brain burned and the heart beat fast, it meantdoing or dying with him, as with many a Scotchman before and since. Lifehad never seemed to be worth much in his eyes, compared with a thing hewanted. 

He sat still and thought the matter over, and considered the question ofdeath, for a few short minutes. There was not a trace of philosophicalspeculation in his reflexions, or they would have lasted longer. Hemerely desired to be sure, with that curious Scotch caution, of his ownintentions, in order not to be obliged to think the matter over again atthe last minute. 

He had drunk a measure of strong wine with his dinner, as usual. To-dayit increased the gloom of his temper, and the pessimistic view he took. In less than a quarter of an hour he had made up his mind that if MariaAddolorata repented at a late hour and refused to leave the convent, hewould make an attempt to carry her away by force. If he failed, andfound himself shut off from all possibility of intercourse with her, life would not be worth living, and he would throw it away. When strongmen are in that frame of mind, they generally accomplish what they havein view. Moreover, it is a great mistake to think that the people whothink and talk of suicide will not take their own lives. On thecontrary, statistics show that it is more often those who speak of itthe most frequently, who ultimately make away with themselves. The merefact of contemplating and discussing death familiarizes man with it tillhe does not even attribute to it its true value, which is little enough, as most of us know. Dalrymple was in earnest, and he knew it. 

He rose from his chair and unlocked his little laboratory. Among manyother things upon the long table there was a plain English oak box, filled with small stoppered bottles, each having a label upon it withthe name of the contents written in his own hand. Some were merelymedicines, which he carried with him in case his services should ever berequired, as had happened at the present time. Others were chemicalswhich he used in his experiments, such as he could not easily haveprocured in Italy, outside of the great cities. One even contained thecommon spirits of camphor, of which he had once given Annetta ateaspoonful when she had complained of a chill and sickness. One, however, was more than half full of a solution of hydrocyanide ofpotassium, a liquid little less suddenly and surely fatal than theprussic acid which enters into its composition. 

He took out this bottle and held it up to the light. The liquid wasclear and transparent as water. He watched it curiously as he made itrun up to the neck and back again. It might have been taken for purealcohol, being absolutely colourless. 

"It would not take much of that, " he said to himself, with a grim smile. 

His meditations were interrupted by the voice of Sora Nanna, who hadopened his bedroom door without ceremony and stood calling to him. Hecame forward hastily from the laboratory and went up to her. 

"You do not know!" she cried, laughing and holding up a letter. "Stefanone has written to me from Rome! To me! Who the devil knows whathe says? I do not understand anything of it. Who should teach me toread? He takes me for a priest, that I should know how to read!"

Dalrymple laughed a little as he took the letter. He picked up his hatfrom a chair, for he meant to go out and spend the afternoon alone uponthe hillside. 

"We will read it downstairs, " he said. "I am going for a walk. "

He read it to her in the common room on the ground floor. It was aletter dictated by Stefanone to a public scribe, instructing his wife totell Gigetto that she must send another load of wine to Rome as soon aspossible, as the price was good in the market. Stefanone would remain inthe city till it came, and sell it before returning. 

"These husbands!" exclaimed Sora Nanna, with a grin. "What they will notdo! They go, riding, riding, and they come back when it seems good tothem. Who tells me what he does in Rome? Rome is great. "

Dalrymple laughed, put on his hat and went off, leaving Sora Nanna tofind Gigetto and give the necessary directions. 

CHAPTER XII. 

GIGETTO had refused to accompany Annetta and her party to the fair atCivitella San Sisto. He had been to Rome several times, and was far toofine a young gentleman to divert himself in such a very primitive place. He preferred to spend his leisure hours, which were very many, inelegant idleness, according to his lights, between the tobacconist's, the chemist's shop, which was the resort of all the superior men of theplace after four o'clock in the afternoon, and the abundant, though notvery refined table which was spread twice daily in his father's house. Civitella wine, Civitella fireworks, and especially Civitella girls, were quite beneath his notice. As for Annetta, he looked upon her withsomething like contempt, though he had a high respect for the fortunewhich must one day be hers. She was to be a necessary encumbrance of hisfuture life, and for the present he meant to see as little of her as wasconveniently possible without relinquishing his claims to her hand. Shehad admired him, in a way, until the arrival of Dalrymple, and he felt alittle irritation at the Scotchman's presence in the house, so that heoccasionally frightened Sora Nanna by talking of waiting for him with agun at the corner of the forest. It produced a good impression, hethought, to show from time to time that he was not without jealousy. Butas for going with her on such an expedition as a visit to a countryfair, it was not to be expected of him. 

Nevertheless, Annetta had enjoyed herself thoroughly with hercompanions, and was very glad that Gigetto had not been at her elbowwith his city notions of propriety, which he applied to her, but made aselastic as he pleased for himself. She had been to high mass in thevillage church, crowded to suffocation, she had walked up and down themain street half the afternoon, arm in arm with the other girls, giggling and showing off her handsome costume to the poorer natives ofthe little place, and smiling wickedly at the handsome youths who stoodidly in groups at the corners of the streets. She had dined sumptuously, and had made her eyes sparkle like rather vulgar little stars bydrinking a glass of strong old white wine to the health and speedymarriage of all the other girls. She had gone out with them at dusk, andhad watched the pretty fireworks in the small piazza, and had wanderedon with them afterwards in the moonlight to the ruin of the Cyclopeanfortress which overlooks the two valleys. Then back to the house of herfriends, who kept the principal inn, and more tough chicken and tendersalad and red wine for supper. And on the next day they had all gonedown to the meagre vineyards, half way to San Vito and just below thethick chestnut woods which belong to the Marchese and feudal lord ofthat ancient town. And there amongst the showers of reddening vineleaves, she had helped to gather the last grapes of the year, with songand jest and laughter. At noon they climbed the hill again in theOctober sun, and dined upon the remains of the previous day's feast;then, singing still, they had started on their homeward downward way, happy and not half tired yet when they reached Subiaco in the eveningglow. 

They came trooping through the town to the little piazza in which thedoctor's house was situated. They separated here, some to go up to thehigher part, while others were to go down in the same direction asAnnetta. The girl looked up at the doctor's windows, and her small eyesflashed viciously. It would be a pleasant ending to the two days'holiday to have a look at her work. Now that he was getting well, asDalrymple told her, she was glad that she had not killed him. It was aneven greater satisfaction to have almost frightened the old coward todeath. She had been uneasy about the question of confession. 

"By Bacchus, " she laughed, "I will go and see Sor Tommaso. They say heis better. "

So she took leave of her companions and entered the narrow door, andclimbed the short flight of dark steps and knocked. The doctor'ssleeping-room opened directly upon the staircase. He used the room onthe ground floor as an office and dining-room, his old peasantwoman-servant slept in the attic, and the other two rooms were let bythe year. It was a very small house. 

The old woman, whose name was Serafina, opened the bedroom door andthrust out her head, covered with a dark and threadbare shawl. There wasa sibylline gloom about her withered face, as though she had lived alifetime in the face of a horror to come. 

"What do you want?" she croaked roughly, and not opening the door anywider. 

"Eh! What do I want? I am the Annetta of Stefanone, and I have come topay a visit to this dear doctor, because they say that he is better, Godbless him. "

"Oh! I did not recognize you, " said the old woman. "I will ask. "

Still holding the door almost closed, she drew in her head and spokewith Sor Tommaso. Annetta could hear his answer. 

"Of course!" he said, in a voice still weak, but singularly oily withthe politeness of his intention. "Let her favour us!"

The door was opened, and Annetta went in. Sor Tommaso was sitting upnear the window, in a deep easy-chair covered with ragged green damask. The girl was surprised by his pallor, as compared with his formerlyrubicund complexion. Peasant-like, she glanced about the room to judgeof its contents before she spoke. 

"How are you, dear Sor Tommaso?" she asked after the short pause. "Eh, what we have suffered for you, all of us! Who was this barbarian whowished to send you to Paradise?"

"Who knows?" returned Sor Tommaso, with amazing blandness. "I trust thathe may be forgiven as I forgive him. "

"What it is to be a wise man!" exclaimed Annetta, with affectedadmiration. "To have such sentiments! It is a beautiful thing. And howdo you feel now, dear Sor Tommaso? Are you getting your strength again?They took your blood, those cowardly murderers! You must make it again. "

Their eyes met, and each knew that the other knew and understood. SorTommaso smiled gently. The savage girl's mouth twitched as though sheshould have liked to laugh. 

"Little by little; who goes slowly goes safely, " answered the doctor. "Iam an old man, you must know. "

"Old!" Annetta was glad of the opportunity to laugh at last. "Old? Eh, on Sunday, when you have on those new black trousers of yours that aretight, tight--you seem to me a boy as young as Gigetto. For my part, Ishould prefer you. You are more serious. Gigetto! What must I say? He ishandsome, he may be good, but he has not a head. There is nothing inthat pumpkin. "

"Blood of youth, " answered Sor Tommaso. "It must boil. It must fling itschains about. Afterwards it begins to know the chains. Little by littleit accustoms itself to them. Then it is quiet, quiet, as we old onesare. Sit down, my daughter. Serafina! A chair--the one that is not lame. These chairs remember the blessed soul of mamma, " added Sor Tommaso, inexplanation of their weakness. 

"Requiesca'!" exclaimed Annetta, sitting down. 

"Amen, " responded Sor Tommaso. "You are so beautiful to-day, " hecontinued, looking at her flowered bodice and new apron; "where have youbeen?"

"Where should I go? To Civitella. There was the fair. We ate certainchickens--tough! But the air of the mountain consumes. There were alsofireworks. "

"What? Have you walked?" asked Sor Tommaso. 

"Even with two legs one can walk, " laughed the girl. "But of course abeast is better with four. The beasts had all gone to Tivoli with winefor Rome. They had not come back yesterday morning. Therefore withthese two feet I walked. I and many others, girls like me. It is truethat I am half dead. "

"You are fresher than lettuce, " observed Sor Tommaso. "And then you haveclimbed up my stairs. This is a true Christian act. God return it toyou. I am alone all day. "

"But the Englishman comes to see you, " said Annetta, indifferently. 

"The Englishman, yes. He comes. More or less, he has almost cured me. But then, for his conversation, I say nothing!"

"Meanwhile he is also curing the abbess. He has a fortunate hand. Theredeath, here death--he makes them all alive. Where is death, now? Here, perhaps? Hidden in some corner, or under the bed? He has certainmedicines, that Englishman! Medicines that you do not even dream of. Strong! It is I that tell you. Sometimes, the whole house smells ofthem. Death could not resist them a moment. They drive even the fliesout of the windows. The Englishman gave me some once. I had been in thesun and had drunk a gallon of cold water, foolish as I was. I wasthirsty, as I am now. Well, he gave me a spoonful of something likewater, mixed in water. I do not tell you anything. At first it burnedme. Arch-priest, it burned! Then, not even a minute, and I had Paradisein my body. And so it passed. "

"Who knows? A cordial, perhaps, " observed Sor Tommaso, thoughtfully. "Ihave such cordials, too. "

"I do not doubt it, " answered the girl, suspiciously. "But I wouldrather not taste them. I feel quite well. "

It crossed her mind that in return for three knife-thrusts, Sor Tommasowould probably not miss so good a chance of paying her with a glass ofpoison. She would certainly have done as much herself, had she been inhis place. 

"Who thought of offering you cordials!" replied the doctor, with apolite laugh. "I said it to say it. But if you are thirsty, command me. There is water and good wine. They are the best cordials. "

"Eh, a little water. I do not refuse. As for the wine, no. I thank youthe same. I am fasting and have walked. After supper, at home, I willdrink. "

"Serafina!" cried Sor Tommaso, and the old sibyl immediately appearedfrom the stairs, whither she had discreetly retired to wait duringAnnetta's visit. "Bring water, and that bottle of my wine fromdownstairs. You know, the bottle of old wine of Stefanone's that wasopened. "

"No, no. I want no wine, " said Annetta, quickly. 

"Bring it all the same. Perhaps she will do us the honour to drink it. "

Serafina nodded, and her bare feet were heard on the stone steps as shedescended. 

"It is bad to drink pure water when one is very thirsty, " said SorTommaso. "It cramps the stomach. A little wine gives the stomachstrength. But it is best to eat. If you will eat, there are freshjumbles. I also eat them. "

"I thank you the same, " answered Annetta. "I wish only water. It is along way from Civitella, and there is no good spring. There is the brookthat runs out of the pond at the foot of the last hill. But it is heavywater, full of stuff. "

Serafina came back, bringing two heavy tumblers of pressed glass on alittle black japanned tray, with a decanter of cold water. In her otherhand she carried two bottles, one half full of wine, the othercontaining the white and sugary syrup of peach kernels of which Italiansare so fond. 

"I brought this also, " she said, holding up the bottle as she set downthe tray. "Perhaps it is better. "

"Yes, " said Sor Tommaso, nodding in approbation. "It is better. "

"You will drink a little orgeat?" asked the old woman, in a tone ofpersuasion, and mixing it in the glass. 

"Water, simply water, " said Annetta, who was still suspicious. "Give mewater in the other glass. "

"But I have mixed already in both, " answered Serafina. "Eh, you willdrink it. You will not make an old woman like me go all the way down thestairs again. But then, it is good. It is I that tell you. I made itmyself, yesterday morning, for the doctor, to refresh his blood alittle. "

Annetta had risen to her feet and was watching the glasses, as the oldwoman stirred the white syrup in the water with an old-fashioned, long-handled spoon. She did not wish to seem absurdly suspicious, andyet she distrusted her enemy. She took one of the glasses, went to hisside, and held it to his lips as one gives an invalid drink. 

"After you, " he said, with a polite smile, but raising his hand to takethe glass. 

"Sick people first, well people afterwards, " answered Annetta, smilingtoo, but watching him intently. 

He had satisfied himself that she really suspected foul play, for heknew the peasants well, and was only a degree removed from them himself. He at once dismissed her suspicions by drinking half the tumbler at adraught. She immediately took the other and emptied it eagerly, as shewas really very thirsty. 

"A little more?" suggested Serafina, in her croaking voice. 

"No, " interposed Sor Tommaso. "It might hurt her--so much at once. "

But Annetta filled the tumbler with pure water, and emptied it again. 

"At last!" she exclaimed with a sigh of satisfaction. "What thirst! Iseemed to have eaten ashes! And now I thank you, Sor Tommaso, and I amgoing home; for it is Ave Maria, and I do not wish to make a bad meetingin the dark as happened to you. Ugly assassins! I will never forgivethem, never! What am I to say at home? That you will come to supper oneof these days?"

"Eh, if God wills, " answered the doctor. "I will be accompanied bySerafina. "

"I!" exclaimed the old woman. "I am afraid even of a cat! What could Ido for you?"

"Company is always company, " said Sor Tommaso, wisely. "Where one wouldnot go, two go bravely. Good evening, my beautiful daughter, " he added, looking up at Annetta. "The Madonna go with you. "

"Thank you, and good evening, " answered the girl, dropping half acourtsey, with a vicious twinkle in her little eyes. 

She turned, and was out of the room in a moment. On the way home throughthe narrow streets in the evening glow, she sang snatches of song toherself, and thought of all she had said to Sor Tommaso, and of all hehad said to her, and of how much afraid he was of her father's knife. For otherwise, as she knew, he would have had her arrested. 

Suddenly, at the last turning she stopped and turned very pale, claspingboth hands upon her bodice. 

"Assassin!" she groaned, grinding her short white teeth. "_He_ haspoisoned me, after all! An evil death to him and all his house!Assassin!"

She forgot that she had experienced precisely the same sensations oncebefore, when she had been overheated and had swallowed too much coldwater. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

WITH slow steps, and pressing her clasped hands to her bodice, the girlreached the door of her father's house at dusk. She knew that he wasaway, and that as she had not come home earlier her mother would be inthe lower regions preparing Dalrymple's supper for him. The door whichgave access to the staircase from the street was still open, and she wasalmost sure of being able to reach her own room unobserved, unless shechanced to come upon Dalrymple himself on the stairs. Just then shewould rather have met him than her mother. She was in great pain, and itwould have been hard to explain to Sora Nanna that she believed herselfto have been deliberately poisoned. 

She crept noiselessly up the stairs, which were almost dark, and shecame to Dalrymple's door which faced the first landing. She paused andhesitated, leaning against the wall. He was a wise man in her opinion, and would of course understand her symptoms at once. But then, as shewas poisoned, he could do nothing for her. If that were true, her nextthought told her that Sor Tommaso must have poisoned himself. He wouldnot do that. She had never heard of antidotes; for though poisoning wastraditionally familiar to her and the people of her class, it was veryuncommon. Yet her sharpened wit told her that if Sor Tommaso hadswallowed the stuff, as he had done, with a smile, he had means at hisdisposal for counteracting it--some medicine which he had doubtlesstaken as soon as she had left him. But if he had medicine to save frompoison, Dalrymple, who was a far wiser man, must have such medicines, too, and even better ones. This reflexion decided her. She was close tohis door. It was probable that he would be in his room at that hour. Shewas in fear of her life, and she knocked. 

But Dalrymple had not come back. He had gone for a long walk alone inthe hills, had climbed higher as the sun sank lower, and was belated insteep paths along which even his mountain-trained feet trod with somecaution. He was too familiar with the country to lose his way, but he byno means found the shortest way there was, nor was he especially anxiousto do so. The hours would pass sooner in walking than in sitting overhis books under the flaring little flames of the three brass beaks. 

Annetta saw that there was no light in the room, for the hole throughwhich the latch-string hung was worn wide with use. She felt dizzy, too, and the knife-like pain ran through her so that she bent herself. Sheknew that Dalrymple kept his medicines locked up in the laboratory, andthat she could not get at them, though she would have had littlehesitation in swallowing anything she found, in the simple certaintythat all his medicines must be good in themselves, and thereforelife-saving and good for her. But he was out, and she was sure thatthere could be nothing in the bedroom. She had herself too often lookedinto every corner when she watered and swept the brick floor eachmorning, and put things in order according to her primitive ideas. 

She then and there lost her hold upon life. She was poisoned, and mustdie. She was as sure of it as the Chinaman who has seen an eagle, andwho, recognizing that his hour is come, calmly lies down and breatheshis last by the mere suspension of volition. In old countries the lowerorders, as a rule, have but a low vitality. It may be truer to say thatthe vital volition is weak. Let the learned settle the definition. Thefact is easily accounted for. During generations upon generations themajority of European agricultural populations live upon vegetable food, like the majority of Eastern Asiatics, and with the same result. Hardlabour produces hard muscles, but vegetable food yields a low vitaltension, so to say. Soldiers know it well enough. The pale-faced cityclerk who eats meat twice a day will out-fight and out-last andout-starve the burly labourer whose big thews and sinews are mostlycompounded of potatoes, corn, and water. 

The girl crept up the stairs stealthily to her lonely little room, andlay down to die upon her bed, as though that were the only thing to bedone under the circumstances. It never occurred to her to go to hermother and tell her what had happened and what she suspected, any morethan it had suggested itself to Sor Tommaso to lay information againsther for having stabbed him. If her father had been at home, she mightperhaps have gone to him and told him with her dying breath that thedoctor had killed her, and that Stefanone must avenge her. But he wasaway. She was stronger than her mother and had always dominated her. Sheknew also that if she complained, Sora Nanna would raise such a screamas would bring half Subiaco running to the house. The girl's animalinstinct was to die alone, and quietly. So she made no sound, and layupon her bed writhing in pain and holding her sides with all her might, but with close-set teeth and silent lips. 

Looked at from the point of view of fact, it was all ridiculous enough. The girl had been all day in the hot autumn sun, had eaten a quantity ofover-ripe figs and grapes, which might have upset the digestion of anostrich, had tired even her strong limbs with the final walk home, andhad then, at Sor Tommaso's house, swallowed nearly a quart of ice-coldwater. It was not surprising that she should be very ill. It was noteven strange that the theory of poison should suggest itself. To her itwas tragedy, and meant nothing less than death, when she lay down uponher bed. 

Between the spasms all sorts of things passed through her mind, when herhead lay still upon the pillow. Chiefly and particularly her thoughtswere filled with hatred of Sor Tommaso, and a sort of doglike longing tosee Dalrymple's face before she died. She was still fascinated by thevision of his red hair and bright blue eyes which came back to hervividly, with the careless smile his hard face had for herhalf-childish, half-malicious sayings. And with the thought of him camealso jealousy of Maria Addolorata, and another hatred which was deeperand stronger and more vengeful than any she owed Sor Tommaso. She felt, rather than understood, that Dalrymple loved the nun with all his heart. She had spoken of her to him and had watched his face, and had seen thequick, savage glare of his eyes, though his voice had only expressed hisannoyance. As the vision of him rose before her, she saw him as he hadbeen when the angry blush had overspread his face to the roots of hishair. 

The image fixed itself. In the dim shadow behind it, she saw the face ofMaria Addolorata like a death-mask, and those strange, deep eyes of thenun's looking scornfully at her over the man's shoulder, though sheforgot him in the woman's deadly fascination. She stared, unable toclose her lids, as it seemed to her, though she longed to shut out thesight. Then a dull noise seemed to be in her ears, a noise that was nota sound, but the stunning effect on her brain of a sound not heard butimagined. There were great circles of light around the nun's head, whichcut through Dalrymple's face and then hid it. They were like glories, like the halos about the heads of saints. Annetta was angry with them, for she was sure that Maria Addolorata was bad, and sinned in herthroat. 

"An evil death on you and all your house!" cried the angry peasant girl, in a low voice. 

"Death!" She could not tell whence the echo came back to her, in a tonestrange to her ears--for it was her own, perhaps. 

She was startled. The vision vanished, and she sat up on her bed with aquick movement, suddenly wide awake. The pain must have passed. No--itcame again, but with far less keenness. She felt her face with herhands, and laughed softly, for she knew that she was alive. It wasnight, and she must have lain some time there all alone, for there was asilvery, misty something through the darkness, the white dawn ofmoonrise, which is not like the dawn of day, nor like the departingtwilight. As she sat up she saw the outline of the hills, jagged againstthe crosses of the lead-joined panes in the window. There was themoon-dawn sending up its soft radiance to the sky. A little longer shewatched, and a single bright point sent one level ray straight into herface. A moment more and the room was flooded with light so that shecould see the smallest objects distinctly. 

"But I am alive!" she exclaimed in a soft, glad tone. "The brigand onlydid me a spite. He was afraid to kill me. "

The pain seized her again, less sharp than before, but keen enough tostir her anger. She still sat up, but bent forward, clasping her bodice. In the moonlight she could see her heavy shoes on her feet sticking upbefore her. Realizing that it was a disgraceful thing to lie down withthem on, she sprang off the bed, and began to dust the coverlet with herhand. The pain passed. 

After all, she reflected, she had swallowed a quantity of cold water atSor Tommaso's, whether the first glass had contained any poison or not. She had not forgotten, either, that the same thing had once happened toher before, and that Dalrymple had made it pass with a spoonful ofsomething that had stung her mouth and throat, but which had afterwardswarmed her and cured her. She felt chilly now, and she wished that shehad some of that same stinging, warming stuff. 

Something moved, somewhere in the house. The girl listened intently fora moment. Probably Dalrymple had come back and was moving about in hisroom, washing his hands, as he always did before supper, and taking offhis heavy boots. His room was immediately under hers, facing in the samedirection. She went towards the door, intending to go down at once andask him for some of his medicine. By this time she was persuaded thatshe was not in any danger, and her common-sense told her that she hadmerely made herself momentarily ill with too many grapes, too much coldwater, and too long exposure to the sun. She did not care to let hermother know anything about it, for Sora Nanna would scold her. It wouldbe a simple matter to catch the Scotchman at his door, to get what shewanted from him with an easily given promise of secrecy, and then tocome downstairs as though nothing had happened. 

Annetta only hesitated a moment, and then went out into the darkstaircase, and crept down, as she had crept up, feeling her way at theturnings, by the wall. She reached the door, and was surprised to seethat there was no light within--none of that yellow light which a lampmakes, but only the grey glimmer of the moonlight through the shadow, creeping out by the hole of the latch-string. Her ears had deceivedher, and Dalrymple was not there. Nevertheless she believed that he was. The moonlight would be in his room as it was in hers, just overhead, andhe might not have taken the trouble to light his lamp. It was veryprobable. She tapped softly, but there was no answer. She was afraidthat her mother might come up the stairs and hear her speaking throughthe door, as though by stealth. She put her lips close to the hole ofthe latch and whistled softly. Her whistle was broken by her own smileas she fancied that Dalrymple might start at the unexpected sound. 

But there was no response. Growing bolder, she called him gently. 

"Signor! Are you there?"

There was no answer. Just then, as she stooped, the pain ran through heronce more. She was so sure that she had heard him that she was convincedhe must be within, very probably in his little laboratory beyond thebedroom. The pain hurt her, and he had the medicine. Very naturally shepulled the string and pushed the door open. 

He was not there. The moonlight flooded everything, and the whitewashedwalls reflected it, so that the place was as bright as day. The firstobject that met her eyes was a small bottle standing near the edge ofthe table in the middle of the room, where Dalrymple had carelessly setit down in the afternoon when Sora Nanna had called him to read herletter. It was directly in the line of the moon's rays, and the stoppergleamed like a little star. 

Annetta started with joy as she saw it. It was the very bottle fromwhich he had given her the camphor, less than a month ago--the same insize, in its transparent contents, in its label. It might have deceiveda keener eye than hers. 

The door of the laboratory stood open, as he had left it, being at thetime preoccupied and careless. She only stopped a moment to assureherself that the bottle was the right one, reflecting that he hadperhaps felt ill and had taken some of it himself. She went on andlooked into the little room. 

"Signore!" she called softly. But there was no answer. 

It was clear that Dalrymple was either still out, or was downstairs athis supper, with her mother. He might be out, however. It was quitepossible, on such a fine evening, for he was irregular in his hours. Hewould not like it if he came in suddenly and found her meddling with hisbelongings. She crossed the room again and softly shut the door. Atleast, if he came, she would not be found with the bottle in her hand. She could give an excuse. 

It was all so natural. It was the same bottle. She knew the rightquantity, for she had the peasant's memory for such detail. There was aglass and a decanter of water on a white plate on the table. She had nospoon, but that did not matter. She took out the stopper with her strongfingers, though it stuck a little. The pain ran through her again as shepoured some of the contents into the tumbler, and it made her hand shakeso that she poured out a little more than necessary. But it did notmatter. She filled it up with water, held the glass up to the moonlight, and drank it at a draught, and set the empty tumbler upon the tableagain. 

Instantly her features changed. She felt as though she were struckthrough head and heart and body with red-hot steel. Maria Addolorata'sdeath-mask rose before her in the moonlight. 

"An evil death on you and all your house!" she tried to say. 

But the words were not out of her mouth before she shivered, caughtherself by the table, sank down, and lay stone dead upon the brickfloor. 

There was no noise. Dying, she thought she screamed, but only thefaintest moan had passed her lips. 

The door was shut, and the quiet moonlight floated in and silvered herdark, dead face. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

AT moonrise on that evening, Maria Addolorata was standing at the opendoor of her cell, watching the dark clouds in the west, as they caughtthe light one by one, edge by edge. The black shadow of the conventcovered all the garden still, and one passing could hardly have seen heras she stood there. Her veil was raised, and the cold mountain breezechilled her cheeks. But she did not feel it, for she had been long bythe abbess's bedside, and then long, again, in the close choir of thechurch, and her head was hot and aching. 

To her, as she looked towards the western mountains and watched thepiling clouds, and felt the cool, damp wind, it seemed as though therewere something strangely tragic in the air that night. The wind whistlednow and then through the cracks of the convent windows and over thecrenellations of the old walls, as Death's scythe might whistle if hewere mowing down men with a right good will, heaps upon heaps of slain. The old bell struck the hour, sullenly, with a dead thud in the airafter each stroke, as a bell tolls for a burial. The very clouds wereblack and silver in the sky, like a funeral pall. 

Maria Addolorata leaned against the door-post and looked out, her handwhite in the shadow against the dark wood, her face whiter still. But onher hand there were two marks, visible even in the dimness. They wouldhave been red in the day, and the place hurt her from time to time, forshe had bitten it savagely. It was her pledge, and the pain of itreminded her of what she had promised to do. 

She needed the reminder; for now that he was not near her, the enormouscrime stood out, black and lofty as death itself. It was different whenDalrymple was at her side. His violent vitality dragged hers intoaction, dragged, drove it, and goaded it, as unwilling soldiers havebeen driven into battle in barbarous armies. Then the fatality seemedirresistible, then the dangers seemed small, and the burning red shamewas pale and weak. Those bony young hands of his had strength in themfor two, his gleaming eyes burnt out the resistance in hers, and lightedthem with their own glow. The hearty recklessness of his unbelief drovethrough and through her composite faith, and riddled it with loopholesfor her soul's escape. Then the reality of her passion made her noblerlove mad to be free, and to break through the solid walls in which ithad been born and had grown too strong. When his love was there, hersmatched itself with his, to smite fortune in the face, to dare andout-dare heaven and hell for love's sake, with him, the bursting bloodmade iron of her hand, tingling to buffet coward fate's pale mouth. Thenshe was strong above women; then she was brave as brave men; then, having promised, to keep was but the natural hold of will, to die wasbut to dare one little adversary more. 

But she was alone now, and thinking, as she looked out into the tragicnight, and watched the blackness of the monumental clouds. She did notreturn to her former self, as some women do when the goad leaves theheart in peace for a moment. She did not say to herself that she wouldorder the convent gate to be shut on Angus Dalrymple forever, andherself go back to the close choir, to sit in her seat amongst the rest, and sing holy songs with the others, restfully unhappy as many of themwere. She knew far too well how strongly her heart could beat, and howicy cold her hands could grow when love was near her. Yet she shudderedwith horror at what she had promised to do. She would struggle to thelast, but she must yield when she heard his voice, and felt his hand, atthe very last moment, when they should be at the garden gate, he drawingher on, she looking back. 

It was perjury and sacrilege, and earthly shame, and eternal damnation. Nothing less. And the words had full and deadly meaning for her. Itmattered little that he should think differently, being of anotherfaith, or rather, of no faith at all. It was all true to her. It was notrisk; it was certainty. What forgiveness had earth or heaven for afaithless nun? He talked of marriage, and he would marry her accordingto a rite that had a meaning in his eyes. Heaven would not divorce thesworn and plighted spouse of Christ to be the earthly wife of AngusDalrymple. 

Visions of eternal torment rose in her mind, a tangible searing hellalive with flame and devils, a sea of liquid fire, an ocean of boilingpitch, Satan commanding in the midst, and a myriad of fiends working histormenting will. 

Her pale lips curled scornfully in the dark. Those were not the terrorsthat frightened her, nor the horrors from which she shrank. There was aquestion which was not to be answered by her own soul in damnation orsalvation, but by the lips of men hereafter--the question of the honourof her name. The traditions of the good old barons were not dead in thatday, nor are they all dead yet. Many a Braccio had done evil deeds inhis or her day, and one, at least, had evil deeds to do after MariaAddolorata had been laid in her grave. But sin was one thing, anddishonour was quite another, even in the eyes of the nun of Subiaco. Forher sins she could and must answer with the weal or woe of her ownsoul. But her dishonour would be upon her father and her mother and uponall her race. Nor was there any dishonour deeper, more deadly, or morelasting than that brought upon a stainless name by a faithless nun. Maria Braccio hesitated at disgrace, while Maria Addolorata smiled atperdition. It was not the first time that honour had taken God's partagainst the devil in the history of her family. 

That was the great obstacle of all, and she knew it now. She was able toface all consequences but that, terrible as they might be. The barrierwas there, the traditional old belief in honour as first, and aboveevery consideration. They had played upon that very belief, when, at thelast, she had hesitated to take the veil. She had gone so far, they hadtold her, that it would be cowardly and dishonourable to turn back atthe last minute. The same argument existed now. Then, she would at leasthave had human right and ecclesiastical law on her side, if she hadrefused to become a nun. Now, all was against her. Then, she would havehad to face but the condemning opinion of a few who spoke of impliedobligation. Now, she must stand up and be ashamed before the wholeworld. There would be a horrible publicity about it. She was too highborn not to feel that all the world in which she should ever move was asone great family. Dalrymple might promise her honour and respect, andthe affection of his own father and mother for the love of her parents, a home, respected wifehood, and all the rest. With his strength, hemight impose her upon his family, and they might treat her as he shoulddictate, for he was a strong and dominant man. But in their hearts, Protestants, English people, foreigners as they were to her race, eventhey could not tell themselves honestly that it was not a shameful thingto break such vows as hers, shameful and nothing less. And if, for amoment, he were not there to hold them in his check, she should see itin their faces, and she must hang her head, for she could have nothingto answer. For him, she must not only sacrifice her soul, wrench out herfaith, break her promise to God, and her vows to the Church. She mustgive herself to public, earthly shame, for his sake. 

It was too much. She could bear anything but that. Rather than endurethat, it was better to die. 

The black clouds rose higher in the west, and the gloomy air blew uponher face. Her head was no longer hot, for a chilly horror had come uponher, like the shadow of something unspeakably awful, close at hand. Suddenly, she was afraid to be alone. A bat, lured by the secondtwilight of the moon's rising, whirled down from above, with softlyflapping wings, and almost brushed her face. She drew back quickly intothe doorway. It was a very tragic night, she thought. She shut the door, and groped her way out beyond her cell to the corridor, dimlyilluminated by a single light hanging from the vault by a running cord. She entered the abbess's apartment. One of the sisters had taken herplace, but Maria Addolorata sent her away by a gesture, and sat down bythe bedside. 

The old lady was either asleep, or did not notice her niece's coming. Her face was grey as ashes, and upturned in the shadow. Upon the stonefloor stood the primitive Italian night-light, a wick supported in atriangular bit of tin by three little corks in oil floating on water ina tumbler. The light was very clear and steady, though there was littleof it, and to Maria, who had been long in comparative darkness, the roomseemed bright enough. There was little furniture besides the plain bed, a little table, a couple of chairs, and a tall, dark wardrobe. A grimcrucifix hung above the abbess's head, on the white wall, the work of anage in which horror was familiar to the eye, and needed exaggeration toteach hardened humanity. 

Maria was too much occupied with her own thoughts to notice the sickwoman's condition at once. Besides, during the last two days there hadbeen no return of the syncope, and the abbess had seemed to be improvingsteadily. She breathed rather heavily and seemed to be asleep. 

Gradually, however, as the nun sat motionless beside her and as thestorm of thought subsided, she became aware that all was not right. Heraunt's face was unnaturally grey, the breathing was unusually slow andheavy. When the breath was drawn in, the thin nostrils flattenedthemselves strangely on each side, and the features had a peaked look. Maria rose and felt the pulse. It was fluttering, and not alwaysperceptible. 

At first Maria's attention to these facts was only mechanical. Then, with a sudden sinking at her own heart, she realized what they mightmean--another crisis like the one in which the abbess had so narrowlyescaped death. It was true that on that occasion she had called for helpmore than once, showing that she had felt herself to be sinking. Atpresent she seemed to be unconscious, which, if anything, was a worsefeature. 

Maria drew a long breath and held it, biting her lips, as people do inmoments of suspense, doubt, and anxiety. It was as though fate hadthrust the great decision onward at the last moment. The life that hungin the balance before her eyes meant the possibility of waiting, withthe feeble consolation of being yet undecided. 

She stood as still as a statue, her face like a mask, her hand on theunconscious woman's wrist. The stimulant which Dalrymple had shown herhow to use was at hand--the glass with which to administer it. It wouldprolong life. It might save it. 

Should she give it? The seconds ran to minutes, and the dreadfulquestion was unanswered. If the abbess died, as die she almost certainlymust within half an hour, if the medicine were not given to her--if shedied, Maria would call the sisters, the portress would be instructed, and when Dalrymple came on the morrow, he would be told that all wasover, and that he was no longer needed. Nothing could be more sure. Hemight do his utmost. He could not enter the convent again. 

In a quick vision, as she stood stone-still, Maria saw herself alone inthe chapel by night, prostrate, repentant, washing the altar steps withtears, forgiven of God, since God could still forgive her, honoured onearth as before, since none but the silent confessor could ever knowwhat she had done, still less what she had meant to do. Her sorrow wouldbe real, overwhelming, able to move Heaven to mercy, her penancetrue-hearted and severe as she deserved. Her name would be unspotted andunblemished. 

It would be so easy, if she had not to see him again. How could sheresist him, if he could so much as touch her hand? But if she weredefended from him, she could bury his love and pray for him in thememory of the thing dead. All that, if she but let that heavy breathinggo on a little longer, if she did not raise her hand and set a glass tothose grey, parted lips. 

They were parted now. The laboured breath was drawn through the teeth. The eyelids were a little raised, and showed but the white of theupturned eyes. 

Maria stared fixedly into the pinched face, and a new horror came uponher. 

It was murder she was doing. Nothing less. The power to save was there, and she would not use it. No--it could not be murder--it was notpossible that she could do murder. 

Still with wide eyes she stared. Surely the heavy breath had come morequickly a moment ago. It seemed an age between each rise and fall of thecoverlet. There was a ghastly whistling sound of it between the teeth. 

It was slower still. The eyelids were gradually opening--the blind whitewas horrible to see. Each breath was a convulsion that shook the frailbody. 

It was murder. Her hand shot out like lightning and seized the smallbottle. Let anything come, --love, shame, heaven, damnation; it shouldnot be murder. 

She forced the unstoppered bottle into the dying woman's mouth with adesperate hand. The next breath was drawn with a choking effort. Thewhole body stirred. The thin hand appeared, grasped the coverlet withdistorting energy, and then lay almost still, twitching convulsivelysecond by second. Still Maria tried wildly to pour more of the stimulantbetween the set teeth. When they parted, no breath came, and the fingersonly moved once more, for the very last time. 

It was not murder, but it was death. The wasted old woman had outlivedby two or three hours the strong, young peasant girl, and fate had laidher hand heavily upon the life of Maria Addolorata. 

CHAPTER XV. 

WHEN Dalrymple came home that evening, he found his supper already onthe table and half cold. Sora Nanna was busier than her daughter, andless patient of the Scotchman's irregularities. If he could not comehome at a reasonable hour, he must not expect her to keep everythingwaiting for him. 

He sat down to the table without even going upstairs as usual to washhis hands, simply because the cooked meat would be cold and greasy if helet it stand five minutes longer. Being once seated in his place, he didnot move for a long time. Sora Nanna came in more than once. She wasvery much preoccupied about the load of wine which her husband hadordered to be sent, and which, if possible, she meant to send off beforemorning, for she did not wish him to be absent in Rome with money in hispocket a day longer than necessary. 

Gloomy and preoccupied, without even a book before him, Dalrymple satwith his back to the wall, drinking his wine in silence, and staring atthe lamp. Sora Nanna asked him whether he had seen Annetta. He shookhis head without speaking. The woman observed that the girls were quitecapable of spending a second night at Civitella to prolong thefestivities. Dalrymple nodded, not caring at all. 

Annetta being absent, Gigetto had not thought it necessary to put in anappearance. But Sora Nanna wished to see him again about the wine. Witha grin, she asked Dalrymple whether he would keep house if she went outfor half an hour. Again he nodded in silence. He heard her lock from theinside the door which opened from the staircase upon the street, for itwas already late. Then she came through the common room again, with heroverskirt over her head, went out, and left the door ajar. Dalrymple wasalone in the house, unaware that Annetta was lying dead on the floor ofhis room upstairs. 

Sora Nanna had not been gone a quarter of an hour when a boy came infrom the street. Dalrymple knew him, for he was the son of the conventgardener. 

The lad said that Dalrymple was wanted immediately, as the abbess wasvery ill. That was all he knew. He was rather a dull boy, and herepeated mechanically what he had been told. The Scotchman started andwas about to speak, when he checked himself. He asked the boy two orthree questions, in the hope of getting more accurate information, butcould only elicit a repetition of the message. He was wantedimmediately, as the abbess was very ill. 

He covered his eyes with his hand for a few seconds. In a flash he sawthat if he were ever to carry off Maria Addolorata, it must be to-night. The chances were a hundred to one that if there were another crisis, theabbess would be dead before he could reach the convent. Once dead, therewas no knowing what might happen in the confusion that would ensue, andduring the elaborate funeral ceremonies. The man had that daring temperthat rises at obstacles as an eagle at a crag, without the slightesthesitation. When he dropped his hand upon the table he had made up hismind. 

It was generally easy to get a good mule at any hour of the night inSubiaco. The mules were in their stables then. In the daytime it wouldhave been very doubtful, when most of them were away in the vineyards, or carrying loads to the neighbouring towns. The convent gardener, whowas well-to-do in the world, had a very good mule, as Dalrymple knew, and its stable was half-way up the ascent. The boy could saddle it withthe pack-saddle without any difficulty, and meet him anywhere he chose. Dalrymple's reputation was excellent as a liberal foreigner who paidwell, and the gardener would not blame the boy for saddling the mulewithout leave. 

In a few words Dalrymple explained what he wanted, and to help the lad'sunderstanding he gave him some coppers which filled the little fellowwith energy and delight. The boy was to be at the top of the mule pathleading down from above the convent to the valley in half an hour. Dalrymple told him that he wished to go to Tivoli, and that the boycould come with him if he chose, after the visit to the abbess was over. The boy ran away to saddle the mule. 

Dalrymple rose quickly, and shut the street door in order to take thelamp with him to his room, and not to leave the house open with no lightin it. The case was urgent. He went upstairs, carrying the lamp, andopened the door of his quarters. Instantly he recognized the faint, sickly odour of hydrocyanide of potassium, and remembered that he hadleft the bottle with the solution on his table that afternoon in hishurry. Then he looked down and saw a white face upon the floor, and theflowered bodice and smart skirt of the peasant girl. 

He had solid nerves, and possessed that perfect indifference to death asa phenomenon which most medical men acquire in the dissecting-room. Buthe was shocked when, bending down, and setting the lamp upon the floor, he saw in a few seconds that Annetta had been dead some time. He evenshook his head a little, very slowly, which meant a great deal for hishard nature. Glancing at the unstoppered bottle and at the empty glass, side by side on the table, he understood at once that the girl, intentionally or by mistake, had swallowed enough of the poison to killhalf-a-dozen strong men. He remembered instantly how he had once givenher spirits of camphor when she had felt ill, and he understood all thecircumstances in a moment, almost as though he had seen them. 

Scarcely thinking of what he was doing, though with an effort which anyone who has attempted to lift a dead body from the ground willunderstand, he took up the lifeless girl, stiff and stark as she was, and laid her upon his own bed. It was a mere instinct of humanity. Thenhe went back and took the lamp and held it near her face, and shook hishead again, thoughtfully. A word of pity escaped his lips, spoken verylow. 

He set the lamp down on the floor by the bedside, for there was no smalltable near. There never is, in peasants' houses. He began to walk up anddown the room, thinking over the situation, which was grave enough. 

Suddenly he smelt the acrid odour of burning cotton. He turned quickly, and saw that he had placed the three-beaked lamp so near to the bed thatthe overhanging coverlet was directly above one of the flames, and wasalready smouldering. He smothered it with the stuff itself between hishands, brought the lamp into the laboratory, and set it upon the table. 

Then, realizing that his own case was urgent, he began to make hispreparations. He took a clean bottle and poured thirty-five drops oflaudanum into it, put in the stopper, and thrust it into his pocket. Unlocking another box, he took out some papers and a canvas bag of gold, such as bankers used to give travellers in those times when it wasnecessary to take a large supply of cash for a journey. He threw on hiscloak, took his plaid over one arm and went back into his bedroom, carrying the lamp in the other hand. Then he hesitated, sniffing the airand the smell of the burnt cotton. Suddenly an idea seemed to cross hismind, for he put down the lamp and dropped his plaid upon a chair. Hestood still a moment longer, looking at the dead girl as she lay on thebed, biting his lip thoughtfully, and nodding his head once or twice. Hemade a step towards the bed, then hesitated once more, and then made uphis mind. 

He went back to the bedside, and stooping a little lifted the body onhis arms as though judging of its weight and of his power to carry it. His first instinct had been to lock the door of the room behind him, andto go up to the convent, leaving the dead girl where she was, whether hewere destined to come back that night, or never. A moment's reflectionhad told him that if he did so he must certainly be accused of havingpoisoned her. He meant, if it were possible, to take Maria Addolorata onboard of the English man-of-war at Civita Vecchia within twenty-fourhours. So far as the carrying off of a nun was concerned, he would besafe on the ship; but if he were accused of murder, no matter howfalsely, the captain would have a right to refuse his protection, eventhough he was Dalrymple's friend. A little chain of circumstances hadled him to form a plan, in a flash, which, if successfully carried out, would account both for the disappearance of Annetta herself, and ofMaria Addolorata as well. 

His eyelids contracted slightly, and his great jaw set itself with thedetermination to overcome all obstacles. In a few seconds he haddivested the dead girl of her heavy bodice and skirt and carpet apronand heavy shoes. He rolled the things into a bundle, tossed them intothe laboratory, locked the door of the latter, and stuck the key intohis pocket. He carefully stopped the bottle containing the remainder ofthe prussiate of potassium, and took that also. Then he rolled the bodyup carefully in his great plaid, mummy-like, and tied the ends of theshawl with shoe-laces which he had among his things. He drew his softhat firmly down upon his forehead, and threw his cloak over his leftshoulder. He lifted the body off the bed. It was so stark that it stoodupright beside him. With his right arm round its waist, he raised it sohigh that he could walk freely, and he drew his wide cloak over it aswell as he could, and freed his left hand. He grasped the lamp as hepassed the table, listened at the door, though he knew that the housewas locked below, and he cautiously and with difficulty descended thestairs. 

Just inside the street door of the staircase there was a niche, as thereis in almost all old Italian houses. He set the body in it, and wentinto the common room with the lamp. Taking the bottle with the laudanumin it from his pocket, he filled it more than half full of aniseedcordial, of which a decanter stood with other liquors upon a sideboard, as usual in such places. He returned it to his pocket, and listenedagain. Then he assured himself that he had all he needed--the bottle, money, his cloak, and a short, broad knife which he always took with himon his walks, more for the sake of cutting a loaf of bread if he stoppedfor refreshment than for any other purpose. His passport he had takenwith his few other valuable papers from the box. 

He left the lamp on the table, and unlocked the street door, though hedid not pull it open. Brave as he was, his heart beat fast, for it wasthe first decisive moment. If Sora Nanna should come home within thenext sixty seconds, there would be trouble. But there was no sound. 

In the dark he went back to the door of the staircase, unlocked it, andopened it wide, looking out. The heavy clouds had so darkened themoonlight that he could hardly see. But the street was quiet, for it waslate, and there were no watchmen in Subiaco at that time. A momentlater, the door was closed behind him, and he was disappearing round thedark corner with Annetta's body in his arms, all wrapped with himself inhis great cloak. 

It was a long and terrible climb. A weaker man would have fainted orgiven it up long before Dalrymple set his foot firmly upon the narrowbeaten path which ran along between the garden wall at the back of theconvent, and the precipitous descent on his left. The sweat ran downover his hard, pale face in the dark, as he shook off his cloak and laiddown his ghastly burden under the deep shadow of the low postern. Heshook his big shoulders and wiped his brow, and stretched out his longarms, doubling them and stretching them again, for they were benumbedand asleep with the protracted effort. But so far it was done, and noone had met him. There had been little chance of that, but he was glad, all the same. And if, down at the house, any one went to his room, nothing would be found. He had the key of the little laboratory in hispocket. It would be long before they broke down the door and foundAnnetta's skirt and bodice and shoes wrapped together in a corner. 

He went on up the ascent five minutes further, walking as though on airnow that he carried no weight in his arms. At the top of the mule paththe lad was already waiting for him with the mule. He told the littlefellow that he might have to wait half an hour longer, as he must gointo the convent to see the abbess before starting for Tivoli. He bidhim tie the mule by the halter to the low branch of an overhangingfig-tree, and sit down to wait. 

"It is a cool night, " said Dalrymple, though he was hot enough himself. "Drink this, my boy. "

He gave him the little bottle of aniseed, opening it as he did so. Theboy smelt it and knew that it was good, for it is a common drink in themountains. He drank half of it, pouring it into his mouth with agurgling sound. 

"Drink it all, " said Dalrymple. "I brought it for you. "

The boy did not hesitate, but drained it to the last drop, and handedthe bottle back without a word. Dalrymple made him sit down near themule's head, well aside from the path, in case any one should pass. Heknew that between the unaccustomed dose of spirits and the thirty-fivedrops of opium, the lad would be sound asleep before long. For the rest, there was nothing to be done but to trust to luck. He had done theimpossible already, so far as physical effort was concerned, but Fortunemust not thwart him at the end. If she did, he had in his other pocketenough left of what had killed Annetta to settle his own affairsforever, and he might need it. At that moment he was absolutelydesperate. It would be ill for any one who crossed his path that night. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

DALRYMPLE wrapped his cloak about him once more, as he turned away, andretraced his steps by the garden wall. He glanced at the long dark thingthat lay in the shadow of the postern, as he went by. It was notprobable that it would be noticed, even if any one should pass that way, which was unlikely, between ten o'clock at night and three in themorning. He went on without stopping, and in three or four minutes hehad gone round the convent to the main entrance, next to the church. Herang the bell. The portress was expecting him, and he was admittedwithout a word. 

He found Maria Addolorata in the antechamber of the abbess's apartment, veiled, and standing with folded hands in the middle of the little hall. She must have heard the distant clang of the bell, for she was evidentlywaiting for him. 

"Am I in time?" he asked in a tone of anxiety. 

She shook her head slowly. 

"Is she dead?"

"She was dead before I sent for you, " answered Maria Addolorata, in alow and almost solemn tone. "No one knows it yet. "

"I feared so, " said Dalrymple. 

He made a step towards the door of the parlour, naturally expecting thatMaria would speak with him there, as usual. But she stepped back andplaced herself in his way. 

"No, " she said briefly. 

"Why not?" he asked in quick surprise. 

She raised her finger to her veiled lips, and then pointed to the otherdoor, to warn him that the portress was there and was almost withinhearing. With quick suspicion he understood that she was keeping him inthe antechamber to defend herself, that she had not been able to resistthe desire to see him once more, and that she intended this to be theirlast meeting. 

"Maria, " he began, but he only pronounced her name, and stopped short, for a great fear took him by the throat. 

"Yes, " she answered, in her calm, low voice. "I have made up my mind. Iwill not go. God will perhaps forgive me what I have done. I will prayfor forgiveness. But I will not do more evil. I will not bring shameupon my father's house, even for love of you. "

Her voice trembled a little at the last words. Even veiled as she was, the vital magnetism of the man was creeping upon her already. She hadresolved that she would see him once more, that she would tell him theplain truth that was right, that she would bid him farewell, andpromise to pray for him, as she must pray for herself. But she had swornto herself that she would not speak of love. Yet with the first wordsshe spoke, the word and the vibration of love had come too. Her handsdisappeared in her sleeves, and her nails pressed the flesh in thedetermination to be strong. She little guessed the tremendous argumenthe had in store. 

"It is hard to speak here, " he said. "Let us go into the parlour. "

She shook her head, and again moved backwards a step, so that hershoulders were almost against the door. 

"You must say what you have to say here, " she answered after a moment'spause, and she felt strong again. "For my part, I have spoken. May Godforget me in my utmost need if I go with you. "

Dalrymple seemed little moved by the solemn invocation. It meant littleenough to him. 

"I must tell you a short story, " he replied quietly. "Unless I tell you, you cannot understand. I have set my life upon your love, and I havegone so far that I cannot save my life except by you--my life and myhonour. Will you listen to me?"

She nodded, and he heard her draw a quick breath. Then he began hisstory, putting it together clearly, from the facts he knew, in very fewwords. He told her how Annetta must have mistaken the bottle on histable for camphor, and how he had found her dead. Nothing would save himfrom the accusation of having murdered the girl but the absolutedisappearance of her body. Maria shuddered and turned her head quicklywhen he told her that the body was lying under the postern arch behindthe garden wall. He told her, too, that the boy was by this time asleepbeside the mule on the path beyond. Then he told her of his plan, whichwas short, desperate, and masterly. 

"You must tell no one that the abbess is dead, " he said. "Go out throughyour cell into the garden, as soon as I am gone, and when I tap at thepostern open the door. Leave a lamp in your cell. I will do the rest. "

"What will you do?" asked Maria, in a low and wondering tone. 

"You must lock the door of your cell on the inside and leave the lampthere, " said Dalrymple. "You will wait for me in the garden by the gate. I will carry the poor girl's body in and lay it in your bed. Then I willset fire to the bed itself. Of course there is an under-mattress ofmaize leaves--there always is. I will leave the lamp standing on thefloor by the bedside. I will shut the door and come out to you, and Ican manage to slip the bolt of the garden gate from the outside bypropping up the spring from within. You shall see. "

"It is horrible!" gasped Maria. "And I do not see--"

"It is simple, and nothing else can save my life. Your cell is of coursea mere stone vault, and the fire cannot spread. The sisters are asleep, except the portress, who will be far away. Long before they break downyour door, the body will be charred by the fire beyond all recognition. They will see the lamp standing close by, and will suppose that you laydown to rest, leaving the lamp close to you--too close; that the abbessdied while you were asleep, and that you had caught fire before youwaked; that you were burned to death, in fact. The body will be buriedas yours, and you will be legally dead. Consequently there will not bethe slightest suspicion upon your good name. As for me, it will besupposed that I have procured other clothes for Annetta, thrown hersinto the laboratory and carried her off. In due time I will send herfather a large sum of money without comment. If you refuse, I musteither be arrested, convicted, and sentenced to death for the murder ofa girl who killed herself without my knowledge, or, as is probable, Ishall go out now, sit down in a quiet place, and be found dead in themorning. It is certain death to me in either case. It would beabsolutely impossible for me to get rid of the dead body withoutarousing suspicion. If it is wrong to save oneself by burning a deadbody, it is not a great wrong, and I take it upon myself. It is the onlywrong in the matter, unless it is wrong to love you and to be willing todie for you. Do you understand me?"

Leaning back against the door of the parlour, Maria Addolorata hadalmost unconsciously lifted her veil and was gazing into his eyes. Theplan was horrible, but she could not help admiring the man's strengthand daring. In his voice, even when he told her that he loved her, therewas that quiet courage which imposes itself upon men and women alike. The whole situation was as clear as day to her in a moment, for all hiscalculations were absolutely correct, --the fire-proof vault of the cell, the certainty that the body would be taken for hers, above all, theassurance of her own supposed death, with the utter freedom fromsuspicion which it would mean for her ever afterwards. Was she not to beburied with Christian burial, mourned as dead, and freed in one hourfrom all the consequences of her life? It was masterly, though there wasa horror in it. 

She loved him more than her own soul. It was the fear of bringing shameupon her father and mother that had held her, far more than anyspiritual dread. It was not strange that she should waver again when hehad unfolded his scheme. 

She turned, opened the door, and led him into the parlour, where thesilver lamp was burning brightly. 

"You must tell it all again, " she said, still standing. "I must be quitesure that I understand. "

He knew well enough that she had finally yielded, since she went so far. In his mind he quickly ran over the details of the plan once more, andmentally settled what still remained to be decided. But since she wishedit, he went over all he had said already. Being able to speak in hisnatural voice without fear of being overheard by the portress, andfeeling sure of the result, he spoke far more easily and moreeloquently. Before he had finished he was holding her hand in his, andshe was gazing intently into his eyes. 

"It is life or death for me, " he said, when he had told her everything. "Which shall it be?"

She was silent for a moment. Then her strong mouth smiled strangely. 

"It shall be life for you, if I lose my soul for it, " she said. 

She felt the quick thrill and pressure of his hand, and all the man'stremendous energy was alive again. 

"Then let us do it quickly, " he answered. "I will go out with theportress. Go to your cell before we reach the end of the corridor, andshut the door with some noise. She will remember it afterwards. Wait atthe garden gate till I tap softly, and leave the rest to me. There is nodanger. Do not be afraid. "

"Afraid!" she exclaimed proudly. "How little you know me! It never wasfear that held me. Besides--with you!"

The two last words told him more than all she had ever said before, andfor the first time he wholly trusted her. Besides, it was to be only fora few minutes, while he went out by the front gate and walked round tothe back of the convent. The plan was so well conceived that it couldnot fail when put into execution. 

They shook hands, as two people who have agreed to do a desperate deed, each for the other's sake. Then as their grasp loosened, Dalrympleturned towards the door, but turned again almost instantly and took herin his arms, and kissed her as men kiss women they love when their livesare in the balance. Then he went out, passed through the antechamber, and found the portress waiting for him as usual. She took up her littlelamp and led the way in silence. A moment later he heard Maria come outand enter her cell, closing the door loudly behind her. 

"Her most reverend excellency is in no danger now, " he said to theportress, with Scotch veracity. 

"Sister Maria Addolorata may then rest a little, " answered the laysister, who rarely spoke. 

"Precisely so, " said Dalrymple, drily. 

Five minutes later he was at the garden gate, tapping softly. Immediately the door yielded to his gentle pressure, for Maria hadalready unfastened the lock within. 

"Stand aside a little, " said Dalrymple, in a whisper. "You need notsee--it is not a pretty sight. Keep the door shut till I come back. Where is your cell?"

She pointed to a door that was open above the level of the garden. Alittle light came out. With womanly caution she had set the lamp in thecorner behind the door when she had opened it, so as to show as littleas possible from without. 

She turned her head away as he passed her with his heavy burden, treading softly upon the hard, dry ground. But he was not half acrossthe garden before she looked after him. She could not help it. The darkthing he carried in his arms attracted her, and a shudder ran throughher. She closed the gate, and stood with her hand on the lock. 

It seemed to her that he was gone an interminable time. Though the moonwas now high, the clouds were so black that the garden was almost quitedark. Suddenly she heard his step, and he was nearer than she thought. 

"It is burning well, " he said with grim brevity. 

He stooped and looked closely in the dimness at the old-fashioned lock. It was made as he supposed and could be easily slipped from without. Hefound a pebble under his foot, raised the spring, and placed the smallstone under it, after examining the position of the cracks in the wood, which were many. 

"There is plenty of time, now, " he said, and he gently pushed her outupon the narrow walk, drawing the door after him. 

With his big knife, working through the widest crack he teazed the boltinto the socket. Then with his shoulder he softly shook the whole door. He heard the spring fall into its place, as the pebble dropped upon thedry ground. 

"No human being can suspect that the door has been opened, " he said. 

He wrapped her in his long cloak, standing beside her under the wall. Very gently he pushed the veil and bands away from her golden hair. Shehelped him, and he kissed the soft locks. Then about her head he laidhis plaid in folds and drew it forward over her shoulders. She let himdo it, not realizing what service the shawl had but lately done. 

They walked forward. The boy was fast asleep and did not move. The mulestamped a little as they came up. Dalrymple lifted Maria upon thepack-saddle, sideways, and stretched the packing-cords behind her back. 

"Hold on, " he said. "I will lead the mule. "

[Illustration: "An evil death on you!"--Vol. I. , p. 218. ]

So it was all over, and the deed was done, for good or evil. But it wasfor evil, for it was a bad deed. 

To the last, fortune favoured Dalrymple and Maria, and everything tookplace after their flight just as the strong man had anticipated. Not atrace of the truth was left behind. Early in the morning the abbess wasfound dead, and in the little cell near by, upon the still smoulderingremains of the mattress, lay the charred and burned form of a woman. InStefanone's house, the little bundle of clothes in the locked laboratorywas all that was left of Annetta. All Subiaco said that the Englishmanhad carried off the peasant girl to his own country. 

Up at the convent the nuns buried the abbess in great state, withcatafalque and canopy, with hundreds of wax candles and endless funeralsinging. They buried also another body with less magnificence, but withmore pomp than would have been bestowed upon any of the other sisters, and not long afterwards a marble tablet in the wall of the church setforth in short good Latin sentences, how the Sister Maria Addolorata, ofmany virtues, had been burned to death in her bed on the eve of thefeast of Saint Luke the Evangelist, and all good Christians wereenjoined to pray for her soul--which indeed was in need of theirprayers. 

Stefanone returned from Rome, but it was a sad home-coming when hefound that his daughter was gone, and unconsciously he repeated the verywords she had last spoken when she was dying in Dalrymple's room allalone. 

"An evil death on you and all your house!" he said, shaking his fist atthe door of the room. 

And Stefanone swore within himself solemnly that the Englishman shouldpay the price. And he and his paid it in full, and more also, afteryears had passed, even to generations then unborn. 

This is the first act, as it were, of all the story, and between thisone and the beginning of the next a few years must pass quickly, if notaltogether in silence. 

PART II. 

_GLORIA DALRYMPLE. _

CHAPTER XVII. 

IN the year 1861 Donna Francesca Campodonico was already a widow. Herhusband, Don Girolamo Campodonico, had died within two years of theirmarriage, which had been one of interest and convenience so far as hehad been concerned, for Donna Francesca was rich, whereas he had beenbut a younger son and poor. His elder brother was the Duca di Norba, thefather of another Girolamo, who succeeded him many years later, ofGianforte Campodonico, and of the beautiful Bianca, in whose short, sadlife Pietro Ghisleri afterwards held so large a part. But of theselatter persons, some were then not yet born, and others were in theirinfancy, so that they play no part in this portion of the presenthistory. 

Donna Francesca was of the great Braccio family, the last of acollateral branch. She had inherited a very considerable estate, which, if she had no descendants, was to revert to the Princes of Gerano. Shehad married Don Girolamo in obedience to her guardians' advice, but notat all against her will, and she had become deeply attached to himduring the short two years of their married life. He had never beenstrong, since his childhood, his constitution having been permanentlyinjured by a violent attack of malarious fever when he had been a mereboy. A second fever, even more severe than the first, caught on ashooting expedition near Fiumicino, had killed him, and Donna Francescawas left a childless widow, in full possession of her own fortune and ofa little more in the shape of a small jointure. It was thought that shewould marry again before very long, but it was too soon to expect thisas yet. 

Among her possessions as the last of her branch of the Braccio family, of which the main line, however, was sufficiently well represented, wasthe small but beautiful palace in which she now lived alone. It wassituated between the Capitoline Hill and the Tiber, surrounded on threesides by dark and narrow streets, but facing a small square in whichthere was an ancient church. When it is said that the palace was a smallone, its dimensions are compared with the great Roman palaces, more thanone of which could easily lodge a thousand persons. It was built on thesame general plan as most of them, with a ground floor having heavilybarred windows; a state apartment in the first story, with three stonebalconies on the front; a very low second story above that, but notcoextensive with it, because two of the great state rooms were higherthan the rest and had clere-story windows; and last of all, a thirdstory consisting of much higher rooms than the second, and having aspacious attic under the sloping roof, which was, of course, coveredwith red tiles in the old fashion. The palace, at that time known as thePalazzo, or 'Palazzetto, ' Borgia, was externally a very good specimen ofRenascence architecture of the period when the florid, 'barocco' stylehad not yet got the upper hand in Rome. The great arched entrance forcarriages was well proportioned, the stone carvings were severe ratherthan graceful, the cornices had great nobility both of proportion anddesign. The lower story was built of rough-faced blocks of travertinestone, above which the masonry was smooth. The whole palace was of thatwarm, time-toned colour, which travertine takes with age, and which is, therefore, peculiar to old Roman buildings. 

Within, though it could not be said that any part had exactly fallen todecay, there were many rooms which had been long disused, in which theold frescoes and architectural designs in grey and white, and bits ofbold perspective painted in the vaults and embrasures, were almostobliterated by time, and in which such furniture as there was could notsurvive much longer. About one-half of the state apartment, comprising, perhaps, fifteen or twenty rooms, large and small, had been occupied byDonna Francesca and her husband, and she now lived in them alone. Inthat part of the palace there was a sort of quiet and stately luxury, the result of her own taste, which was strongly opposed to the gaudyfashions then introduced from Paris at the height of the Second Empire'simportance. Girolamo Campodonico had been aware that his young wife'sjudgment was far better than his own in artistic matters, and had leftall such questions entirely to her. 

She had taken much pleasure in unearthing from attics and disused roomsall such objects as possessed any intrinsic artistic value, such as oldcarved furniture, tapestries, and the like. Whatever she found worthkeeping she had caused to be restored just so far as to be useful, andshe had known how to supply the deficiencies with modern material insuch a way as not to destroy the harmony of the whole. 

It should be sufficiently clear from these facts that Donna FrancescaCampodonico was a woman of taste and culture, in the modern sense. Indeed, the satisfaction of her tastes occupied a much more importantplace in her existence than her social obligations, and had a fargreater influence upon her subsequent life. Her favourite scheme was tomake her palace at all points as complete within as its architect hadmade it outside, and she had it in her power to succeed in doing so. Shewas not, as some might think, a great exception in those days. Withinthe narrow limits of a certain class, in which the hereditarypossession of masterpieces has established artistic intelligence as astamp of caste, no people, until recently, have had a better taste thanthe Italians; as no people, beyond these limits, have ever had a worse. There was nothing very unusual in Donna Francesca's views, except herconstant and industrious energy in carrying them out. Even this might beattributed to the fact that she had inherited a beautiful butdilapidated palace, which she was desirous of improving until, on asmall scale, it should be like the houses of the great old families, such as the Saracinesca, the Savelli, the Frangipani, and her own nearrelatives, the Princes of Gerano. 

She had an invaluable ally in her artistic enterprises in the person ofan artist, who, in a sort of way, was considered as belonging to CasaBraccio, though his extraordinary talent had raised him far above theposition of a dependent of the family, in which he had been born as theson of the steward of the ancient castle and estate of Gerano. Asconstantly happened in those days, the clever boy had been noticed bythe Prince, --or, perhaps, thrust into notice by his father, who wasreasonably proud of him. The lad had been taken out of his surroundingsand thoroughly educated for the priesthood in Rome, but by the time hehad attained to the age necessary for ordination, his artistic gifts haddeveloped to such an extent that in spite of his father'sdisappointment, even the old Prince--the brother of Sister MariaAddolorata--advised Angelo Reanda to give up the Church, and to devotehimself altogether to painting. 

Young Reanda had been glad enough of the change in his prospects. Manyeminent Italians have begun life in a similar way. Cardinal Antonelliwas not the only one, for there have been Italian prime ministers aswell as dignitaries of the Church, whose origin was as humble and whoowed their subsequent distinction to the kindly interest bestowed onthem by nobles on whose estates their parents were mere peasants, veryfar inferior in station to Angelo Reanda's father, a man of a certaineducation, occupying a position of trust and importance. 

Nor was Reanda's priestly education anything but an advantage to him, sofar as his career was concerned, however much it had raised him abovethe class in which he had been born. So far as latinity and rhetoricwere to be counted he was better educated than his father's master; forwith the same advantages he had greater talents, greater originality, and greater industry. As an artist, his mental culture made him theintellectual superior of most of his contemporaries. As a man, ten yearsof close association with the sons of gentlemen had easily enough made agentleman of one whose instincts were naturally as refined as hischaracter was sensitive and upright. 

Donna Francesca, as the last of her branch of the family and an orphanat an early age, had of course been brought up in the house of herrelatives of Gerano, and from her childhood had known Reanda's father, and Angelo himself, who was fully ten years older than she. Some of hisfirst paintings had been done in the great Braccio palace, and many atime, as a mere girl, she had watched him at his work, perched upon ascaffolding, as he decorated the vault of the main hall. She could notremember the time when she had not heard him spoken of as a younggenius, and she could distinctly recall the discussion which had takenplace when his fate had been decided for him, and when he had been atlast told that he might become an artist if he chose. At that time shehad looked upon him with a sort of wondering admiration in which therewas much real friendly feeling, and as she grew up and saw what he coulddo, and learned to appreciate it, she silently determined that he shouldone day help her to restore the dilapidated Palazzetto Borgia, where herfather and mother had died in her infancy, and which she loved with thatsort of tender attachment which children brought up by distant relationsoften feel for whatever has belonged to their own dimly rememberedparents. 

There was a natural intimacy between the young girl and the artist. Longago she had played at ball with him in the great courtyard of the Geranocastle, when he had been at home for his holidays, wearing a blackcassock and a three-cornered hat, like a young priest. Then, all atonce, instead of a priest he had been a painter, dressed like other menand working in the house in which she lived. She had played with hiscolours, had scrawled with his charcoals upon the white plastered walls, had asked him questions, and had talked with him about the famouspictures in the Braccio gallery. And all this had happened not once, butmany times in the course of years. Then she had unfolded to him herschemes about her own little palace, and he had promised to help her, byand bye, half jesting, half in earnest. She would give him rooms in theupper story to live in, she said, disposing of everything beforehand. Heshould be close to his work, and have it under his hand always until itwas finished. And when there was no more to do, he might still livethere and have his studio at the top of the old house, with an entranceof his own, leading by a narrow staircase to one of the dark streets atthe back. She had noticed all sorts of peculiarities of the building inher occasional visits to it with the governess, --as, for instance, thatthere was a convenient interior staircase leading from the great hall tothe upper story, by a door once painted like the wall, and hard tofind, but now hanging on its hinges and hideously apparent. The greathall must all be painted again, and Angelo could live overhead and comedown to his work by those steps. With childish pleasure she praised herown ingenuity in so arranging matters beforehand. Angelo was to help herin all she did, until the Palazzetto Borgia should be as beautiful asthe Palazzo Braccio itself, though of course it was much smaller. Thenshe scrawled on the walls again, trying to explain to him, in childishlyfutile sketches, her ideas of decoration, and he would come down fromhis scaffold and do his best with a few broad lines to show her what shehad really imagined, till she clapped her small, dusty hands withdelight and was ultimately carried off by her governess to be madepresentable for her daily drive in the Villa Borghese with the Princessof Gerano. 

As a girl Francesca had the rare gift of seeing clearly in her mind whatshe wanted, and at last she had found herself possessed of the power tocarry out her intentions. As a matter of course she had taken Reandainto her confidence as her chief helper, and the intimacy which datedfrom her childhood had continued on very much the same footing. Histalent had grown and been consolidated by ten years of good work, andshe, as a young married woman, had understood what she had meant whenshe had been a child. Reanda was now admittedly, in his department, thefirst painter in Rome, and that was fame in those days. His higheducation and general knowledge of all artistic matters made him aninteresting companion in such work as Francesca had undertaken, and hehad, moreover, a personal charm of manner and voice which had alwaysattracted her. 

No one, perhaps, would have called him a handsome man, and at this timehe was no longer in his first youth. He was tall, thin, and very dark, though his black beard had touches of a deep gold-brown colour in it, which contrasted a little with his dusky complexion. He had a sad face, with deep, lustreless, thoughtful eyes, which seemed to peer inwardrather than outward. In the olive skin there were heavy brown shadows, and the bony prominence of the brow left hollows at the temples, fromwhich the fine black hair grew with a backward turn which gave somethingunusual to his expression. The aquiline nose which characterizes so manyRoman faces, was thin and delicate, with sensitive nostrils that oftenmoved when he was speaking. The eyebrows were irregular and thick, extending in a dark down beyond the lower angles of the forehead, andalmost meeting between the eyes; but the somewhat gloomy expressionwhich this gave him was modified by a certain sensitive grace of themouth, little hidden by the thin black moustache or by the beard, whichdid not grow up to the lower lip, though it was thick and silky from thechin downwards. 

It was a thoughtful face, but there was creative power in the highforehead, as there was direct energy in the long arms and lean, nervoushands. Donna Francesca liked to watch him at his work, as she hadwatched him when she was a little girl. Now and then, but very rarely, the lustreless eyes lighted up, just before he put in some steady, determining stroke which brought out the meaning of the design. Therewas a quick fire in them then, at the instant when the main idea wasoutwardly expressed, and if she spoke to him inadvertently at such amoment, he never answered her at once, and sometimes forgot to answerher at all. For his art was always first with him. She knew it, and sheliked him the better for it. 

The intimacy between the great lady and the artist was, indeed, foundedupon this devotion of his to his painting, but it was sustained by asort of community of interests extending far back into darker ages, whenhis forefathers had been bondsmen to her ancestors in the days ofserfdom. He had grown up with the clearly defined sensation of belongingwith, if not to, the house of Braccio. His father had been a trusty andtrusted dependent of the family, and he had imbibed as a mere child itshereditary likes and dislikes, its traditions wise and foolish, together with an indomitable pride in its high fortunes and position inthe world. And Francesca herself was a true Braccio, though she wasdescended from a collateral branch, and, next to the Prince of Gerano, had been to Reanda by far the most important person bearing the name. She had admired him when she had been a child, had encouraged him as shegrew up, and now she provided his genius with employment, and gave himher friendship as a solace and delight both in work and idleness. It issaid that only Italians can be admitted to such a position with thecertainty that they will not under any circumstances presume upon it. ToAngelo Reanda it meant much more than to most men who could have beenplaced as he was. His genius raised him far above the class in which hehad been born, and his education, with his natural and acquiredrefinement, placed him on a higher level than the majority of otherRoman artists, who, in the Rome of that day, inhabited a Bohemia oftheir own which has completely disappeared. Their ideas andconversation, when they were serious, interested him, but their mannerswere not his, and their gaiety was frankly distasteful to him. Heassociated with them as an artist, but not as a companion, and heparticularly disliked their wives and daughters, who, in their turn, found him too 'serious' for their society, to use the time-honouredItalian expression. Nevertheless, his natural gentleness of dispositionmade him treat them all alike with quiet courtesy, and when, as oftenhappened, he was obliged to be in their company, he honestly endeavouredto be one of them as far as he could. 

On the other hand, he had no footing in the society to which Francescabelonged, but for which she cared so little. There were, indeed, one ortwo houses where he was received, as he was at Casa Braccio, in a mannerwhich, for the very reason that it was familiar, proved his socialinferiority--where he addressed the head of the house as 'Excellency'and was called 'Reanda' by everybody, elders and juniors alike, where hewas appreciated as an artist, respected as a man, and welcomedoccasionally as a guest when no other outsider was present, but where hewas not looked upon as a personage to be invited even with the greatthrong on state occasions. He was as far from receiving such coldacknowledgments of social existence as those who received them andnothing else were distantly removed from intimacy on an equal footing. 

He did not complain of such treatment, nor even inwardly resent it. Thefriendliness shown him was as real as the kindness he had receivedthroughout his early youth from the Prince of Gerano, and he was not theman to undervalue it because he had not a drop of gentle blood in hisveins. But his refined nature craved refined intercourse, and preferredsolitude to what he could get in any lower sphere. The desire for theatmosphere of the uppermost class, rather than the mere wish to appearas one of its members, often belongs to the artistic temperament, andmany artists are unjustly disliked by their fellows and pointed at assnobs because they prefer, as an atmosphere, inane elegance to inelegantintellectuality. It is often forgotten by those who calumniate them thathereditary elegance, no matter how empty-headed, is the result of anhereditary cultivation of what is thought beautiful, and that thevainest, silliest woman who dresses well by instinct is an artist in herway. 

In Francesca Campodonico there was much more than such superficialtaste, and in her Reanda found the only true companion he had everknown. He might have been for twenty years the intimate friend of allRoman society without meeting such another, and he knew it, andappreciated his good fortune. For he was not naturally a dissatisfiedman, nor at all given to complain of his lot. Few men are, who haveactive, creative genius, and whose profession gives them all the scopethey need. Of late years, too, Francesca had treated him with a sort ofdeference which he got from no one else in the world. He realized thatshe did, without attempting to account for the fact, which, indeed, depended on something past his comprehension. 

He felt for her something like veneration. The word does not expressexactly the attitude of his mind towards her, but no other defines hisposition so well. He was not in love with her in the Italian sense ofthe expression, for he did not conceive it possible that she should everlove him, whereas he told himself that he might possibly marry, if hefound a wife to his taste, and be in love with his wife without in theleast infringing upon his devotion to Donna Francesca. 

That she was young and lovely, if not beautiful, he saw and knew. Heeven admitted unconsciously that if she had been an old woman he couldnot have 'venerated' her as he did, though veneration, as such, is thedue of the old rather than of the young. Her spiritual eyes and virginalface were often before him in his dreams and waking thoughts. There wasa maidenlike modesty, as it were, even about her graceful bodily self, which belonged, in his imagination, to a saint upon an altar, ratherthan to a statue upon a pedestal. There was something in the sweep ofher soft dark brown hair which suggested that it would be sacrilege andviolence for a man's hand to touch it. There was a dewy delicacy on heryoung lips, as though they could kiss nothing more earthly than a newlyopened flower, already above the earth, but not yet touched by the sun. There was a thoughtful turn of modelling in the smooth, white forehead, which it was utterly beyond Reanda's art to reproduce, often as he hadtried. He thought a great sculptor might succeed, and it was the onething which made him sometimes wish that he had taken the chisel for histool, instead of the brush. 

She was never considered one of the great beauties of Rome. She had notthe magnificent presence and colouring of her kinswoman, MariaAddolorata, whose tragic death in the convent of Subiaco--a fictitioustragedy accepted as real by all Roman society--had given her a specialplace in the history of the Braccio family. She had not the dark andqueenly splendour of Corona d'Astradente, her contemporary and the mostbeautiful woman of her time. But she had, for those who loved her, something which was quite her own and which placed her beyond them insome ways and, in any case, out of competition for the homage receivedby the great beauties. No one recognized this more fully than AngeloReanda, and he would as soon have thought of being in love with her, asmen love women, as he would have imagined that his father, for instance, could have loved Maria Addolorata, the Carmelite nun. 

The one human point in his devoted adoration lay in his terror lestFrancesca Campodonico should die young and leave him to grow old withouther. He sometimes told her so. 

"You should marry, " she answered one day, when they were together in thegreat hall which he was decorating. 

She was still dressed in black, and as she spoke, he turned and saw theoutline of her small pure face against the high back of the old chair inwhich she was sitting. It was so white just then that he fancied he sawin it that fatal look which belonged to some of the Braccio family, andwhich was always spoken of as having been one of Maria Addolorata'schief characteristics. He looked at her long and sadly, leaning againstan upright of his scaffolding as he stood on the floor near her, holdinghis brushes in his hand. 

"I do not think I shall ever marry, " he answered at last, looking downand idly mixing two colours on his palette. 

"Why not?" she asked quickly. "I have heard you say that you might, someday. "

"Some day, some day--and then, all at once, the 'some day' is past, andis not any more in the future. Why should I marry? I am well enough as Iam; there would only be unhappiness. "

"Do you think that every one who marries must be unhappy?" she asked. "You are cynical. I did not know it. "

"No. I am not cynical. I say it only of myself. There are many reasons. I could not marry such a woman as I should wish to have for my wife. You must surely understand that. It is very easy to understand. "

He made as though he would go up the ladder to his little platform andcontinue his work. But she stopped him. 

"What is the use of hurting your eyes?" she asked. "It is late, and thelight is bad. Besides, I am not so sure that I understand what you mean, though you say that it is so easy. We have never talked about it much. "

He laid his palette and brushes upon a ragged straw chair and sat downupon another, not far from her. There was no other furniture in thegreat vaulted hall, and the brick pavement was bare, and splashed inmany places with white plaster. Fresco-painting can only be done uponstucco just laid on, while it is still moist, and a mason came earlyevery day and prepared as much of the wall as Reanda could cover beforenight. If he did not paint over the whole surface, the remainder waschipped away and freshly laid over on the following morning. 

The evening light already reddened the tall western windows, for it wasautumn, and the days were shortening quickly. Reanda knew that he couldnot do much more, and sat down, to answer Francesca's question, if hecould. 

"I am not a gentleman, as you understand the word, " he said slowly. "Andyet I am certainly not of the class to which my father belonged. Myposition is not defined. I could not marry a woman of your class, and Ishould not care to marry one of any other. That is all. Is it notclear?"

"Yes, " answered Francesca. "It is clear enough. But--"

She checked herself, and he looked into her face, expecting her tocontinue. But she said nothing more. 

"You were going to find an objection to what I said, " he observed. 

"No; I was not. I will say it, for you will understand me. What you tellme is true enough, and I am sorry that it should be so. Is it not tosome extent my fault?"

"Your fault?" cried Reanda, leaning forward and looking into her eyes. "How? I do not understand. "

"I blame myself, " answered Francesca, quietly. "I have kept you out ofthe world, perhaps, and in many ways. Here you live, day after day, asthough nothing else existed for you. In the morning, long before I amawake, you come down your staircase through that door, and go up thatladder, and work, and work, and work, all day long, until it is dark, asyou have worked to-day, and yesterday, and for months. And when youmight and should be out of doors, or associating with other people, asjust now, I sit and talk to you and take up all your leisure time. Itis wrong. You ought to see more of other men and women. Do men of geniusnever marry? It seems to me absurd!"

"Genius!" exclaimed Reanda, shaking his head sadly. "Do not use the wordof me. "

"I will do as other people do, " answered Francesca. "But that is not thequestion. The truth is that you live pent up in this old house, like abird in a cage. I want you to spread your wings. "

"To go away for a time?" asked Reanda, anxiously. 

"I did not say that. Perhaps I should. Yes, if you could enjoy ajourney, go away--for a time. "

She spoke with some hesitation and rather nervously, for he had saidmore than she had meant to propose. 

"Just to make a change, " she added, after a moment's pause, as he saidnothing. "You ought to see more of other people, as I said. You ought tomix with the world. You ought at least to offer yourself the chance ofmarrying, even if you think that you might not find a wife to yourtaste. "

"If I do not find one here--" He did not complete the sentence, butsmiled a little. 

"Must you marry a Roman princess?" she asked. "What should you say to aforeigner? Is that impossible, too?"

"It would matter little where she came from, if I wished to marry her, "he answered. "But I like my life as it is. Why should I try to changeit? I am happy as I am. I work, and I enjoy working. I work for you, andyou are satisfied. It seems to me that there is nothing more to be said. Why are you so anxious that I should marry?"

Donna Francesca laughed softly, but without much mirth. 

"Because I think that in some way it is my fault if you have notmarried, " she said. "And besides, I was thinking of a young girl whom Imet, or rather, saw, the other day, and who might please you. She hasthe most beautiful voice in the world, I think. She could make herfortune as a singer, and I believe she wishes to try it. But her fatherobjects. They are foreigners--English or Scotch--it is the same. She isa mere child, they say, but she seems to be quite grown up. There issomething strange about them. He is a man of science, I am told, but Ifancy he is one of those English enthusiasts about Italian liberty. Hisname is Dalrymple. "

"What a name!" Reanda laughed. "I suppose they have come to spend thewinter in Rome, " he added. 

"Not at all. I hear that they have lived here for years. But one nevermeets the foreigners, unless they wish to be in society. His wife diedyoung, they say, and this girl is his only daughter. I wish you couldhear her sing!"

"For that matter, I wish I might, " said Reanda, who was passionatelyfond of music. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

SEVENTEEN years had scored their account on Angus Dalrymple's hard face, and one great sorrow had set an even deeper mark upon him--a sorrow sodeep and so overwhelming that none had ever dared to speak of it to him. And he was not the man to bear any affliction resignedly, to feed onmemory, and find rest in the dreams of what had been. Sullenly andfiercely rebellious against his fate, he went down life, rather thanthrough it, savage and silent, for the most part, Nero-like in his wishthat he could end the world at a single blow, himself and all thatlived. Yet it was characteristic of the man that he had not chosensuicide as a means of escape, as he would have done in his earlieryears, if Maria Addolorata had failed him. It seemed cowardly now, andhe had never done anything cowardly in his life. Through his grief thesense of responsibility had remained with him, and had kept him alive. He looked upon his existence not as a state from which he had a right toescape, but as a personal enemy to be fought with, to be despised, to beill-treated barbarously, perhaps, but still as an enemy to murder whomin cold blood would be an act of cowardice. 

There was little more than the mere sense of the responsibility, for hedid little enough to fulfil his obligations. His wife had borne him adaughter, but it was not in Angus Dalrymple's nature to substitute onebeing in his heart for another. He could not love the girl simplybecause her mother was dead. He could only spoil her, with a rough ideathat she should be spared all suffering as much as possible, but that ifhe gave her what she wanted, he had done all that could be expected ofhim. For the rest, he lived his own life. 

He had a good intelligence and superior gifts, together withconsiderable powers of intellectual acquisition. He had believed in hisyouth that he was destined to make great discoveries, and his papersafterwards showed that he was really on the track of great and newthings. But with his bereavement, all ambition as well as all curiositydisappeared in one day from his character. Since then he had never goneback to his studies, which disgusted him and seemed stale and flat. Hegrew rudely dogmatical when scientific matters were discussed beforehim, as he had become rough, tyrannical, and almost violent in hisordinary dealings with the world, whenever he found any opposition tohis opinions or his will. The only exception he made was in histreatment of his daughter, whom he indulged in every way except in herdesire to be a public singer. It seemed to him that to give hereverything she wanted was to fulfil all his obligations to her; in theone question of appearing on the stage he was inflexible. He simplyrefused to hear of it, rarely giving her any reasons beyond the ordinaryones which present themselves in such cases, and which were far fromanswering the impulse of the girl's genius. 

They had called her Gloria in the days of their passionate happiness. The sentimental name had meant a great deal to them, for Dalrymple hadat that time developed that sort of uncouth sentimentality which is instrong men like a fungus on an oak, and disgusts them afterwards unlessthey are able to forget it. The two had felt that the glory of life wasin the child, and they had named her for it, as it were. 

Years afterwards Dalrymple brought the little girl to Rome, drawn backirresistibly to the place by that physical association of impressionswhich moves such men strongly. They had remained, keeping from year toyear a lodging Dalrymple had hired, at first hired for a few months. Henever went to Subiaco. 

He gave Gloria teachers, the best that could be found, and there weregood instructors in those days when people were willing to take time inlearning. In music she had her mother's voice and talent. Her fathergave her a musician's opportunities, and it was no wonder that sheshould dream of conquering Europe from behind the footlights as Grisihad done, and as Patti was just about to do in her turn. 

She and her father spoke English together, but Gloria was bilingual, aschildren of mixed marriages often are, speaking English and Italian withequal ease. Dalrymple found a respectable middle-aged German governesswho came daily and spent most of the day with Gloria, teaching her andwalking with her--worshipping her, too, with that curious faculty foridealizing the very human, which belongs to German governesses when theylike their pupils. 

Dalrymple led his own life. Had he chosen to mix in Roman society, hewould have been well received, as a member of a great Scotch family andnot very far removed from the head of his house. No one of his relativeshad ever known the truth about his wife except his father, who had diedwith the secret, and it was not likely that any one should askquestions. If any one did, he would certainly not satisfy suchcuriosity. But he cared little for society, and spent his time eitheralone with books and wine, or in occasional excursions into the artistworld, where his eccentricities excited little remark, and where he metmen who secretly sympathized with the Italian revolutionary movement, and dabbled in conspiracies which rather amused than disquieted thepapal government. 

Though Gloria was at that time but little more than sixteen years ofage, her father took her with him to little informal parties at thestudios or even at the houses of artists, where there was often goodmusic, and clever if not serious conversation. The conventionalities ofage were little regarded in such circles. Gloria appeared, too, mucholder than she really was, and her marvellous voice made her a centre ofattraction at an age when most young girls are altogether in thebackground. Dalrymple never objected to her singing on such occasions, and he invariably listened with closed eyes and folded hands, as thoughhe were assisting at a religious service. Her voice was like hermother's, excepting that it was pitched higher, and had all the compassand power necessary for a great soprano. Dalrymple's almost devoutattitude when Gloria was singing was the only allusion, if one may callit so, which he ever made to his dead wife's existence, and no one whowatched him knew what it meant. But he was often more silent than usualafter she had sung, and he sometimes went off by himself afterwards andsat for hours in one of the old wine cellars near the Capitol, drinkinggloomily of the oldest and strongest he could find. For he drank more orless perpetually in the evening, and wine made him melancholic andmorose, though it did not seem to affect him otherwise. Little bylittle, however, it was dulling the early keenness of his intellect, though it hardly touched his constitution at all. He was lean and bonystill, as in the old days, but paler in the face, and he had allowed hisred beard to grow. It was streaked with grey, and there were small, nervous lines about his eyes, as well as deep furrows on his foreheadand face. 

Dalrymple had found in the artist world a man who was something of acompanion to him at times, --a very young man, whom he could notunderstand, though his own dogmatic temper made him as a rule believethat he understood most things and most men. But this particularindividual alternately puzzled, delighted, and irritated the nervousScotchman. 

They had made acquaintance at an artists' supper in the previous year, had afterwards met accidentally at the bookseller's in the Piazza diSpagna, where they both went from time to time to look at the Englishnewspapers, and little by little they had fallen into the habit ofmeeting there of a morning, and of strolling in the direction ofDalrymple's lodging afterwards. At last Dalrymple had asked hiscompanion to come in and look at a book, and so the acquaintance hadgrown. Gloria watched the young stranger, and at first she dislikedhim. 

The aforesaid bookseller dealt, and deals still, in photographs andprints, as well as in foreign and Italian books. At the present time hisestablishment is distinctively a Roman Catholic one. In those days itwas almost the only one of its kind, and was patronized alike by Romansand foreigners. Even Donna Francesca Campodonico went there from time totime for a book on art or an engraving which she and Reanda needed fortheir work. They occasionally walked all the way from the PalazzettoBorgia to the Piazza di Spagna together in the morning. When they hadfound what they wanted, Donna Francesca generally drove home in a cab, and Reanda went to his midday meal before returning. For the line of hisintimacy with her was drawn at this point. He had never sat down at thesame table with her, and he never expected to do so. As the two stood toone another at present, though Francesca would willingly have asked himto breakfast, she would have hesitated to do so, merely because thefirst invitation would inevitably call attention to the fact that theline had been drawn somewhere, whereas both were willing to believe thatit had never existed at all. Under any pressure of necessity she wouldhave driven with him in a cab, but not in her own carriage. They bothknew it, and by tacit consent never allowed such unknown possibilitiesto suggest themselves. But in the mornings, there was nothing toprevent their walking together as far as the Piazza di Spagna, oranywhere else. 

They went to the bookseller's one day soon after the conversation whichhad led Francesca to mention the Dalrymples. As they walked along theeast side of the great square, they saw two men before them. 

"There goes the Gladiator, " said Reanda to his companion, suddenly. "There is no mistaking his walk, even at this distance. "

"What do you mean?" asked Francesca. "Unless I am mistaken, the man whois a little the taller, the one in the rough English clothes, is Mr. Dalrymple. I spoke of him the other day, you know. "

"Oh! Is that he? The other has a still more extraordinary name. He isPaul Griggs. He is the son of an American consul who died in CivitaVecchia twenty years ago, and left him a sort of waif, for he had nomoney and apparently no relatives. Somehow he has grown up, Heaven knowshow, and gets a living by journalism. I believe he was at sea for someyears as a boy. He is really as much Italian as American. I have met himwith artists and literary people. "

"Why do you call him the Gladiator?" asked Francesca, with someinterest. 

"It is a nickname he has got. Cotogni, the sculptor, was in despair fora model last year. Griggs and two or three other men were in thestudio, and somebody suggested that Griggs was very near the standard ofthe ancients in his proportions. They persuaded him to let them measurehim. You know that in the 'Canons' of proportion, the BorgheseGladiator--the one in the Louvre--is given as the best example of anathlete. They measured Griggs then and there, and found that he was atall points the exact living image of the statue. The name has stuck tohim. You see what a fellow he is, and how he walks. "

"Yes, he looks strong, " said Francesca, watching the man with naturalcuriosity. 

The young American was a little shorter than Dalrymple, but evidentlybetter proportioned. No one could fail to notice the vast breadth ofshoulder, the firm, columnar throat, and the small athlete's head withclose-set ears. He moved without any of that swinging motion of theupper part of the body which is natural to many strong men and wasnoticeable in Dalrymple, but there was something peculiar in his walk, almost undefinable, but conveying the idea of very great strength withvery great elasticity. 

"But he is an ugly man, " observed Reanda, almost immediately. "Ugly, butnot repulsive. You will see, if he turns his head. His face is like amask. It is not the face you would expect with such a body. "

"How curious!" exclaimed Francesca, rather idly, for her interest inPaul Griggs was almost exhausted. 

They went on along the crowded pavement. When they reached thebookseller's and went in, they saw that the two men were there beforethem, looking over the foreign papers, which were neatly arranged on alittle table apart. Dalrymple looked up and recognized Francesca, towhom he had been introduced at a small concert given for a charity in aprivate house, on which occasion Gloria had sung. He lifted his hat fromhis head and laid it down upon the newspapers, when Francesca ratherunexpectedly held out her hand to him in English fashion. He had left acard at her house on the day after their meeting, but as she was alonein the world, she had no means of returning the civility. 

"It would give me great pleasure if you would bring your daughter to seeme, " she said graciously. 

"You are very kind, " answered Dalrymple, his steely blue eyesscrutinizing her pure young features. 

She only glanced at him, for she was suddenly conscious that hiscompanion was looking at her. He, too, had laid down his hat, and sheinstantly understood what Reanda had meant by comparing his face to amask. The features were certainly very far from handsome. If they wereredeemed at all, it was by the very deep-set eyes, which gazed intohers in a strangely steady way, as though the lids never could droopfrom under the heavy overhanging brow, and then, still unwinking, turnedin another direction. The man's complexion was of that perfectly evenbut almost sallow colour which often belongs to very strong melancholictemperaments. His face was clean-shaven and unnaturally square andexpressionless, excepting for such life as there was in the deep eyes. Dark, straight, closely cut hair grew thick and smooth as a priest'sskull-cap, low on the forehead and far forward at the temples. The levelmouth, firmly closed, divided the lower part of the face like the scarof a straight sabre-cut. The nose was very thick between the eyes, relatively long, with unusually broad nostrils which ran upward from thepoint to the lean cheeks. The man wore very dark clothes of extremesimplicity, and at a time when pins and chains were much in fashion, hehad not anything visible about him of gold or silver. He wore his watchon a short, doubled piece of black silk braid slipped through hisbuttonhole. He dressed almost as though he were in mourning. 

Francesca unconsciously looked at him so intently for a moment thatDalrymple thought it natural to introduce him, fancying that she mighthave heard of him and might wish to know him out of curiosity. 

"May I introduce Mr. Griggs?" he said, with the stiff inclination whichwas a part of his manner. 

Griggs bowed, and Donna Francesca bent her head a little. Reanda came upand shook hands with the American, and Francesca introduced the artistto Dalrymple. 

"I have long wished to have the pleasure of knowing you, Signor Reanda, "said the latter. "We have many mutual acquaintances among the artistshere. I may say that I am a great admirer of your work, and my daughter, too, for that matter. "

Reanda said something civil as his hand parted from the Scotchman's. Francesca saw an opportunity of bringing Reanda and Gloria together. 

"As you like Signor Reanda's painting so much, " she said to Dalrymple, "will you not bring your daughter this afternoon to see the frescoes heis doing in my house? You know the Palazzetto? Of course--you left acard, but I had no one to return it, " she added rather sadly. "Will youalso come, Mr. Griggs?" she asked, turning to the American. "It willgive me much pleasure, and I see you know Signor Reanda. This afternoon, if you like, at any time after four o'clock. "

Both Dalrymple and Griggs secretly wondered a little at receiving suchan invitation from a Roman lady whom the one had met but once before, and to whom the other had but just been introduced. But they bowed theirthanks, and promised to come. 

After a few more words they separated, Francesca and Reanda to pick outthe engraving they wanted, and the other two men to return to theirnewspapers. By and bye Francesca passed them again, on her way out. 

"I shall expect you after four o'clock, " she said, nodding graciously asshe went by. 

Dalrymple looked after her, till she had left the shop. 

"That woman is not like other women, I think, " he said thoughtfully, tohis companion. 

The mask-like face turned itself deliberately towards him, with shadowy, unwinking eyes. 

"No, " answered Griggs, and he slowly took up his paper again. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

DONNA FRANCESCA received her three guests in the drawing-room, on theside of the house which she inhabited. Reanda was at his work in thegreat hall. 

Gloria entered first, followed closely by her father, and Francesca wasdazzled by the young girl's brilliancy of colour and expression, thoughshe had seen her once before. As she came in, the afternoon sun streamedupon her face and turned her auburn hair to red gold, and gleamed uponher small white teeth as her strong lips parted to speak the firstwords. She was tall and supple, graceful as a panther, and her voicerang and whispered and rang again in quick changes of tone, like awaterfall in the woods in summer. With much of her mother's beauty, shehad inherited from her father the violent vitality of his youth. Yet shewas not noisy, though her manners were not like Francesca's. Her voicerippled and rang, but she did not speak too loud. She moved swiftly andsurely, but not with rude haste. Nevertheless, it seemed to Francescathat there must be some exaggeration somewhere. The elder woman atfirst set it down as a remnant of schoolgirl shyness, and then at oncefelt that she was mistaken, because there was not the smallestawkwardness nor lack of self-possession about it. The contrast betweenthe young girl and Paul Griggs was so striking as to be almost violent. He was cold and funereal in his leonine strength, and his face was morelike a mask than ever as he bowed and sat down in silence. When he didnot remind her of a gladiator, he made her think of a black lion with astrange, human face, and eyes that were not exactly human, though theydid not remind her of any animal's eyes which she had ever seen. 

As for Dalrymple, she thought that he was singularly haggard and wornfor a man apparently only in middle age. There was a certain imposingair about him, which she liked. Besides, she rarely met foreigners, andthey interested her. She noticed that both men wore black coats andcarried their tall hats in their hands. They were therefore not artists, nor to be classed with artists. She was still young enough to judge themto some extent by details, to which people attached a good deal moreimportance at that time than at present. She made up her mind in thecourse of the next few minutes that both Dalrymple and Griggs belongedto her own class, though she did not ask herself where the youngAmerican had got his manners. But somehow, though Gloria fascinated hereyes and her ears, she set down the girl as being inferior to herfather. She wondered whether Gloria's mother had not been an actress;which was a curious reflexion, considering that the dead woman had beenof her own house and name. 

After exchanging a few words with her guests, Francesca suggested thatthey should cross to the other side and see the frescoes, adding thatReanda was probably still at work. 

"You know him, Mr. Griggs?" she said, as they all rose to leave theroom. 

"Yes, " he answered, "as one man knows another. "

"What does that mean?" asked Francesca, moving towards the door to leadthe way. 

"It does not mean much, " replied the young man, with curious ambiguity. 

He was very gentle in his manner, and spoke in a low voice and ratherdiffidently. She looked at him as though mentally determining to renewthe question at some other time. Her first impression was that of a sortof duality about the man, as she found the possibility of a doublemeaning in his answer. His magnificent frame seemed to belong to oneperson, his voice and manner to another. Both might be good in theirway, but her curiosity was excited by the side which was the lessapparent. 

They all went through the house till they came to a door which dividedthe inhabited part from the hall in which Reanda was working. Sheknocked gently upon it with her knuckles, and then smiled as she sawGloria looking at her. 

"We keep it locked, " she said. "The masons come in the morning to lay onthe stucco. One never trusts those people. Signor Reanda keeps the keyof this door. "

The artist opened from within, and stood aside to let the party pass. Hestarted perceptibly when he first saw Gloria. As a boy he had seen MariaBraccio more than once before she had entered the convent, and he wasstruck by the girl's strong resemblance to her. Francesca, followingGloria, saw his movement of surprise, and attributed it merely toadmiration or astonishment such as she had felt herself a quarter of anhour earlier. She smiled a little as she went by, and Reanda knew thatthe smile was for him because he had shown surprise. He understood themisinterpretation, and resented it a little. 

But she knew Reanda well, and before ten minutes had passed she hadconvinced herself that he was repelled rather than attracted by theyoung girl, in spite of the latter's undisguised admiration of his work. It was not mere unintelligent enthusiasm, either, and he might well havebeen pleased and flattered by her unaffected praise. 

She was interested, too, in the technical mechanics of fresco-painting, which she had never before been able to see at close quarters. Everything interested Gloria, and especially everything connected withart. As soon as they had all spoken their first words of compliment andappreciation, she entered into conversation with the painter, asking himall sorts of questions, and listening earnestly to what he said, untilhe realized that she was certainly not assuming an appearance ofadmiration for the sake of flattering him. 

Meanwhile Francesca talked with Griggs, and Dalrymple, having goneslowly round the hall alone after all the others, came and stood besidethe two and watched Francesca, occasionally offering a rather dry remarkin a somewhat absent-minded way. It was all rather commonplace anddecidedly quiet, and he was not much amused, though from time to time heseemed to become absorbed in studying Francesca's face, as though he sawsomething there which was past his comprehension. She noticed that hewatched her, and felt a little uncomfortable under his steely blue eyes, so that she turned her head and talked more with Griggs than with him. Remembering what Reanda had told her of the young man's origin, she didnot like to ask him the common questions about residence in Rome and hisliking for Italy. She was self-possessed and ready enough atconversation, and she chose to talk of general subjects. They talked inItalian, of course. Dalrymple, as of old, spoke fluently, but with astrange accent. Any one would have taken Paul Griggs for a Roman. Atlast, almost in spite of herself, she made a remark about his speech. 

"I was born here, " answered Griggs. "It is much more remarkable thatMiss Dalrymple should speak Italian as she does, having been born inScotland. "

"Are you talking about me?" asked the young girl, turning her headquickly, though she was standing with Reanda at some distance from theothers. 

"I was speaking of your accent in Italian, " said Griggs. 

"Is there anything wrong about it?" asked Gloria, with an anxiety thatseemed exaggerated. 

"On the contrary, " answered Donna Francesca, "Mr. Griggs was telling mehow perfectly you speak. But I had noticed it. "

"Oh! I thought Mr. Griggs was finding fault, " answered Gloria, turningto Reanda again. 

Dalrymple looked at his daughter as though he were annoyed. The eyes ofFrancesca and Griggs met for a moment. All three were aware that theyresented the young girl's quick question as one which they themselveswould not have asked in her place, had they accidentally heard theirnames mentioned in a distant conversation. But Francesca instantly wenton with the subject. 

"To us Italians, " she said, "it seems incredible that any one shouldspeak our language and English equally well. It is as though you weretwo persons, Mr. Griggs, " she added, smiling at the covered expressionof her thought about him. 

"I sometimes think so myself, " answered Griggs, with one of his steadylooks. "In a way, every one must have a sort of duality--a good and evilprinciple. "

"God and the devil, " suggested Francesca, simply. 

"Body and soul would do, I suppose. The one is always in slavery to theother. The result is a sinner or a saint, as the case may be. One nevercan tell, " he added more carelessly. "I am not sure that it matters. Butone can see it. The battle is fought in the face. "

"I do not understand. What battle?"

"The battle between body and soul. The face tells which way the fight isgoing. "

She looked at his own, and she felt that she could not tell. But to acertain extent she understood him. 

"Griggs is full of theories, " observed Dalrymple. "Gloria, come down!"he cried in English, suddenly. 

Gloria, intent upon understanding how fresco-painting was done, wasboldly mounting the steps of the ladder towards the top of the littlescaffolding, which might have been fourteen feet high. For the vaulthad long been finished, and Reanda was painting the walls. 

"Nonsense, papa!" answered the young girl, also in English. "There's nodanger at all. "

"Well--don't break your neck, " said Dalrymple. "I wish you would comedown, though. "

Francesca was surprised at his indifference, and at his daughter's calmdisregard of his authority. Timid, too, as most Italian women of higherrank, she watched the girl nervously. Griggs raised his eyes withoutlifting his head. 

"Gloria is rather wild, " said Dalrymple, in a sort of apology. "I hopeyou will forgive her--she is so much interested. "

"Oh--if she wishes to see, let her go, of course, " answered Francesca, concealing a little nervous irritation she felt. 

A moment later Gloria and Reanda were on the small platform, on one sideof which only there was a hand rail. It had been made for him, and hishead was steady even at a much greater elevation. He was pointing out toher the way in which the colours slowly changed as the stucco dried fromday to day, and explaining how it was impossible to see the effect ofwhat was done until all was completely dry. The others continued to talkbelow, but Griggs glanced up from time to time, and Francesca's eyesfollowed his. Dalrymple had become indifferent, allowing his daughterto do what she pleased, as usual. 

When Gloria had seen all she wished to see, she turned with a quickmovement to come down again, and on turning, she found herself muchnearer to the edge than she had expected. She was bending forwards alittle, and Griggs saw at once that she must lose her balance, unlessReanda caught her from behind. But she made no sound, and turned verywhite as she swayed a little, trying to throw herself back. 

With a swift movement that was gentle but irresistible, Griggs pushedFrancesca back, keeping his eyes on the girl above. It all happened inan instant. 

"Jump!" he cried, in a voice of command. 

She had felt that she must spring or fall, and her body was alreadyoverbalanced as she threw herself off, instinctively gathering her skirtwith her hands. Dalrymple turned as pale as she. If she struck the barebrick floor, she could scarcely escape serious injury. But she did notreach it, for Paul Griggs caught her in his arms, swayed with herweight, then stood as steady as a rock, and set her gently upon herfeet, beside her father. 

"Maria Santissima!" cried Francesca, terrified, though instantlyrelieved, and dimly understanding the stupendous feat of bodily strengthwhich had just been done before her eyes. 

Above, Reanda leaned upon the single rail of the scaffolding withwide-staring eyes. Gloria was faint with the shock of fear, and graspedher father's arm. 

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself!" he said roughly, in English, butin a low voice. "You probably owe your life to Mr. Griggs, " he added, immediately regaining his self-possession. 

Griggs alone seemed wholly unmoved by what had happened. Gloria had heldone of her gloves loosely in her hand, and it had fallen to the groundas she sprang. He picked it up and handed it to her with a curiousgentleness. 

"It must be yours, Miss Dalrymple, " he said. 

CHAPTER XX. 

IT was late before Reanda and Donna Francesca were alone together onthat afternoon. When the first surprise and shock of Gloria's accidenthad passed, Francesca would not allow Dalrymple to take her away atonce, as he seemed anxious to do. The girl was not in the least hurt, but she was still dazed and frightened. Francesca took them all back tothe drawing-room and insisted upon giving them tea, because they wereforeigners, and Gloria, she said, must naturally need something torestore her nerves. Roman tea, thirty years ago, was a strange anduncertain beverage, as both Gloria and her father knew, but they drankwhat Francesca gave them, and at last went away with many apologies forthe disturbance they had made. To tell the truth, Francesca was gladwhen they were gone and she was at liberty to return to the hall whereReanda was still at work. She found him nervous and irritated. He camedown from the scaffolding as soon as he heard her open the door. Neitherspoke until she had seated herself in her accustomed chair, with a veryfrank sigh of relief. 

"I am very grateful to you, Donna Francesca, " said Reanda, twisting hisbeard round his long, thin fingers, as he glanced at her and thensurveyed his work. 

"It was your fault, " she answered, tapping the worm-eaten arms of theold chair with both her white hands, for she herself was still annoyedand irritated. "Do not make me responsible for the girl's folly. "

"Responsibility! May that never be!" exclaimed the artist, in the commonItalian phrase, but with a little irony. "But as for the responsibility, I do not know whose it was. It was certainly not I who invited the younglady to go up the ladder. "

"Well, it was her fault. Besides, the absent are always wrong. But sheis handsome, is she not?"

Reanda shrugged his thin shoulders, and looked critically at his hands, which were smeared with paint. 

"Very handsome, " he said indifferently. "But it is a beauty that saysnothing to me. One must be young to like that kind of beauty. She is abeautiful storm, that young lady. For one who seeks peace--" He shruggedhis shoulders again. "And then, her manners! I do not understandEnglish, but I know that her father was telling her to come down, andyet she went up. I do not know what education these foreigners have. Instruction, yes, as much as you please; but education, no. They have nomore than barbarians. The father says, 'You must not do that. ' And thedaughter does it. What education is that? Of course, if they werefriends of yours, I should not say it. "

"Nevertheless that girl is very handsome, " insisted Francesca. "She hasthe Venetian colouring. Titian would have painted her just as she is, without changing anything. "

"Beauty, beauty!" exclaimed Reanda, impatiently. "Of course, it isbeauty! Food for the brush, that says nothing to the heart. The devilcan also take the shape of a beautiful woman. That is it. There issomething in that young lady's face--how shall I say? It pleasesme--little! You must forgive me, princess. My nerves are shaken. Divinegoodness! To see a young girl flying through the air like Simon Magus!It was enough!"

Francesca laughed gently. Reanda shook his head with slowdisapprobation, and frowned. 

"I say the truth, " he said. "There is something--I cannot explain. But Ican show you, " he added quickly. 

He took up his palette and brushes from the chair on which they lay, andreached the white plastered wall in two steps. 

"Paint her, " said Francesca, to encourage him. 

"Yes, I will show her to you--as I think she is, " he answered. 

He closed his eyes for a moment, calling up the image before him, thenwent back to the chair and took a quantity of colour from a tube whichlay, with half-a-dozen others, in the hollow of the rush seat. They werenot the colours he used for fresco-painting, but had been left therewhen he had made a sketch of a head two or three days previously. In amoment he was before the wall again. It was roughly plastered from thefloor to the lower line of the frescoes. With a long, coarse brush hebegan to sketch a gigantic head of a woman. The oil paint lay well onthe rough, dry surface. He worked in great strokes at the full length ofhis arm. 

"Make her beautiful, at least, " said Francesca, watching him. 

"Oh, yes--very beautiful, " he answered. 

He worked rapidly for a few minutes, smiling, as his hand moved, but notpleasantly. Francesca thought there was an evil look in his face whichshe had never seen there before, and that his smile was wicked andspiteful. 

"But you are painting a sunset!" she cried suddenly. 

"A sunset? That is her hair. It is red, and she has much of it. Wait alittle. "

And he went on. It was certainly something like a sunset, the bright, waving streamers of the clouds flying far to right and left, andblending away to the neutral tint of the dry plaster as though to a greysky. 

"Yes, but it is still a sunset, " said Francesca. "I have seen it likethat from the Campagna in winter. "

"She is not 'Gloria' for nothing, " answered Reanda. "I am making herglorious. You shall see. "

Suddenly, with another tone, he brought out the main features of thestriking face, by throwing in strong shadows from the flaming hair. Francesca became more interested. The head was colossal, extraordinary, almost unearthly; the expression was strange. 

"What a monster!" exclaimed Francesca at last, as he stood aside, stilltouching the enormous sketch here and there with his long brush, atarm's length. "It is terrible, " she added, in a lower tone. 

"Truth is always terrible, " answered Reanda. "But you cannot say that itis not like her. "

"Horribly like. It is diabolical!"

"And yet it is a beautiful head, " said the artist. "Perhaps you are toonear. " He himself crossed the hall, and then turned round to look at hiswork. "It is better from here, " he said. "Will you come?"

She went to his side. The huge face and wildly streaming hair stood outas though in three dimensions from the wall. The great, strong mouthsmiled at her with a smile that was at once evil and sad and fatal. Thestrange eyes looked her through and through from beneath the vast brow. 

"It is diabolical, satanical!" she responded, under her breath. 

Reanda still smiled wickedly and watched her. The face seemed to growand grow till it filled the whole range of vision. The dark eyesflashed; the lips trembled; the flaming hair quivered and waved andcurled up like snakes that darted hither and thither. Yet it washorribly like Gloria, and the fresh, rich oil colours gave it herstartling and vivid brilliancy. 

It was the sudden and enormous expression of a man of genius, strung andstung, till irritation had to find its explosion through the one art ofwhich he was absolute master--in a fearful caricature exaggeratingbeauty itself to the bounds of the devilish. 

"I cannot bear it!" cried Francesca. 

She snatched the big brush from his hand, and, running lightly acrossthe room, dashed the colour left in it across the face in alldirections, over the eyes and the mouth, and through the long red hair. In ten seconds nothing remained but confused daubs and splashes ofbrilliant paint. 

"There!" cried Francesca. "And I wish I had never seen it!"

Still holding the brush in her hand, she turned her back to theobliterated sketch and faced Reanda, with a look of girlish defiance andsatisfaction. His face was grave now, but he seemed pleased with what hehad done. 

"It makes no difference, " he said. "You will never forget it. "

He felt that he was revenged for the smile she had bestowed upon hisapparent surprise at Gloria's beauty, when she had followed the girlinto the hall, and had seen him start. He could not conceal his triumph. 

"That is the young lady whom you thought I might wish to marry, " hesaid. "You know me little after so many years, Donna Francesca. You havebestowed much kindness upon a man whom you do not know. "

"My dear Reanda, who can understand you? But as for kindness, do not letme hear the word between you and me. It has no meaning. We are alwaysgood friends, as we were when I was a little girl and used to play withyour paints. You have given me far more than I can ever repay you for, in your works. I do not flatter you, my friend. Cupid and Psyche, therein your frescoes, will outlive me and be famous when I am forgotten--yetthey are mine, are they not? And you gave them to me. "

The sweet young face turned to him with an unaffected, grateful smile. His sad features softened all at once. 

"Ah, Donna Francesca, " he said gently, "you have given me somethingbetter than Cupid and Psyche, for your gift will live forever inheaven. "

She looked thoughtfully into his eyes, but with a sort of question inher own. 

"Your dear friendship, " he added, bending his head a little. Then helaughed suddenly. "Do not give me a wife, " he concluded. 

"And you, Reanda--do not make wicked caricatures of women you have onlyseen once! Besides, I go back to it again. I saw you start when shepassed you at the door. You were surprised at her beauty. You must admitthat. And then, because you are irritated with her, you take a brush anddaub that monstrous thing upon the wall! It is a shame!"

"I started, yes. It was not because she struck me as beautiful. It wassomething much more strange. Do you know? She is the very portrait ofDonna Maria, who was in the Carmelite convent at Subiaco, and who wasburned to death. I have often told you that I remembered having seen herwhen I was a boy, both at Gerano and at the Palazzo Braccio, before shetook the veil. There is a little difference in the colouring, I think, and much in the expression. But the rest--it is the image!"

Francesca, who could not remember her ill-fated kinswoman, was not muchimpressed by Reanda's statement. 

"It makes your caricature all the worse, " she answered, "since it wasalso a caricature of that holy woman. As for the resemblance, after allthese years, it is a mere impression. Who knows? It may be. There is noportrait of Sister Maria Addolorata. "

"Oh, but I remember well!" insisted Reanda. 

"Well, it concludes nothing, after all, " returned Francesca, with muchlogic. "It does not make a fiend of the poor nun, who is an angel bythis time, and it does not make Miss Dalrymple less beautiful. And now, Signor Painter, " she added, with another girlish laugh, "if we havequarrelled enough to restore your nerves, I am going out. It is almostdark, and I have to go to the Austrian Embassy before dinner, and thecarriage has been waiting for an hour. "

"You, princess!" exclaimed Reanda, in surprise; for she had not begun togo into the world yet since her husband's death. 

"It is not a reception. We are to meet there about arranging another ofthose charity concerts for the deaf and dumb. "

"I might have known, " answered the painter. "As for me, I shall go tothe theatre to-night. There is the Trovatore. "

"That is a new thing for you, too. But I am glad. Amuse yourself, andtell me about the singing to-morrow. Remember to lock the door and takethe key. I do not trust the masons in the morning. "

"Do I ever forget?" asked Reanda. "But I will lock it now, as you goout; for it is late, and I shall go upstairs. "

"Good night, " said Francesca, as she turned to leave the room. 

"And you forgive the caricature?" asked Reanda, holding the door openfor her to pass. 

"I would forgive you many things, " she answered, smiling as she wentby. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

IN those days the Trovatore was not an old-fashioned opera. It was not'threshed-out, ' to borrow the vigorous German phrase. Wagner had noteclipsed melody with 'tone-poetry, ' nor made men feel more than theycould hear. Many of the great things of this century-ending had not beendone then, nor even dreamed of, and even musicians listened to theTrovatore with pleasure, not dreaming of the untried strength that laywaiting in Verdi's vast reserve. It was then the music of youth. To usit seems but the music of childhood. Many of us cannot listen toManrico's death-song from the tower without hearing the grind-organ uponwhich its passion has grown so pathetically poor. But one couldunderstand that music. The mere statement that it was comprehensibleraises a smile to-day. It appealed to simple feelings. We are no longersatisfied with such simplicity, and even long for powers that do notappeal, but twist us with something stronger than our hardened selves, until we ourselves appeal to the unknown, in a sort of despairingecstasy of unsatisfied delight, asking of possibility to stretch itselfout to the impossible. We are in a strange phase of development. We seethe elaborately artificial world-scape painted by Science on the curtainclose before our eyes, but our restless hands are thrust through it andbeyond, opening eagerly and shutting on nothing, though we know thatsomething is there. 

Angelo Reanda was passionately fond of what was called music in Italymore than thirty years ago. He had the true ear and the facile memoryfor melody common to Italians, who are a singing people, if not amusical race, and which constituted a talent for music when music wasconsidered to be a succession of sounds rather than a series of sensuousimpressions. He could listen to an opera, understand it without thought, enjoy it simply, and remember it without difficulty, like thousands ofother Romans. Most of us would willingly go back to such childlikeamusements if we could. A few possess the power even now, and are lookedupon with friendly contempt by their more cultured, and therefore moretortured, musical acquaintances, whose dream it is to be torn to veryrags in the delirium of orchestral passion. 

Reanda went to the Apollo Theatre in search of merely pleasurablesensations, and he got exactly what he wanted. The old house wasbrilliant even in those days, less with light than with jewels, it istrue, but perhaps that illumination was as good as any other. The Romanladies and the ladies of the great embassies used then to sit throughthe whole evening in their boxes, and it was the privilege, as it isstill in Rome, of the men in the stalls and pit to stand up between theacts and admire them and their diamonds as much as they pleased. Thelight was dim enough, compared with what we have nowadays; for gas wasbut just introduced in a few of the principal streets, and the lamps inthe huge chandelier at the Apollo, and in the brackets around the house, were filled with the olive oil which to-day dresses the world's salad. But it was a soft warm light, with rich yellow in it, which penetratedthe shadows and beautified all it touched. 

Reanda, like the others, stood up and looked about him after the firstact. His eyes were instantly arrested by Gloria's splendid hair, whichcaught the light from above. She was seated in the front of a box on thethird tier, the second row of boxes being almost exclusively reserved inthose days. Dalrymple was beside his daughter, and the dark, still faceof Paul Griggs was just visible in the shadow. 

Gloria saw the artist almost immediately, for he could not help lookingat her curiously, comparing her face with the mad sketch he had made onthe wall. She nodded to him, and then spoke to her father, evidentlycalling his attention to Reanda, for Dalrymple looked down at once, andalso nodded, while Griggs leaned forward a little and stared vacantlyinto the pit. 

"It is an obsession to-day, " said Reanda to himself, reflecting thatthough the girl lived in Rome he had never noticed her before, and hadnow seen her twice on the same day. 

He mentally added the reflexion that she must have good nerves, and thatmost young girls would be at home with a headache after such a narrowescape as hers. She was quite as handsome as he had thought, however, and even more so, now that he saw her in her girlish evening gown, whichwas just a little open at the throat, and without even the simplest ofornaments. The white material and the shadow around and behind her threwher head into strong relief. 

The curtain went up again, and Reanda sat down and watched theperformance and listened to the simple, stirring melodies. But he wasuncomfortably conscious that Gloria was looking at the back of his headfrom her box. Nervous people know the unpleasant sensation which such adelusion can produce. Reanda moved uneasily in his seat, and lookedround more than once, just far enough to catch sight of Gloria's hairwithout looking up into her eyes. 

His thoughts were disturbed, and he recalled vividly the face of thedead nun, which he had seen long ago. The resemblance was certainlystrong. Maria Addolorata had sometimes had a strange expression whichwas quite her own, and which he had not yet seen in Gloria. But he feltthat he should see it some day. He was sure of it, so sure that he hadthrown its full force into the sketch on the wall, knowing that it wouldstartle Donna Francesca. It was not possible that two women should be somuch alike and yet that one of them should never have that look. PerhapsGloria had it now and was staring at the back of his head. 

An unaccountable nervousness took possession of the sensitive man, andhe suffered as he sat there. After the curtain dropped he rose and leftthe theatre without looking up, and crossed the narrow street to alittle coffee shop familiar to him for many years. He drank a cup ofcoffee, broke off the end of a thin black Roman cigar, and smoked for afew minutes before he returned. 

Gloria had not moved, but Griggs was either gone or had retired furtherback into the shadow. Dalrymple was leaning back in his chair, bony andhaggard, one of his great hands hanging listlessly over the front of thebox. Reanda sat down again, and determined that he would not turn roundbefore the end of the act. But it was of no use. He irritated hisneighbours on each side by his restlessness, and his forehead was moistas though he were suffering great pain. Again he faced about and staredupwards at the box. Gloria, to his surprise, was not looking at him, butin the shadow he met the inscrutable eyes of Paul Griggs, fixed upon himas though they would never look away. But he cared very little whetherGriggs looked at him or not. He faced the stage again and was morequiet. 

It was a good performance, and he began to be glad that he had come. Thesingers were young, the audience was inclined to applaud, and everythingwent smoothly. Reanda thought the soprano rather weak in the great towerscene. 

 "Calpesta il mio cadavere, ma salva il Trovator!"

she sang in great ascending intervals. 

Reanda sighed, for she made no impression on him, and he remembered thathe had been deeply impressed, even thrilled, when he had first heard thephrase. He had realized the situation then and had felt with Leonora. Perhaps he had grown too old to feel that sort of young emotion anymore. He sighed regretfully as he rose from his seat. Looking up oncemore, he saw that Gloria was putting on her cloak, her back turned tothe theatre. He waited a moment and then moved on with the crowd, to gethis coat from the cloak-room. 

He went out and walked slowly up the Via di Tordinona. It was a darkand narrow street in those days. The great old-fashioned lanterns wereswung up with their oil lamps in them, by long levers held in place bychains locked to the wall. Here and there over a low door a red lightshowed that wine was sold in a basement which was almost a cellar. Thecrowd from the theatre hurried along close by the walls, in constantdanger from the big coaches that dashed past, bringing the Roman ladieshome, for all had to pass through that narrow street. Landaus were notyet invented, and the heavy carriages rumbled loudly through thedarkness, over the small paving-stones. But the people on foot were usedto them, and stood pressed against the walls as they went by, or groupedfor a moment on the low doorsteps of the dark houses. 

Reanda went with the rest. He might have gone the other way, by theBanchi Vecchi, from the bridge of Sant' Angelo, and it would have beennearer, but he had a curious fancy that the Dalrymples might walk home, and that he might see Gloria again. Though it was not yet winter, thenight was bright and cold, and it was pleasant to walk. The regularseason at the Apollo Theatre did not begin until Christmas, but therewere often good companies there at other times of the year. 

The artist walked on, glancing at the groups he passed in the dimstreet, but neither pausing nor hurrying. He meant to let fate have herown way with him that night. 

Fate was not far off. He had gone on some distance, and the crowd haddispersed in various directions, till he was almost alone as he emergedinto the open space where the Via del Clementino intersects the Ripetta. At that moment he heard a wild and thrilling burst of song. 

 "Calpesta il mio cadavere, ma salva il Trovator!"

The great soprano rang out upon the midnight silence, like the voice ofa despairing archangel, and there was nothing more. 

"Hush!" exclaimed a man's voice energetically. 

Two or three windows were opened high up, for no one had ever heard sucha woman's voice in the streets before. Reanda peered before him throughthe gloom, saw three people standing at the next corner, and hastenedhis long steps. An instinct he could not explain told him that Gloriahad sung the short strain, which had left him cold and indifferent whenhe had heard it in the theatre. He was neither now, and he was possessedby the desire to be sure that it had been she. 

He was not mistaken. Griggs had recognized him first, and they hadwaited for him at the corner. 

"It is an unexpected pleasure to meet twice in the same day, " saidReanda. 

"The pleasure is ours, " answered Dalrymple, in the correct phrase, butwith his peculiar accent. "I suppose you heard my daughter's screams, "he added drily. "She was explaining to us how a particular phrase shouldbe sung. "

"Was I not right?" asked Gloria, quickly appealing to Reanda with thecertainty of support. 

"A thousand times right, " he answered. "How could one be wrong with sucha voice?"

Gloria was pleased, and they all walked on together till they reachedthe door of Dalrymple's lodging. 

"Come in and have supper with us, " said the Scotchman, who seemed to beless gloomy than usual. "I suppose you live in our neighbourhood?"

"No. In the Palazzetto Borgia, where I work. "

"This is not exactly on your way home, then, " observed Gloria. "You mayas well rest and refresh yourself. "

Reanda accepted the invitation, wondering inwardly at the assurance ofthe foreign girl. With her Italian speech she should have had Italianmanners, he thought. The three men all carried tapers, as was thencustomary, and they all lit them before they ascended the darkstaircase. 

"This is an illumination, " said Dalrymple, looking back as he led theway. 

Gloria stopped suddenly, and looked round. She was following her father, and Reanda came after her, Griggs being the last. 

"One, two, three, " she counted, and her eyes met Reanda's. 

Without the slightest hesitation, she blew out the taper he held in hishand. But, for one instant, he had seen in her face the expression ofthe dead nun, distinct in the clear light, and close to his eyes. 

"Why did you do that?" asked Dalrymple, who had turned his head again, as the taper was extinguished. 

"Three lights mean death, " said Gloria, promptly; and she laughed, asshe went quickly up the steps. 

"It is true, " answered Reanda, in a low voice, as he followed her; andit occurred to him that in a flash he had seen death written in thebrilliant young face. 

Ten minutes later, they were seated around the table in the Dalrymples'small dining-room. Reanda noticed that everything he saw there evidentlybelonged to the hired lodging, from the old-fashioned Italian silverforks, battered and crooked at the prongs, to the heavy cut-glassdecanters, stained with age and use, at the neck, and between thediamond-shaped cuttings. There was supper enough for half-a-dozenpeople, however, and an extraordinary quantity of wine. Dalrympleswallowed a big tumbler of it before he ate anything. Paul Griggs filledhis glass to the brim, and looked at it. He had hardly spoken sinceReanda had joined the party. 

The artist made an effort to be agreeable, feeling that the invitationhad been a very friendly one, considering the slight acquaintance he hadwith the Dalrymples, an acquaintance not yet twenty-four hours old. Presently he asked Gloria if she had felt no ill effects from herextraordinary accident in the afternoon. 

"I had not thought about it again, " she answered. "I have thought ofnothing but your painting all the evening, until that woman sang thatphrase as though she were asking the Conte di Luna for more strawberriesand cream. "

She laughed, but her eyes were fixed on his face. 

 "'Un altro po' di fravole, e dammi crema ancor, '"

she sang softly, in the Roman dialect. 

Then she laughed again, and Reanda smiled at the absurd words--"A fewmore strawberries, and give me some more cream. " But even the few notes, a lazy parody of the prima donna's singing of the phrase, charmed hissimple love of melody. 

"Don't look so grim, papa, " she said in English. "Nobody can hear mehere, you know. "

"I should not think anybody would wish to, " answered the Scotchman; buthe spoke in Italian, in consideration of his guest, who did notunderstand English. 

"I do not know why you are always so angry if I sing anything foolish, "said the young girl, going back to Italian. "One cannot be alwaysserious. But I was talking about your frescoes, Signor Reanda. I havethought of nothing else. "

Again her eyes met the artist's, but fell before his. He was too great apainter not to know the value of such flattering speeches in general, and in a way he was inclined to resent the girl's boldness. But at thesame time, it was hard to believe that she was not really in earnest, for she had that power of sudden gravity which lends great weight tolittle speeches. In spite of himself, and perhaps rightly, he believedher. Paul Griggs did not, and he watched her curiously. 

"Why do you look at me like that?" she asked, turning upon him with alittle show of temper. 

"If your father will allow me to say so, you are the object most worthlooking at in the room, " answered the young man, calmly. 

"You will make her vain with your pretty speeches, Griggs, " saidDalrymple. 

"I doubt that, " answered Griggs. 

He relapsed into silence, and drained a big tumbler of wine. Reandasuspected, with a shrewd intuition, that the American admired Gloria, but that she did not like him much. 

"Miss Dalrymple is doing her best to make me vain with her praise, " saidReanda. 

"I never flattered any one in my life, " answered Gloria. "Signor Reandais the greatest painter in Italy. Everybody says so. It would be foolishof me to even pretend that after seeing him at work I had thought ofanything else. We have all said, this evening, that the frescoes werewonderful, and that no one, not even Raphael, who did the same thing, has ever had a more beautiful idea of the history of Cupid and Psyche. Why should we not tell the truth, just because he happens to be here?How illogical you are!"

"I believe I excepted Raphael, " said Dalrymple, with his nationalaccuracy. "But Signor Reanda will not quarrel with me on that account, Iam sure. "

"But I did not except Raphael, nor any one, " persisted Gloria, beforeReanda could speak. 

"Really, Signorina, though I am mortal and susceptible, you go a littletoo far. Flattery is not appreciation, you know. "

"It is not flattery, " she answered, and the colour rose in her face. "Iam quite in earnest. Nobody ever painted anything better than your Cupidand Psyche. Raphael's is dull and uninteresting compared with it. "

"I blush, but I cannot accept so much, " said the Italian, smilingpolitely, but still trying to discover whether she meant what she saidor not. 

In spite of himself, as before, he continued to believe her, though hisjudgment told him that hers could not be worth much. But he was pleasedto have made such an impression, and by quick degrees his prejudiceagainst her began to disappear. What had seemed like boldness in her nolonger shocked him, and he described it to himself as the innocentfrankness of a foreign girl. It was not possible that any one so likethe dead Maria Braccio could be vulgar or bold. From that moment hebegan to rank Gloria as belonging to the higher sphere from which hisbirth excluded him. It was a curious and quick transition, and he wouldnot have admitted that it was due to her exaggerated praise of his work. Strange as it must seem to those not familiar with the almost impassablebarriers of old Italian society, Reanda had that evening, for the firsttime in his life, the sensation of being liked, admired, and talked withby a woman of Francesca Campodonico's class; stranger still, it was oneof the most delicious sensations he had ever experienced. Yet the womanin question was but a girl not yet seventeen years old. Before he roseto go home, he unconsciously resented Griggs's silent admiration forGloria. To the average Italian, such silence is a sign that a man is inlove, and Reanda was the more attracted to Gloria because she treatedGriggs with such perfect indifference. 

It was nearly one o'clock when he lighted his taper to descend thestairs. Griggs was also ready to go. It was a relief to know that he wasnot going to stay behind and talk with Gloria. They went down insilence. 

"I wanted to ask you a question, " said the American, as they came outupon the street, and blew out their tapers. "We live in oppositedirections, so I must ask it now. Should you mind, if I wrote an articleon your frescoes for a London paper?"

"Mind!" exclaimed the artist, with a sudden revulsion of feeling infavour of the journalist. "I should be delighted--flattered. "

"No, " said Griggs, coldly. "I shall not write as Miss Dalrymple talks. But I shall try and do you justice, and that is a good deal, when one isa serious artist, as you are. "

Reanda was struck by the cool moderation of the words, which expressedhis own modest judgment of himself almost too exactly to be agreeableafter Gloria's unlimited praise. He thanked Griggs warmly, however, andthey shook hands before they parted. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

THREE months passed, and Reanda was intimate with the Dalrymples. It wasnatural enough, considering the circumstances. They lived much alone, and Reanda was like them in this respect, for he rarely went where hewas obliged to talk. During the day he saw much of Donna Francesca, butwhen it grew dark in the early afternoons of midwinter, the artist wasthrown upon his own resources. In former years he had now and then doneas many of the other artists did, and had sometimes for a month or twospent most of his evenings at the eating-house where he dined, incompany with half-a-dozen others who frequented the same establishment. Each dropped in, at any hour that chanced to suit him, ate his supper, pushed back his chair, and joined in the general conversation, smoking, and drinking coffee or a little wine, until it was time to go home. There were grey-headed painters who had hardly been absent more than afew days in five and twenty years from their accustomed tables at suchplaces as the Falcone, the Gabbione, or the Genio. But Reanda had neverjoined in any of these little circles for longer than a month or two, by which time he had exhausted the stock of his companions' ideas, andreturned to solitude and his own thoughts. For he had something whichthey had not, besides his greater talent, his broader intelligence, andhis deeper artistic insight. Donna Francesca's refining influenceexerted itself continually upon him, and made much of the commonconversation tiresome or disagreeable to him. A man whose existence ispenetrated by the presence of a rarely refined woman seldom cares muchfor the daily society of men. He prefers to be alone, when he cannot bewith her. 

Reanda believed that what he felt for Francesca was a devoted and almostdevout friendship. The fact that before many weeks had passed after hisfirst meeting with Gloria he was perceptibly in love with the girl, while he felt not the smallest change in his relations with DonnaFrancesca, satisfactorily proved to him that he was right. It would nothave been like an Italian and a Latin to compare his feelings for thetwo women by imaginary tests, as, for instance, by asking himself forwhich of the two he would make the greater sacrifice. He took it forgranted that the one sentiment was friendship and the other love, and heacted accordingly. 

He was distrustful, indeed, and very suspicious, but not of himself. Gloria treated him too well. Her eyes told him more than he felt able tobelieve. It was not natural that a girl so young and fresh andbeautiful, with the world before her, should fall in love with a man ofhis age. That, at least, was what he thought. But the fact that it wasunnatural did not prevent it from taking place. 

Reanda ignored certain points of great importance. In the first place, Gloria had not really the world before her. Her little sphere wasclosely limited by her father's morose selfishness, which led him tokeep her in Rome because he liked the place himself, and to keep awayfrom his countrymen, whom he detested as heartily as Britons livingabroad sometimes do. On the other hand, a vague dread lest the story ofhis marriage might some day come to the light kept him away from Romansociety. He had fallen back upon artistic Bohemia for such company as hewanted, which was little enough, and as his child grew up he had notunderstood that she was developing early and coming to womanhood whileshe was still under the care of the governess he had provided. He hadnot even made any plans for her future, for he did not love her, thoughhe indulged her as a selfish and easy means of fulfilling his paternalobligations. It was to get rid of her importunity that he began to takeher to the houses of some of the married artists when she was onlysixteen years old, though she looked at least two years older. 

But in such society as that, Reanda was easily first, apart from thetalent which placed him at the head of the whole artistic profession. Hehad been brought up, taught, and educated among gentlemen, sons of oneof the oldest and most fastidious aristocracies in Europe, and he hadtheir manners, their speech, their quiet air of superiority, andespecially that exterior gentleness and modesty of demeanour which mosttouches some women. In Gloria's opinion, he even had much of theirappearance, being tall, thin, and dark. Accustomed as she was to livingwith her father, who was gloomy and morose, and to seeing much of PaulGriggs, whose powers of silence were phenomenal at that time, Reanda'seasy grace of conversation charmed and flattered her. He was, by manydegrees, the superior in talent, in charm, in learning, to any one shehad ever met, and it must not be forgotten that although he was twentyyears older than she, he was not yet forty, and that, as he had not agrey hair in his head, he could still pass for a young man, though hisgrave disposition made him feel older than he was. Of the threemelancholic men in whose society she chiefly lived, her father wasselfish and morose; Griggs was gentle, but silent and incomprehensible, though he exerted an undoubted influence over her; Reanda alone, thoughnaturally melancholy, was at once gentle, companionable, and talkativewith her. 

Dalrymple accepted the intimacy with indifference and even with acertain satisfaction. In his reflexions, he characterized Reanda as arare combination of the great artist and the gentleman. Since Gloria hadknown him she had grown more quiet. She admired him and imitated hismanner. It was a good thing. He was glad, too, that Reanda was notmarried, for it would have been a nuisance, thought Dalrymple, to havethe man's wife always about and expecting to be amused. 

It began to occur to him that Reanda might be falling in love withGloria, and he did not resent the idea. In fact, though at first sightit should have seemed strange to an Englishman, he looked upon the ideawith favour. He wished to live out his life in Italy, for he had gotthat fierce affection for the country which has overcome and bound manynorthern men, from Sir John Hawkwood to Landor and Browning. Though hedid not love Gloria, he was attached to her in his own way, and did notwish to lose sight of her altogether. But, in consequence of his ownirregular marriage, he could not marry her to a man of his own rank inRome, who would not fail to make inquiries about her mother. It was mostnatural that he should look upon such a man as Reanda with favour. Reanda had many good qualities. Dalrymple's judgment was generally keenenough about people, and he had understood that such a woman as DonnaFrancesca Campodonico would certainly not make a personal friend of apainter, and allow him to occupy rooms in her palace, unless hischaracter were altogether above suspicion. 

Gloria was, of course, too young to be married yet, though she seemed tobe so entirely grown up and altogether a woman. In this respectDalrymple was not prejudiced. His own mother had been married at the ageof seventeen, and he had lived long in Italy, where early marriages werecommon enough. There could certainly be no serious objection to thematch on that score, when another year should have passed. 

Dalrymple's only anxiety about his daughter concerned her stronginclination to be a public singer. The prejudice was by no meansextraordinary, and as a Scotchman, it had even more weight with him thanit could have had, for instance, with an Italian. Reanda entirely agreedwith him on this point, and when Gloria spoke of it, he never failed todraw a lively picture of the drawbacks attending stage life. The artistspoke very strongly, for one of Gloria's earliest and chiefestattractions in his eyes had been the certainty he felt that she belongedto Francesca's class. For that reason her flattering admiration hadbrought with it a peculiar savour, especially delightful to the taste ofa man of humble origin. Dalrymple did not understand that, but he knewthat if Gloria married the great painter, the latter would effectuallykeep her from the stage. 

As for Griggs, the Scotchman was well aware that the poor youngjournalist might easily fall in love with the beautiful girl. But thisdid not deter him at all from having Griggs constantly at the house. Griggs was the only man he had ever met who did not bore him, who couldbe silent for an hour at a time, who could swallow as much strong wineas he without the slightest apparent effect upon his manner, whounderstood all he said, though sometimes saying things which he couldnot understand--in short, Griggs was a necessity to him. The young manwas perhaps aware of the fact, and he found Dalrymple congenial to hisown temper; but he was as excessively proud as he was extremely poor, atthat time, and he managed to refuse the greater part of the hospitalityoffered to him, simply because he could not return it. It was veryrarely that he accepted an invitation to a meal, though he now generallycame in the evening, besides meeting Dalrymple almost every morning whenthey went to the bookseller's together. 

He puzzled the Scotchman strangely. He was an odd combination of athinker and an athlete, half literary man, half gladiator. The commonphrase 'an old head on young shoulders' described him as well as anyphrase could. The shoulders were perhaps the more remarkable, but thehead was not to be despised. A man who could break a horseshoe and tearin two a pack of cards, and who spent his spare time in studying Hegeland Kant, when he was not writing political correspondence fornewspapers, deserved to be considered an exception. He seemed to have nomaterial wants, and yet he had the animal power of enjoying materialthings even in excess, which is rare. He had a couple of rooms in theVia della Frezza, between the Corso and the Ripetta, where he lived in arather mysterious way, though he made no secret about it. Occasionallyan acquaintance climbed the steep stairs, but no one ever got him toopen the door nor to give any sign that he was at home, if he werewithin. A one-eyed cobbler acted as porter downstairs, from morning tillnight, astride upon his bench and ever at work, an ill-savoured old pipein his mouth. 

"You may try, " he answered, when any one asked for Griggs. "Who knows?Perhaps Sor Paolo will open. Try a little, if you have patience. "

Patience being exhausted, the visitor came down the five flights again, and remonstrated with the cobbler. 

"I did not say anything, " he would reply, in a cloud of smoke. "Manyhave tried. I told you to try. Am I to tell you that no one has evergot in? Why? To disoblige you? If you want anything of Sor Paolo, sayit to me. Or come again. "

"But he will not open, " objected the visitor. 

"Oh, that is true, " returned the man of one eye. "But if you wish totry, I am not here to hinder you. This is the truth. "

Now and then, some one more inquisitive suggested that there might be alady in the question. The one eye then fixed itself in a vacant stare. 

"Females?" the cobbler would exclaim. "Not even cats. What passesthrough your head? He is alone always. If you do not believe me, you cantry. I do not say Sor Paolo will not open the door. A door is a door, tobe opened. "

"But since I have tried!"

"And I, what can I do? You have come, you have seen, you have knocked, and no one has opened. May the Madonna accompany you! I can do nothing. "

So even the most importunate of visitors departed at last. But Griggshad taken Dalrymple up to his lodgings more than once, and they had satthere for an hour talking over books. Dalrymple observed, indeed, thatGriggs was more inclined to talk in his own rooms than anywhere else, and that his manner then changed so much as to make him almost seem tobe a different man. There was a look of interest in the stony mask, andthere was a light in the deep-set eyes which neither wine nor wit couldbring there at other times. The man wore his armour against the world, as it were, a tough shell made up of a poor man's pride, and solid withthat sense of absolute physical superiority which is an element in thecharacter of strong men, and which the Scotchman understood. He himselfhad been of the strong, but not always the strongest. Paul Griggs hadnever yet been matched by any man since he had first got his growth. Hewas the equal of many in intellect, but his bodily strength was notequalled by any in his youth and manhood. The secret of his onewell-hidden vanity lay in that. His moral power showed itself in hisassumed modesty about it, for it was almost impossible to prevail uponhim to make exhibition of it. Gloria alone seemed able to induce him, for her especial amusement, to break a silver dollar with his fingers, or tear a pack of cards, and then only in the presence of her father orReanda, but never before other people. 

"You are the strongest man in the world, are you not?" she asked himonce. 

"Yes, " he answered. "I probably am, if it is I. I am vain of it, but notproud of it. That makes me think sometimes that I am two men in one. That might account for it, you know. "

"What nonsense!" Gloria laughed. 

"Is it? I daresay it is. " And he relapsed into indifference, so far asshe could see. 

"What is the other man like?" she asked. "Not the strong man of the two, but the other?"

"He is a good man. The strong man is bad. They fight, and the result isinsignificance. Some day one of the two will get the better of theother. "

"What will happen then?" she asked lightly, and still inclined to laugh. 

"One or the other, or both, will die, I suppose, " he answered. 

"How very unpleasant!"

She did not at all understand what he meant. At the same time she couldnot help feeling that he was eminently a man to whom she would turn indanger or trouble. Girl though she was, she could not mistake his greatadmiration of her, and by degrees, as the winter wore on, she trustedhim more, though he still repelled her a little, for his saturnine calmwas opposed to her violent vitality, as a black rock to a tawny torrent. Griggs had neither the manner nor the temper which wins women's heartsas a rule. Such men are sometimes loved by women when their sorrow haschained them to the rock of horror, and grief insatiable tears out theirbroken hearts. But in their strength they are not loved. They cannotgive themselves yet, for their strength hinders them, and women thinkthem miserly of words and of love's little coin of change. If they getlove at last, it is as the pity which the unhurt weak feel for theruined strong. 

Gloria was not above irritating Griggs occasionally, when the fancy tookher to seek amusement in that way. She knew how to do it, and he rarelyturned upon her, even in the most gentle way. 

"We are good friends, are we not?" she asked one day, when it wasraining and he was alone with her, waiting for her father to come in. 

"I hope so, " he answered, turning his impassive face slowly towards her. 

"Then you ought to be much nicer to me, " she said. 

"I am as nice as I know how to be, " replied Griggs, with fixed eyes. "What shall I do?"

"That is it. You ought to know. You could talk and say pleasant things, for instance. Don't you admit that you are very dull to-day?"

"I admit it. I regret it, and I wish I were not. "

"You need not be. I am sure you can talk very well, when you please. Youare not exactly funny at any time, but to-day you are funereal. Youremind me of those big black horses they use for hearses, you know. "

"Thank you, thank you, " said Griggs, quietly, repeating the wordswithout emphasis. 

"I don't like you!" she exclaimed petulantly, but with a little laugh. 

"I know that, " he answered. "But I like you very much. We were probablymeant to differ. "

"Then you might amuse me. It's awfully dull when it rains. Pull thehouse down, or tear up silver scudi, or something. "

"I am not Samson, and I am not a clown, " observed Griggs, coldly. 

"I shall never like you if you are so disagreeable, " said Gloria, takingup a book, and settling herself to read. 

"I am afraid you never will, " answered Griggs, following her example. 

A few minutes passed in silence. Then Gloria looked up suddenly. 

"Mr. Griggs?"

"Yes?"

"I did not mean to be horrid. "

"No, of course not. "

"Because, if I were ever in trouble, you know--I should come straight toyou. "

"Thank you, " he answered very gently. "But I hope you will never be introuble. If you ever should be--" He stopped. 

"Well?"

"I do not think you would find anybody who would try harder to helpyou, " he said simply. 

She wished that his voice would tremble, or that he would put out hishand towards her, or show something a little more like emotion. But shehad to be satisfied. 

"Would it be the good man or the bad man that would help me?" sheasked, remembering the former conversation. 

"Both, " answered Griggs, without hesitation. 

"I am not sure that I might not like the bad man better, " said Gloria, almost to herself. 

"Is Reanda a bad man?" inquired Griggs, slowly, and looking for theblush in her face. 

"Why?" But she blushed, as he expected. 

"Because you like him better than me. "

"You are quite different. It is of no use to talk about it, and I wantto read. "

She turned from him and buried herself in her book, but she movedrestlessly two or three times, and it was some minutes before theheightened colour disappeared from her face. 

She was very girlish still, and when she had irritated Griggs as far assuch a man was capable of irritation, she preferred to refuse battlerather than deal with the difficulty she had created. But Griggsunderstood, and amongst his still small sufferings he often felt thelittle, dull, hopeless pang which tells a man that he is unlovable. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

VERY late, one night in the Carnival season, Paul Griggs was walking thestreets alone. His sufferings were no longer so small as they had been, and the bitterness of solitude was congenial to him. 

He had been at the house of a Spanish artist, where there had beendancing and music and supper and improvised tableaux. Gloria and herfather and Reanda had all been there, too, and something had happenedwhich had stirred the depths of the young man's slow temper. He hated tomake an exhibition of himself, and much against his will he had beenexhibited, as it were, to help the gaiety of the entertainment. Cotogni, the great sculptor, had suggested that Griggs should appear as Samson, asleep with his head on Delilah's knee, and bound by her with cordswhich he should seem to break as the Philistines rushed in. He hadrefused flatly, again and again, till all the noisy party caught theidea and forced him to it. 

They had dressed him in silk draperies, his mighty arms bare almost tothe shoulder, and they had given him a long, dark, theatrical wig. Theyhad bound his arms and chest with cords, and had made him lie down andpretend to be asleep at the feet of the artist's beautiful wife. Theyhad made slipping knots in the cords, so that he could easily wrenchthem loose. Then the curtain had been drawn aside, and there had been apause as the tableau was shown. All at once a mob of artists, drapedhastily in anything they could lay their hands upon, and with all mannerof helmets on their heads from the Spaniard's collection, had rushed in. 

"The Philistines are upon thee!" cried Delilah in a piercing voice. 

He sprang to his feet, his legs being free, and he struggled with thecords. The knots would not slip as they were meant to do. The situationlasted several seconds, and was ridiculous enough. 

People began to laugh. 

"Cut off his hair!" cried one. 

"Of what use was the wig?" laughed another, and every one tittered. 

Griggs could hear Gloria's clear, high laugh above the rest. His bloodslowly rose in his throat. But no one pulled the curtain across. ThePhilistines, young artists, mad with Carnival, improvised a veryeccentric dance of triumph, and the laughter increased. 

Griggs looked at the cords. Then his mask-like face turned slowly to theaudience. Only the great veins swelled suddenly at his temples, whileevery one watched him in the general amusement. Suddenly his eyesflashed, and he drew a deep breath, for he was angry. In an instantthere was dead silence in the room. A moment later one of the cords, drawn tight round his chest, over the silk robe, snapped like a thread, then another, and then a third. Then in a sort of frenzy of anger hesavagely broke the whole cord into pieces with his hands, tossing thebits contemptuously upon the floor. His face was as white as a deadman's. 

A roar of applause broke the silence when the guests realized what hehad done. The artists seized him and carried him high in processionround the room, the women threw flowers at him, and some one struck up atriumphal march on the piano. It was an ovation. Half an hour later, dressed again in his ordinary clothes, he found himself next to Gloria. 

"You told me the other day that you were not Samson, " she said. "You seeyou can be when you choose. "

"No, " answered Griggs, coldly; "I am a clown. "

What she had said was natural enough, but somehow the satisfaction ofhis bodily vanity had stung his moral pride beyond endurance. It seemeda despicable thing to be as vain as he was of a gift for which he hadnot paid any price. Deep down, too, he felt bitterly that he had neverreceived the slightest praise for any thought of his which he hadwritten down and sent to that cauldron of the English daily press inwhich all individual right to distinction disappears, with all claim topraise, from written matter, however good it be. He worked, he read, hestudied, he wrote late, and rose early to observe. But his natural giftwas to be a mountebank, a clown, a circus Hercules. By stiffening one ofhis senseless arms he could bring down roars of applause. By years ofbitter labour with his pen he earned the barest living. The muscles thata porter might have, offered him opulence, because it was tougher by afew degrees than the flesh of other men. The knowledge he had strivenfor just kept him above absolute want. 

He slipped away from the gay party as soon as he could. His last glanceround the room showed him Angelo Reanda and Gloria, sitting in a cornerapart. The girl's face was grave. There was a gentle and happy light inthe artist's eyes which Griggs had never seen. That also was the strongman's portion. 

Wrathfully he strode away from the house, under the dim oil lamps, anunlighted cigar between his teeth, his soft felt hat drawn over hiseyes. He crossed the city towards the Pantheon and the Piazza Navona, his cigar still unlighted. 

The streets were alive, though it was very late. There was more freedomto be gay and more hope of being simply happy in those days. Many menand women wandered about in bands of ten or a dozen, singing in softvoices, above which now and then rose a few ringing tenor notes. Therewas laughter everywhere in the air; tambourines drummed and thumped andjingled, guitars twanged, and mandolines tinkled and quavered. From adark lane somewhere off the broader thoroughfare, a single voice sangout in serenade. The Corso was bright with unusual lights, and strewnwith the birdseed and plaster-of-Paris 'confetti, ' with yellow sand andsprigs of box leaves, and withering flowers, and there was about all theneighbourhood that peculiar smell of plaster and crushed flower-stalkswhich belonged then to the street carnival of Rome. Further on, in thedim quarters by the Tiber, the wine shops were all crowded, and menstood and drank outside on the pavement, and paid, and went laughing on, laughing and singing, singing and laughing, through the night. 

Griggs felt the penetrating loneliness of him who cannot laugh amidstlaughter, and it was congenial to him. He had always been alone, and hefelt that the world held no companion for him. There was satisfaction inknowing that no one could ever guess what went on between his heart andhis head. 

He wandered on with the same even, untiring stride, for a long time, through the dark and winding ways, from the Pantheon through the oldcity, through Piazza Paganica and Costaguti to Piazza Montanara, wherethe carters and carriers congregate from the country. There, in themiddle of the three-cornered open space, a flag in the paving marked thespot on which men used to be put to death. To-night even the carrierswere making merry. Griggs was thirsty, and paused at the door of a wineshop. Though it was winter, men were sitting outside, for there was nomore room within. A flaring torch of pitched rope was stuck in an ironring, and shed an uncertain, smoky light upon the men's faces. A drawerin an apron brought Griggs a glass, and he drank standing. 

"It makes no difference, " said a rough voice in the little crowd. "Theymay cut off my head there on the paving-stone. They would do me afavour. If I find him, I kill him. An evil death on him and all hishouse!"

Griggs looked at the speaker without surprise, for he had often heardsuch things said. He saw an iron-grey man in good peasant's clothes ofdark blue with broad silver buttons, a man with a true Roman face, asmall aquiline nose, and keen, dark eyes. He turned away, and began toretrace his steps. 

In half an hour he was at the door of the old Falcone inn, gone now likemany relics of that day. It stood in the Piazza of Saint Eustace nearthe Pantheon, and in its time was the best of the old-fashionedeating-houses. Griggs felt suddenly hungry. He had walked seven or eightmiles since he had left the party. He entered, and passed through thecrowded rooms below and up the narrow steps to a small upper chamber, where he hoped to be alone. But there, also, every seat was taken. 

To his surprise Dalrymple and Reanda were at the table furthest fromhim, in earnest conversation, with a measure of wine between them. Griggs had never seen the Italian there before, but the latter caughtsight of him as he stood in the door, and rose to his feet, making asign which meant that he was going away, and that the chair was vacant. Griggs came forward, and looked into his face as they met. There was thesame gentle and happy light in Reanda's eyes which had been there whenhe was sitting with Gloria in the corner of the Spanish artist'sdrawing-room. Then Griggs understood and knew the truth, and guessed themeaning of the unaccustomed pressure of the hand as Reanda greeted himwithout speaking, and hurriedly went out. 

Dalrymple had seen Griggs coming and was already calling to a man in aspotless white jacket for another glass and more wine. The Scotchman'sbony face was haggard, but there was a little colour in his cheeks, andhe seemed pleased. 

"Sit down, Griggs, " he said. "There are no more chairs, so we can keepthe table to ourselves. I hope you are half as thirsty as I am. "

"Rather more than half, " answered the other, and he drank eagerly. "Giveme some more, please, " he said, holding out his glass. 

"I see that you are in the right humour to hear good news, " said theScot. "Reanda is to marry my daughter in the summer. "

"I congratulate you all three, " said Griggs, slowly, for he had knownwhat was coming. "Let us drink the health of the couple. "

"By all means, " answered Dalrymple, filling again. "By all means let usdrink. I could not swallow that sweet stuff at Mendoza's. This isbetter. By all means let us drink as much as we can. "

"That might mean a good deal, " said Griggs, quickly, and he drained athird glass. "Were you ever drunk, Dalrymple?" he inquired gravely. 

"No. I never was, " answered the Scotchman. 

"Nor I. This seems a fitting occasion for trying an experiment. We mighttry to get drunk. "

"By all means, let us try, " replied Dalrymple. "I have my doubts aboutthe possibility of the thing, however. "

"So have I. "

They sat opposite to one another in silence for some minutes, eachsatisfied that the other was in earnest. Dalrymple solemnly filled theglasses and then leaned back in his chair. 

"You did not seem much surprised by what I told you, " he observed atlast. "I suppose you expected it. "

"Yes. It seemed natural enough, though it is not always the naturalthings that happen. "

"I think they are suited to marry. Of course, Reanda is very much older, but he is comparatively a young man still. "

"Comparatively. He will make a better husband for having had experience, I daresay. "

"That depends on what experience he has had. When I first saw him Ithought he was in love with Donna Francesca. It would have been like anartist. They are mostly fools. But I was mistaken. He worships at adistance. "

"And she preserves the distance, " Griggs remarked. "You are not drinkingfair. My glass is empty. "

Dalrymple finished his and refilled both. 

"I have been here some time, " he observed, half apologetically. "But asI was saying--or rather, as you were saying--Donna Francesca preservesthe distance. These Italians do that admirably. They know the differencebetween intimacy and familiarity. "

"That is a nice distinction, " said Griggs. "I will use it in my nextletter. No. Donna Francesca could never be familiar with any one. Theylearn it when they are young, I suppose, and it becomes arace-characteristic. "

"What?" asked Dalrymple, abruptly. 

"A certain graceful loftiness, " answered the younger man. 

The Scotchman's wrinkled eyelids contracted, and he was silent for a fewmoments. 

"A certain graceful loftiness, " he repeated slowly. "Yes, perhaps so. Acertain graceful loftiness. "

"You seem struck by the expression, " said Griggs. 

"I am. Drink, man, drink!" added Dalrymple, suddenly, in a differenttone. "There's no time to be lost if we mean to drink enough to hurt usbefore those beggars go to bed. "

"Never fear. They will be up all night. Not that it is a reason forwasting time, as you say. "

He drank his glass and watched Dalrymple as the latter did likewise, with that deliberate intention which few but Scotchmen can maintain onsuch occasions. The wine might have been poured into a quicksand, forany effect it had as yet produced. 

"Those race-characteristics of families are very curious, " continuedGriggs, thoughtfully. 

"Are they?" Dalrymple looked at him suspiciously. 

"Very. Especially voices. They run in families, like resemblance offeatures. "

"So they do, " answered the other, thoughtfully. "So they do. "

He had of late years got into the habit of often repeating such shortphrases, in an absent-minded way. 

"Yes, " said Griggs. "I noticed Donna Francesca's voice, the first time Iever heard it. It is one of those voices which must be inherited. I amsure that all her family have spoken as she does. It reminds me ofsomething--of some one--"

Dalrymple raised his eyes suddenly again, as though he were irritated. 

"I say, " he began, interrupting his companion. "Do you feel anything?Anything queer in your head?"

"No. Why?"

"You are talking rather disconnectedly, that is all. "

"Am I? It did not strike me that I was incoherent. Probably one half ofme was asleep while the other was talking. " He laughed drily, and drankagain. "No, " he said thoughtfully, as he set down his glass. "I feelnothing unusual in my head. It would be odd if I did, considering thatwe have only just begun. "

"So I thought, " answered Dalrymple. 

He ordered more wine and relapsed into silence. Neither spoke again fora long time. 

"There goes another bottle, " said Dalrymple, at last, as he drained thelast drops from the flagon measure. "Drink a little faster. This is slowwork. We know the old road well enough. "

"You are not inclined to give up the attempt, are you?" inquired Griggs, whose still face showed no change. "Is it fair to eat? I am hungry. "

"Certainly. Eat as much as you like. "

Griggs ordered something, which was brought after considerable delay, and he began to eat. 

"We are not loquacious over our cups, " remarked Dalrymple. "Should youmind telling me why you are anxious to get drunk to-night for the firsttime in your life?"

"I might ask you the same question, " answered Griggs, cautiously. 

"Merely because you proposed it. It struck me as a perfectly new idea. Ihave not much to amuse me, you know, and I shall have less when mydaughter leaves me. It would be an amusement to lose one's head in someway. "

"In such a way as to be able to get it back, you mean. I was walkingthis evening after the party, and I came to the Piazza Montanara. Thereis a big flagstone there on which people used to leave their heads forgood. "

"Yes. I have seen it. You cannot tell me much about Rome which I do notknow. "

"There were a lot of carriers drinking close by. It was rather grim, Ithought. An old fellow there had a spite against somebody. You know howthey talk. 'They may cut off my head there on the paving-stone, ' the mansaid. 'If I find him, I kill him. An evil death on him and all hishouse!' You have heard that sort of thing. But the fellow seemed to bevery much in earnest. "

"He will probably kill his man, " said Dalrymple. 

Suddenly his big, loose shoulders shook a little, and he shivered. Heglanced towards the window, suspecting that it might be open. 

"Are you cold?" asked Griggs, carelessly. 

"Cold? No. Some one was walking over my grave, as they say. If we variedthe entertainment with something stronger, we should get on faster, though. "

"No, " said Griggs. "I refuse to mix things. This may be the longer way, but it is the safer. "

And he drank again. 

"He was a man from Tivoli, or Subiaco, " he remarked presently. "He spokewith that accent. "

"I daresay, " answered Dalrymple, who looked down into his glass at thatmoment, so that his face was in shadow. 

Just then four men who had occupied a table near the door rose and wentout. It was late, even for a night in Carnival. 

"I hope they are not going to leave us all to ourselves, " saidDalrymple. "The place will be shut up, and we need at least two hoursmore. "

"At least, " assented Paul Griggs. "But they expect to be open all night. I think there is time. "

The men at the other tables showed no signs of moving. They sat quietlyin their places, drinking steadily, by sips. Some of them were eatingroasted chestnuts, and all were talking more or less in low tones. Occasionally one voice or another rose above the rest in an exclamation, but instantly subsided again. Italians of that class are rarely noisy, for though the Romans drink deep, they generally have strong heads, andwould be ashamed of growing excited over their wine. 

The air was heavy, for several men were smoking strong cigars. Thevaulted chamber was lighted by a single large oil lamp with a reflector, hung by a cord from the intersection of the cross-arches. The floor wasof glazed white tiles, and the single window had curtains of Turkey red. It was all very clean and respectable and well kept, even at thatcrowded season, but the air was heavy with wine and tobacco, and thesmell of cooked food, --a peculiar atmosphere in which the old-fashionedRoman delighted to sit for hours on holidays. 

Dalrymple looked about him, moving his pale blue eyes without turninghis head. The colour had deepened a little on his prominent cheek bones, and his eyes were less bright than usual. But his red hair, growingsandy with grey, was brushed smoothly back, and his evening dress wasunruffled. He and Griggs were so evidently gentlemen, that some of theItalians at the other tables glanced at them occasionally in quietsurprise, not that they should be there, but that they should remain solong, and so constantly renew their order for another bottle of wine. 

Giulio, the stout, dark drawer in a spotless jacket, moved aboutsilently and quickly. One of the Italians glanced at Griggs andDalrymple and then at the waiter, who also glanced at them quickly andthen shrugged his shoulders almost perceptibly. Dalrymple saw bothglances, and his eyes lighted up. 

"I believe that fellow is laughing at us, " he said to Griggs. 

"There is nothing to laugh at, " answered the latter, unmoved. "But ofcourse, if you think so, throw him downstairs. "

Dalrymple laughed drily. 

"There is a certain calmness about the suggestion, " he said. "It has agood, old-fashioned ring to it. You are not a very civilized young man, considering your intellectual attainments. "

"I grew up at sea and before the mast. That may account for it. "

"You seem to have crammed a good deal into a short life, " observedDalrymple. "It must have been a classic ship, where they taught Greekand Latin. "

"The captain used to call her his Ship of Fools. As a matter of fact, itwas rather classic, as you say. The old man taught us navigation andGreek verse by turns for five years. He was a university man with apassion for literature, but I never knew a better sailor. He put meashore when I was seventeen with pretty nearly the whole of my fiveyears' pay in my pocket, and he made me promise that I would go tocollege and stay as long as my money held out. I got through somehow, but I am not sure that I bless him. He is afloat still, and I write tohim now and then. "

"An Englishman, I suppose?"

"No. An American. "

"What strange people you Americans are!" exclaimed Dalrymple, and hedrank again. "You take up a profession, and you wear it for a bit, likea coat, and then change it for another, " he added, setting down hisempty glass. 

"Very much like you Scotch, " answered Griggs. "I have heard you say thatyou were a doctor once. "

"A doctor--yes--in a way, for the sake of being a man of science, orbelieving myself to be one. My family was opposed to it, " he continuedthoughtfully. "My father told me it was his sincere belief that sciencedid not stand in need of any help from me. He said I was more likely toneed the help of science, like other lunatics. I will not say that hewas not right. "

He laughed a little and filled his glass. 

"Poor Dalrymple!" he exclaimed softly, still smiling. 

Paul Griggs raised his slow eyes to his companion's face. 

"It never struck me that you were much to be pitied, " he observed. 

"No, no. Perhaps not. But I will venture to say that the point isdebatable, and could be argued. 'To be, or not to be' is a questionadmirably calculated to draw out the resources of the intellect inargument, if you are inclined for that sort of diversion. It is a verygood thing, a very good thing for a man to consider and weigh thatquestion while he is young. Before he goes to sleep, you know, Griggs, before he goes to sleep. "

"'For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come--'" Griggs quoted, and stopped. 

"'When we have shuffled off this mortal coil. ' You do not know yourShakespeare, young man. "

"'Must give us pause, '" continued Griggs. "I was thinking of the dreams, not of the rest. "

[Illustration:

 "Fire and sleet and candle-light; And Christ receive thy soul. "

--Vol. I. , p. 324. ]

"Dreams? Yes. There will be dreams there. Dreams, and otherthings--'this ae night of all. ' Not that my reason admits that they canbe more than dreams, you know, Griggs. Reason says 'to sleep--no more. 'And fancy says 'perchance to dream. ' Well, well, it will be a longdream, that's all. "

"Yes. We shall be dead a long time. Better drink now. " And Griggs drank. 

 "'Fire and sleet and candle-light, And Christ receive thy soul;'"

said Dalrymple, with a far-away look in his pale eyes. "Do you know theLyke-Wake Dirge, Griggs? It is a grand dirge. Hark to the swing of it. 

 "'This ae night, this ae night, Every night and all, Fire and sleet and candle-light, And Christ receive thy soul. '"

He repeated the strange words in a dull, matter-of-fact way, with aScotch accent rarely perceptible in his conversation. Griggs listened. He had heard the dirge before, with all its many stanzas, and it hadalways had an odd fascination for him. He said nothing. 

"It bodes no good to be singing a dirge at a betrothal, " said theScotchman, suddenly. "Drink, man, drink! Drink till the blue devils flyaway. Drink--

 "'Till a' the seas gang dry, my love, Till a' the seas gang dry. '

Not that it is in the disposition of the Italian inn-keeper to give ustime for that, " he added drily. "As I was saying, I am of a melancholictemper. Not that I take you for a gay man yourself, Griggs. Drink alittle more. It is my opinion that a little more will produce anagreeable impression upon you, my young friend. Drink a little more. Youare too grave for so very young a man. I should not wish to beindiscreet, but I might almost take you for a man in love, if I did notknow you better. Were you ever in love, Griggs?"

"Yes, " answered Griggs, quietly. "And you, Dalrymple? Were you never inlove?"

Dalrymple's loosely hung shoulders started suddenly, and his pale blueeyes set themselves steadily to look at Griggs. The red brows wereshaggy, and there was a bright red spot on each cheek bone. He did notanswer his companion's question, though his lips moved once or twice asthough he were about to speak. They seemed unable to form words, and nosound came from them. 

His anger was near, perhaps, and with another man it might have brokenout. But the pale and stony face opposite him, and the deep, still eyes, exercised a quieting influence, and whatever words rose to his lips werenever spoken. Griggs understood that he had touched the dead body of agreat passion, sacred in its death as it must have been overwhelming inits life. He struck another subject immediately, and pretended not tohave noticed Dalrymple's expression. 

"I like your queer old Scotch ballads, " he said, humouring the man'sprevious tendency to quote poetry. 

"There's a lot of life in them still, " answered Dalrymple, absentlytwisting his empty glass. 

Griggs filled it for him, and they both drank. Little by little theItalians had begun to go away. Giulio, the fat, white-jacketed drawer, sat nodding in a corner, and the light from the high lamp gleamed on hissmooth black hair as his head fell forward. 

"There is a sincere vitality in our Scotch poets, " said Dalrymple, asthough not satisfied with the short answer he had given. "There is avery notable power of active living exhibited in their somewhatirregular versification, and in the concatenation of theirratiocinations regarding the three principal actions of the earlyScottish life, which I take to have been birth, stealing, and a violentdeath. "

"'But of these three charity is the greatest, '" observed Griggs, withsomething like a laugh, for he saw that Dalrymple was beginning to makelong sentences, which is a bad sign for a Scotchman's sobriety. 

"No, " answered Dalrymple, with much gravity. "There I venture--indeed, Iclaim the right--to differ with you. For the Scotchman is hospitable, but not charitable. The process of the Scotch mind is unitary, if youwill allow me to coin a word for which I will pay with my glass. "

And he forthwith fulfilled the obligation in a deep draught. Settingdown the tumbler, he leaned back in his chair and looked slowly roundthe room. His lips moved. Griggs could just distinguish the last linesof another old ballad. 

 "'Night and day on me she cries, And I am weary of the skies Since--'"

He broke off and shook himself nervously, and looked at Griggs, asthough wondering whether the latter had heard. 

"This wine is good, " he said, rousing himself. "Let us have some more. Giulio!"

The fat waiter awoke instantly at the call, looked, nodded, went out, and returned immediately with another bottle. 

"Is this the sixth or the seventh?" asked Dalrymple, slowly. 

"Eight with Signor Reanda's, " answered the man. "But Signor Reanda paidfor his as he went out. You have therefore seven. It might be enough. "Giulio smiled. 

"Bring seven more, Giulio, " said the Scotchman, gravely. "It will saveyou six journeys. "

"Does the Signore speak in earnest?" asked the servant, and he glancedat Griggs, who was impassive as marble. 

"You flatter yourself, " said Dalrymple, impressively, to the man, "ifyou imagine that I would make even a bad joke to amuse you. Bring sevenbottles. " Giulio departed. 

"That is a Homeric order, " observed Griggs. 

"I think--in fact, I am almost sure--that seven bottles more willproduce an impression upon one of us. But I have a decidedly melancholicdisposition, and I accustomed myself to Italian wine when I was veryyoung. Melancholy people can drink more than others. Besides, what doessuch a bottle hold? I will show you. A tumbler to you, and one to me. Drink; you shall see. "

He emptied his glass and poured the remainder of the bottle into it. 

"Do you see? Half a tumbler. Two and a half are a bottle. Seven bottlesare seventeen and a half glasses. What is that for you or me in a longevening? My blue devils are large. It would take an ocean to float themall. I insist upon going to bed in a good humour to-night, for once, inhonour of my daughter's engagement. By the bye, Griggs, what do youthink of Reanda?"

"He is a first-rate artist. I like him very well. "

"A good man, eh? Well, well--from the point of view of discretion, Griggs, I am doing right. But then, as you may very wisely object, discretion is only a point of view. The important thing is the view, andnot the point. Here comes Ganymede with the seven vials of wrath! Putthem on the table, Giulio, " he said, as the fat waiter came noiselesslyup, carrying the bottles by the necks between his fingers, three in onehand and four in the other. "They make a fine show, all together, " heobserved thoughtfully, with his bony head a little on one side. 

"And may God bless you!" said Giulio, solemnly. "If you do not dieto-night, you will never die again. "

"I regard it as improbable that we shall die more than once, " answeredDalrymple. "I believe, " he said, turning to Griggs, "that when men aredrunk they make mistakes about money. We will pay now, while we aresober. "

Griggs insisted on paying his share. They settled, and Giulio went awayhappy. 

The two strong men sat opposite to each other, under the high lamp inthe small room, drinking on and on. There was something terrifying inthe Scotchman's determination to lose his senses--something grimlyhorrible in the younger man's marble impassiveness, as he swallowedglass for glass in time with his companion. His face grew paler still, and colder, but there was a far-off gleaming in the shadowy eyes, likethe glimmer of a light over a lonely plain through the dark. Dalrymple's spirits did not rise, but he talked more and more, and hissentences became long and involved, and sometimes had no conclusion. Thewine was telling on him at last. He had never been so strong as Griggs, at his best, and he was no match for him now. The younger man'sstrangely dual nature seemed to place his head beyond anything whichcould affect his senses. 

Dalrymple talked on and on, rambling from one subject to another, andnot waiting for any answer when he asked a question. He quoted longballads and long passages from Shakespeare, and then turned suddenly offupon a scientific subject, until some word of his own suggested anotherquotation. 

Griggs sat quietly in his seat, drinking as steadily, but paying littleattention now to what the Scotchman said. Something had got hold of hisheart, and was grinding it like grain between the millstones, grindingit to dust and ashes. He knew that he could not sleep that night. Hemight as well drink, for it could not hurt him. Nothing material hadpower to hurt him, it seemed. He felt the pain of longing for theutterly unattainable, knowing that it was beyond him forever. Thewidowhood of the unsatisfied is hell, compared with the bereavement ofcomplete possession. He had not so much as told Gloria that he had lovedher. How could he, being but one degree above a beggar? The unspokenwords burned furrows in his heart, as molten metal scores smokingchannels in living flesh. Gloria would laugh, if she knew. The torturemade his face white. There was the scorn of himself with it, because amere child could hurt him almost to death, and that made it worse. Amere child, barely out of the schoolroom, petulant, spoiled, selfish!

But she had the glory of heaven in her voice, and in her face the fatalbeauty of her dead mother's deadly sin. He need not have despisedhimself for loving her. Her whole being appealed to that in man to whichno woman ever appealed in vain since the first Adam sold heaven to Satanfor woman's love. 

Dalrymple, leaning on his elbow, one hand in his streaked beard, theother grasping his glass, talked on and quoted more and more. 

 "'The flame took fast upon her cheek, Took fast upon her chin, Took fast upon her fair body Because of her deadly sin. '"

His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper at the last words, and suddenly, regardless of his companion, his hand covered his eyes, and his longfingers strained desperately on his bony forehead. Griggs watched him, thinking that he was drunk at last. 

"Because of her deadly sin, " he repeated slowly, and the tone changed. "There is no sin in it!" he cried suddenly, in a low voice, that had adistant, ghostly ring in it. 

He looked up, and his eyes were changed, and Griggs knew that they nolonger saw him. 

"Stiff, " he said softly. "Quite stiff. Dead two or three hours, Idaresay. It stands up on its feet beside me--certainly dead two or threehours. "

He nodded wisely to himself twice, and then spoke again in the samefar-off tone, gazing past Griggs, at the wall. 

"The clothes-basket is a silly idea. Besides, I should lose the night. Rather carry it myself--wrap it up in the plaid. She'll never know, whenshe has it on her head. Who cares?"

A long silence followed. One hand grasped the empty glass. The other laymotionless on the table. The blue eyes, with widely dilated pupils, stared at the wall, never blinking nor turning. But in the face therewas the drawn expression of a bodily effort. Presently Griggs saw thefine beads of perspiration on the great forehead. Then the voice spokeagain, but in Italian this time. 

"You had better look away while I go by. It is not a pretty sight. No, "he continued, changing to English, "not at all a pretty sight. Stiff asa board still. "

The unwinking eyes dilated. The bright colour was gone from the cheekbones. 

"It burns very well, " he said again in Italian. The whole face quiveredand the hard lips softened and kissed the air. "It is golden--I can seeit in the dark--but I must cover it, darling. Quick--this way. At last!No--you cannot see the fire, but it is burning well, I am sure. Hold on!Hold the pommel of the saddle with both hands--so!"

The voice ceased. Griggs began to understand. He touched Dalrymple'ssleeve, leaning across the table. 

"I say!" he called softly. "Dalrymple!"

The Scotchman started violently, and the pupils of his eyes contracted. The empty glass in his right hand rattled on the hard wood. Then hesmiled vaguely at Griggs. 

"By Jove!" he exclaimed in his natural voice. "I think I must have beennapping--'Sleep'ry Sim of the Lamb-hill, and snoring Jock ofSuport-mill!' By Jove, Griggs, we have got near the point at last. Onebottle left, eh? The seventh. 

 "'Then up and gat the seventh o' them, And never a word spake he; But he has striped his bright brown brand--'

The rest has no bearing upon the subject, " he concluded, filling bothglasses. "Griggs, " he said, before he drank, "I am afraid this settlesthe matter. "

"I am afraid it does, " said Griggs. 

"Yes. I had hopes a little while ago, which appeared well founded. Butthat unfortunate little nap has sent me back to the starting-point. Ishould have to begin all over again. It is very late, I fancy. Let usdrink this last glass to our own two selves, and then give it up. "

Something had certainly sobered the Scotchman again, or at least clearedhis head, for he had not been drunk in the ordinary sense of the word. 

"It cannot be said that we have not given the thing a fair trial, " saidGriggs, gloomily. "I shall certainly not take the trouble to try itagain. "

Nevertheless he looked at his companion curiously, as they both rose totheir feet together. Dalrymple doubled his long arms as he stood up andstretched them out. 

"It is curious, " he said. "I feel as though I had been carrying a heavyweight in my arms. I did once, for some distance, " he addedthoughtfully, "and I remember the sensation. "

"Very odd, " said Griggs, lighting a cigar. 

Giulio, sitting outside, half asleep, woke up as he heard the steadytread of the two strong men go by. 

"If you do not die to-night, you will never die again!" he said, halfaloud, as he rose to go in and clear the room where the guests had beensitting. 

END OF VOL. I. 

CASA BRACCIO

[Illustration]

[Illustration: "As he stood there repeating the name. "--Vol. II. , p. 331. ]

CASA BRACCIO

BY

F. MARION CRAWFORD

AUTHOR OF "SARACINESCA, " "PIETRO GHISLERI, " ETC. 

IN TWO VOLUMES

VOL. II. 

_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY A. CASTAIGNE_

 =New York= MACMILLAN AND CO. AND LONDON 1895

 _All rights reserved_

 COPYRIGHT, 1894, BY F. MARION CRAWFORD. 

 =Norwood Press= J. S. Cushing & Co. --Berwick & Smith Norwood Mass. U. S. A. 

CONTENTS. 

 PART II. --_Continued. _ GLORIA DALRYMPLE 1

 PART III. DONNA FRANCESCA CAMPODONICO 227

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 

VOL. II. 

 PAGE "Gloria--forgive me!" 50

 Stefanone and Gloria 100

 "The horror of poverty smote him" 123

 "Let us not speak of the dead" 203

 "The last great, true note died away" 219

 "As he stood there repeating the name" 331

Part II. --_Continued. _

_GLORIA DALRYMPLE. _

CASA BRACCIO. 

PART II. --_Continued. _

_GLORIA DALRYMPLE. _

CHAPTER XXIV. 

DURING the first few months of their marriage Reanda and Gloria believedthemselves happy, and really were, since there is no true criterion ofman's happiness but his own belief in it. They took a small furnishedapartment at the corner of the Macel de' Corvi, with an iron balconyoverlooking the Forum of Trajan. They would have had no difficulty inobtaining other rooms adjoining the two Reanda had so long occupied inthe Palazzetto Borgia, but Gloria was opposed to the arrangement, andReanda did not insist upon it. The Forum of Trajan was within aconvenient distance of the palace, and he went daily to his work. 

"Besides, " said Gloria, "you will not always be painting frescoes forDonna Francesca. I want you to paint a great picture, and send it toParis and get a medal. "

She was ambitious for him, and dreamed of his winning world-wide fame. She loved him, and she felt that Francesca had caged him, as Francescaherself had once felt. She wished to remove him altogether from thelatter's influence, both because she was frankly jealous of hisfriendship for the older woman, and wished to have him quite to herself, and also in the belief that he could do greater things if he werealtogether freed from the task of decorating the palace, which had kepthim far too long in one limited sequence of production. There was, moreover, a selfish consideration of vanity in her view, closely linkedwith her unbounded admiration for her husband. She knew that she wasbeautiful, and she wished his greatest work to be a painting of herself. 

Gloria, however, wished also to take a position in Roman society, andthe only person who could help her and her husband to cross the line wasFrancesca Campodonico. It was therefore impossible for Gloria to breakup the intimacy altogether, however much she might wish to do so. Meanwhile, too, Reanda had not finished his frescoes. 

Soon after the marriage, which took place in the summer, Dalrymple leftRome, intending to be absent but a few months in Scotland, where hispresence was necessary on account of certain family affairs andarrangements consequent upon the death of Lord Redin, the head of hisbranch of the Dalrymples, and of Lord Redin's son only a few weekslater, whereby the title went to an aged great-uncle of AngusDalrymple's, who was unmarried, so that Dalrymple's only brother becamethe next heir. 

Gloria was therefore quite alone with her husband. Paul Griggs had alsoleft Rome for a time on business connected with his journalistic career. He had in reality been unwilling to expose himself to the unnecessarysuffering of witnessing Gloria's happiness, and had taken the earliestopportunity of going away. Gloria herself was at first pleased by hisdeparture. Later, however, she wished that he would come back. She hadno one to whom she could turn when she was in need of any advice onmatters which Reanda could not or would not decide. 

Reanda himself was at first as absolutely happy as he had expected tobe, and Francesca Campodonico congratulated herself on having broughtabout a perfectly successful match. While he continued to work at thePalazzetto Borgia, the two were often together for hours, as in formertimes. Gloria had at first come regularly in the course of the morningand sat in the hall while her husband was painting, but she had found ita monotonous affair after a while. Reanda could not talk perpetually. More than once, indeed, he introduced his wife's face amongst the manyhe painted, and she was pleased, though not satisfied. He could not makeher one of the central figures which appeared throughout the series, because the greater part of the work was done already, and it wasnecessary to preserve the continuity of each resemblance. Gloria wishedto be the first everywhere, though she did not say so. 

Little by little, she came less regularly in the mornings. She eitherstayed at home and studied seriously the soprano parts of the greatoperas then fashionable, or invented small errands which kept her out ofdoors. She sometimes met Reanda when he left the palace, and they walkedhome together to their midday breakfast. 

Little by little, also, Francesca fell into the habit of visiting Reandain the great hall at hours when she was sure that Gloria would not bethere. It was not that she disliked to see them together, but ratherbecause she felt that Gloria was secretly antagonistic. There was asmall, perpetual, unexpressed hostility in Gloria's manner which couldnot escape so sensitive a woman as Francesca. Reanda felt it, too, butsaid nothing. He was almost foolishly in love with his wife, and he wasdevotedly attached to Francesca herself. For the present he was verysimple in his dealings with himself, and he quietly shut his eyes to thepossibility of a disagreement between the two women, though he feltthat it was in the air. 

Instead of diminishing with his marriage, the obligations under which hewas placed towards Donna Francesca were constantly increasing. She sawand understood his wife's social ambition, and gave herself trouble tosatisfy it. Reanda felt this keenly, and while his gratitude increased, he inwardly wished that each kindness might be the last. But Gloria hadthe ambition and the right to be received in society on a footing ofequality, and no one but Francesca Campodonico could then give her whatshe wanted. 

She did not obtain what is commonly called social success, though manypeople received her and her husband during the following winter. She gotadmiration in plenty, and she herself believed that it was friendship. Of the two, Reanda, who had no social ambition at all, was by far themore popular. He was, as ever, quiet and unassuming, as became a man ofhis extraordinary talent. He so evidently preferred in society to talkwith intelligent people rather than to make himself agreeable to thevery great, that the very great tried to attract him to themselves, inorder to appear intelligent in the eyes of others. They altogetherforgot that he was the son of the steward of Gerano, though he sometimesspoke unaffectedly of his boyhood. 

But Gloria reminded people too often that she had a right to be whereshe was, as the daughter of Angus Dalrymple, who might some day be LordRedin. Fortunately for her, no one knew that Dalrymple had begun life asa doctor, and very far from such prospects as now seemed quite withinthe bounds of realization. But even as the possible Lord Redin, herfather's existence did not interest the Romans at all. They were notaccustomed to people who thought it necessary to justify their socialposition by allusions to their parentage, and since FrancescaCampodonico had assured them that Dalrymple was a gentleman, they had nofurther questions to ask, and raised their eyebrows when Gloriavolunteered information on the subject of her ancestors. They listenedpolitely, and turned the subject as soon as they could, because it boredthem. 

But the admiration she got was genuine of its kind, as admiration and asnothing else. Her magnificent voice was useful to ancient and charitableprincesses who wished to give concerts for the benefit of the deservingpoor, but her face disturbed the hearts of those excellent ladies whohad unmarried sons, and of other excellent ladies who had gay husbands. Her beauty and her voice together were a danger, and must be admiredfrom a distance. Gloria and her husband were asked to many houses onimportant occasions. Gloria went to see the princesses and duchesses, and found them at home. Their cards appeared regularly at the smallhouse in the Macel de' Corvi, but there was always a mystery as to howthey got there, for the princesses and the duchesses themselves did notappear, except once or twice when Francesca Campodonico brought one ofher friends with her, gently insisting that there should be a propercall. Gloria understood, and said bitter things about society when shewas alone, and by degrees she began to say them to her husband. 

"These Romans!" she exclaimed at last. "They believe that there isnobody like themselves!"

Angelo Reanda's face had a pained look, as he laid his long thin handupon hers. 

"My dear, " he said gently. "You have married an artist. What would youhave? I am sure, people have received us very well. "

"Very well! Of course--as though we had not the right to be receivedwell. But, Angelo--do not say such things--that I have married anartist--"

"It is quite true, " he answered, with a smile. "I work with my hands. They do not. There is the difference. "

"But you are the greatest artist in the world!" she criedenthusiastically, throwing her arms round his neck, and kissing himagain and again. "It is ridiculous. In any other city, in London, inParis, people would run after you, people would not be able to doenough for you. But it is not you; it is I. They do not like me, Angelo, I know that they do not like me! They want me at their big parties, andthey want me to sing for them--but that is all. Not one of them wants mefor a friend. I am so lonely, Angelo. "

Her eyes filled with tears, and he tried to comfort her. 

"What does it matter, my heart?" he asked, soothingly. "We have eachother, have we not? I, who adore you, and you, who love me--"

"Love you? I worship you! That is why I wish you to have everything theworld holds, everything at your feet. "

"But I am quite satisfied, " objected Reanda, with unwise truth. "Do notthink of me. "

She loved him, but she wished to put upon him some of her uncontrollablelonging for social success, in order to justify herself. To please her, he should have joined in her complaint. Her tears dried suddenly, andher eyes flashed. 

"I will think of you!" she cried. "I have nothing else to think of. Youshall have it all, everything--they shall know what a man you are!"

"An artist, my dear, an artist. A little better than some, a little lessgood than others. What can society do for me?"

She sighed, and the colour deepened a little in her cheeks. But she hidher annoyance, for she loved him with a love at once passionate andintentional, compounded of reality and of a strong inborn desire foremotion, a desire closely connected with her longing for the life of thestage, but now suddenly thrown with full force into the channel of heractual life. 

Reanda began to understand that his wife was not happy, and thecertainty reacted strongly upon him. He became more sad and abstractedfrom day to day, when he was not with her. He longed, as only a man ofsuch a nature can long, for a friend in whom he could confide, and ofwhom he could ask advice. He had such a friend, indeed, in FrancescaCampodonico, but he was too proud to turn to her, and too deeplyconscious that she had done all she could to give Gloria the socialposition the latter coveted. 

Francesca, on her side, was not slow to notice that something wasradically wrong. Reanda's manner had changed by degrees since hismarriage. His pride made him more formal with the woman to whom he owedso much, and she felt that she could do nothing to break down thebarrier which was slowly rising between them. She suffered, in her way, for she was far more sincerely attached to the man than she recognized, or perhaps would have been willing to recognize, when she allowedherself to look the situation fairly in the face. For months shestruggled against anything which could make her regret the marriage shehad made. But at last she admitted the fact that she regretted it, forit thrust itself upon her and embittered her own life. Then she becameconscious in her heart of a silent and growing enmity for Gloria, and ofa profound pity for Angelo Reanda. Being ashamed of the enmity, assomething both sinful in her eyes, and beneath the nobility of hernature, she expressed it, if that were expression, by allowing her pityfor the man to assert itself as it would. That, she told herself, was aform of charity, and could not be wrong, however she looked at it. 

All mention of Gloria vanished from her conversation with Reanda whenthey were alone together. At such times she did her best to amuse him, to interest him, and to take him out of himself. At first she had littlesuccess. He answered her, and sometimes even entered into an argumentwith her, but as soon as the subject dropped, she saw the look ofharassed preoccupation returning in his face. So far as his work wasconcerned, what he did was as good as ever. Francesca thought it waseven better. But otherwise he was a changed man. 

In the course of the winter Paul Griggs returned. One day Francesca wassitting in the hall with Reanda, when a servant announced that Griggshad asked to see her. She glanced at Reanda's face, and instantlydecided to receive the American alone in the drawing-room, on the otherside of the house. 

"Why do you not receive him here?" asked Reanda, carelessly. 

"Because--" she hesitated. "I should rather see him in thedrawing-room, " she added a moment later, without giving any furtherexplanation. 

Griggs told her that he had come back to stay through the year andperhaps longer. She took a kindly interest in the young man, and wasglad to hear that he had improved his position and prospects during hisabsence. He rarely found sympathy anywhere, and indeed needed verylittle of it. But he was capable of impulse, and he had long ago decidedthat Francesca was good, discreet, and kind. He answered her questionsreadily enough, and his still face warmed a little while she talked withhim. She, on her part, could not help being interested in the lonely, hard-working man who never seemed to need help of any kind, and wasclimbing through life by the strength of his own hands. There was abouthim at that time an air of reserved power which interested though it didnot attract those who knew him. 

Suddenly he asked about Gloria and her husband. There was an oddabruptness in the question, and a hard little laugh, quite unnecessary, accompanied it. Francesca noted the change of manner, and rememberedhow she had at first conceived the impression that Griggs admiredGloria, but that Gloria was repelled by him. 

"I suppose they are radiantly happy, " he said. 

Francesca hesitated, being truthful by nature, as well as loyal. Therewas no reason why Griggs should not ask her the question, which wasnatural enough, but she had many reasons for not wishing to answer it. 

"Are they not happy?" he asked quickly, as her silence roused hissuspicions. 

"I have never heard anything to the contrary, " answered Francesca, dangerously accurate in the statement. 

"Oh!" Griggs uttered the ejaculation in a thoughtful tone, but said nomore. 

"I hope I have not given you the impression that there is anythingwrong, " said Francesca, showing her anxiety too much. 

"I saw Dalrymple in England, " answered Griggs, with ready tact. "Heseems very well satisfied with the match. By the bye, I daresay you haveheard that Dalrymple stands a good chance of dying a peer, if he everdies at all. With his constitution that is doubtful. "

And he went on to explain to Francesca the matter of the Redin title, and that as Dalrymple's elder brother, though married, was childless, he himself would probably come into it some day. Then Griggs took hisleave without mentioning Reanda or Gloria again. But Francesca was awarethat she had betrayed Reanda's unhappiness to a man who had admiredGloria, and had probably loved her before her marriage. She afterwardsblamed herself bitterly and very unjustly for what she had done. 

Griggs went away, and called soon afterwards at the small house in theMacel de' Corvi. He found Gloria alone, and she was glad to see him. Shetold him that Reanda would also be delighted to hear of his return. Griggs, who wrote about everything which gave him an opportunity ofusing his very various knowledge, wrote also upon art, and besides thefirst article he had written about Reanda, more than a year previously, had, since then, frequently made allusion to the artist's great talentin his newspaper correspondence. Reanda was therefore under anobligation to the journalist, and Gloria herself was grateful. Moreover, Englishmen who came to Rome had frequently been to see Reanda's work inconsequence of the articles. One old gentleman had tried to induce theartist to paint a picture for him, but had met with a refusal, on theground that the work at the Palazzetto Borgia would occupy at leastanother year. The Englishman said he should come back and try again. 

Between Griggs and Gloria there was the sort of friendly confidencewhich could not but exist under the circumstances. She had known himlong, and he had been her father's only friend in Rome. She rememberedhim from the time when she had been a mere child, before her suddentransition to womanhood. She trusted him. She understood perfectly wellthat he loved her, but she believed that she had it in her power to keephis love as completely in the background as he himself had kept ithitherto. Her instinct told her also that Griggs might be a strong allyin a moment of difficulty. His reserved strength impressed her even morethan it impressed Francesca Campodonico. She received him gladly, andtold him to come again. 

He came, and she asked him to dinner, feeling sure that Reanda wouldwish to see him. He accepted the first invitation and another whichfollowed before long. By insensible degrees, during the winter, Griggsbecame very intimate at the house, as he had been formerly atDalrymple's lodgings. 

"That young man loves you, my dear, " said Reanda, one day in thefollowing spring, with a smile which showed how little anxiety he felt. 

Gloria laughed gaily, and patted her husband's hand. 

"What men like that call love!" she answered. "Besides--a journalist!And hideous as he is!"

"He certainly has not a handsome face, " laughed Reanda. "I am notjealous, " he added, with sudden gravity. "The man has done much for myreputation, too, and I know what I owe him. I have good reason forwishing to treat him well, and I am all the more pleased, if you findhim agreeable. "

He made the rather formal speech in a decidedly formal tone, and withthe unconscious intention of justifying himself in some way, though hewas far too simple by nature to suspect himself of any complicatedmotive. She looked at him, but did not quite understand. 

"You surely do not suppose that I ever cared for him!" she said, readilysuspecting that he suspected her. 

He started perceptibly, and looked into her eyes. She was very truly inearnest, but her exaggerated self-consciousness had given her tone acolour which he did not recognize. Some seconds passed before heanswered her. Then the gentle light came into his face as he realizedhow much he loved her. 

"How foolish you are, love!" he exclaimed. "But Griggs is younger thanI--it would not be so very unnatural if you had cared for him. "

She broke out passionately. 

"Younger than you! So am I, much younger than you! But you are young, too. I will not have you suggest that you are not young. Of course youare. You are unkind, besides. As though it could make the slightestdifference to me, if you were a hundred years old! But you do notunderstand what my love for you is. You will never understand it. I wishI loved you less; I should be happier than I am. "

He drew her to him, reluctant, and the pained look which Francesca knewso well came into his face. 

"Are you unhappy, my heart?" he asked gently. "What is it, dear? Tellme!"

She was nervous, and the confession or complaint had been unintentionaland the result of irritation more than of anything else. The fact thathe had taken it up made matters much worse. She was in that state inwhich such a woman will make a mountain of a molehill rather than foregothe sympathy which her constitution needs in a larger measure than hersmall sufferings can possibly claim. 

"Oh, so unhappy!" she cried softly, hiding her face against his coat, and glad to feel the tears in her eyes. 

"But what is it?" he asked very kindly, smoothing her auburn hair withone hand, while the other pressed her to him. 

As he looked over her head at the wall, his face showed both pain andperplexity. He had not the least idea what to do, except to humour heras much as he could. 

"I am so lonely, sometimes, " she moaned. "The days are so long. "

"And yet you do not come and sit with me in the mornings, as you used todo at first. " There was an accent of regret in his voice. 

"She is always there, " said Gloria, pressing her face closer to hiscoat. 

"Indeed she is not!" he cried, and she could feel the little breath ofindignation he drew. "I am a great deal alone. "

"Not half as much as I am. "

"But what can I do?" he asked, in despair. "It is my work. It is herpalace. You are free to come and go as you will, and if you will notcome--"

"I know, I know, " she answered, still clinging to him. "You will say itis my fault. It is just like a man. And yet I know that you are there, hour after hour, with her, and she is young and beautiful. And she lovesyou--oh, I know she loves you!"

Reanda began to lose patience. 

"How absurd!" he exclaimed. "It is ridiculous. It is an insult to DonnaFrancesca to say that she is in love with me. "

"It is true. " Gloria suddenly raised her head and drew back from him avery little. "I am a woman, " she said. "I know and I understand. Shemeant to sacrifice herself and make you happy, by marrying you to me, and now she regrets it. It is enough to see her. She follows you withher eyes as you move, and there is a look in them--"

Reanda laughed, with an effort. 

"It is altogether too absurd!" he said. "I do not know what to say. Ican only laugh. "

"Because you know it is true, " answered Gloria. "It is for your sakethat she has done it all, that she makes such a pretence of beingfriendly to me, that she pushes us into society, and brings her friendshere to see me. They never come unless she brings them, " she addedbitterly. "There is no fear of that. The Duchess of Astrardente wouldnot have her black horses seen standing in the Macel de' Corvi, unlessDonna Francesca made her do it and came with her. "

"Why not?" asked Reanda, simply, for his Italian mind did not grasp thefalse shame which Gloria felt in living in a rather humbleneighbourhood. 

"She would not have people know that she had friends living in such aplace, " Gloria answered. 

Unwittingly she had dealt Reanda a deadly thrust. 

He had fallen in love with her and had married her on the understandingwith himself, so to say, that she was in all respects as much a greatlady as Donna Francesca herself, and he had taken it for granted thatshe must be above such pettiness. The lodging was extremely good and hadthe advantage of being very conveniently situated for his work. It hadnever struck him that because it was in an unfashionable position, Gloria could imagine that the people she knew would hesitate to come andsee her. Since their marriage she had done and said many little thingswhich had shaken his belief in the thoroughness of her refinement. Shehad suddenly destroyed that belief now, by a single foolish speech. Itwould be hard to build it up again. 

Like many men of genius he could not forgive his own mistake, and Gloriawas involved in this one. Moreover, as an Italian, he fancied that shesecretly suspected him of meanness, and when Italians are not mean, there is nothing which they resent more than being thought to be so. Hehad plenty of money, for he had always lived very simply before hismarriage, and Dalrymple gave Gloria an allowance. 

His tone changed, when he answered her, but she was far from suspectingwhat she had done. 

"We will get another apartment at once, " he said quietly. 

"No, " she answered at once, protesting, "you must not do anything of thekind! What an idea! To change our home merely because it is not on theCorso or the Piazza di Venezia!"

"You would prefer the Corso?" inquired Angelo. "That is natural. It ismore gay. "

The reflexion that the view of the deserted Forum of Trajan was dullsuggested itself to him as a Roman, knowing the predilection of Romanwomen of the middle class for looking out of the window. 

"It is ridiculous!" cried Gloria. "You must not think of it. Besides--the expense--"

"The expense does not enter into the question, my dear, " he answered, having fully made up his mind. "You shall not live in a place to whichyou think your friends may hesitate to come. "

"Friends! They are not my friends, and they never mean to be, " shereplied more hotly. "Why should I care whether they will take thetrouble to come and see me or not? Let them stay away, if I am not goodenough for them. Tell Donna Francesca not to bring them--not to comeherself any more. I hate to feel that she is thrusting me down thethroat of a society that does not want me! She only does it to put meunder an obligation to her. I am sure she talks about me behind my backand says horrid things--"

"You are very unjust, " said Reanda, hurt by the vulgarity of the speechand deeply wounded in his own pride. 

"You defend her! You see!" And the colour rose in Gloria's cheeks. 

"She has done nothing that needs defence. She has acted always with thegreatest kindness to me and to us. You have no right to suppose that shesays unkind things of you when you are not present. I cannot imaginewhat has come over you to-day. It must be the weather. It is sirocco. "

Gloria turned away angrily, thinking that he was laughing at her, whereas the suggestion about the weather was a perfectly natural one inRome, where the southeast wind has an undoubted effect upon the humantemper. 

But the seeds of much discussion were sown on that close springafternoon. Reanda was singularly tenacious of small purposes, as he wasof great ideas where his art was concerned, and his nature though gentlewas unforgiving, not out of hardness, but because he was so sensitivethat his illusions were easy to destroy. 

He went out and forthwith began to search for an apartment of which hiswife should have no cause to complain. In the course of a week he foundwhat he wanted. It was a part of the second floor of one of the palaceson the Corso, not far from the Piazza di Venezia. It was partiallyfurnished, and without speaking to Gloria he had it made comfortablewithin a few days. When it was ready, he gave her short warning thatthey were to move immediately. 

Strange to say, Gloria was very much displeased, and did not conceal herannoyance. She really liked the small house in the Macel de' Corvi, andresented the way in which her husband had taken her remarks about thesituation. To tell the truth, Reanda had deceived himself with the ideathat she would be delighted at the change, and had spent money ratherlavishly, in the hope of giving her a pleasant surprise. He wasproportionately disappointed by her unexpected displeasure. 

"What was the use of spending so much money?" she asked, with adiscontented face. "People will not come to see us because we live in afine house. "

"I did not take the house with that intention, my dear, " said Reanda, gently, but wounded and repelled by the remark and the tone. 

"Well then, we might have stayed where we were, " she answered. "It wasmuch cheaper, and there was more sun for the winter. "

"But this is gayer, " objected Reanda. "You have the Corso under thewindow. "

"As though I looked out of the window!" exclaimed Gloria, scornfully. "It was so nice--our little place there. "

"You are hard to please, my dear, " said the artist, coldly. 

Then she saw that she had hurt him, which she had not meant to do. Herown nature was self-conscious and greedy of emotion, but not sensitive. She threw her arms round him, and kissed him and thanked him. 

But Reanda was not satisfied. Day by day when Francesca looked at him, she saw the harassed expression deepening in his face, and she felt thatevery furrow was scored in her own heart. And she, in her turn, grewvery grave and thoughtful. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

PAUL GRIGGS was a man compounded of dominant qualities and dormantcontradictions of them which threatened at any moment to become dominantin their turn for a time. He himself almost believed that he had twoseparate individualities, if not two distinct minds. 

It may be doubted whether it can be good for any man to dwell long uponsuch an idea in connexion with himself, however distinctly he may see inothers the foundation of truth on which it rests. To Griggs, however, itpresented itself so clearly that he found it impossible not to take itinto consideration in the more important actions of his life. The twomen were very sharply distinguished in his thoughts. The one man woulddo what the other would not. The other could think thoughts above thecomprehension of the first. 

The one was material, keen, strong, passionate, and selfish;pre-eminently adapted for hard work; conscientious in the force of itsinstinct to carry out everything undertaken by it to the very end, andjudging that whatever it undertook was good and worth finishing; havingsomething of the nature of a strong piece of clockwork which beingwound up must run to the utmost limit before stopping, whether regulatedto move fast or slow, with a fateful certainty independent of will;possessed of such uncommon strength as to make it dangerous if opposedwhile moving, and at the same time having an extraordinary inertia whennot wound up to do a certain piece of work; self-reliant to a fault, asthe lion is self-reliant in the superiority of physical endowment;gentle when not opposed, because almost incapable of action without adeterminate object and aim; but developing an irresistible momentum whenthe inertia was overcome; thorough, in the sense in which the tide isthorough, in rising evenly and all at the same time, and as ruthless asthe tide because it was that part of the whole man which was a result, and which, therefore, when once set in motion was almost beyond hiscontrol; reasonable only because, as a result, it followed its causeslogically, and required a real cause to move it at first. 

The other man in him was very different, almost wholly independent ofthe first, and very generally in direct conflict with it, at that time. It was an imaginative and meditative personality, easily deceived intoassuming a false premise, but logical beyond all liability to deceptionwhen reasoning from anything it had accepted. Its processes wereintuitively correct and almost instantaneous, while its assumptionswere arbitrary in the extreme. It might begin to act at any pointwhatsoever, and unlike the material man, which required a will to moveit at first, it struck spontaneously with the directness of straightlightning from one point to another, never misled in its path, thoughoften fatally mistaken in the value of the points themselves. 

Most men who have thought much, wisely or foolishly, and who have seenmuch, good or bad, are more or less conscious of their twoindividualities. Idle and thoughtless people are not, as a rule. WithGriggs, the two were singularly distinct and independent. Sometimes itseemed to him that he sat in judgment, as a third person, between them. At other moments he felt himself wholly identified with the one andpainfully aware of the opposition of the other. The imaginative part ofhim despised the material part for its pride of life and lust of living. The material part laughed to scorn the imaginative one for its falseassumptions and unfounded beliefs. When he could abstract himself fromboth, he looked upon the intuitive personality as being himself in everytrue sense of the word, and upon the material man as a monstrousovergrowth and encumbrance upon his more spiritual self. 

When he began to love Gloria Dalrymple, she appealed to both sides ofhis nature. For once, the spiritual instinct coincided with thedirection given to the material man by a very earthly passion. 

The cause of this was plain enough and altogether simple. The spiritualinstinct had taken the lead. He had known Gloria before she had been awoman to be loved. The maiden genius of the girl had spoken to thehigher man from a sphere above material things, and had created in himone of those assumed premises for subsequent spiritual intuition fromwhich he derived almost the only happiness he knew. Then, all at once, the woman had sprung into existence, and her young beauty had addresseditself to the young gladiator with overwhelming force. The womanfascinated him, and the angelic being his imagination had assumed in thechild still enchanted him. 

He was not like Reanda; for his sensitiveness was one-sided, andtherefore only half vulnerable. Gloria's faults were insignificantaccidents of a general perfectness, the result of having arbitrarilyassumed a perfect personality. They could not make the path of hisspiritual intuitive love waver, and they produced no effect at allagainst his direct material passion. To destroy the prime beautifulillusion, something must take place which would upset the mistakenassumption from a point beyond it, so to say. As for the earthly part ofhis love, it was so strong that it might well stand alone, even if theother should disappear altogether. 

Then came honour, and the semi-religious morality of the man, defendingthe woman against him, for the sake of the angel he saw through her. Chief of all, in her defence, stood his own conviction that she did notlove him, and never would, nor ever could. To all intents and purposes, too, he had been her father's friend, though between the two men therehad been little but the similarity of their gloomy characters. It wasthe will of the material man to be governed, and as no outward influenceset it in motion, it remained inert, in unstable equilibrium, as a vastboulder may lie for ages on the very edge of a precipice, ready but notinclined to fall. There was fatality in its stillness, and in thecertainty that if moved it must crash through everything it met. 

Gloria had not the least understanding of the real man. She thoughtabout him often during the months which followed his return, and a weekrarely passed in which she did not see him two or three times. Herthoughts of him were too ignorant to be confused. She was conscious, rather than aware, that he loved her, but it seemed quite natural toher, at her age, that he should never express his love by any word ordeed. 

But she compared him with her husband, innocently and unconsciously, inmatters where comparison was almost unavoidable. His leonine strength ofbody impressed her strongly, and she felt his presence in the room, even when she was not looking at him. Reanda was physically a weak andnervous man. When he was painting, the movements of his hand seemed tobe independent of his will and guided by a superior unseen power, ratherthan directed by his judgment and will. Paul Griggs never made theslightest movement which did not strike Gloria as the expression of hiswill to accomplish something. He was wonderfully skilful with his hands. Whatever he meant to do, his fingers did, forthwith, unhesitatingly. Hismental processes were similar, so far as she could see. If she asked hima question, he answered it categorically and clearly, if he were able. If not, he said so, and relapsed into silence, studying the problem, ortrying to force his memory to recall a lost item. Reanda, on the otherhand, answered most questions with the expression of a vague opinion, often right, but apparently not founded on anything particular. Theaccuracy of Griggs sometimes irritated the artist perceptibly, inconversation; but he took an interest in what Griggs wrote, and madeGloria translate many of the articles to him, reading aloud in Italianfrom the English. Strange to say, they pleased him for the veryqualities which he disliked in the man's talk. The Italian mind, when ithas developed favourably, is inclined to specialism rather than togeneralization, and Griggs wrote of many things as though he were aspecialist. He had enormous industry and great mechanical power ofhandling language. 

"I have no genius, " he said one day to Gloria, when she had beenadmiring something he had written, and using the extravagant terms ofpraise which rose easily to her lips. "Your husband has genius, but Ihave none. Some day I shall astonish you all by doing something veryremarkable. But it will not be a work of genius. "

It was in the late autumn days, more than a year and a half afterGloria's marriage. The southeast wind was blowing down the Corso, andthe pavements were yellow and sticky with the moistened sand-blast fromthe African desert. The grains of sand are really found in the air atsuch times. It is said that the undoubted effect of the sirocco on thetemper of Southern Italy is due to the irritation caused by inhaling thefine particles with the breath. Something there is in that especialwind, which changes the tempers of men and women very suddenly andstrangely. 

Gloria and her companion were seated in the drawing-room that afternoon, and the window was open. The wind stirred the white curtains, and nowand then blew them inward and twisted them round the inner ones, whichwere of a dark grey stuff with broad brown velvet bands, in a fashionthen new. Gloria had been singing, and sat leaning sideways on the deskof the grand piano. A tall red Bohemian glass stood beside the music onone of the little sliding shelves meant for the candles, and there werea few flowers in it, fresh an hour ago, but now already half witheredand drooping under the poisonous breath of the southeast. The warm dampbreeze came in gusts, and stirred the fading leaves and Gloria's auburnhair, and the sheet of music upright on the desk. Griggs sat in a lowchair not far from her, his still face turned towards her, his shadowyeyes fixed on her features, his sinewy hands clasped round his crossedknees. The nature of the great athlete showed itself even in repose--thebroad dark throat set deep in the chest, the square solidity of theshoulders, the great curved lines along the straightened arms, thesmall, compact head, with its close, dark hair, bent somewhat forward inthe general relaxation of the resting muscles. In his completeimmobility there was the certainty of instant leaping and flash-likemotion which one feels rather than sees in the sleeping lion. 

Gloria looked at him thoughtfully with half-closed lids. 

"I shall surprise you all, " he repeated slowly, "but it will not begenius. "

"You will not surprise me, " Gloria answered, still meeting his eyes. "Asfor genius, what is it?"

"It is what you have when you sing, " said Griggs. "It is what Reanda haswhen he paints. "

"Then why not what you do when you write?"

"The difference is simple enough. Reanda does things well because hecannot help it. When I do a thing well it is because I work so hard atit that the thing cannot help being done by me. Do you understand?"

"I always understand what you tell me. You put things so clearly. Yes, Ithink I understand you better than you understand yourself. "

Griggs looked down at his hands and was silent for a moment. Mechanically he moved his thumb from side to side and watched the knotof muscle between it and the forefinger, as it swelled and disappearedwith each contraction. 

"Perhaps you do understand me. Perhaps you do, " he said at last. "I haveknown you a long time. It must be four years, at least--ever since Ifirst came here to work. It has been a long piece of life. "

"Indeed it has, " Gloria answered, and a moment later she sighed. 

The wind blew the sheet of music against her. She folded it impatiently, threw it aside and resumed her position, resting one elbow on the narrowdesk. The silence lasted several seconds, and the white curtains flappedsoftly against the heavy ones. 

"I wonder whether you understand my life at all, " she said presently. 

"I am not sure that I do. It is a strange life, in some ways--likeyourself. "

"Am I strange?"

"Very. "

"What makes you think so?"

Again he was silent for a time. His face was very still. It would havebeen impossible to guess from it that he felt any emotion at the moment. 

"Do you like compliments?" he asked abruptly. 

"That depends upon whether I consider them compliments or not, " sheanswered, with a little laugh. 

"You are a very perfect woman in very imperfect surroundings, " saidGriggs. 

"That is not a compliment to the surroundings, at all events. I do notknow whether to laugh or not. Shall I?"

"If you will. I like to hear you laugh. "

"You should hear me cry!" And she laughed again at herself. 

"God forbid!" he said gravely. 

"I do sometimes, " she answered, and her face grew suddenly sad, as hewatched her. 

He felt a quick pain for her in his heart. 

"I am sorry you have told me so, " he said. "I do not like to think ofit. Why should you cry? What have you to cry for?"

"What should you think?" she asked lightly, though no smile came withthe words. 

"I cannot guess. Tell me. Is it because you still wish to be a singer?Is that it?"

"No. That is not it. "

"Then I cannot guess. " He looked for the answer in her face. "Will youtell me?" he asked after a pause. 

"Of what use could it be?" Her eyes met his for a moment, the lids fell, and she turned away. "Will you shut the window?" she said suddenly. "Thewind blows the things about. Besides, it is getting late. "

He rose and went to the window. She watched him as he shut it, turninghis back to her, so that his figure stood out distinct and black againstthe light. She realized what a man he was. With those arms and thoseshoulders he could do anything, as he had once caught her in the air andsaved her life, and then, again, as he had broken the cords that nightat Mendoza's house. There was nothing physical which such a man couldnot do. He was something on which to rely in her limited life, anabsolute contrast to her husband, whose vagueness irritated her, whilehis deadness of sensibility, where she had wrung his sensitiveness toofar, humiliated her in her own eyes. She had kept her secret long, shethought, though she had kept it for the simple reason that she had noone in whom to confide. 

Griggs came back from the window and sat down near her again in the lowchair, looking up into her face. 

"Mr. Griggs, " she said, turning from his eyes and looking into thepiano, "you asked me a question just now. I should like to answer it, ifI were quite sure of you. "

"Are you not sure of me?" he asked. "I think you might be, by this time. We were just saying that we had known each other so long. "

"Yes. But--all sorts of things have happened in that time, you know. Iam not the same as I was when I first knew you. "

"No. You are married. That is one great difference. "

"Too great, " said she. "Honestly, do you think me improved since mymarriage?"

"Improved? No. Why should you improve? You are just what you were meantto be, as you always were. "

"I know. You called me a perfect woman a little while ago, and you saidmy surroundings were imperfect. You must have meant that they did notsuit me, or that I did not suit them. Which was it?"

"They ought to suit you, " said Griggs. "If they do not, it is not yourfault. "

"But I might have done something to make them suit me. I sometimes thinkthat I have not treated them properly. "

"Why should you blame yourself? You did not make them, and they cannotunmake you. You have a right to be yourself. Everybody has. It is thefirst right. Your surroundings owe you more than you owe to them, because you are what you are, and they are not what they ought to be. Let them bear the blame. As for not treating them properly, no one couldaccuse you of that. "

"I do not know--some one might. People are so strange, sometimes. "

She stopped, and he answered nothing. Looking down into the open piano, she idly watched the hammers move as she pressed the keys softly withone hand. 

"Some people are just like this, " she said, smiling, and repeating theaction. "If you touch them in a certain way, they answer. If you pressthem gently, they do not understand. Do you see? The hammer comes justup to the string, and then falls back again without making any noise. Isuppose those are my surroundings. Sometimes they answer me, andsometimes they do not. I like things I can be sure of. "

"And by things you mean people, " suggested Griggs. 

"Of course. "

"And by your surroundings you mean--what?"

"You know, " she answered in a low voice, turning her face still furtheraway from him. 

"Reanda?"

She hesitated for a moment, knowing that her answer must have weight onthe man. 

"I suppose so, " she said at last. "I ought not to say so--ought I? Tellme the truth. "

"The truth is, you are unhappy, " he answered slowly. "There is no reasonwhy you should not tell me so. Perhaps I might help you, if you wouldlet me. "

He almost regretted that he had said so much, little as it was. But shehad wished him to say it, and more, also. Still turning from him, sherested her chin in her hand. His face was still, but there was thebeginning of an expression in it which she had never seen. Now that thewindow was shut it was very quiet in the room, and the air was strangelyheavy and soft and dim. Now and then the panes rattled a little. Griggslooked at the graceful figure as Gloria sat thinking what she shouldsay. He followed the lines till his eyes rested on what he could see ofher averted face. Then he felt something like a sharp, quick blow at histemples, and the blood rose hot to his throat. At the same instant camethe bitter little pang he had known long, telling him that she had neverloved him and never could. 

"Are you really my friend?" she asked softly. 

"Yes. " The word almost choked him, for there was not room for it and forthe rest. 

She turned quietly and surveyed the marble mask with curious inquiry. 

"Why do you say it like that, " she asked; "as though you would rathernot? Do you grudge it?"

"No. " He spoke barely above his breath. 

"How you say it!" she exclaimed, with a little laugh that could notlaugh itself out, for there was a strange tension in the air, and on herand on him. "You might say it better, " she added, the pupils of her eyesdilating a little so that the room looked suddenly larger and lessdistinct. 

She knew the sensation of coming emotion, and she loved it. She hadnever thought before that she could get it by talking with Paul Griggs. He did not answer her. 

"Perhaps you meant it, " she said presently. "I hardly know. Did you?"

"Please be reasonable, " said Griggs, indistinctly, and his hands grippedeach other on his knee. 

"How oddly you talk!" she exclaimed. "What have I said that wasunreasonable?"

She felt that the emotion she had expected was slipping from her, andher nerves unconsciously resented the disappointment. She was out oftemper in an instant. 

"You cannot understand, " he answered. "There is no reason why youshould. Forgive me. I am nervous to-day. "

"You? Nervous?" She laughed again, with a little scorn. "You are notcapable of being nervous. "

She was dimly conscious that she was provoking him to something, sheknew not what, and that he was resisting her. He did not answer her lastwords. She went back to the starting-point again, dropping her voice toa sadder key. 

"Honestly, will you be my friend?" she asked, with a gentle smile. 

"Heart and soul--and hand, too, if you want it, " he said, for he hadrecovered his speech. "Tell me what the trouble is. If I can, I willtake you out of it. "

It was rather an odd speech, and she was struck by the turn of thephrase, which expressed more strength than doubt of power to do anythinghe undertook. 

"I believe you could, " she said, looking at him. "You are so strong. Youcould do anything. "

"Things are never so hard as they look, if one is willing to riskeverything, " he answered. "And when one has nothing to lose, " he added, as an after-thought. 

She sighed, and turned away again, half satisfied. 

"There is nothing to risk, " she said. "It is not a case of danger. Andyou cannot take my trouble and tear it up like a pack of cards withthose hands of yours. I wish you could. I am unhappy--yes, I have toldyou so. But what can you do to help me? You cannot make my surroundingswhat they are not, you know. "

"No--I cannot change your husband, " said Griggs. 

She started a little, but still looked away. 

"No. You cannot make him love me, " she said, softly and sadly. 

The big hands lost their hold on one another, and the deep eyes opened alittle wider. But she was not watching him. 

"Do you mean to say--" He stopped. 

She slowly bent her head twice, but said nothing. 

"Reanda does not love you?" he said, in wondering interrogation. "Why--Ithought--" He hesitated. 

"He cares no more for me than--that!" The hand that stretched towardshim across the open piano tapped the polished wood once, and sharply. 

"Are you in serious earnest?" asked Griggs, bending forward, as thoughto catch her first look when she should turn. 

"Does any one jest about such things?" He could just see that her lipscurled a little as she spoke. 

"And you--you love him still?" he asked, with pressing voice. 

"Yes--I love him. The more fool I. "

The words did not grate on him, as they would have jarred on herhusband's ear. The myth he had imagined made perfections of the woman'sfaults. 

"It is a pity, " he said, resting his forehead in his hand. "It is adeadly pity. "

Then she turned at last and saw his attitude. 

"You see, " she said. "There is nothing to be done. Is there? You know mystory now. I have married a man I worship, and he does not care for me. Take it and twist it as you may, it comes to that and nothing else. Youcan pity me, but you cannot help me. I must bear it as well as I can, and as long as I must. It will end some day--or I will make it end. "

"For God's sake do not talk like that!"

"How should I talk? What should I say? Is it of any use to speak to him?Do you think I have not begged him, implored him, besought him, almoston my knees, to give up that work and do other things?"

Griggs looked straight into her eyes a moment and then almost understoodwhat she meant. 

"You mean that he--that when he is painting there--" He hesitated. 

"Of course. All day long. All the bitter live-long day! They sit theretogether on pretence of talking about it. You know--you can guess atleast--it is the old, old story, and I have to suffer for it. She couldnot marry him--because she is a princess and he an artist--good enoughfor me--God knows, I love him! Too good for her, ten thousand times toogood! But yet not good enough for her to marry! He needed a wife, andshe brought us together, and I suppose he told her that I should do verywell for the purpose. I was a good subject. I fell in love withhim--that was what they wanted. A wife for her favourite! O God! When Ithink of it--"

She stopped suddenly and buried her face in both her hands, as sheleaned upon the piano. 

"It is not to be believed!" The strong man's voice vibrated with therising storm of anger. 

She looked up again with flashing eyes and pale cheeks. 

"No!" she cried. "It is not to be believed! But you see it now. You seewhat it all is, and how my life is wrecked and ruined before it is halfbegun. It would be bad enough if I had married him for his fame, for hisface, for his money, for anything he has or could have. But I marriedhim because I loved him with all my soul, and worshipped him andeverything he did. "

"I know. We all saw it. "

"Of course--was it anything to hide? And I thought he loved me, too. Doyou know?" She grew more calm. "At first I used to go and sit in thehall when he was at work. Then he grew silent, and I felt that he didnot want me. I thought it was because he was such a great artist, andcould not talk and work, and wanted to be alone. So I stayed away. Then, once, I went there, and she was there, sitting in that great chair--itshows off the innocence of her white face, you know! The innocence ofit!" Gloria laughed bitterly. "They were talking when I came, and theystopped as soon as the door opened. I am sure they were talking aboutme. Then they seemed dreadfully uncomfortable, and she went away. Afterthat I went several times. Once or twice she came in while I was there. Then she did not come any more. He must have told her, of course. Hekept looking at the door, though, as if he expected her at any moment. But she never came again in those days. I could not bear it--his tryingto talk to me, and evidently wishing all the time that she would come. Igave up going altogether at last. What could I do? It was unbearable. Itwas more than flesh and blood could stand. "

"I do not wonder that you hate her, " said Griggs. "I have often thoughtyou did. "

Gloria smiled sadly. 

"Yes, " she answered. "I hate her with all my heart. She has robbed me ofthe only thing I ever had worth having--if I ever had it. I sometimeswonder--or rather, no. I do not wonder, for I know the truth wellenough. I have been over and over it again and again in the night. Henever loved me. He never could love any one but her. He knew her longago, and has loved her all his life. Why should he put me in her place?He admired me. I was a beautiful plaything--no, not beautiful--" Shepaused. 

"You are the most beautiful woman in the world, " said Paul Griggs, withdeep conviction. 

He saw the blush of pleasure in her face, saw the fluttering of thelids. But he neither knew that she had meant him to say it, nor did hejudge of the vast gulf her mind must have instantaneously bridged, fromthe outpouring of her fancied injuries and of her hatred for FrancescaCampodonico, to the unconcealable satisfaction his words gave her. 

"I have heard him say that, too, " she answered a moment later. "But hedid not mean it. He never meant anything he said to me--not one word ofit all. You do not know what that means, " she went on, working herselfback into a sort of despairing anger again. "You do not know. To havebuilt one's whole life on one thing, as I did! To have believed only onething, as I did! To find that it is all gone, all untrue, all a wretchedpiece of acting--oh, you do not know! That woman's face haunts me in thedark--she is always there, with him, wherever I look, as they aretogether now at her house. Do you understand? Do you know what I feel?You pity me--but do you know? Oh, I have longed for some one--I havewished I had a dog to listen to me--sometimes--it is so hard to bealone--so very hard--"

She broke off suddenly and hid her face again. 

"You are not alone. You have me--if you will have me. "

Before he had finished speaking the few words, the first sob broke, violent, real, uncontrollable. Then came the next, and then the storm oftears. Griggs rose instinctively and came to her side. He leaned heavilyon the piano, bending down a little, helpless, as some men are at suchmoments. She did not notice him, and her sobs filled the still room. Ashe stood over her he could see the bright tears falling upon the blackand white ivory keys. He laid his trembling hand upon her shoulder. Hecould hardly draw his breath for the sight of her suffering. 

"Don't--don't, " he said, almost pathetic in his lack of eloquence whenhe thought he most needed it. 

One of her hot hands, all wet with tears, went suddenly to her shoulder, and grasped his that lay there, with a convulsive pressure, seeming todraw him down as she bowed herself almost to the keyboard in her agonyof weeping. Then, without thought, his other hand, cold as ice, wasunder her throat, bringing her head gently back upon his arm, till thewhite face was turned up to his. Sob by sob, more distantly, the tempestsubsided, but still the great tears swelled the heavy lids and ran downacross her face upon his wrist. Then the wet, dark eyes opened andlooked up to his, above her head. 

"Be my friend!" she said softly, and her fingers pressed his verygently. 

He looked down into her eyes for one moment, and then the passion in himgot the mastery of his honourable soul. 

"How can I?" he cried in a broken, choking voice. "I love you!"

In an instant he was standing up, lifting her high from the floor, andthe lips that had perhaps never kissed for love before, were pressedupon hers. What chance had she, a woman, in those resistless arms ofhis? In her face was the still, fateful look of the dead nun, risingfrom the far grave of a buried tragedy. 

In his uncontrollable passion he crushed her to him, holding her up likea child. She struggled and freed her hands and pressed them both uponhis two eyes. 

"Please--please!" she cried. 

There was a pitiful ring in the tone, like the bleating of a frightenedlamb. He hurt her too, for he was overstrong when he was thoughtless. 

She cried out to him to let her go. But as she hung there, it was notall fear that she felt. There came with it an uncertain, half-deliriousthrill of delight. To feel herself but a feather to his huge strength, swung, tossed, kissed, crushed, as he would. There was fear already, there was all her innocent maidenlike resistance, beating against himwith might and anger, there was the feminine sense of injury byoutrageous violence; but with it all there was also the natural woman'sdelight in the main strength of the natural man, that could kill her inan instant if he chose, but that could lift her to itself as a littlechild and surround her and protect her against the whole world. 

"Please--please!" she cried again, covering his fierce eyes and whiteface with her hands and trying to push him away. The tone was patheticin its appeal, and it touched him. His arms relaxed, tightened againwith a sort of spasm, and then she found herself beside him on her feet. A long silence followed. 

Gloria sank into a chair, glanced at him and saw that his face wasturned away, looked down again and then watched him. His chest heavedonce or twice, as though he had run a short sharp race. One hand graspedthe back of a chair as he stood up. All at once, without looking at her, he went to the window and stood there, looking out, but seeing nothing. The soft damp wind made the panes of glass rattle. Still neither brokethe silence. Then he came to her and stood before her, looking down, and she looked down, too, and would not see him. She was more afraid ofhim now than when he had lifted her from her feet, and her heart beatfast. She wondered what he would say, for she supposed that he meant toask her forgiveness, and she was right. 

[Illustration: "Gloria--forgive me!"--Vol. II. , p. 50. ]

"Gloria--forgive me, " he said. 

She looked up, a little fear of him still in her face. 

"How can I?" she asked, but in her voice there was forgiveness already. 

Her womanly instinct, though she was so young, told her that the faultwas hers, and that considering the provocation it was not a greatone--what were a few kisses, even such kisses as his, in a lifetime? Andshe had tempted him beyond all bounds and repented of it. Before thestorm she had raised in him, her fancied woes sank away and seemedinfinitely small. She knew that she had worked herself up to emotion andtears, though not half sure of what she was saying, that she hadexaggerated all she knew and suggested all she did not know, that shehad almost been acting a part to satisfy something in her which shecould not understand. And by her acting she had roused the savage truthin her very face and it had swept down everything before it. She had notguessed such possibilities. Before the tempest of his love all she hadever felt or dreamed of feeling seemed colourless and cold. Shedreaded to rouse it again, and yet she could never forget the instantthrill that had quivered through her when he had lifted her from herfeet. 

When she had answered him with her question, he stood still in silencefor a moment. She was too perfect in his eyes for him to cast the blameupon her, yet he knew that it had not been all his fault. And in thelower man was the mad triumph of having kissed her and of having toldher, once for all, the whole meaning of his being. She looked down, andhe could not see her eyes. There was no chair near. To see her face hedropped upon his knee and lightly touched her hands that lay idly in herlap. She started, fearing another outbreak. 

"Please--please!" he said softly, using the very word she had used tohim. 

"Yes--but--" She hesitated and then raised her eyes. 

The mask of his face was all softened, and his lips trembled a little. His hands quivered, too, as they touched hers. 

"Please!" he repeated. "I promise. Indeed, I promise. Forgive me. "

She smiled, all at once, dreamily. All his emotion, and her desire forit, were gone. 

"I asked you to be my friend, " she said. "I meant it, you know. Howcould you? It was not kind. "

"No--but forgive me, " he insisted in a pleading tone. 

"I suppose I must, " she said at last. "But I shall never feel sure ofyou again. How can I?"

"I promise. You will believe me, not to-day, perhaps, nor to-morrow, butsoon. I will be just what I have always been. I will never do anythingto offend you again. "

"You promise me that? Solemnly?" She still smiled. 

"Yes. It is a promise. I will keep it. I will be your friend always. Give me something to do for you. It will make it easier. "

"What can I ask you to do? I shall never dare to speak to you about mylife again. "

"I think you will, when you see that I am just as I used to be. And youforgive me, quite?"

"Yes. I must. We must forget to-day. It must be as though it had neverhappened. Will you forget it?"

"I will try. " But of that he knew the utter impossibility. 

"If you try, you can succeed. Now get up. Be reasonable. "

He took her hand in both of his. She made a movement to withdraw it, andthen submitted. He barely touched it with his lips and rose to his feetinstantly. 

"Thank you, " she said simply. 

She had never had such a mastery of charm over him as at that moment. But his mood was changed, and there was no breaking out of the other manin him, though he felt again the quick sharp throb in the temples, andthe rising blood at his throat. The higher self was dominant once more, and the features was as still as a statue's. 

He took leave of her very quickly and went out into the damp street andfaced the gusty southeast wind. 

When he was gone, she rose and went to the window with a listless step, and gazed idly through the glass at the long row of windows in thepalace opposite, and then went back and sank down, as though very weary, upon a sofa far from the light. There was a dazed, wondering look in herface and she sat very still for a long time, till it began to grow dark. In the dusk she rose and went to the piano and sang softly to herself. Her voice never swelled to a full note, and the chords which her fingerssought were low and gentle and dreamy. 

While she was singing, the door opened noiselessly, and Reanda came inand stood beside her. She broke off and looked up, a little startled. The same wondering, half-dazed look was in her face. Her husband bentdown and kissed her, and she kissed him silently. 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

DONNA FRANCESCA had put off her mourning, and went into the world againduring that winter. The world said that she might marry if she sopleased, and was somewhat inclined to wonder that she did not. She couldhave made a brilliant match if she had chosen. But instead, though sheappeared everywhere where society was congregated together, she showed atendency to religion which surprised her friends. 

A tendency to religion existed in the Braccio family, together withvarious other tendencies not at all in harmony with it, nor otherwiseedifying. Those other tendencies seemed to be absent in Francesca, andlittle by little her acquaintances began to speak of her as a devoutperson. The Prince of Gerano even hinted that she might some day be anabbess in the Carmelite Convent at Subiaco, as many a lady of the greathouse had been before her. But Francesca was not prepared to withdrawfrom the world altogether, though at the present time she was veryunhappy. 

She suspected herself of a great sin, besides reproaching herselfbitterly with many of her deeds which deserved no blame at all. Yet shewas by no means morbid, nor naturally inclined to perpetualself-examination. On the contrary, she had always been willing to acceptlife as a simple affair which could not offer any difficulties providedthat one were what she meant by "good"--that is, honest in word anddeed, and scrupulous in doing thoroughly and with right intention thosethings which her religion required of her, but in which only she herselfcould judge of her own sincerity. 

Of late, however, she had felt that there was something very wrong inall her recent life. The certainty of it dawned by degrees, and thenburst upon her suddenly one day when she was with Reanda. 

She had long ago noticed the change in his manner, the harassed look, and the sad ring in his voice, and for a time his suffering was hersorrow, and there was a painful pleasure in being able to feel for himwith all her heart. He had gone through a phase which had lasted manymonths, and the change was great between his former and his presentself. He had suffered, but indifference was creeping upon him. It wasclear enough. Nothing interested him but his art, and perhaps her ownconversation, though even that seemed doubtful to her. 

They were alone together on a winter's afternoon in the great hall. Thework was almost done, and they had been talking of the more mechanicaldecorations, and of the style of the furniture. 

"It is a big place, " said Francesca, "but I mean to fill it. I likelarge rooms, and when it is finished, I will take up my quarters here, and call it my boudoir. "

She smiled at the idea. The hall was at least fifty feet long by thirtywide. 

"All the women I know have wretched little sitting-rooms in which theycan hardly turn round, " she said. "I will have all the space I like, andall the air and all the light. Besides, I shall always have the dearCupid and Psyche, to remind me of you. "

She spoke the last words with the simplicity of absolute innocence. 

"And me?" he asked, as innocently and simply as she. "What will you dowith me?"

"Whatever you like, " she said, taking it quite for granted, as he did, that he was to work for her all his life. "You can have a studio in thehouse, just as it used to be, if you please. And you can paint the greatcanvas for the ceiling of the dining-room. Or shall I restore the oldchapel? Which should you rather do--oil-painting, or fresco?"

"You would not want the altar piece which I should paint, " he said, withsudden sadness. 

"Santa Francesca?" she asked. "It would have to be Santa Francesca. Thechapel is dedicated to her. You could make a beautiful picture of her--aportrait, perhaps--" she stopped. 

"Of yourself? Yes, I could do that, " he answered quickly. 

"No, " she said, and hesitated. "Of your wife, " she added ratherabruptly. 

He started and looked at her, and she was sorry that she had spoken. Gloria's beautiful face had risen in her mind, and it had seemedgenerous to suggest the idea. Finding a difficulty in telling him, shehad thought it her duty to be frank. 

He laughed harshly before he answered her. 

"No, " he said. "Certainly not a portrait of my wife. Not even to pleaseyou. And that is saying much. "

He spoke very bitterly. In the few words, he poured out the pent-upsuffering of many months. Francesca turned pale. 

"I know, and it is my fault, " she said in a low voice. 

"Your fault? No! But it is not mine. "

His hands trembled violently as he took up his palette and brushes andbegan to mix some colours, not knowing what he was doing. 

"It is my fault, " said Francesca, still very white, and staring at thebrick floor. "I have seen it. I could not speak of it. You areunhappy--miserable. Your life is ruined, and I have done it. I!"

She bit her lip almost before the last word was uttered; for it wasstronger and louder than she had expected it to be, and the syllablerang with a despairing echo in the empty hall. 

Reanda shook his head, and bent over his colours with shaking hands, butsaid nothing. 

"I was so happy when you were married, " said Francesca, forcing herselfto speak calmly. "She seemed such a good wife for you--so young, sobeautiful. And she loves you--"

"No. " He shook his head energetically. "She does not love me. Do not saythat, for it is not true. One does not love in that way--to-day a kiss, to-morrow a sting--to-day honey, to-morrow snake-poison. Do not say thatit is love, for it is not true. The heart tells the truth, all alone inthe breast. A thousand words cannot make it tell one lie. But for me--itis finished. Let us speak no more of love. Let us talk of our goodfriendship. It is better. "

"Eh, let us speak of it, of this friendship! It has cost tears ofblood!"

Francesca, in the sincerity of what she felt, relapsed into the Romandialect. Almost all Romans do, under any emotion. 

"Everything passes, " answered Reanda, laying his palette aside, andbeginning to walk up and down, his hands in his pockets. "This alsowill pass, " he added, as he turned. "We are men. We shall forget. "

"But not I. For I did it. Your sadness cuts my heart, because I did it. I--I alone. But for me, you would be free. "

"Would to Heaven!" exclaimed the artist, almost under his breath. "But Iwill not have you say that it is your fault!" he cried, stopping beforeher. "I was the fool that believed. A man of my age--oh, a seriousman--to marry a child! I should have known. At first, I do not say. Iwas the first. She thought she had paradise in her arms. A husband! Theyall want it, the husband. But I, who had lived and seen, I should haveknown. Fool, fool! Ignorant fool!"

The words came out vehemently in the strong dialect, and the nervous, heart-wrung man struck his breast with his clenched fist, and his eyeslooked upward. 

"Reanda, Reanda! What are you saying? When I tell you that I made youmarry her! It was here, --I was in this very chair, --and I told you abouther. And I asked her here with intention, that you might see howbeautiful she was. And then, neither one nor two, she fell in love withyou! It would have been a miracle if you had not married her. And herfather, he was satisfied. May that day be accursed when I brought themhere to torment you!"

She spoke excitedly, and her lip quivered. He began to walk again withrapid, uncertain strides. 

"For that--yes!" he said. "Let the day bear the blame. But I was themadman. Who leaves the old way and follows the new knows what he leaves, but not what he may find. I might have been contented. I was so happy!God knows how happy I was!"

"And I!" exclaimed Francesca, involuntarily; but he did not hear her. 

She felt a curious sense of elation, though she was so truly sorry forhim, and it disturbed her strangely. She looked at him and smiled, andthen wondered why the smile came. There is a ruthless cruelty in thehalf-unconscious impulses of the purest innocence, of which vice itselfmight be ashamed in its heart. It is simple humanity's assertion of itsprior right to be happy. She smiled spontaneously because she knew thatReanda no longer loved Gloria, and she felt that he could not love heragain; and for a while she was too simply natural to quarrel withherself for it, or to realize what it meant. 

He was nervous, melancholy, and unstrung, and he began to talk abouthimself and his married life for the first time, pouring out hissufferings and thoughtless of what Francesca might think and feel. He, too, was natural. Unlike his wife, he detested emotion. To be angry wasalmost an illness to his over-finely organized temperament. In a way, Griggs had been right in saying that Reanda seemed to paint as an agentin the power of an unseen, directing influence. Beauty made him feelitself, and feel for it in his turn with his brush. The conception wasbefore him, guiding his hand, before a stroke of the work was done. There was the lightning-like co-respondence and mutual reaction betweenthought and execution, which has been explained by some to be thesimultaneous action of two minds in man, the subjective and theobjective. In doing certain things he had the patience and the delicacyof one for whom time has no meaning. He could not have told whether hishand followed his eye, or his eye followed his hand. His whole being wasof excessively sensitive construction, and emotion of any kind, evenpleasure, jarred upon its hair-fine sensibilities. And yet, behind allthis, there was the tenacity of the great artist and the phenomenalpower of endurance, in certain directions, which is essential toprize-winning in the fight for fame. There was the quality of nervewhich can endure great tension in one way, but can bear nothing in otherways. 

He went on, giving vent to all he felt, talking to himself rather thanto Francesca. He could not reproach his wife with any one action ofimportance. She was fond of Paul Griggs. But it was only Griggs! Hesmiled. In his eyes, the cold-faced man was no more than a stone. Intheir excursions into society she had met men whom he considered farmore dangerous, men young, handsome, rich, having great names. Theyadmired her and said so to her in the best language they had, which wasno doubt often very eloquent. Had she ever looked twice at one of them?No. He could not reproach her with that. The Duchess of Astrardente wasnot more cold to her admirers than Gloria was. It was not that. Therewere little things, little nothings, but in thousands. He tried toplease her with something, and she laughed in his face, or found fault. She had small hardnesses and little vulgarities of manner that drove himmad. 

"I had thought her like you, " he said suddenly, turning to Francesca. "She is not. She is coarse-grained. She has the soul of a peasant, withthe face of a Madonna. What would you have? It is too much. Love is anillusion. I will have no more of it. Besides, love is dead. It would beeasier to wake a corpse. I shall live. I may forget. Meanwhile there isour friendship. That is of gold. "

Francesca listened in silence, thoughtful and with downcast eyes, as theshort, disjointed sentences broke vehemently from his lips, each oneaccusing her in her own heart of having wrought the misery of two lives, one of which was very dear to her. Too dear, as she knew at last. Thescarlet shame would have burned her face, if she had owned to herselfthat she loved this man, whom she had married to another, believing thatshe was making his happiness. She would not own it. Had she admitted itthen, she would have been capable of leaving him within the hour, and ofshutting herself up forever in the Convent at Subiaco to expiate the sinof the thought. It was monstrous in her eyes, and she would still refuseto see it. 

But she owned that there was the suspicion, and that Angelo Reanda wasfar dearer to her than anything else on earth. Her innocence was sostrong and spotless that it had a right to its one and onlysatisfaction. But what she felt for Reanda was either love, or it wasblasphemy against the holy thing in whose place he stood in her temple. It must not be love, and therefore, as anything else, it was too much. And the strange joy she felt because Gloria was nothing to him, stillfilled her heart, though it began to torment her with the knowledge ofevil which she had never understood. 

There was much else against him, too, in her pride of race, and ithelped her just then, for it told her how impossible it was that she, aprincess of the house of Braccio, should love a mere artist, the son ofa steward, whose forefathers had been bondsmen to her ancestors fromtime immemorial. It was out of the question, and she would not believeit of herself. Yet, as she looked into his delicate, spiritual face andwatched the shades of expression that crossed it, she felt that it madelittle difference whence he came, since she understood him and heunderstood her. 

She became confused by her own thoughts and grasped at the idea of atrue and perfect friendship, with a somewhat desperate determination tosee it and nothing else in it, for the rest of her life, rather thanpart with Angelo Reanda. 

"Friends, " she said thoughtfully. "Yes--always friends, you and I. Butas a friend, Reanda, what can I do? I cannot help you. "

"The time for help is past, if it ever came. You are a saint--pray forme. You can do that. "

"But there is more than that to be done, " she said, ready to sacrificeanything or everything just then. "Do not tell me it is hopeless. I willsee your wife often and I will talk to her. I am older than she, and Ican make her understand many things. "

"Do not try it, " said Reanda, in an altered tone. "I advise you not totry it. You can do no good there, and you might find trouble. "

"Find trouble?" repeated Francesca, not understanding him. "What do youmean? Does she dislike me?"

"Have you not seen it?" he asked, with a bitter smile. 

Francesca did not answer him at once, but bent her head again. Once ortwice she looked up as though she were about to speak. 

"It is as I tell you, " said Reanda, nodding his head slowly. 

Francesca made up her mind, but the scarlet blood rose in her face. 

"It is better to be honest and frank, " she said. "Is Gloria jealous ofme?" She was so much ashamed that she could hardly look at him justthen. 

"Jealous! She would kill you!" he cried, and there was anger in hisvoice at the thought. "Do not go to her. Something might happen. "

The blush in Francesca's face deepened and then subsided, and she grewvery pale again. 

"But if she is jealous, she loves you, " she said earnestly andanxiously. 

He shrugged his high thin shoulders, and the bitter smile came back tohis face. 

"It is a stage jealousy, " he said cruelly. "How could she pass the timewithout something to divert her? She is always acting. "

"But what is she jealous of?" asked Francesca. "How can she be jealousof me? Because you work here? She is free to come if she likes, and tostay all day. I do not understand. "

"Who can understand her? God, who made her, understands her. I am only aman. I know only one thing, that I loved her and do not love her. Andshe makes a scene for every day. One day it is you, and another day itis the walls she does not like. You will forgive me, Princess. I speakfrankly what comes to my mouth from my heart. The whole story is this. She makes my life intolerable. I am not an idle man, the first you maymeet in society, to spend my time from morning to night in studying mywife's caprices. I am an artist. When I have worked I must have peace. Ido not ask for intelligent conversation like yours. But I must havepeace. One of these days I shall strangle her with my hands. The Lordwill forgive me and understand. I am full of nerves. Is it my fault? Shetwists them as the women wring out clothes at the fountain. It is not alife; it is a hell. "

"Poor Reanda! Poor Reanda!" repeated Francesca, softly. 

"I do not pity myself, " he said scornfully. "I have deserved it, andmuch more. But I am human. If it goes on a little longer, you may takeme to Santo Spirito, for I am going mad. At least I should be there inholy peace. After her, the madmen would all seem doctors of wisdom. Doyou know what will happen this evening? I go home. 'Where have youbeen?' she will ask. 'At the Palazzetto. ' 'What have you been doing?''Painting--it is my trade. ' 'Was Donna Francesca there?' 'Of course. Sheis mistress in her own house. ' 'And what did you talk of?' 'How should Iremember? We talked. ' Then it will begin. It will be an inferno, as italways is. 'Leave hope behind, all ye that enter here!' I can say it, ifever man could! You are right to pity me. Before it is finished you willhave reason to pity me still more. Let us hope it may finish soon. Either San Lorenzo, or Santo Spirito--with the mad or with the dead. "

"Poor Reanda!"

"Yes--poor Reanda, if you like. People envy me, they say I am a greatartist. If they think so, let them say it. It seems to them that I amsomebody. " He laughed, almost hysterically. "Somebody! Stuff for SantoSpirito! That is all she has left me in two years--not yet two years. "

"Do not talk of Santo Spirito, " said Francesca. "You shall not go mad. When you are unhappy, think of our friendship and of all the hours youhave here every day. " She hesitated and seemed to make an effort overherself. "But it is impossible that it should be all over, so hopelesslyand so soon. She is nervous, perhaps. The climate does not suit her--"

Reanda laughed wildly, for he was rapidly losing all control of himself. 

"Therefore I should take her away and go and live somewhere else!" hecried. "That would be the end! I should tear her to pieces with myhands--"

"Hush, hush! You are talking madly--"

"I know it. There is reason. It will end badly, one of these days, unless I end first, and that may happen also. Without you it would havehappened long ago. You are the good angel in my life, the one friend Godhas sent me in my tormented existence, the one star in my black sky. Bemy friend still, always, for ever and ever, and I shall live foreveronly to be your friend. As for love--the devil and his demons will knowwhat to do with it--they will find their account in it. They have lentit, and they will take their payment in blood and tears of those whobelieve them. "

"But there is love in the world, somewhere, " said Francesca, gently. 

"Yes--and in hell! But not in heaven--where you will be. "

Francesca sighed unconsciously, and looked long away towards the greatwindows at the end of the hall. Reanda gathered up his palette andbrushes with a steadier hand. His anger had not spent itself, but itmade him suddenly strong, and the outburst had relieved him, though itwas certain that it would be followed by a reaction of profounddespondency. 

All at once he came close to Francesca. She looked up, half startled byhis sudden movement. 

"At least it is true--this one thing, " he said. "I can count upon you. "

"Yes. You can count upon me, " she answered, gazing into his eyes. 

He did not move. The one hand held his palette, the other hung free byhis side. All at once she took it in hers, still looking up into hiseyes. 

"I am very fond of you, " she said earnestly. "You can count upon me aslong as we two live. "

"God bless you, " he said, more quietly than he had spoken yet, and hishand pressed hers a little. 

There could be no harm in saying as much as that, she thought, when itwas so true and so simply said. It was all she could ever say to him, orto herself, and there was no reason why she should not say it. He wouldnot misunderstand her. No man could have mistaken the innocence that wasthe life and light of her clear eyes. She was glad she had said it, andshe was glad long afterwards that she had said it on that day, quietly, when no one could hear them in the great still hall. 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

REANDA went home that evening in a very disturbed state of mind. He hadbeen better so long as he had not given vent to what he felt; for, aswith many southern men of excitable temper and weak nerves, his thoughtsabout himself, as distinguished from his pursuits, did not take positiveshape in his mind until he had expressed them in words. Amongst theLatin races the phrase, 'he cannot think without speaking, ' has moretruth as applied to some individuals than the Anglo-Saxon can easilyunderstand. 

For many months the artist had been most unhappy. His silence concerninghis grief had been almost exemplary, and had been broken only now andthen by a hasty exclamation of annoyance when Gloria's behaviour hadirritated him beyond measure. He was the gentlest of men; and even whenhe had lost his temper with her, he had never spoken roughly. 

"You are hard to please, my dear, " he had sometimes said. 

But that had been almost the strongest expression of his displeasure. Itwas not, indeed, that he had exercised very great self-control in thematter, for he had little power of that sort over himself. If he washabitually mild and gentle in his manner with Gloria, it was ratherbecause, like many Italians, he dreaded emotion as something like anillness, and could avoid it to some extent merely by not speaking freelyof what he felt. Silence was generally easy to him; and he had notbroken out more than two or three times in all his life, as he had doneon that afternoon alone with Francesca. 

The inevitable consequence followed immediately, --a consequence as muchphysical as mental, for when he went away from the Palazzetto, his cleardark eyes were bloodshot and yellow, and his hands had trembled so thathe had hardly been able to find the armholes of his great-coat inputting it on. He walked with an uncertain and agitated step, glancingto right and left of him as he went, half-fiercely, half-timidly, asthough he expected a new adversary to spring upon him from every corner. The straight line of the houses waned and shivered in the dusk, as helooked at them, and he saw flashes of light in the air. His head was hotand aching, and his hat hurt him. Altogether he was in a dangerousstate, not unlike that which, with northern men, sometimes follows harddrinking. 

He hated to go home that evening. So far as he was conscious, he hadneither misrepresented nor in any way exaggerated the miseries of hisdomestic existence; and he felt that it was before him now, precisely ashe had described it. There would be the same questions, to which hewould give the same answers, at which Gloria would put on the sameexpression of injured hopelessness, unless she broke out and lost hertemper, which happened often enough. The prospect was intolerable. Reanda thrust his hands deep into the pocket of his overcoat, and glaredabout him as he turned the corner of the Via degli Astalli, and saw theCorso in the distance. But he did not slacken his pace as he went alongunder the gloomy walls of the Austrian Embassy--the Palace ofVenice--the most grim and fortress-like of all Roman palaces. 

He felt as a poor man may feel when, hot and feverish from working by afurnace, he knows that he must face the winter storm of freezing sleetand piercing wind in his thin and ragged jacket to go home--a plunge, asit were, from molten iron into ice, with no protection from the cold. Every step of the homeward way was hateful to him. Yet he knew his ownweakness well enough not to hesitate. Had he stopped, he might have beencapable of turning in some other direction, and of spending the wholeevening with some of his fellow-artists, going home late in the night, when Gloria would be asleep. The thought crossed his mind. If he didthat, he was sure to be carried away into speaking of his troubles tomen with whom he had no intimacy. He was too proud for that. He wishedhe could go back to Francesca, and pour out his woes again. He had notsaid half enough. He should like to have it out, to the very end, andthen lie down and close his eyes, and hear Francesca's voice soothinghim and speaking of their golden friendship. But that was impossible, sohe went home to face his misery as best he could. 

There was exaggeration in all he thought, but there was none in theeffect of his thoughts upon himself. He had married a woman unsuited tohim in every way, as he was unsuited to her. The whole trouble laythere. Possibly he was not a man to marry at all, and should have ledhis solitary life to the end, illuminated from the outside, as it were, by Francesca Campodonico's faithful friendship and sweet influence. Allcauses of disagreement, considered as forces in married life, arerelative in their value to the comparative solidity of the characters onwhich they act--a truism which ought to be the foundation of socialcharity, but is not. Reanda could not be blamed for his brittlesensitivenesses, nor Gloria for a certain coarse-grained streak ofcruelty, which she had inherited from her father, and which hadcombined strangely with the rare gifts and great faults of her deadmother--the love of emotion for its own sake, and the tendency to doeverything which might produce it in herself and those about her. Emotion was poison to Reanda. It was his wife's favourite food. 

He reached his home, and went up the well-lighted marble staircase, wishing that he were ascending the narrow stone steps at the back of thePalazzetto Borgia, taper in hand, to his old bachelor quarters, to lighthis lamp, to smoke in peace, and to spend the evening over a sketch, orwith a book, or dreaming of work not yet done. He paused on the landing, before he rang the bell of his apartment. The polished door irritatedhim, with its brass fittings and all that it meant of married life andirksome social obligation. He never carried a key, because the Romankeys of those times were large and heavy; but he had been obliged to useone formerly, when he had lived by himself. The necessity of ringing thebell irritated him again, and he felt a nervous shock of unwillingnessas he pulled the brass knob. He set his teeth against the tinkling andjangling that followed, and his eyelids quivered. Everything hurt him. He did not feel sure of his hands when he wanted to use them. He wasinclined to strike the silent and respectful man-servant who opened thedoor, merely because he was silent and respectful. He went straight tohis own dressing-room, and shut himself in. It would be a relief tochange his clothes. He and Gloria were to go to a reception in theevening, and he would dress at once. In those days few Romans dressedfor dinner every day. 

He dropped a stud, for his hands were shaking so that he could hardlyhold anything; and he groped for the thing on his knees. The blood wentto his head, and hurt him violently, as though he had received a blow. 

Gloria's room was next to his, and she heard him moving about. Sheknocked and tried the door, but it was locked; and she heard him utteran exclamation of annoyance, as he hunted for the stud. She thought itwas meant for her, and turned angrily back from the door. On any otherday he would have called her, for he had heard her trying to get in. Buthe shrugged his lean shoulders impatiently, glanced once towards herroom, found his stud, and went on dressing. 

He really made an effort to get control of himself while he was alone. But to all intents and purposes he was actually ill. His face was drawnand sallow; his eyes were yellow and bloodshot; and there were deep, twitching lines about his mouth. His nostrils moved spasmodically whenhe drew breath, and his long thin hands fumbled helplessly at the studsand buttons of his clothes. At last he was dressed, and went into thedrawing-room. Gloria was already there, waiting by the fireside, with aninjured and forbidding expression in her beautiful face. 

Reanda came to the fireside, and stood there, spreading out histrembling hands to the blaze. He dreaded the first word, as a man lyingill of brain fever dreads each cracking explosion in a thunderstorm. Strained as their relations had been for a long time, he had neverfailed to kiss Gloria when he came home. This evening he barely glancedat her, and stood watching the dancing tongues of the wood fire, notdaring to think of the sound of his wife's voice. It came at last cooland displeased. 

"Are you ill?" she asked, looking steadily at him. 

"No, " he answered with an effort, and his outstretched hands shookbefore the fire. 

"Then what is the matter with you?"

"Nothing. " He did not even turn his eyes to her, as he spoke the singleword. 

A silence followed, during which he suffered. Nevertheless, the firstdreaded shock of hearing her voice was over. Though he had barelyglanced at her, he had known from her face what the sound of the voicewould be. 

Gloria leaned back in her chair and watched the fire, and sighed. Griggshad been with her in the afternoon, and she had been happy, quiteinnocently, as she thought. The man's dominating strength and profoundearnestness, which would have been intolerably dull to many women, smoothed Gloria, as it were. She said that he ironed the creases out ofher life for her. It was not a softening influence, but a calming one, bred of strength pressing heavily on caprice. She resisted it, but tookpleasure in finding that it was irresistible. Now and then it was notmerely a steady pressure. He had a sledge hammer amongst hisintellectual weapons, and once in a while it fell upon one of herillusions. She laughed at the destruction, and had no pity for thefragments. They were not illusions integral with her vanity, for hethought her perfect, and he would not have struck at her faults if hehad seen them. Her faults grew, for they had root in her vital nature, and drew nourishment from his enduring strength, which surrounded themand protected them in the blind, whole-heartedness of his love. For therest, he had kept his word. She had seen him turn white and bite hislip, sometimes, and more than once he had left her abruptly, and had notcome back again for several days. But he had never forgotten hispromise, in any word or deed since he had given it. 

It is a dangerous thing to pile up a mountain of massive reality fromwhich to look out upon the fading beauty of a fleeting illusion. In hisinfluence on Gloria's life, the strong man had overtopped the man ofgenius by head and shoulders. And she loved the strange mixture ofattraction and repulsion she felt when she was with Griggs--thesomething that wounded her vanity because she could not understand it, and the protecting shield that overspread that same vanity, and gave itfreedom to be vain beyond all bounds. She would not have admitted thatshe loved the man. It was her nature to play upon his pity with thewounds her love for her husband had suffered. Yet she knew that if shewere free she should marry him, because she could not resist him, andthere was pleasure in the idea that she controlled so irresistible aforce. The contrast between him and Reanda was ever before her, andsince she had learned how weak genius could be, the comparison wasenormously in favour of the younger man. 

As Reanda stood there before the fire that evening, she despised him, and her heart rebelled against his nature. His nervousness, histrembling hands, his almost evident fear of being questioned, werecontemptible. He was like a hunted animal, she thought. Two hoursearlier her friend had stood there, solid, leonine, gladiatorial, dominating her with his square white face, and still, shadowy eyes, quietly stretching to the flames two hands that could have torn her inpieces, --a man imposing in his stern young sadness, almost solemn in hissplendid physical dignity. 

She looked at Reanda, and her lip curled with scorn of herself forhaving loved such a thing. It was long since she had seen the gentlelight in his face which had won her heart two years ago. She wasfamiliar with his genius, and it no longer surprised her intooverlooking his frailty. His fame no longer flattered her. Hisgentleness was gone, and had left, not hardness nor violence, in itsplace, but a sort of irritable palsy of discontent. That was what shecalled it as she watched him. 

"You used to kiss me when you came home, " she said suddenly, leaning farback in her chair. 

Mechanically he turned his head. The habit was strong, and she hadreminded him of it. He did not wish to quarrel, and he did not reason. He moved a step to her side and bent down to kiss her forehead. Theautomatic conjugality of the daily kiss might have a good effect. Thatwas what he thought, if he thought at all. 

But she put up her hands suddenly, and thrust him back rudely. 

"No, " she said. "That sort of thing is not worth much, if I have toremind you to do it. "

Her lip curled again. His high shoulders went up, and he turned away. 

"You are hard to please, " he said, and the words were as mechanical asthe action that had preceded them. 

"It cannot be said that you have taken much pains to please me of late, "she answered coldly. 

The servant announced dinner at that moment, and Reanda made no answer, though he glanced at her nervously. They went into the dining-room andsat down. 

The storm brewed during the silent meal. Reanda scarcely ate anything, and drank a little weak wine and water. 

"You hardly seem well enough to go out this evening, " said Gloria, atlast, but there was no kindness in the tone. 

"I am perfectly well, " he answered impatiently. "I will go with you. "

"There is not the slightest necessity, " replied his wife. "I can goalone, and you can go to bed. "

"I tell you I am perfectly well!" he said with unconcealed annoyance. "Let me alone. "

"Certainly. Nothing is easier. "

The voice was full of that injured dignity which most surely irritatedhim, as Gloria knew. But the servant was in the room, and he saidnothing, though it was a real effort to be silent. His tongue had beenfree that day, and it was hard to be bound again. 

They finished dinner almost in silence, and then went back to thedrawing-room by force of habit. Gloria was still in her walking-dress, but there was no hurry, and she resumed her favourite seat by the firefor a time, before going to dress for the reception. 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

THERE was something exasperating in the renewal of the position exactlyas it had been before dinner. To make up for having eaten nothing, Reanda drank two cups of coffee in silence. 

"You might at least speak to me, " observed Gloria, as he set down thesecond cup. "One would almost think that we had quarrelled!"

The hard laugh that followed the words jarred upon him more painfullythan anything that had gone before. He laughed, too, after a moment'ssilence, half hysterically. 

"Yes, " he said; "one might almost think that we had quarrelled!" And helaughed again. 

"The idea seems to amuse you, " said Gloria, coldly. 

"As it does you, " he answered. "We both laughed. Indeed, it is veryamusing. "

"Donna Francesca has sent you home in a good humour. That is rare. Isuppose I ought to be grateful. "

"Yes. I am in a fine humour. It seems to me that we both are. " He bithis cigar, and blew out short puffs. 

"You need not include me. Please do not smoke into my face. "

The smoke was not very near her, but she made a movement with her handsas though brushing it away. 

"I beg your pardon, " he said politely, and he moved to the other side ofthe fireplace. 

"How nervous you are!" she exclaimed. "Why can you not sit down?"

"Because I wish to stand, " he answered, with returning impatience. "Because I am nervous, if you choose. "

"You told me that you were perfectly well. "

"So I am. "

"If you were perfectly well, you would not be nervous, " she replied. 

He felt as though she were driving a sharp nail into his brain. 

"It does not make any difference to you whether I am nervous or not, " hesaid, and his eye began to lighten, as he sat down. 

"It certainly makes no difference to you whether you are rude or not. "

He shrugged his shoulders, said nothing, and smoked in silence. One thinleg was crossed over the other and swung restlessly. 

"Is this sort of thing to last forever?" she inquired coldly, after asilence which had lasted a full minute. 

"I do not know what you mean, " said Reanda. 

"You know very well what I mean. "

"This is insufferable!" he exclaimed, rising suddenly, with his cigarbetween his teeth. 

"You might take your cigar out of your mouth to say so, " retortedGloria. 

He turned on her, and an exclamation of anger was on his lips, but hedid not utter it. There was a remnant of self-control. Gloria leanedback in her chair, and took up a carved ivory fan from amongst theknick-knacks on the little table beside her. She opened it, shut it, andopened it again, and pretended to fan herself, though the room was cool. 

"I should really like to know, " she said presently, as he walked up anddown with uneven steps. 

"What?" he asked sharply. 

"Whether this is to last for the rest of our lives. "

"What?"

"This peaceful existence, " she said scornfully. "I should really like toknow whether it is to last. Could you not tell me?"

"It will not last long, if you make it your principal business totorment me, " he said, stopping in his walk. 

"I?" she exclaimed, with an air of the utmost surprise. "When do I evertorment you?"

"Whenever I am with you, and you know it. "

"Really! You must be ill, or out of your mind, or both. That would besome excuse for saying such a thing. "

"It needs none. It is true. " He was becoming exasperated at last. "Youseem to spend your time in finding out how to make life intolerable. Youare driving me mad. I cannot bear it much longer. "

"If it comes to bearing, I think I have borne more than you, " saidGloria. "It is not little. You leave me to myself. You neglect me. Youabuse the friends I am obliged to find rather than be alone. You neglectme in every way--and you say that I am driving you mad. Do you realizeat all how you have changed in this last year? You may have really gonemad, for all I know, but it is I who have to suffer and bear theconsequences. You neglect me brutally. How do I know how you pass yourtime?"

Reanda stood still in the middle of the room, gazing at her. For amoment he was surprised by the outbreak. She did not give him time toanswer. 

"You leave me in the morning, " she went on, working her coldness intoanger. "You often go away before I am awake. You come back at midday, and sometimes you do not speak a word over your breakfast. If I speak, you either do not answer, or you find fault with what I say; and if Ishow the least enthusiasm for anything but your work, you preach me downwith proverbs and maxims, as though I were a child. I am foolish, young, impatient, silly, not fit to take care of myself, you say! Haveyou taken care of me? Have you ever sacrificed one hour out of your longday to give me a little pleasure? Have you ever once, since we weremarried, stayed at home one morning and asked me what I would do--justto make one holiday for me? Never. Never once! You give me a fine houseand enough money, and you think you have given me all that a womanwants. "

"And what do you want?" asked Reanda, trying to speak calmly. 

"A little kindness, a little love--the least thing of all you promisedme and of all I was so sure of having! Is it so much to ask? Have youlied to me all this time? Did you never love me? Did you marry me for myface, or for my voice? Was it all a mere empty sham from the beginning?Have you deceived me from the first? You said you loved me. Was none ofit true?"

"Yes. I loved you, " he answered, and suddenly there was a dulness in hisvoice. 

"You loved me--"

She sighed, and in the stillness that followed the little ivory fanrattled as she opened and shut it. To his ear, the tone in which she hadspoken had rung false. If only he could have heard her voice speaking asit had once sounded, he must have been touched. 

"Yes, " she continued. "You loved me, or at least you made me think youdid. I was young and I believed you. You do not even say it now. Perhapsbecause you know how hard it would be to make me believe you. "

"No. That is not the reason. "

She waited a moment, for it was not the answer she had expected. 

"Angelo--" she began, and waited, but he said nothing, though he lookedat her. "It is not true, it cannot be true!" she said, suddenly turningher face away, for there was a bitter humiliation in it. 

"It is much better to say it at once, " he said, with the supernaturallycalm indifference which sometimes comes upon very sensitive people whenthey are irritated beyond endurance. "I did love you, or I should nothave married you. But I do not love you any longer. I am sorry. I wish Idid. "

"And you dare to tell me so!" she cried, turning upon him suddenly. 

A moment later she was leaning forward, covering her face with herhands, and speaking through them. 

"You have the heart to tell me so, after all I have been to you--thedevotion of years, the tenderness, the love no man ever had of anywoman! Oh, God! It is too much!"

"It is said now. It is of no use to go back to a lie, " observed Reanda, with an indifference that would have seemed diabolical even to himself, had he believed her outbreak to be quite genuine. "Of what use would itbe to pretend again?"

"You admit that you have only pretended to love me?" She raised herflushed face and gleaming eyes. 

"Of late--if you call it a pretence--"

"Oh, not that--not that! I have seen it--but at first. You did love me. Say that, at least. "

"Certainly. Why should I have married you?"

"Yes--why? In spite of her, too--it is not to be believed. "

"In spite of her? Of whom? Are you out of your mind?"

Gloria laughed in a despairing sort of way. 

"Do not tell me that Donna Francesca ever wished you to be married!" shesaid. 

"She brought us together. You know it. It is the only thing I could everreproach her with. "

"She made you marry me?"

"Made me? No! You are quite mad. "

He stamped his foot impatiently, and turned away to walk up and downagain. His cigar had gone out, but he gnawed at it angrily. He wasamazed at what he could still bear, but he was fast losing his head. Themad desire to strangle her tingled in his hands, and the light of thelamp danced when he looked at it. 

"She has made you do so many things!" said Gloria. 

Her tone had changed again, growing hard and scornful, when she spoke ofDonna Francesca. 

"What has she made me do that you should speak of her in that way?"asked Reanda, angrily, re-crossing the room. 

"She has made you hate me--for one thing, " Gloria answered. 

"That is not true!" Reanda could hardly breathe, and he felt his voicegrowing thick. 

"Not true! Then, if not she, who else? You are with her there allday--she talks about me, she finds fault with me, and you come home andsee the faults she finds for you--"

"There is not a word of truth in what you say--"

"Do not be so angry, then! If it were not true, why should you care? Ihave said it, and I will say it. She has robbed me of you. Oh, I willnever forgive her! Never fear! One does not forget such things! She hasgot you, and she will keep you, I suppose. But you shall regret it! Sheshall pay me for it!"

Her voice shook, for her jealousy was real, as was all her emotion whileit lasted. 

"You shall not speak of her in that way, " said Reanda, fiercely. "I oweher and her family all that I am, all that I have in the world--"

"Including me!" interrupted Gloria. "Pay her then--pay her with yourlove and yourself. You can satisfy your conscience in that way, and youcan break my heart. "

"There is not the slightest fear of that, " answered Reanda, cruelly. 

She rose suddenly to her feet and stood before him, blazing with anger. 

"If I could find yours--if you had any--I would break it, " she said. "You dare to say that I have no heart, when you can see that every wordyou say thrusts it through like a knife, when I have loved you as nowoman ever loved man! I said it, and I repeat it--when I have given youeverything, and would have given you the world if I had it! Indeed, youare utterly heartless and cruel and unkind--"

"At least, I am honest. I do not play a part as you do. I say plainlythat I do not love you and that I am sorry for it. Yes--really sorry. "His voice softened for an instant. "I would give a great deal to loveyou as I once did, and to believe that you loved me--"

"You will tell me that I do not--"

"Indeed, I will tell you so, and that you never did--"

"Angelo--take care! You will go too far!"

"I could never go far enough in telling you that truth. You never lovedme. You may have thought you did. I do not care. You talk of devotionand tenderness and all the like! Of being left alone and neglected! Ofgoing too far! What devotion have you ever shown to me, beyondextravagantly praising everything I painted, for a few months after wewere married. Then you grew tired of my work. That is your affair. Whatis it to me whether you admire my pictures or Mendoza's, or any otherman's? Do you think that is devotion? I know far better than you whichare good and which are bad. But you call it devotion. And it wasdevotion that kept you away from me when I was working, when I wasobliged to work--for it is my trade, after all--and when you might havebeen with me day after day! And it was devotion to meet me with yoursour, severe look every day when I came home, as though I were a secretenemy, a conspirator, a creature to be guarded against like a thief--asthough I had been staying away from you on purpose, and of mywill--instead of working for you all day long. That was your way ofshowing your love. And to torment me with questions, everlastinglybelieving that I spend my time in talking against you to DonnaFrancesca--"

"You do!" cried Gloria, who had not been able to interrupt hisincoherent speech. "You love her as you never loved me--as you hateme--as you both hate me!"

She grasped his sleeve in her anger, shaking his arm, and staring intohis eyes. 

"You make me hate you!" he answered, trying to shake her off. 

"And you succeed, between you--You and your--"

In his turn he grasped her arm with his long, thin fingers, with nervousroughness. 

"You shall not speak of her--"

"Shall not? It is the only right I have left--that and the right to hateyou--you and that infamous woman you love--yes--you and yourmistress--your pretty Francesca!" Her laugh was almost a scream. 

His fury overflowed. After all, he was the son of a countryman, of thesteward of Gerano. He snatched the ivory fan from her hand and struckher across the face with it. The fragile thing broke to shivers, and thefragments fell between them. 

Gloria turned deadly white, but there was a bright red bar across hercheek. She looked at him a moment, and into her face there came thatfateful look that was like her dead mother's. 

Then without a word she turned and left the room. 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE daughter of Angus Dalrymple and Maria Braccio was not the woman tobear a blow tamely, or to hesitate long as to the surest way ofresenting it. Before she had reached the door she had determined toleave the house at once, and ten minutes had not passed before she foundherself walking down the Corso, veiled and muffled in a cloak, andhaving all the money she could call her own, in her pocket, togetherwith a few jewels of little value, given her by her father. 

Reanda had sunk into a chair when the door had closed behind her, halfstunned by the explosion of his own anger. He looked at the bits ofbroken ivory on the carpet, and wondered vaguely what they meant. Hefelt as though he had been in a dream of which he could not remember thedistorted incidents at all clearly. His breath came irregularly, hisheart fluttered and stood still and fluttered again, and his handstwitched at the fringe on the arms of the chair. By and bye, the butlercame in to take away the coffee cups and he saw that his master was ill. Under such circumstances nothing can equal the gentleness of an Italianservant. The man called some one to help him, and got Reanda to hisdressing-room, and undressed him and laid him upon the long leathernsofa. Then they knocked at the bedroom door, but there was no answer. 

"Do not disturb the signora, " said Reanda, feebly. "She wishes to bealone. We shall not want the carriage. "

Those were the only words he spoke that evening, and the servantsunderstood well enough that something had happened between husband andwife, and that it was best to be silent and to obey. No one tried thedoor of the bedroom. If any one had turned the handle, it would havebeen found to be locked. The key lay on the table in the hall, amongstthe visiting-cards. Dalrymple's daughter had inherited some of his quickinstinct and presence of mind. She had felt sure that if she locked thedoor of her room when she left the house, her husband would naturallysuppose that she had shut herself in, not wishing to be disturbed, andwould respect her desire to be alone. It would save trouble, and giveher time to get away. He could sleep on the sofa in his dressing-room, as he actually did, in the illness of his anger, treated as Italiansknow how to treat such common cases, of which the consequences aresometimes fatal. Many an Italian has died from a fit of rage. A singleblood-vessel, in the brain, a little weaker than the rest, and all isover in an apoplexy. But Reanda was not of an apoplectic constitution. The calming treatment acted very soon, he fell asleep, and did not waketill daylight, quite unaware that Gloria was not in the next room, sleeping off her anger as he had done. 

She had gone out in her first impulse to leave the house of the man whohad so terribly insulted her. Under her veil the hot blood scorched herwhere the blow had left its red bar, and her rage and wounded pridechased one another from her heart to her head while with every beatingof her pulse the longing for revenge grew wilder and stronger. 

She had left the house with one first idea--to find Paul Griggs and tellhim what had happened. No other thought crossed her mind, and her stepsturned mechanically down the Corso, for he still lived in his two roomsin the Via della Frezza. 

It was early still. People dined at six o'clock in those days, and itwas not yet eight when Gloria found herself in the street. It was quiet, though there were many people moving about. During the hours betweendinner and the theatre there were hardly any carriages out, and thesound of many footsteps and of many low voices filled the air. Gloriakept to the right and walked swiftly along, never turning her head. Shehad never been out in the streets alone at night in her life, and evenin her anger she felt a sort of intoxication of freedom that was quitenew to her, a beginning of satisfaction upon him who had injured her. There was Highland blood in her veins, as well as Italian passion. 

The southeast wind was blowing down the street behind her, that samestrange and tragic wind, tragic and passionate, that had blown sogustily down upon Subiaco from the mountains, on that night long agowhen Maria Addolorata had stood aside by the garden gate to letDalrymple pass, bearing something in his arms. Gloria knew it by its sadwhisper and by the faint taste of it and smell of it, through herclose-drawn veil. 

On she went, down the Corso, till she came to the Piazza Colonna, andsaw far on her left, beyond the huge black shaft of the column, thebrilliant lights from the French officers' Club. She hesitated then, andslackened her speed a little. The sight of the Club reminded her ofsociety, of what she was doing, and of what it might mean. As she walkedmore slowly, the wind gained upon her, as it were, from behind, andtried to drive her on. It seemed to be driving her from her husband'shouse with all its might, blowing her skirts before her and her thickveil. She passed the square, keeping close to the shutters of the shopsunder the Palazzo Piombino--gone now, to widen the open space. A gust, stronger than any she had felt yet, swept down the pavement. She pauseda moment, leaning against the closed shutters of the clockmaker Ricci, whose shop used to be a sort of landmark in the Corso. Just then a clockwithin struck eight strokes. She heard them all distinctly through theshutters. 

She hesitated an instant. It was eight o'clock. She had not realizedwhat time it was. If she found the street door shut in the Via dellaFrezza, it would be hard to get at Griggs. She had passed the house morethan once in her walks, and she knew that Griggs lived high up in thefifth story. It might be already too late. She hesitated and looked upand down the pavement. A young French officer of Zouaves was comingtowards her; his high wrinkled and varnished boots gleamed in thegaslight. He had a black beard and bright young eyes, and was smoking acigarette. He was looking at her and slackened his pace as he came near. She left her place and walked swiftly past him, down the Corso. 

All at once she felt in the gust that drove her a cool drop of rain justbehind her ear, and a moment later, passing a gas-lamp, she saw the darkround spots on the grey pavement. In her haste, she had brought noumbrella. She hurried on, and the wind blew her forward with all itsmight, so that she felt her steps lightened by its help. The Corso wasdarker and there were fewer people. The rain fell fast when she reachedSan Carlo, where the street widens, and she gathered her cloak abouther as well as she could and crossed to the other side, hoping to findmore shelter. She was nearing the Via della Frezza, and she knew some ofthe ins and outs of the narrow streets behind the tribune of the greatchurch. It was very dark as she turned the semicircle of the apse, andthe rain fell in torrents, but it was shorter to go that way, for Griggslived nearer to the Ripetta than to the Corso, and she followed a sortof crooked diagonal, in the direction of his house. She thought thestreets led by that way to the point she wished to reach, and she walkedas fast as she could. The flare of an occasional oil lamp swung out highat the end of its lever showed her the way, and showed her, too, therush of the yellow water down the middle channel of the street. Shelooked in vain for the turning she expected on her right. She had notlost her way, but she had not found the short cut she had looked for. Emerging upon the broad Ripetta, she paused an instant at the corner andlooked about, though she knew which way to turn. Just then there wereheavy splashing footsteps close to her. 

"Permit me, Signora, " said a voice that was rough and had an odd accent, though the tone was polite, and a huge umbrella was held over her head. 

She shrank back against the wall quickly, in womanly fear of a strangeman. 

"No, thank you!" she exclaimed in answer. 

"But yes!" said the man. "It rains. You are getting an illness, Signora. "

The faint light showed her that she would be safe enough in acceptingthe offer. The man was evidently a peasant from the mountains, and hewas certainly not young. His vast black cloak was turned back a littleby his arm and showed the lining of green flannel and the blue clotheswith broad silver buttons which he wore. 

"Thank you, " she said, for she was glad of the shelter, and she stoodstill under the enormous blue cotton umbrella, with its battered brassknob and its coloured stripes. 

"But I will accompany you, " said the man. "It is certainly not beginningto finish. Apoplexy! It rains in pieces!"

"Thank you. I am not going far, " said Gloria. "You are very kind. "

"It seems to be the act of a Christian, " observed the peasant. 

She began to move, and he walked beside her. He would have thought itbad manners to ask whither she was going. Through the torrents of rainthey went on in silence. In less than five minutes she had found thedoor of Griggs's house. To her intense relief it was still open, andthere was the glimmer of a tiny oil lamp from a lantern in the stairway. Gloria felt for the money in her pocket. The man did not wait, norspeak, and was already going away. She called him. 

[Illustration: Stefanone and Gloria. --Vol. II. , p. 100. ]

"I wish to give you something, " said Gloria. 

"To me?" exclaimed the man, in surprise. "No, Signora. It seems that youmake a mistake. "

"Excuse me, " Gloria answered. "In the dark, I did not see. I am verygrateful to you. You are from the country?"

She wished to repair the mistake she had made, by some little civility. The man stood on the doorstep, with his umbrella hanging backward overhis shoulder, and she could see his face distinctly, --a typical Romanface with small aquiline features, keen dark eyes, a square jaw, andiron-grey hair. 

"Yes, Signora. Stefanone of Subiaco, wine merchant, to serve you. If youwish wine of Subiaco, ask for me at Piazza Montanara. Signora, it rainscolumns. With permission, I go. "

"Thank you again, " she answered. 

He disappeared into the torrent, and she was left alone at the foot ofthe gloomy stairs, under the feeble light of the little oil lamp. Shehad thrown back her veil, for it was soaked with water and stuck to herface. Little rivulets ran down upon the stones from her wet clothes, which felt intolerably heavy as she stood there, resting one gloved handagainst the damp wall and staring at the lantern. Her thoughts hadbeen disturbed by her brief interview with the peasant; the rain chilledher, and her face burned. She touched her cheek with her hand whereReanda had struck her. It felt bruised and sore, for the blow had notbeen a light one. The sensation of the wet leather disgusted her, andshe drew off the glove with difficulty, turning it inside out over herfull white hand. Then she touched the place again, and patted it, softly, and felt it. But her eyes did not move from the lantern. 

There was one of those momentary lulling pauses in the rush of eventswhich seem sent to confuse men's thoughts and unsettle their purposes. Had she reached the house five minutes earlier, she would not havehesitated a moment at the foot of the stairs. Suddenly she turned backto the door, and stood there looking out. It looked very black. Shegathered her dripping skirt back as she bent forward a little and peeredinto the darkness. The rain fell in sheets, now, with the unquaveringsound of a steadily rushing torrent. It would be madness to go out intoit. A shiver ran through her, and another. She was very cold andmiserable. No doubt Griggs had a fire upstairs, and a pleasant light inhis study. He would be there, hard at work. She would knock, and hewould open, and she would sit down by the fire and dry herself, and pourout her misery. The red bar was still across her face--she had seen itin the looking-glass when she had put on her hat. 

To go back, to see her husband that night--it was impossible. Later, perhaps, when he should be asleep, Griggs would find a carriage and takeher home. No one would ever know where she had been, and she would nevertell any more than Griggs would. She felt that she must see him and tellhim everything, and feel his strength beside her. After all, he was theonly friend she had in the world, and it was natural that she shouldturn to him for help, in her father's absence. He was her father'sfriend, too. 

She shivered again and again from head to foot, and she drew back fromthe door. For a moment she hesitated. Then with a womanly action shebegan to shake the rain out of her cloak and her skirts as well as shecould, wetting her hands to the wrists. As she bent down, shaking thehem of the skirt, the blood rushed to her face again, and the place hehad struck burned and smarted. It was quite a different sensation fromwhat she had felt when she had touched it with her cool wet hand. Shestraightened herself with a spring and threw back her head, and her eyesflashed fiercely in the dark. The accidents of fate closed round her, and the hands of her destiny had her by the throat, choking her as shebreathed. 

There was no more hesitation. With quick steps she began to ascend theshort, steep flights. It was dark, beyond the first turning, but shewent on, touching the damp walls with her hands. Then there was aglimmer again, and a second lantern marked the first landing and shonefeebly upon a green door with a thin little square of white marblescrewed to it for a door-plate and a name in black. She glanced at itand went on, for she knew that Griggs lived on the fifth floor. She wassurefooted, like her father, as she went firmly up, panting a little, for her drenched clothes weighed her down. There was one more light, andthen there were no more. She counted the landings, feeling the doorswith her hands as she went by, dizzy from the constant turning in thedarkness. At last she thought she had got to the end, and groping withher hands she found a worsted string and pulled it, and a cracked littlebell jangled and beat against the wood inside. She heard a pattering offeet, and a shrill, nasal child's voice called out the customaryquestion, inquiring who was there. She asked for Griggs. 

"He is not here, " answered the child, and she heard the footstepsrunning away again, though she called loudly. 

Her heart sank. But she groped her way on. The staircase ended, for itwas the top of the house, and she found another door, and felt for astring like the one she had pulled, but there was none. Something toldher that she was right, and with the sudden, desperate longing to beinside, with her strong protector, in the light and warmth, she beatupon the door with the palms of her hands, her face almost touching thecold painted wood studded with nails, that smelled of wet iron. 

Then came the firm, regular footsteps of the strong man, and his clear, stern voice spoke from within, not in a question, but in a curt refusalto open. 

"Go away, " he said, in Italian. "You have mistaken the door. "

But she beat with her hands upon the heavy wood. 

"Let me in!" she cried in English. "Let me in!"

There was a deep exclamation of surprise, and the oiled bolt clankedback in its socket. The door opened inward, and Paul Griggs held up alamp with a green shade, throwing the light into Gloria's face. 

CHAPTER XXX. 

GLORIA pushed past Griggs and stood beside him in the narrow entry. Heshut the door mechanically, and turned slowly towards her, still holdingup the lamp so that it shone upon her face. 

"What has happened to you?" he asked, slowly and steadily, his shadowedeyes fixed upon her. 

"He has beaten me, and I have come to you. Look at my face. "

He saw the red bar across her cheek. He did not raise his voice, andthere was little change in his features, but his eyes glowed suddenly, like the eyes of a wild beast, and he swore an oath so terrible thatGloria turned a little pale and shrank from him. Then he was silent, andthey stood together. She could hear his breath. She could see him tryingto swallow, for his throat was suddenly as dry as cinders. Very slowlyhis frown deepened to a scowl, and two straight furrows clove their waydown between his eyes, his dark eyebrows were lifted evilly, upward andoutward, and little by little the strong, clean shaven upper lip rose atthe corners and showed two gleaming, wolfish teeth. The smooth, closehair bristled from the point where it descended upon his forehead. 

Gloria shrank a little. She had seen such a look in an angry lion; justthe look, without a motion of the limbs. Then it all disappeared, andthe still face she knew so well was turned to hers. 

"Will you come in?" he asked in a constrained tone. "It is my work-room. I will light a fire, and you must dry yourself. How did you get so wet?You did not come on foot?"

He opened the door while he was speaking, and led the way with the lamp. Gloria shivered as she followed, for there was a small window open inthe entry, and her clothes clung to her in the cold draught. She closedthe door behind her, as she went in. It was very little warmer withinthan without, and the small fireplace was black and cold. Instinctivelyshe glanced at Griggs. He wore a rough pilot coat that had seen muchservice, buttoned to his throat. He set the little lamp with its greenshade down upon the table amidst a mass of papers and books, and drewforward the only easy-chair there was, a dilapidated piece of furniturecovered with faded yellow reps and ragged fringes that dragged on thefloor. He took a great cloak from a clothes-horse in the corner andthrew it over the chair, smoothing it carefully with his hands. 

"If you will sit down, I will try and make a fire, " he said quietly. 

She sat down as he bade her, wondering a little at his calmness, butremembering the awful words that had escaped his lips when she hadspoken, and the look of the wild beast and incarnate devil that had beenone moment in his face. She looked about her while he began to make afire, not hindering him, for she was shivering. The room was large, butvery poorly furnished. There were two great tables, covered with booksand papers; there was a deal bookcase along one wall and an antiquatedcabinet between the two windows, one of its legs propped up with a dingyfaded paper. The coarse green carpet was threadbare, but still whole. There were half-a-dozen plain chairs with green and white rush seats invarious parts of the room. On the narrow white marble mantel-shelf stoodtwo china candlesticks, in one of which there was a piece of candle thathad guttered when last burning. In the middle a cheap American clock ofwhite metal ticked loudly, and the hands pointed to twenty minutesbefore nine. In one corner was the clothes-horse, with two or threeovercoats hanging on it, and two hats, one of which was hanging halfover on one side. It looked as though two cloaked skeletons in hats wereembracing. In another corner by the door a black stick and an umbrellastood side by side. But for the books the place would have had adesolate look. The air smelt of strong tobacco. 

Gloria looked about her curiously, though her heart was beating fast. The man was familiar to her, dear to her in many ways, and over much inher life. The place where he lived contained a part of him which she didnot know. Her breath came quickly in the anticipation of an emotiongreater even than what she had felt already, but her eyes wandered incuriosity from one object to another. Suddenly she heard the loudcracking of breaking wood. There was a blaze of paper from thefireplace, illuminating all the room, and some light pieces he wasthrowing on kindled quickly. He was breaking them--she looked--it wasone of the rush-bottomed chairs. 

"What are you doing?" she cried, leaning suddenly far forward. 

"Making a good fire, " he answered. "There happened to be only one bit ofwood in my box, so I am taking these things. "

He broke the legs and the rails of the chair in his hands, as a childwould break twigs, and heaped them up upon the blaze. 

"There are five more, " he observed. "They will make a good fire. "

He arranged the burning mass to suit him, looked at it, and then turned. 

"You ought to be a little nearer, " he said, and he lifted the chair withher in it and set her before the fireplace. 

It had all looked and felt desperately desolate half a minute earlier. It was changed now. He went to a corner and filled a small glass withwine from a straw-covered flask and brought it to her. She thanked himwith her eyes and drank half of it eagerly. He knelt down before thefire again, for as the paper burned away underneath, the light sticksfell inward and might go out. When he had arranged it all again, helooked round and met her eyes, still kneeling. 

"Is that better?" he asked quietly. 

"You are so good, " said Gloria, letting her eyelids droop as she lookedfrom him to the pleasant flame. 

He put out his hand and gently touched the hem of her cloth skirt. 

"You are drenched, " he said. 

Then, before she realized what he was doing, he bent down and kissed thewet cloth, and without looking at her rose to his feet, got anotherchair and sat down near her. A soft blush of pleasure had risen in hercheeks. They were little things that he did, but they were like him, unaffected, strong, direct. Another man would have made apologies forhaving no wood and would have tried to make a fire of the single stick. Another man would have made excuses for the disorder of his room, or forthe poverty of its furniture, perhaps. The other man she thought of washer husband, and possibly she had her father in her mind, too. 

"When you are rested, tell me your story, " he said, and his facehardened all at once. 

She began to speak in a low and uncertain voice, reciting almostmechanically many things which she had often told him before. Helistened without moving a muscle. Her voice was dear to him, whether sherepeated the endless history of her woes for the tenth or the hundredthtime. Where she was concerned he had no judgment, and he had nocriterion, for he had never loved another woman with whom he couldcompare her. All that was of her was of paramount interest and weightyimportance. He could not hear it too often. But to-night her first wordshad told him of the violent crisis in her life with Reanda, and helistened to all she said, before she reached that point, with aninterest he had never felt before. But he would not look at her, for hemust have taken her in his arms, as he had done once, months before now. She had come for protection and for help, and her need was the lifespring of his honour. 

As she went on, her voice took colour from her emotion, her hands movednow and then in short swift gestures, and her dark eyes burned. Themarvellous dramatic power she possessed blazed out under the lash of herwrongs, and she found words she had only groped for until that moment. She described the miserably nervous feebleness of the man with scathingcontempt, her tone made evil deeds of his shortcomings, her scorn madehis weakness a black crime; her jealous anger fastened upon FrancescaCampodonico and tore her honour to shreds and her virtues to rags ofabomination; and her flaming pride blazed out in searing hatred andcontempt for the coward who had struck her in the face. 

"He broke my fan across my face!" she cried with the ascendingintonation of a fury rising still, and still more fiercely beautiful. "He slashed my face with it and broke it and threw the bits down at myfeet! There, look at it! That is his work--oh, give it back to him, killhim for me, tear him to pieces for me--make him feel what I have feltto-day!"

She had pushed her brown hat and veil back from her head, and her wetcloak had long ago fallen from her shoulders. One straight, white handshot out and fastened upon her companion's arm, as he sat beside her, and she shook it in savage confidence of his iron strength. 

A dead silence followed, but the fire made of the broken chairs roaredand blazed on the low brick hearth. The man kept his eyes upon itfixedly, as though it were his salvation, for he felt that if he lookedat her he was lost. She had come to him not for love, but forprotection, of her own free will. Yet he felt that his honour wasburning in him, with no longer life, if she stayed there, than theshort, quick fire itself. His voice was thick when he answered, asthough he were speaking through a velvet pall. 

"I will kill him, if he will fight, " he answered, with an effort. "Iwill not murder him, even for you. "

She started, for she had not realized how he would take literally whatshe said. She had no experience of desperate men in her limited life. 

"Murder him? No!" she said, snatching back her hand from his arm. "No, no! I never meant that. "

"I am glad you did not. If you did, I should probably break down and doit to please you. But if he will fight like a man, I will kill him toplease myself. Now I will go and get a carriage and take you home. "

He rose to his feet and, turning, turned away from her, going toward thecorner to get an overcoat. She followed him with her eyes, in silence. 

"You are not afraid to be left alone for a quarter of an hour?" heasked, buttoning his coat, and looking toward his umbrella. 

"Do not go just yet, " she answered softly. 

"I must. It is getting late. I shall not find a carriage if I wait anylonger. I must go now. "

"Do not go. "

She heard him breathe hard once or twice. Then with quick strides he wasbeside her, and speaking to her. 

"Gloria, I cannot stand it--I warn you. I love you in a way you cannotunderstand. You must not keep me here. "

"Do not go, " she said again, in the deep, soft tone of her golden voice. 

"I must. "

He turned from her and went towards the door. Soft and swift shefollowed him, but he was in the entry before her hand was on his arm. Itwas almost dusk out there. He stopped. 

"I cannot go back to him, " she said, and he could see the light in hereyes, and very faintly the red bar across the face he loved. 

"You should--there is nowhere else for you to go, " he said, and in thedark his hand was finding the bolt of the door to the stairs. 

"No--there is nowhere else--I cannot go back to him, " she answered, andthe voice quavered uncertainly as the night breeze sighing amongstreeds. 

"You must--you must, " he tried to say. 

Her weight was all upon his arm, but it was nothing to him. He steadilydrew back the bolt. He turned up his face so that he could not see her. 

With sudden strength her white hands went round his sinewy dark throatas he threw back his head. 

"You are all I have in the world!" she half said, half whispered. "Iwill not let you go!"

"You?" His voice broke out as through a bursting shell. 

"Yes. Come back!"

His arm fell like lead to his side. Gently she drew him back to the doorof the study. The blaze of the fire shot into her face. 

"Come, " she said. "See how well it burns. "

"Yes, " he said, mechanically, "it is burning well. "

He stood aside an instant at the door to let her pass. His eyelidsclosed and his face became rigid as a death mask of a man dead inpassion. One moment only; then he followed her and softly shut thedoor. 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE brilliant winter morning had an intoxicating quality in it, afterthe heavy rain which had fallen in the night, and Paul Griggs felt thatit was good to be alive as he threaded the narrow streets between hislodging and the Piazza Colonna. He avoided the Corso; for he did notknow whom he might meet, and he had no desire to meet any one, exceptAngelo Reanda. 

Naturally enough, his first honourable impulse was to go to the artist, to tell him something of the truth, and to give him an opportunity ofdemanding the common satisfaction of a hostile meeting. It did not occurto him that Reanda would not wish to exchange shots with him and havethe chance of taking his life. Griggs was not the man to refuse such anencounter, and at that moment he felt so absolutely sure of himself thatthe idea of being killed was very far removed from his thoughts. It waswithout the slightest emotion that he enquired for Reanda at thelatter's house, but he was very much surprised to hear that the painterhad gone out as usual at his customary hour. He hesitated a moment andthen decided not to leave a card, upon which he could not have writtena message intelligible to Reanda which should not have been understoodalso by the servant who received it. Griggs made up his mind that hewould write a formal note later in the day. He took it for granted thatReanda must be searching for his wife. 

It was necessary to find a better lodging than the one in the Via dellaFrezza, and to provide as well as he could for Gloria's comfort. He wasmet by a difficulty upon which he had not reflected as yet, though hehad been dimly aware of it more than once during the past twelve hours. 

He was almost penniless, and he had no means of obtaining money at shortnotice. The payments he received from the newspapers for which he workedcame regularly, but were not due for at least three weeks from that day. Alone in his bachelor existence he could have got through the time verywell and without any greater privations than his capriciously asceticnature had often imposed upon itself. 

He was not an improvident man, but in his lonely existence he had nosense of future necessities, and the weakest point in his judgment washis undiscriminating generosity. Of the value of money as a storeagainst possible needs, he had no appreciation at all, and he gave awaywhat he earned beyond his most pressing requirements in secret and oftenill-judged charities, whenever an occasion of doing so presenteditself, though he never sought one. For himself, he was able to subsiston bread and water, and the meagre fare was scarcely a privation to hishardy constitution. If he chanced to have no money to spare for fuel, hebore the cold and buttoned up his old pea-jacket to the throat while hesat at work at his table. His self-respect made him wise and careful inregard to his dress, but in other matters many a handicraftsman wasaccustomed to more luxury than he. At the present juncture he had beentaken unawares, and he found himself in great difficulty. He had lefthimself barely enough for subsistence until the arrival of the nextremittance, and that meant but a very few scudi; and yet he knew thatcertain expenses must be met immediately, almost within the twenty-fourhours. The very first thing was to get a lodging suitable for Gloria. Itwould be necessary to pay at least one month's rent in advance. Even ifhe were able to do that, he would be left without a penny for dailyexpenses. He had no bank account; for he cashed the drafts he receivedand kept the money in his room. He had never borrowed of anacquaintance, and the idea was repulsive to him and most humiliating. Had he possessed any bit of jewelry, or anything of value, he would havesold the object, but he had nothing of the kind. His books werepractically valueless, consisting of such volumes as he absolutelyneeded for his daily use, chiefly cheap editions, poorly bound and wellworn. He needed at least fifty scudi, and he did not possess quite ten. Three weeks earlier he had sent a hundred, anonymously, to free astarving artist from debt. 

His position was only very partially enviable just then, but the brightnorth wind seemed to blow his troubles back from him as he faced it, walking home from his ineffectual attempt to meet Reanda. It was veryunlike the man to return to his lodging without having accomplishedanything, but he was hardly conscious of the fact. The face of theancient city was suddenly changed, and it seemed as though nothing couldgo wrong if he would only allow fortune to play her own game withoutinterference. He walked lightly, and there was a little colour in hisface. He tried to think of what he should do to meet his presentdifficulties, but when he thought of them they were whirled away, shapeless and unrecognizable, and he felt a sense of irresistible powerwith each breath of the crisp dry air. 

As he went along he glanced at the houses he passed, and on some of thedoors were little notices scrawled in queer handwritings and tellingthat a lodging was to let. Occasionally he paused, looked up andhesitated, and then he went on. The difficulty was suddenly before him, and he knew that even if he looked at the rooms he could not hire them, as he had not enough money to cover the first month's rent. Immediatelyhe attempted to devise some means of raising the sum he needed, butbefore he had reached the very next corner the clear north wind hadblown the trouble away like a cobweb. With all his strength and industryand determination, he was still a very young man, and perplexity had nohold upon him since passion had taken its own way. 

He reached the corner of his own street and stood still for a fewmoments. He could almost have smiled at himself as he paused. He hadbeen out more than an hour and had done nothing, thought out nothing, made no definite plan for the future. His present poverty, which wasdesperate enough, had put on a carnival mask and laughed at him, as itwere, and ran away when he tried to grapple with it and look it in theface. Gloria was there, upstairs in that tall house on which the morningsun was shining, and nothing else could possibly matter. But if anythingmattered, it would be simple to talk it over together and to decide itin common. 

Suddenly he felt ashamed of himself and of the confusion of his ownintelligence. There was something meek and childish in standing still atthe street corner, watching the people as they went by, listening to theregularly recurring yell of the man who was selling country vegetablesfrom a hand-cart, and looking into the faces of people who went by, asthough expecting to find there some solution of a difficulty which hisdisturbed powers of concentration did not clearly grasp. He could notthink connectedly, much less could he reason sensibly. He made a fewsteps forward towards his house, and then stopped again, asking himselfwhat he was going to do. He felt that he had no right to go back toGloria until he had decided something for the future. He felt like a boywho has been sent on an errand, and who comes back having forgotten whathe was to do. All at once he had lost his hold upon the logic ofcommon-sense, and when he groped for a thread that might lead him, hewas suddenly dazzled by the blaze of his happiness and deafened by thevoice of his own joy. 

He went on again and came to his own door. The one-eyed cobbler was atwork, astride of his little bench with a brown pot of coals beside him. From time to time, when he had drawn the waxed yarn out through theleather on both sides, he blew into his black hands. Griggs stood stilland looked at him in idle indetermination, and only struggling againstthe power that drew him towards the stairs. 

"A fine north wind, " observed Griggs, by way of salutation. 

"It seems that it must be said, " grunted the old man, punching a freshhole in the sole he was cobbling. "To me, my fingers say it. It hasalways been a fine trade, this cobbling. It is a gentleman's tradebecause one is always sitting down. "

"I am going to change my lodging, " said Griggs. 

The cobbler looked up, resting his dingy fists upon the bench on eachside of the shoe, his awl in one hand, the other half encased in aleathern sheath, black with age. 

"After so many years!" he exclaimed. "The world will also come to anend. I expected that it would. Now where will you take lodging?"

"Where I can find one. I want a little apartment--"

"It seems that your affairs go better, " observed the old man, scrutinizing the other's face with his one eye. 

"No. No better. That is the trouble. I want a little apartment, and I donot want to pay for it till the end of the first month. "

"Then wait till the end of the month before you move to it, Signore. "

"That is impossible. "

"Then there is a female, " said the cobbler, without the slightesthesitation. "I understand. Why did you not say so?"

Griggs hesitated. The man's guess had taken him by surprise. Hereflected that it could make no difference whether the old cobbler knewof Gloria's coming or not. 

"There is a signora--a relation of mine--who has come to Rome. "

"A fair signora? Very beautiful? With a little eye of the devil? I haveseen. Thanks be to heaven, one eye is still good. You are dark, and yourfamily is fair. How can it interest me?"

"What? Has she gone out?" asked Griggs, in sudden anxiety. "When?"

"I had guessed!" exclaimed the cobbler, with a grunting laugh, and heran the delicate bristles, which pointed the yarn, in oppositedirections through the hole he had made, caught one yarn round the knoton the handle of the awl and the other round the leather sheath on hisleft hand. He drew the yarn tight to his arm's length with a viciousjerk. 

"When did the signora go out?" enquired Griggs, repeating his question. 

"It may be half an hour ago. Apoplexy! If your relations are all asbeautiful as that!"

But Griggs was already moving towards the staircase. The cobbler calledhim back, and he stood still at the foot of the steps. 

"There is the little apartment on the left, on the third floor, " saidthe man. "The lodgers went away yesterday. I was going to ask you towrite me a notice to put up on the door. As for paying, the padrone willnot mind, seeing that you are an old lodger. It is good, do you know?There is sun. There is also a kitchen. There are five rooms with theentry. "

[Illustration: "The horror of poverty smote him. "--Vol. II. , p. 123. ]

"I will take it, " said Griggs, instantly, and he ran up the stairs. 

He was breathless with anxiety as he entered his work-room, and lookedabout him for something which should tell him where Gloria was gone. Almost instantly his eyes fell upon a sheet of paper lying before hisaccustomed seat. The writing on it was hers. 

"I have gone to tell him. I shall be back soon. "

That was all it said, but it was enough to blacken the sun that streamedthrough the windows upon the old carpet. Griggs sat down and rested hishead in his hand. With the cloud that came between him and happiness, his powers of reason returned, and he saw quickly, in the pre-vision oflogic, a scene of violence and anger between husband and wife, apossible reconciliation, and the instant wreck of his storm-driven love. It was impossible to know what Gloria would tell Reanda. 

At the same instant the difficulties of his position rushed upon him anddemanded an instant solution. He looked about him at the poor room, themiserable furniture, and the worn-out carpet, and the horror of povertysmote him in the face. He had allowed Gloria to come to him, and he knewthat he could not support her decently. He had never found himself inso desperate a position in the course of his short and adventurous life. He could face anything when he alone was to suffer privation, but it washorrible to force misery upon the woman he loved. 

Then, too, he asked himself what was to happen to Gloria if Reandakilled him, as was possible enough. And if he were not killed, there wasDalrymple, her father, who might return at any moment. No one couldforetell what the Scotchman would do. It would be like him to do nothingexcept to refuse ever to see his daughter again. But he, also, mightchoose to fight, though his English traditions would be against it. Inany case, Gloria ran the risk of being left alone, ruined andunprotected. 

But the present problem was a meaner one, though not less desperate inits way. He reproached himself with having wasted even an hour when thecase was so urgent. Without longer hesitation, he began to write lettersto the editors for whom he worked, requesting them as a favour toadvance the next remittance. Even then, he could scarcely expect to havemoney in less than ten days, and there was no one to whom he wouldwillingly turn for help. Under ordinary circumstances he would have gonewithout food for days rather than have borrowed of an acquaintance, buthe realized that he must overcome any such false pride within a day ortwo, at the risk of making Gloria suffer. 

In those first hours he was not conscious of any question of right orwrong in what had taken place. Honour, in a rather worldly sense, hadalways supplied for him the place of all other moral considerations. Thewoman he loved had been ill-treated by her husband, and had come to himfor protection. He had done his best, in spite of his love, to make hergo back, and she had known how to refuse. Men, as men, would not blamehim for what he was doing. Gloria, as a woman, could never reproach himwith having tempted her. He might suffer for his deeds, but he couldnever blush for them. 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

MEANWHILE, Gloria had gone out alone, intending to find her husband andto tell him that the die was cast, that she had left him in haste andanger, but that she never would return to his house. She felt that shemust live through the chain of emotions to the very last link, as itwere, until she could feel no more. It was like her to go straight toReanda and take up the battle where she had interrupted it. Her angerhad been sudden, but it was not brief. She had left weakness, and hadfound strength to add to her own, and she wished the man who had hurther to feel how strong she was, and how she was able to take her lifeout of his hands and to keep it for herself, and live it as she pleasedin spite of him and every one. The wild blood that ran in her veins wasfree, now, and she meant that no one but herself should ever again havethe right to thwart it, to tell her heart that it should beat so manytimes in each minute and no more. She was perfectly well aware that shewas accepting social ruin with her freedom, but she had long nourished arancorous hatred for the society which had seemed to accept her underprotest, for Francesca's sake, and she was ready enough to turn her backon it before it should finally make up its polite mind to relegate herto the middle distance of indifferent toleration. 

As for Reanda, on that first morning she hated him with all her soul, for himself, and for what he had done to her. She had words ready forhim, and she turned and fitted them in her heart that they might cut himand stab him as long as he could feel. The selfishness with a tendencyto cruelty which was a working spring of her father's character wasstrong in her, and craved the satisfaction of wounding. A part of thesudden joy in life which she felt as she walked towards what had beenher home, lay in the certainty of dealing back fourfold hurt for everyreal and fancied injury she had ever suffered at Reanda's hands. 

She felt quite sure of finding him. She did not imagine it possible thatafter what had happened he should go to the Palazzetto Borgia to work asusual. Besides, he must have discovered her absence by this time, andwould in all probability be searching for her. She smiled at the idea, and she went swiftly on, keenly ready to give all the pain she could. 

At her own door the servant seemed surprised to see her. Every one hadsupposed that she was still in her room, for it was not yet midday, andshe sometimes slept very late. She glanced at the hall table and sawher key lying amongst the cards where she had thrown it when she hadleft the house. The servant did not see her take it, for she made apretence of turning the cards over to find some particular one. Sheasked indifferently about her husband. The man said that Reanda had goneout as usual. Gloria started a little in surprise, and inquired whetherhe had left no message for her. On hearing that he had given none, shesent the servant away, went to her own room, and locked herself in. 

With a curious Scotch caution very much at variance with her conduct, she reflected that as the servants were evidently not aware of what hadtaken place, they might as well be kept in the dark. In a few momentsshe gave the room the appearance which it usually had in the morning. With perfect calmness she dressed for the day, and then rang for hermaid. 

She told the woman that she had slept badly, had got up early, and hadgone out for a long walk; that she now intended to leave Rome for a fewdays, for a change of air, and must have what she needed packed withinan hour. She gave a few orders, clearly and concisely, and then went outagain, leaving word that if Reanda returned he should be told that shewas coming back very soon. 

Clearly, she thought, he must have supposed that she was still sleeping, and he had gone to his painting without any further thought of her. Again she smiled, and a line of delicate cruelty was faintly shadowedabout her lips. She left the house and walked in the direction of thePalazzetto. Reanda always came home to the midday breakfast, and it wasnearly time for him to be on his way. Gloria knew every turning which hewould take, and she hoped to meet him. Her eyes flashed in anticipationof the contest, and she felt that he would not be able to meet them. They would be too bright for him. There was a small mark on her cheekstill, where one of the sharp edges of the ivory slats had scratched herfair skin, and there was a slight redness on that side, but the brightred bar was gone. She was glad of it, as she nodded to a passingacquaintance. 

She wished to assure herself that her husband was really at thePalazzetto, and she inquired of the porter at the great gate whetherReanda had been seen that morning. The man said that he had come at theusual hour, and stood aside for her to pass, but she turned from himabruptly and went away without a word. 

The blood rose in her cheeks, and her heart beat angrily. He hadattached no more importance than this to what he had done, and had goneto his painting as though nothing had happened. He had not even tried tosee her in the morning to beg her pardon for having struck her. Strangeto say, in spite of what she herself had done, that was what most rousedher anger. She demanded the satisfaction of his asking her forgiveness, as though she had no fault to find with herself. In comparison with hiscowardly violence to her, her leaving him for Griggs was as nothing inher eyes. 

She walked more slowly as she went homewards, and the unspokenbitterness of her heart choked her, and the sharp words she could notspeak cut her cruelly. She compared the hand that had dared to hurtthough it had not strength to kill, with that other, dearer, gentler, more terrible hand, which could have killed anything, but which wouldrather be burned to the wrist than let one of its fingers touch herroughly. She compared them, and she loved the one and she loathed theother, with all her heart. And with that same hand Reanda, at that samemoment, was painting some goddess's face, and it had forgotten whosedivinely lovely cheek it had struck. It was painting unless, perhaps, itlay in Francesca's. But Gloria had not forgotten, and she would repaybefore the day darkened. 

Her husband, since he was calm enough to go to his work, would come homefor his breakfast when he was hungry. Gloria went back to her room andsuperintended the packing of what she needed. But she was not so calm asshe had been half an hour earlier, and she waited impatiently for herhusband's return and for the last scene of the drama. When the thingswere packed, she had the box taken out to the hall and sent for a cab. As she foresaw the situation, she would leave the house forever as soonas the last word was spoken. Then she went into the drawing-room andwaited, watching the clock. 

There, on the mantelpiece, lay the broken fan, where the fragments hadbeen placed by the servant. Gloria looked at them, handled themcuriously, and felt her cheek softly with her hand. He must have struckher with all his might, she thought, to have hurt her as he had with solight a weapon; and the whole quarrel came back to her vividly, in everydetail, and with every spoken word. 

She could not regret what she had done. With an attempt atself-examination, which was only a self-justification, she tried torecall the early days when she had loved her husband, and to conjure upthe face with the gentle light in it. She failed, of course, and thepicture that came disgusted her and was unutterably contemptible andweak and full of cowardice. The face of Paul Griggs came in its place amoment later, and she heard in her ears the deep, stern voice, quaveringwith strength rather than with weakness, and she could feel the arms sheloved about her, pressing her almost to pain, able to press her to deathin their love-clasp. 

The hands of the clock went on, and Reanda did not come. She wassurprised to find how long she had waited, and with a revulsion offeeling she rose to her feet. If he would not come, she would not waitfor him. She was hungry, too. It was absurd, perhaps, but she would noteat his bread nor sit at his table, not even alone. She went to herwriting-table and wrote a note to him, short, cruel, and decisive. Shewrote that if her father had been in Rome she would have gone to him forprotection. As he was absent, she had gone to her father's best friendand her own--to Paul Griggs. She said nothing more. He might interpretthe statement as he pleased. She sealed the note and addressed it, andbefore she went out of the house she gave it to the servant, to be givento Reanda as soon as he came home. The man-servant went downstairs withher, and stood looking after the little open cab; he saw Gloria speak tothe coachman, who nodded and changed his direction before they were outof sight. 

At the door in the Via della Frezza the cabman let down Gloria's luggageand drove away. She stood still a moment and looked at the one-eyedcobbler. 

"You have given the signore a beautiful fright, " observed the old man. "I told him you had gone out. With one jump he was upstairs. By thistime he cries. "

Gloria took a silver piece of two pauls from her purse. 

"Can you carry up these things for me?" she inquired, concealing herannoyance at the man's speech. 

"I am not a porter, " said the cobbler, with his head on one side. "Butone must live. With courage and money one makes war. There are threepieces. One at a time. But you must watch the door while I carry up thebox. If any one should steal my tools, it would be a beautiful day'swork. Without them I should be in the middle of the street. You willunderstand, Signora. It is not to do you a discourtesy, but my tools aremy bread. Without them I cannot eat. There is also the left boot of SorErcole. If any one were to steal it, Sor Ercole would go upon one leg. Imagine the disgrace!"

"I will stay here, " said Gloria. "Do not be afraid. "

The cobbler, who was a strong old man, got hold of the trunk andshouldered it with ease. When he stood up, Gloria saw that he wasbandy-legged and very short. 

She turned and stood on the threshold of the street door as she hadstood on the previous night. No one would have believed that a few hoursearlier the rain had fallen in torrents, for the pavement was dry, andeven under the arch there seemed to be no dampness. Looking up thestreet towards the Corso, she saw that there was a wine shop, a fewdoors higher on the opposite side. Two or three men were standing beforeit, under the brown bush which served for a sign, and amongst them shesaw a peasant in blue cloth clothes with silver buttons and clean whitestockings. She recognized him as the man who had held his umbrella overher in the storm. He also saw her, lifted his felt hat and cameforwards, crossing the street. His look was fixed on her face with astare of curiosity as he stood before her. 

"I hope you have not caught cold, Signora, " he said, with steady, unwinking eyes. "We passed a beautiful storm. Signora, I sell wine tothat host. If you should need wine, I recommend him to you. " He pointedto the shop. 

"You told me to ask for you at the Piazza Montanara, " said Gloria, smiling. 

"With that water you could not see the shop, " answered Stefanone. "Signora, you are very beautiful. With permission, I say that you shouldnot walk alone at night. "

"It was the first and last time, " said Gloria. "Fortunately, I met aperson of good manners. I thank you again. "

"Signora, you are so beautiful that the Madonna and her angels alwaysaccompany you. With permission, I go. Good day. "

To the last, until he turned, he kept his eyes steadily fixed onGloria's face, as though searching for a resemblance in her features. She noticed his manner and remembered him very distinctly after thesecond meeting. 

The cobbler came back again, closely followed by Griggs himself, whosaid nothing, but took possession of the small valise and bag whichGloria had brought in addition to her box. He led the way, and shefollowed him swiftly. Inside the door of his lodging he turned andlooked at her. 

"Please do not go away suddenly without telling me, " he said in a lowvoice. "I am easily frightened about you. "

"Really?"

Gloria held out her two hands to meet him. He nodded as he took them. 

"That is better than anything you have ever said to me. " She drew him toher. 

It was natural, for she was thinking how Reanda had calmly gone back tohis work that morning, without so much as asking for her. The contrastwas too great and too strong, between love and indifference. 

They went into the work-room together, and Gloria sat down on one of therush chairs, and told Griggs what she had done. He walked slowly up anddown while she was speaking, his eyes on the pattern of the old carpet. 

"I might have stayed, " she said at last. "The servants did not even knowthat I had been out of the house. "

"You should have stayed, " said Griggs. "I ought to say it, at least. "

But as he spoke the mask softened and the rare smile beautified for oneinstant the still, stern face. 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

REANDA neither wished to see Gloria again, nor to take vengeance uponPaul Griggs. He was not a brave man, morally or physically, and he wasglad that his wife had left him. She had put him in the right, and hehad every reason for refusing ever to see her again. With a cynicismwhich would have been revolting if it had not been almost childlike inits simplicity, he discharged his servants, sold his furniture, gave uphis apartment in the Corso, and moved back to his old quarters in thePalazzetto Borgia. But he did not acknowledge Gloria's note in any otherway. 

She had left him, and he wished to blot out her existence as though hehad never known her, not even remembering the long two years of hismarried life. She was gone. There was no Gloria, and he wished thatthere never had been any woman with her name and face. 

On the third day, he met Paul Griggs in the street. The younger man sawReanda coming, and stood still on the narrow pavement, in order to showthat he had no intention of avoiding him. As the artist came up, Griggslifted his hat gravely. Reanda mechanically raised his hand to his ownhat and passed the man who had injured him, without a word. Griggs saw aslight, nervous twitching in the delicate face, but that was all. Hethought that Reanda looked better, less harassed and less thin, than fora long time. He had at once returned to his old peaceful life andenjoyed it, and had evidently not the smallest intention of everdemanding satisfaction of his former friend. 

Francesca Campodonico had listened in nervous silence to Reanda's story. 

"She has done me a kindness, " he concluded. "It is the first. She hasgiven me back my freedom. I shall not disturb her. "

The colour was in Francesca's face, and her eyes looked down. Herdelicate lips were a little drawn in, as though she were making aneffort to restrain her words, for it was one of the hardest moments ofher life. Being what she was, it was impossible for her to understandGloria's conduct. But at the same time she felt that she was liberatedfrom something which had oppressed her, and the colour in her cheeks wasa flash of satisfaction and relief mingled with a certain displeasure ather own sensations and the certainty that she should be ashamed of themby and bye. 

It was not in her nature to accept such a termination for Reanda'smarried life, however he himself might be disposed to look upon it. 

"You are to blame almost as much as Gloria, " she said, and she wassincerely in earnest. 

She was too good and devout a woman to believe in duelling, but she wasfar too womanly to be pleased with Reanda's indifference. It was wickedto fight duels and unchristian to seek revenge. She knew that, and itwas a conviction as well as an opinion. But a man who allowed another totake his wife from him and did not resent the injury could not commandher respect. Something in her blood revolted against such tameness, though she would not for all the world have had Reanda take Gloria back. Between the two opposites of conviction and instinct, she did not knowwhat to do. Moreover, Reanda had struck his wife. He admitted it, thoughapologetically and with every extenuating circumstance which he couldremember. 

"Yes, " he answered. "I know that I did wrong. Am I infallible? HolySaint Patience! I could bear no more. But it is clear that she waswaiting for a reason for leaving me. I gave it to her, and she should begrateful. She also is free, as I am. "

"It is horrible!" exclaimed Francesca, with sorrowful emphasis. 

She blamed herself quite as much as Reanda or Gloria, because she hadbrought them together and had suggested the marriage. Reanda's thinshoulders went up, and he smiled incredulously. 

"I do not see what is so horrible, " he answered. "Two people think theyare in love. They marry. They discover their mistake. They separate. Well? It is finished. Let us make the sign of the cross over it. "

The common Roman phrase, signifying that a matter is ended and buried, as it were, jarred upon Francesca, for whom the smallest religiousallusion had a real meaning. 

"It is not the sign of the cross which should be made, " she said sadlyand gravely, and the colour was gone from her face now. "There are twolives wrecked, and a human soul in danger. We cannot say that it isfinished, and pass on. "

"What would you have me do?" asked Reanda, almost impatiently. "Take herback?"

"No!" exclaimed Francesca, with a sharp intonation as though she werehurt. 

"Well, then, what? I do not see that anything is to be done. She herselfcan think of her soul. It is her property. She has made me sufferenough--let some one else suffer. I have enough of it. "

"You will forgive her some day, " said Francesca. "You are angry still, and you speak cruelly. You will forgive her. "

"Never, " answered Reanda, with emphasis. "I will not forgive her forwhat she made me bear, any more than I will forgive Griggs for receivingher when she left me. I will not touch them, but I will not forgivethem. I am not angry. Why should I be?"

Francesca sighed, for she did not understand the man, though hithertoshe had always understood him, or thought that she had, ever since shehad been a mere child, playing with his colours and brushes in thePalazzo Braccio. She left the hall and went to her own sitting-room onthe other side of the house. As soon as she was alone, the tears came toher eyes. She was hardly aware of them, and when she felt them on hercheeks she wondered why she was crying, for she did not often shedtears, and was a woman of singularly well balanced nature, able tocontrol herself on the rare occasions when she felt any strong emotion. 

In spite of Reanda's conduct, she determined not to leave matters asthey were without attempting to improve them. She wrote a note to PaulGriggs, asking him to come and see her during the afternoon. 

He could not refuse to answer the summons, knowing, as he did, that hemust in honour respond to any demand for an explanation coming fromReanda's side. Gloria wished him to reply to the note, giving an excuseand hinting that no good could come of any meeting. 

"It is a point of honour, " he answered briefly, and she yielded, for hedominated her altogether. 

Francesca received him in her own small sitting-room, which overlookedthe square before the Palazzetto. It was very quiet, and there wereroses in old Vienna vases. It was a very old-fashioned room, the air wassweet with the fresh flowers, and the afternoon sun streamed in througha single tall window. Francesca sat on a small sofa which stoodcrosswise between the window and the writing-table. She had a framebefore her on which was stretched a broad band of deep red satin, apiece of embroidery in which she was working heraldic beasts andarmorial bearings in coloured silks. 

She did not rise, nor hold out her hand, but pointed to a chair nearher, as she spoke. 

"I asked you to come, " she said, "because I wish to speak to you aboutGloria. "

Griggs bent his head, sat down, and waited with a perfectly impassiveface. Possibly there was a rather unusual aggressiveness in the straightlines of his jaw and his even lips. There was a short silence beforeFrancesca spoke again. 

"Do you know what you have done?" she asked, finishing a stitch andlooking quietly into the man's deep eyes. 

He met her glance calmly, but said nothing, merely bending his headagain, very slightly. 

"It is very wicked, " said she, and she began to make another stitch, looking down again. 

"I have no doubt that you think so, " answered Paul Griggs, slowlynodding a third time. 

"It is not a question of opinion. It is a matter of fact. You haveruined the life of an innocent woman. "

"If social position is the object of existence, you are right, " hereplied. "I have nothing to say. "

"I am not speaking of social position, " said Donna Francesca, continuingto make stitches. 

"Then I am afraid that I do not understand you. "

"Can you conceive of nothing more important to the welfare of men andwomen than social position?"

"It is precisely because I do, that I care so little what societythinks. I do not understand you. "

"I have known you some time, " said Francesca. "I had not supposed thatyou were a man without a sense of right and wrong. That is the questionwhich is concerned now. "

"It is a question which may be answered from more than one point ofview. You look at it in one way, and I in another. With your permission, we will differ about it, since we can never agree. "

"There is no such thing as differing about right and wrong, " answeredDonna Francesca, with a little impatience. "Right is right, and wrong iswrong. You cannot possibly believe that you have done right. Thereforeyou know that you have done wrong. "

"That sort of logic assumes God at the expense of man, " said Griggs, calmly. 

Francesca looked up with a startled expression in her eyes, for she wasshocked, though she did not understand him. 

"God is good, and man is sinful, " she answered, in the words of hersimple faith. 

"Why?" asked Griggs, gravely. 

He waited for her answer to the most tremendous question which man canask, and he knew that she could not answer him, though she might satisfyherself. 

"I have never talked about religion with an atheist, " she said at last, slowly pushing her needle through the heavy satin. 

"I am not an atheist, Princess. "

"A Protestant, then--"

"I am not a Protestant. I am a Catholic, as you are. "

She looked up suddenly and faced him with earnest eyes. 

"Then you are not a good Catholic, " she said. "No good Catholic couldspeak as you do. "

"Even the Apostles had doubts, " answered Griggs. "But I do not pretendto be good. Since I am a man, I have a right to be a man, and to betreated as a man. If the right is not given me freely, I will take it. You cannot expect a body to behave as though it were a spirit. A mancannot imitate an invisible essence, any more than a sculptor canimitate sound with a shape of clay. When we are spirits, we shall act asspirits. Meanwhile we are men and women. As a man, I have not donewrong. You have no right to judge me as an angel. Is that clear?"

"Terribly clear!" Francesca slowly shook her head. "And terriblymistaken, " she added. 

"You see, " answered the young man. "It is impossible to argue the point. We do not speak the same language. You, by your nature, believe that youcan imitate a spirit. You are spiritual by intuition and good byinstinct, according to the spiritual standard of good. I am, on thecontrary, a normal man, and destined to act as men act. I cannotunderstand you and you, if you will allow me to say so, cannot possiblyunderstand me. That is why I propose that we should agree to differ. "

"And do you think you can sweep away all right and wrong, belief andunbelief, salvation and perdition, with such a statement as that?"

"Not at all, " replied Griggs. "You tell me that I am wicked. That onlymeans that I am not doing what you consider right. You deny my right ofjudgment, in favour of your own. You make witnesses of spirits againstthe doings of men. You judge my body and condemn my soul. And there isno possible appeal from your tribunal, because it is an imaginary one. But if you will return to the facts of the case, you will find it hardto prove that I have ruined the life of an innocent woman, as you toldme that I had. "

"You have! There is no denying it. "

"Socially, and it is the fault of society. But society is nothing to me. I would be an outcast from society for a much less object than the loveof a woman, provided that I had not to do anything dishonourable. "

"Ah, that is it! You forget that a man's honour is his reputation at theclub, while the honour of a woman is founded in religion, and maintainedupon a single one of God's commandments--as you men demand that it shallbe. "

Griggs was silent for a moment. He had never heard a woman state thecase so plainly and forcibly, and he was struck by what she said. Hecould have answered her quickly enough. But the answer would not havebeen satisfactory to himself. 

"You see, you have nothing to say, " she said. "But in one way you areright. We cannot argue this question. I did not ask you to come in orderto discuss it. I sent for you to beg you to do what is right, as far asyou can. And you could do much. "

"What should you think right?" asked Griggs, curious to know what shethought. 

"You should take Gloria to her father, as you are his friend. Since shehas left her husband, she should live with her father. "

"That is a very simple idea!" exclaimed the young man, with somethingalmost like a laugh. 

"Right is always simple, " answered Francesca, quietly. "There is neverany doubt about it. "

She looked at him once, and then continued to work at her embroidery. His eyes rested on the pure outline of her maidenlike face, and he wassilent for a moment. Somehow, he felt that her simplicity of goodnessrebuked the simplicity of his sin. 

"You forget one thing, " said Griggs at last. "You make a spiritualengine of mankind, and you forget the mainspring of the world. You leavelove out of the question. "

"Perhaps--as you understand love. But you will not pretend to tell methat love is necessarily right, whatever it involves. "

"Yes, " answered the young man. "That is what I mean. Unless your God isa malignant and maleficent demon, the overwhelming passions which takehold of men, and against which no man can fight beyond a certain point, are right, because they exist and are irresistible. As for what youpropose that I should do, I cannot do it. "

"You could, if you would, " said Francesca. "There is nothing to hinderyou, if you will. "

"There is love, and I cannot. "

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

PAUL GRIGGS left Francesca with the certainty in his own mind that shehad produced no impression whatever upon him, but he was conscious thathis opinion of her had undergone a change. He was suddenly convincedthat she was the best woman he had ever known, and that Gloria'saccusations were altogether unjust and unfounded. Recalling her face, her manner, and her words, he knew that whatever influence she mighthave had upon Reanda, there could be no ground for Gloria's jealousy. She certainly disturbed him strangely, for Gloria was perfect in hiseyes, and he accepted all she said almost blindly. The fact that Reandahad struck her now stood in his mind as the sole reason for theseparation of husband and wife. 

Gloria was far from realizing what influence she had over the man sheloved. It seemed to her, on the contrary, that she was completelydominated by him, and she was glad to feel his strength at every turn. Her enormous vanity was flattered by his care of her, and by hisuncompromising admiration of her beauty as well as of her character, andshe yielded to him purposely in small things that she might the betterfeel his strength, as she supposed. The truth, had she known it, wasthat he hardly asserted himself at all, and was ready to make any andevery sacrifice for her comfort and happiness. He had sacrificed hispride to borrow money from a friend to meet the first necessities oftheir life together. He would have given his life as readily. 

They led a strangely lonely existence in the little apartment in the Viadella Frezza. The world had very soon heard of what had happened, andhad behaved according to its lights. Walking alone one morning whileGriggs was at work, Gloria had met Donna Tullia Meyer, whom she hadknown in society, and thoughtlessly enough had bowed as though nothinghad happened. Donna Tullia had stared at her coldly, and then turnedaway. After that, Gloria had realized what she had already understood, and had either not gone out without Griggs, or, when she did, had keptto the more secluded streets, where she would not easily meetacquaintances. 

Griggs worked perpetually, and she watched him, delighting at first inthe difference between his way of working and that of Angelo Reanda;delighted, too, to be alone with him, and to feel that he was writingfor her. She could sit almost in silence for hours, half busy with somebit of needlework, and yet busy with him in her thoughts. It seemed toher that she understood him--she told him so, and he believed her, forhe felt that he could not be hard to understand. 

He was as singularly methodical as Reanda was exceptionally intuitive. She felt that his work was second to her in his estimation of it, butthat, since they both depended upon it for their livelihood, they hadagreed together to put it first. With Reanda, art was above everythingand beyond all other interests, and he had made her feel that he workedfor art's sake rather than for hers. There was a vast difference in thevalue placed upon her by the two men, in relation to their twooccupations. 

"I have no genius, " said Griggs to her one day. "I have no intuitions ofunderlying truth. But I have good brains, and few men are able to workas hard as I. By and bye, I shall succeed and make money, and it will beless dull for you. "

"It is never dull for me when I can be with you, " she answered. 

As he looked, the sunshine caught her red auburn hair, and thelove-lights played with the sunshine in her eyes. Griggs knew that lifehad no more dulness for him while she lived, and as for her, he believedwhat she said. 

Without letting him know what she was doing, she wrote to her father. Itwas not an easy letter to write, and she thought that she knew thesavage old Scotchman's temper. She told him everything. At such adistance, it was easy to throw herself upon his mercy, and it was saferto write him all while he was far away, so that there might be nothingleft to rouse his anger if he returned. She had no lack of words withwhich to describe Reanda's treatment of her; but she was also willing totake all the blame of the mistake she had made in marrying him. She hadruined her life before it had begun, she said. She had taken the lawinto her own hands, to mend it as best she could. Her father knew thatPaul Griggs was not like other men--that he was able to protect heragainst all comers, and that he could make the world fear him if hecould not make it respect her. Her father must do as he thought right. He would be justified, from the world's point of view, in casting heroff and never remembering her existence again, but she begged him toforgive her, and to think kindly of her. Meanwhile, she and Griggs werewretchedly poor, and she begged her father to continue her allowance. 

If Paul Griggs had seen this letter, he would have been startled out ofsome of his belief in Gloria's perfection. There was a total absence ofany moral sense of right or wrong in what she wrote, which would havemade a more cynical man than Griggs was look grave. The request for thecontinuation of the allowance would have shocked him and perhapsdisgusted him. The whole tone was too calm and business-like. It was toomuch as though she were fulfilling a duty and seeking to gain an objectrather than appealing to Dalrymple to forgive her for yielding to theoverwhelming mastery of a great passion. It was cold, it wascalculating, and it was, in a measure, unwomanly. 

When she had sent the letter, she told Griggs what she had done, but heraccount of its contents satisfied him with one of those brilliant falseimpressions which she knew so well how to convey. She told him ratherwhat she should have said than what she had really written, and, asusual, he found that she had done right. 

It was not that she would not have written a better letter if she hadbeen able to compose one. She had done the best that she could. But thetruth lay there, or the letter was composed as an expression of what sheknew that she ought to feel, and was not the actual outpouring of anoverfull heart. She could not be blamed for not feeling more deeply, norfor her inability to express what she did not feel. But when she spokeof it to the man she loved, she roused herself to emotion easily enough, and her words sounded well in her own ears and in his. To the last, henever understood that she loved such emotion for its own sake, and thathe helped her to produce it in herself. In the comparatively simpleview of human nature which he took in those days, it seemed to him thatif a woman were willing to sacrifice everything, including socialrespectability itself, for any man, she must love him with all herheart. He could not have understood that any woman should give upeverything, practically, in the attempt to feel something of which shewas not capable. 

In reply to her letter, Dalrymple sent a draft for a considerable sum ofmoney, through his banker. The fact that it was addressed to her at Viadella Frezza was the only indication that he had received her letter. Indue time, Gloria wrote to thank him, but he took no notice of thecommunication. 

"He never loved me, " she said to Griggs as the days went by and broughther nothing from her father. "I used to think so, when I was a merechild, but I am sure of it now. You are the only human being that everloved me. "

She was pale that day, and her white hand sought his as she spoke, witha quiver of the lip. 

"I am glad of it, " he answered. "I shall not divide you with any one. "

So their life went on, somewhat monotonously after the first few weeks. Griggs worked hard and earned more money than formerly, but hediscovered very soon that it would be all he could do to support Gloriain bare comfort. He would not allow her to use her own money foranything which was to be in common, or in which he had any sharewhatever. 

"You must spend it on yourself, " he said. "I will not touch it. I willnot accept anything you buy with it--not so much as a box of cigarettes. You must spend it on your clothes or on jewels. "

"You are unkind, " she answered. "You know how much pleasure it wouldgive me to help you. "

"Yes. I know. You cannot understand, but you must try. Men never do thatsort of thing. "

And, as usual, he dominated her, and she dropped the subject, inwardlypleased with him, and knowing that he was right. 

His strength fascinated her, and she admired his manliness of heart andfeeling as she had never admired any qualities in any one during herlife. But he did not amuse her, even as much as she had been amused byReanda. He was melancholic, earnest, hard working, not inclined torepeat lightly the words of love once spoken in moments of passion. Hemeant, perhaps, to show her how he loved her by what he would do for hersake, rather than tell her of it over and over again. And he worked ashe had never worked before, hour after hour, day after day, sitting athis writing-table almost from morning till night. Besides hiscorrespondence, he was now writing a book, from which he hoped greatthings--for her. It was a novel, and he read her day by day the pages hewrote. She talked over with him what he had written, and herimagination and dramatic intelligence, forever grasping at situations ofemotion for herself and others, suggested many variations upon his plan. 

"It is my book, " she often said, when they had been talking all theevening. 

It was her book, and it was a failure, because it was hers and not his. Her imagination was disorderly, to borrow a foreign phrase, and she wasaltogether without any sense of proportion in what she imagined. He didnot, indeed, look upon her as intellectually perfect, though for him shewas otherwise unapproachably superior to every other woman in the world. But he loved her so wholly and unselfishly that he could not bear todisappoint her by not making use of her suggestions. When she wastelling him of some scene she had imagined, her voice and manner, too, were so thoroughly dramatic that he was persuaded of the real value ofthe matter. Divested of her individuality and transferred in his rathermechanically over-correct language to the black and white of pen andink, the result was disappointing, even when he read it to her. He knewthat it was, and wasted time in trying to improve what was bad from thebeginning. She saw that he failed, and she felt that he was not a man ofgenius. Her vanity suffered because her ideas did not look well on hispaper. 

Before he had finished the manuscript, she had lost her interest in it. Feeling that she had, and seeing it in her face, he exerted his strengthof will in the attempt to bring back the expression of surprise anddelight which the earlier readings had called up, but he felt that hewas working uphill and against heavy odds. Nevertheless he completed thework, and spent much time in fancied improvement of its details. At alater period in his life he wrote three successful books in the time hehad bestowed upon his first failure, but he wrote them alone. 

Gloria's face brightened when he told her that it was done. She took themanuscript and read over parts of it to herself, smiling a little fromtime to time, for she knew that he was watching her. She did not read itall. 

"Dedicate it to me, " she said, holding out one hand to find his, whileshe settled the pages on her knees with the other. 

"Of course, " he answered, and he wrote a few words of dedication to heron a sheet of paper. 

He sent it to a publisher in London whom he knew. It was returned withsome wholesome advice, and Gloria's vanity suffered another blow, bothin the failure of the book which contained so many of her ideas and inthe failure of the man to be successful, for in her previous life shehad not been accustomed to failure of any sort. 

"I am afraid I am only a newspaper man, after all, " said Paul Griggs, quietly. "You will have to be satisfied with me as I am. But I will tryagain. "

"No, " answered Gloria, more coldly than she usually spoke. "When youfind that you cannot do a thing naturally, leave it alone. It is of nouse to force talent in one direction when it wants to go in another. "

She sighed softly, and busied herself with some work. Griggs felt thathe was a failure, and he felt lonely, too, for a moment, and went to hisown room to put away the rejected manuscript in a safe place. It was nothis nature to destroy it angrily, as some men might have done at hisage. 

When he came back to the door of the sitting-room he heard her singing, as she often did when she was alone. But to-day she was singing an oldsong which he had not heard for a long time, and which reminded himpainfully of that other house in which she had lived and of that otherman whom she never saw, but who was still her husband. 

He entered the room rather suddenly, after having paused a momentoutside, with his hand on the door. 

"Please do not sing that song!" he said quickly, as he entered. 

"Why not?" she asked, interrupting herself in the middle of a stave. 

"It reminds me of unpleasant things. "

"Does it? I am sorry. I will not sing it again. "

But she knew what it meant, for it reminded her of Reanda. She was nolonger so sure that the reminiscence was all painful. 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

IN spite of all that Griggs could do, and he did his utmost, it was hardto live in anything approaching to comfort on the meagre remuneration hereceived for his correspondence, and his pride altogether forbade him toallow Gloria to contribute anything to the slender resources of thesmall establishment. At first, it had amused her to practise littleeconomies, even in the matter of their daily meals. Griggs deniedhimself everything which was not absolutely necessary, and it pleasedGloria to imitate him, for it made her feel that she was helping him. The housekeeping was a simple affair enough, and she undertook itreadily. They had one woman servant as cook and maid-of-all-work, astrong young creature, not without common-sense, and plentifully giftedwith that warm, superficial devotion which is common enough in Italianservants. Gloria had kept house for her father long enough to understandwhat she had undertaken, and it seemed easy at first to do the samething for Griggs, though on a much more restricted scale. 

But the restriction soon became irksome. In a more active andinteresting existence, she would perhaps not have felt the constantpinching of such excessive economy. If there had been more means withinher reach for satisfying her hungry vanity, she could have gone throughthe daily round of little domestic cares with a lighter heart or, atleast, with more indifference. But she and Griggs led a very lonelylife, and, as in all lonely lives, the smallest details becameimportant. 

It was not long before Gloria wished herself in her old home in theCorso, not indeed with Reanda, but with Paul Griggs. He had made herpromise to use only the money he gave her himself for theirhousekeeping. She secretly deceived him and drew upon her own store, andlistened in silence to his praise of her ingenuity in making the littlehe was able to give her go so far. He trusted her so completely that hesuspected nothing. 

She expected that at the end of three months her father would send heranother draft, but the day passed, and she received nothing, so that sheat last wrote to him again, asking for money. It came, as before, without any word of inquiry or greeting. Dalrymple evidently intended totake this means of knowing from time to time that his daughter was aliveand well. She would be obliged to write to him whenever she neededassistance. It was a humiliation, and she felt it bitterly, for she hadthought that she had freed herself altogether and she found herselfstill bound by the necessity of asking for help. 

It seemed very hard to be thus shut off from the world in the prime ofher youth, and beauty, and talent. To a woman who craved admiration forall she did and could do, it was almost unbearable. Paul Griggs workedand looked forward to success, and was satisfied in his aspirations, andmore than happy in the companionship of the woman he so dearly loved. 

"I shall succeed, " he said quietly, but with perfect assurance. "Beforelong we shall be able to leave Rome, and begin life somewhere else, where nobody will know our story. It will not be so dull for you there. "

"It is never dull when I am with you, " said Gloria, but there was noconviction in the tone any more. "If you would let me go upon thestage, " she added, with a change of voice, "things would be verydifferent. I could earn a great deal of money. "

But Paul Griggs was as much opposed to the project as Reanda had been, and in this one respect he really asserted his will. He was so confidentof ultimately attaining to success and fortune by his pen that he wouldnot hear of Gloria's singing in public. 

"Besides, " he said, after giving her many and excellent reasons, "if youearned millions, I would not touch the money. "

She sighed for the lost opportunities of brilliant popularity, but shesmiled at his words, knowing how she had used her own money for him, andin spite of him. But for her own part she had lost all belief in histalent since the failure of the book he had written. 

The long summer days were hard to bear. He was not able to leave Rome, for he was altogether dependent upon his regular correspondence for whathe earned, and he did not succeed in persuading his editors to employhim anywhere else, for the very reason that he did so well what wasrequired of him where he was. 

The weather grew excessively hot, and it was terribly dreary and dull inthe little apartment in the Via della Frezza. All day long the windowswere tightly closed to keep out the fiery air, both the old green blindsand the glass within them. Griggs had moved his writing-table to thefeeble light, and worked away as hard as ever. Gloria spent most of thehot hours in reading and dreaming. They went out together early in themorning and in the evening, when there was some coolness, but during thegreater part of the day they were practically imprisoned by the heat. 

Gloria watched the strong man and wondered at his power of working underany circumstances. He was laborious as well as industrious. He oftenwrote a page over two and three times, in the hope of improving it, andhe was capable of spending an hour in finding a quotation from a greatwriter, not for the sake of quoting it, but in order to satisfy himselfthat he had authority for using some particular construction of phrase. He kept notebooks in which he made long indexed lists of words which incommon language were improperly used, with examples showing how theyshould be rightly employed. 

"I am constructing a superiority for myself, " he said once. "No oneliving takes so much pains as I do. "

But Gloria had no faith in his painstaking ways, though she wondered athis unflagging perseverance. Her own single great talent lay in hersinging, and she had never given herself any trouble about it. Reanda, too, though he worked carefully and often slowly, worked without effort. It was true that Griggs never showed fatigue, but that was due to hisamazing bodily strength. The intellectual labour was apparent, however, and he always seemed to be painfully overcoming some almost unyieldingdifficulty by sheer force of steady application, though nothing came ofit, so far as she could see. 

"I cannot understand why you take so much trouble, " she said. "They areonly newspaper articles, after all, to be read to-day and forgottento-morrow. "

"I am learning to write, " he answered. "It takes a long time to learnanything unless one has a great gift, as you have for singing. I havefailed with one book, but I will not fail with another. The next willnot be an extraordinary book, but it will succeed. "

Nothing could disturb him, and he sat at his table day after day. He wasmoved by the strongest incentives which can act upon a man, at the timewhen he himself is strongest; namely, necessity and love. Even Gloriacould never discover whether he had what she would have called ambition. He himself said that he had none, and she compared him with Reanda, whobelieved in the divinity of art, the temple of fame, and the reality ofglory. 

In the young man's nature, Gloria had taken the place of all otherdivinities, real and imaginary. His enduring nature could no more bewearied in its worship of her than it could be tired in toiling for her. He only resented the necessity of cutting out such a main part of theday for work as left him but little time to be at leisure with her. 

She complained of his industry, for she was tired of spending her lifewith novels, and the hours hung like leaden weights upon her, draggingwith her as she went through the day. 

"Give yourself a rest, " she said, not because she thought he needed it, but because she wished him to amuse her. 

"I am never tired of working for you, " he answered, and the rare smilecame to his face. 

With any other man in the world she might have told the truth and mighthave said frankly that her life was growing almost unbearable, buriedfrom the world as she was, and cut off from society. But she wasconscious that she should never dare to say as much to Paul Griggs. Shewas realizing, little by little, that his love for her was greater thanshe had dreamed of, and immeasurably stronger than what she felt forhim. 

Then she knew the pain of receiving more than she had to give. It was agenuine pain of its kind, and in it, as in many other things, shesuffered a constant humiliation. She had taken herself for a heroiccharacter in the great moment when she had resolved to leave herhusband, intuitively sure that she loved Paul Griggs with all her heart, and that she should continue to love him to the end in spite of theworld. She knew now that there was no endurance in the passion. 

The very efforts she made to sustain it contributed to its destruction;but she continued to play her part. Her strong dramatic instinct toldher when to speak and when to be silent, and how to modulate her voiceto a tender appeal, to a touching sadness, to the strength of suppressedemotion. It was for a good object, she told herself, and therefore itmust be right. He was giving his life for her, day by day, and he mustnever know that she no longer loved him. It would kill him, she thought;for with him it was all real. She grew melancholy and thought of death. If she died young, he should never guess that she had not loved him tothe very last. 

In her lonely thoughts she dwelt upon the possibility, for it was apossibility now. There was that before her which, when it came, mightturn life into death very suddenly. She had moments of tenderness whenshe thought of her own dead face lying on the white pillow, and thepicture was so real that her eyes filled with tears. She would be verybeautiful when she was dead. 

The idea took root in her mind; for it afforded her an inward emotionwhich touched her strangely and cost her nothing. It gained infascination as she allowed it to come back when it would, and thedetails of death came vividly before her imagination, as she had read ofthem in books, --her own white face, the darkened room, the candles, PaulGriggs standing motionless beside her body. 

One day he looked from his work and saw tears on her cheeks. He droppedhis pen as though something had struck him unawares; and he was besideher in a moment, looking anxiously into her eyes. 

"What is it?" he asked, and his hands were on hers and pressed them. 

"It is nothing, " she answered. "It is natural, I suppose--"

"No. It is not natural. You are unhappy. Tell me what is the matter. "

"It is foolish, " she said, turning her face from him. "I see you workingso hard day after day. I am a burden to you--it would be better if Iwere out of the way. You are working yourself to death. If you could seeyour face sometimes!" And more tears trickled down. 

His strong hands shook suddenly. 

"I am not working too hard--for me, " he answered, but his voice trembleda little. "One of your tears hurts me more than a hundred years of hardwork. Even if it were true--I would rather die for you than live to bethe greatest man that ever breathed--without you. "

She threw her arms about his neck, and hid her face upon his shoulder. 

"Tell me you love me!" she cried. "You are all I have in the world!"

"Does it need telling?" he asked, soothing her. 

Then all at once his arms tightened so that she could hardly draw breathfor a moment, and his head was bent down and rested for an instant uponher neck as though he himself sought rest and refuge. 

"I think you know, dear, " he said. 

She knew far better than he could tell her, for the truth of hispassion shook the dramatic and artificial fabric of her own to itsfoundations; and even as she pressed him to her, she felt that secretrepugnance which those who do not love feel for those who love themovermuch. It was mingled with a sense of shame which made her hateherself, and she began to suffer acutely. 

When she thought of Reanda, as she now often did, she longed for whatshe had felt for him, rather than for anything she had ever felt forPaul Griggs. In the pitiful reaching after something real, she gropedfor memories of true tenderness, and now and then they came back to herfrom beyond the chaos which lay between, as memories of home come to aman cast after many storms upon a desert island. She dwelt upon them andtried to construct an under-life out of the past, made up only of sweetthings amongst which all that had not been good should be forgotten. Shewent for comfort to the days when she had loved Reanda, before theirmarriage--or when she had loved his genius as though it were himself, believing that it was all for her. 

Beside her always, with even, untiring strength, Paul Griggs toiled on, his whole life based and founded in hers, every penstroke for her, everydream of her, every aspiration and hope for her alone. He was splendidlyunconscious of his own utter loneliness, blankly unaware of thelife-comedy--or tragedy--which Gloria was acting for him out of pityfor the heart she could break, and out of shame at finding out what herown heart was. Had he known the truth, the end would have come quicklyand terribly. But he did not know it. The woman's gifts were great, andher beauty was greater. Greater than all was his whole-souled belief inher. He had never conceived it possible, in his ignorance of women, thata woman should really love him. She, whom he had first loved sohopelessly, had given him all she had to give, which was herself, frankly and freely. And after she had come to him, she loved him for atime, beyond even self-deception. But when she no longer loved him, shehid her secret and kept it long and well; for she feared him. He was notlike Reanda. He would not strike only; he would kill and make an end ofboth. 

But she might have gone much nearer to the truth without danger. It wasnot his nature to ask anything nor to expect much, and he had taken allthere was to take, and knew it, and was satisfied. 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

THE summer passed, with its monotonous heat. Rain fell in August andpoisoned the campagna with fever for six weeks, and the clear Octoberbreezes blew from the hills, and the second greenness of the late seasonwas over everything for a brief month of vintage and laughter. Then cameNovember with its pestilent sirocco gales and its dampness, pierced andcut through now and then by the first northerly winds of winter. 

And then, one day, there was a new life in the little apartment in theVia della Frezza. Fate, relentless, had brought to the light a littlechild, to be the grandson of that fated Maria Braccio who had died longago, to have his day of happiness and his night of suffering in his turnand to be a living bond between Gloria and the man who loved her. 

They called the boy Walter Crowdie for a relative of Angus Dalrymple, who had been the last of the name. It was convenient, and he would neverneed any other, nor any third name after the two given to him inbaptism. 

For a few days after the child's birth, Griggs left his writing-table. He was almost too happy to work, and he spent many hours by Gloria'sside, not talking, for he knew that she must be kept quiet, but oftenholding her hand and always looking at her face, with the strong, dumbdevotion of a faithful bloodhound. 

Often she pretended to be sleeping when he was there, though she waswide awake and could have talked well enough. But it was easier to seemto be asleep than to play the comedy now, while she was so weak andhelpless. With the simplicity of a little child Griggs watched her, andwhen her eyes were closed believed that she was sleeping. As soon as sheopened them he spoke to her. She understood and sometimes smiled inspite of herself, with close-shut lids. He thought she was dreaming ofhim, or of the child, and was smiling in her sleep. 

As she lay there and thought over all that had happened, she knew thatshe hated him as she had never loved him, even in the first days. Andshe hated the child, for its life was the last bond, linking her to PaulGriggs and barring her from the world forever. Until it had been thereshe had vaguely felt that if she had the courage and really wished it, she might in some way get back to her old life. She knew that all hopeof that was gone from her now. 

In the deep perspective of her loosened intelligence the endless yearsto come rolled away, grey and monotonous, to their vanishing point. Shehad made her choice and had not found heart to give it up, after she hadmade it, while there was yet time. Time itself took shape before herclosed eyes, as many succeeding steps, and she saw herself toiling upthem, a bent, veiled figure of great weariness. It was terrible to lookforward to such truth, and the present was no better. She grasped at thepast and dragged it up to her and looked at its faded prettiness, andwould have kissed it, as though it had been a living thing. But she knewthat it was dead and that what lived was horrible to her. 

She wished that she might die, as she had often thought she might duringthe long summer months. In those days her eyes had filled with tears ofpity for herself. They were dry now, for the suffering was real and thepain was in her bodily heart. Yet she was so strong, and she feared PaulGriggs with such an abject fear, that she played the comedy when shecould not make him think that she was asleep. 

"My only thought is for you, " she said. "It is another burden on you. "

He was utterly happy, and he laughed aloud. 

"It is another reason for working, " he said. 

And even as he said it she saw the writing-table, the poor room, hisstern, determined face and busy hand, and herself seated in her ownchair, with a half-read novel on her lap, staring at the grey future ofmediocrity and mean struggling that loomed like a leaden figure abovehis bent head. Year after year, perhaps, she was to sit in that chairand watch the same silent battle for bare existence. It was too horribleto be borne. If only he were a man of genius, she could have suffered itall, she thought, and more also. But he himself said that he had nogenius. His terrible mechanics of mind killed the little originality hehad. His gloomy sobriety over his work made her desperate. But shefeared him. The belief grew on her that if he ever found out that shedid not love him, he would end life then, for them both--perhaps forthem all three. 

Surely, hell had no tortures worse than hers, she thought. Yet she borethem, in terror of him. And he was perfectly happy and suspectednothing. She could not understand how with his melancholy nature and hisconstant assertion that he had but a little talent and much industry forall his stock in trade, he could believe in his own future as he did. Itwas an anomaly, a contradiction of terms, a weak point in the low levelof his unimaginative, dogged strength. She thought often of the poorbook he had written. She had heard that talent was stirred to music by agreat passion that strung it and struck it, till its heartstrings rangwild changes and breathed deep chords, and burst into rushing harmoniesof eloquence. But his love was dumb and dull, though it might be deadly. There had been neither eloquence nor music in his book. It had been anold story, badly told. He had said that he was only fit to be anewspaper man, and it was true, so far as she could see. His letters tothe paper were excellent in their way, but that was all he could do. Andshe had given him, in the child, another reason for being what he was, hard-working, silent--dull. 

She looked at him and wondered; for there was a mystery in his shadowyeyes and still face, which had promised much more than she had everfound in him. There was something mysterious and dreadful, too, in hisunnatural strength. The fear of him grew upon her, and sometimes when hekissed her she burst into tears out of sheer terror at his touch. 

"They are tears of happiness, " she said, trembling and drying her eyesquickly. 

She smiled, and he believed her, happier every day in her and in thechild. 

Then came the realization of the grey dream of misery. Again she wasseated by the window in her accustomed chair, and he was in his place, pen in hand, eyes on paper, thoughts fixed like steel in that obstinateeffort to do better, while she had the certainty of his failure beforeher. And between them, in a straw cradle with a hood, all gauze andlace and blue ribbons, lay the thing that bound her to him and cut heroff forever from the world, --little Walter Crowdie, the child without aname, as she called him in her thoughts. And above the child, betweenher and Paul Griggs, floated the little imaginary stage on which she wasto go on acting her play over and over again till all was done. She hadnot even the right to shed tears for herself without telling him thatthey were for the happiness he expected of her. 

He would not leave her. He had scarcely been out of the house for weeks, though the only perceptible effect of remaining indoors so long was thathe had grown a little paler. She implored him to go out. In a few daysshe would be able to go with him, and meanwhile there was no reason whyhe should be perpetually at her side. He yielded to her importunity atlast, and she was left alone with the child. 

It was a relief even greater than she had anticipated. She could cry, she could laugh, she could sing, and he was not there to ask questions. For one moment after she had heard the outer door close behind him shealmost hesitated as to which she should do, for she was half hystericalwith the long outward restraint of herself while, inwardly, she hadallowed her thoughts to run wild as they would. She stood for a moment, and there was a vague, uncertain look in her face. Then her breastheaved, and she burst into tears, weeping as never before in her shortlife, passionately, angrily, violently, without thought of control, orindeed of anything definite. 

Before an hour had passed Griggs came back. She was seated quietly inher chair, as when he had left her. The light was all behind her, and hecould not see the slight redness of her eyes. Pale as she was, hethought she had never been more beautiful. There was a gentleness in hermanner, too, beyond what he was accustomed to. He believed that perhapsshe might be the better for being left to herself for an hour or twoevery day, until she should be quite strong again. On the following dayshe again suggested that he should go out for a walk, and he made noobjection. 

Again, as soon as he was gone, she burst into tears, almost in spite ofherself, though she unconsciously longed for the relief they had broughther the first time. But to-day the fit of weeping did not pass so soon. The spasms of sobbing lasted long after her eyes were dry, and she hadless time to compose herself before Griggs returned. Still, he noticednothing. The tears had refreshed her, and he found that same gentlenesswhich had touched him on the previous day. 

Several times, after that, he went out and left her alone in theafternoon. Then, one day, while he was walking, a heavy shower came on, and he made his way home as fast as he could. He opened the door quicklyand came upon her to find her sobbing as though her heart would break. 

He turned very pale and stood still for a moment. There was terror inher face when she saw him, but in an instant he was holding her in hisarms and kissing her hair, asking her what was the matter. 

"I am a millstone around your neck!" she sobbed. "It is breaking myheart--I shall die, if I see you working so!"

He tried to comfort her, soothing her and laughing at her fears for him, but believing her, as he always did. Little by little, her sobssubsided, and she was herself again, as far as he could see. He tried toargue the case fairly on its merits. 

She listened to him, and listening was a new torture, knowing as she didwhat her tears were shed for. But she had to play the comedy again, atshort notice, not having had the time to compose herself and enjoy therelief she found in crying alone. 

It was a relief which she sought again and again. When she thought of itafterwards, it was as an indescribable, half-painful, half-pleasantemotion through which she passed every day. When she felt that it wasbefore her, as soon as Griggs was out of the house, she made a slighteffort to resist it, for she was sensible enough to understand that itwas becoming a habit which she could not easily break. 

Even after she was quite strong again, Griggs often left her to herselffor an hour, and he did not again come in accidentally and find her intears. He thought it natural that she should sometimes wish to be alone. 

One day, when she had dried her eyes, she took a sheet of paper from histable and began to write. She had no distinct intention, but she knewthat she was going to write about herself and her sufferings. It gaveher a strange and unhealthy pleasure to set down in black and white allthat she suffered. She could look at it, turn it, change it, and look atit again. Constantly, as the pen ran on, the tears came to her eyesafresh, and she brushed them away with a smile. 

Then, all at once, she looked at the clock--the same cheap littleAmerican clock which had ticked so long on the mantelpiece in Griggs'sold lodging upstairs. She knew that he would be back before long, andshe tore the sheets she had covered into tiny strips and threw them intothe waste-paper basket. When Griggs returned, she was singing softly toherself over her needlework. 

But she had enjoyed a rare delight in writing down the story of hertroubles. The utter loneliness of her existence, when Griggs was notwith her, made it natural enough. Then a strange thought crossed hermind. She would write to Reanda and tell him that she had forgiven him, and had expiated the wrong she had done him. She craved the excitementof confession, and it could do no harm. He might, perhaps, answer her. Griggs would never know, for she always received the letters and sortedthem for him, merely to save him trouble. The correspondence of anewspaper man is necessarily large, covering many sources of hisinformation. 

It was rather a wild idea, she thought, but it attracted her, or ratherit distracted her thoughts by taking her out of the daily comedy she wasobliged to keep up. There was in it, too, a very slight suggestion ofdanger; for it was conceivable, though almost impossible, that someletter of hers or her husband's might fall into Griggs's hands. Therewas a perverseness about it which was seductive to her tortuous mind. 

At the first opportunity she wrote a very long letter. It was the letterof a penitent. She told him all that she had told herself a hundredtimes, and it was a very different production from the one she had sentto her father nearly a year earlier. There were tears in the phrases, there were sobs in the broken sentences. And there were tears in her owneyes when she sealed it. 

She was going to ring for the woman servant to take it, and her handwas on the bell. She paused, looked at the addressed envelope, glancedfurtively round the room, and then kissed it passionately. Then sherang. 

Griggs came home later than usual, but he thought she was preoccupiedand absent-minded. 

"Has anything gone wrong?" he asked anxiously. 

"Wrong?" she repeated. "Oh no!" She sighed. "It is the same thing. I amalways anxious about you. You were a little pale before you went out andyou had hardly eaten anything at breakfast. "

"There is nothing the matter with me, " laughed Griggs. "I amindestructible. I defy fate. "

She started perceptibly, for she was too much of an Italian not to be alittle superstitious. 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

STEPHANONE was often seen in the Via della Frezza, for the host of thelittle wine shop was one of his good customers. The neighbourhood wasvery quiet and respectable, and the existence of the wine shop was amatter of convenience and almost of necessity to the respectablecitizens who dwelt there. They sent their women servants or camethemselves at regular hours, bringing their own bottles and vessels ofall shapes and of many materials for the daily allowance of wine; theyinvariably paid in cash, and they never went away in the summer. Thebusiness was a very good one; for the Romans, though they rarely drinktoo much and are on the whole a sober people, consume an amount ofstrong wine which would produce a curious effect upon any other race, inany other climate. Stefanone, though his wife had formerly thought himextravagant, had ultimately turned out to be a very prudent person, andin the course of a thirty years' acquaintance with Rome had selected hiscustomers with care, judgment, and foresight. Whenever he was in Romeand had time to spare he came to the little shop in the Via dellaFrezza. He had stood godfather for one of the host's children, which inthose days constituted a real tie between parents and god-parents. 

But he had another reason for his frequent visits since that night onwhich he had accompanied Gloria and had shielded her from the rain withhis gigantic brass-tipped umbrella. He took an interest in her, andwould wait a long time in the hope of seeing her, sitting on arush-bottomed stool outside the wine shop, and generally chewing the endof a wisp of broom. He had the faculty of sitting motionless for an hourat a time, his sturdy white-stockinged legs crossed one over the other, his square peasant's hands crossed upon his knee, --the sharp angles ofthe thumb-bones marked the labouring race, --his soft black hat tilted alittle forward over his eyes, his jacket buttoned up when the weatherwas cool, thrown back and showing the loosened shirt open far below thethroat when the day was warm. 

Gloria reminded him of Dalrymple. The process of mind was a very simpleone and needs no analysis. He had sought Dalrymple for years, but invain, and Gloria had something in her face which recalled her father, though the latter's features were rough and harshly accentuated. Stefanone had made the acquaintance of the one-eyed cobbler withoutdifficulty and had ascertained that there was a mystery about Gloria, whom the cobbler had first seen on the morning after Stefanone had mether in the storm. It was of course very improbable that she should bethe daughter of Dalrymple and Annetta, but even the faint possibility ofbeing on the track of his enemy had a strong effect upon the unforgivingpeasant. If he ever found Dalrymple, he intended to kill him. In themeanwhile he had found a simple plan for finding out whether Gloria wasthe Scotchman's daughter or not. He waited patiently for the spring, andhe came to Rome now every month for a week at a time. 

More than once during the past year he had brought small presents offruit and wine and country cakes for Gloria, and both she and Griggsknew all about him, and got their wine from the little shop which hesupplied. Gloria was pleased by the decent, elderly peasant's admirationof her beauty, which he never failed to express when he got a chance ofspeaking to her. When little Walter Crowdie was first carried out intothe sun, Stefanone was in the street, and he looked long and earnestlyinto the baby's face. 

"There is the same thing in the eyes, " he muttered, as he turned away, after presenting the nurse with a beautiful jumble, which looked asthough it had been varnished, and was adorned with small drops of hardpink sugar. "If it is he--an evil death on him and all his house. "

And he strolled slowly back to the wine shop, his hand fumbling with thebig, curved, brass-handled knife which he carried in the pocket of hisblue cloth breeches. 

He was certainly mistaken about the baby's eyes, which were remarkablybeautiful and of a very soft brown; whereas Dalrymple's were hard, blue, and steely, and it was not possible that anything like an hereditaryexpression should be recognizable in the face of a child three weeksold. But his growing conviction made his imagination complete every linkwhich chanced to be missing in the chain. 

One day, in the spring, he met Griggs when the latter was going outalone. 

"A word, Signore, if you permit, " he said politely. 

"Twenty, " replied Griggs, giving the common Roman answer. 

"Signore, Subiaco is a beautiful place, " said the peasant. "In spring itis an enchantment. In summer, I tell you nothing. It is as fresh asParadise. There is water, water, as much as you please. Wine is notwanting, and it seems that you know that. The butcher kills calves twicea week, and sometimes an ox when there is an old one, or one lame. Eh, in Subiaco, one is well. "

"I do not doubt it when I look at you, " answered Griggs, without asmile. 

"Thanks be to Heaven, my health still assists me. But I am thinking ofyou and of your beautiful lady and of that little angel, whom Godpreserve. In truth, you appear to me as the Holy Family. I should notsay it to every one, but the air of Subiaco is thin, the water is light, and, for a house, mine is of the better ones. One knows that we arecountry people, but we are clean people; there are neither chickens norchildren. If you find a flea, I will have him set in gold. You shallsay, 'This is the flea that was found in Stefanone's house. ' In that wayevery one will know. I do not speak of the beds. The pope could sleep inthe one in the large room at the head of the staircase, the pope withall his cardinals. They would say, 'Now we know that this is indeed abed. ' Do you wish better than this? I do not know. But if you will bringyour lady and the baby, you will see. Eyes tell no lies. "

"And the price?" inquired Griggs, struck by the good sense of thesuggestion. 

"Whatever you choose to give. If you give nothing, we shall have hadyour company. In general, we take three pauls a day, and we give thewine. You shall make the price as you like it. Who thinks of thesethings? We are Christians. "

When Griggs spoke of the project to Gloria, she embraced it eagerly. Hesaid that he should be obliged to come to Rome every week on account ofhis correspondence. But Subiaco was no longer as inaccessible asformerly, and there was now a good carriage road all the way and a dailypublic conveyance. He should be absent three days, and would spend theother four with her. 

It was a sacrifice on his part, as she guessed from the way in which hespoke, but it was clearly necessary that Gloria and the child shouldhave country air during the coming summer. He had often reproachedhimself with not having made some such arrangement for the preceding hotseason, but he had seen that she did not suffer from the heat, and hispresence in the capital had been very necessary for his work. Now, however, it looked possible enough, and before Stefanone went back tothe country for his next trip a preliminary agreement had been made. 

Gloria looked forward with impatience to the liberty she was to gain byhis regular absences, for her life was becoming unbearable. She feltthat she could not much longer sustain the perpetual comedy she wasacting, unless she could get an interval of rest from time to time. Atfirst, the hour he gave her daily when he went out alone had been arelief and had sufficed. The tears she shed, the letters she wrote toReanda, rested her and refreshed her. For she had written others sincethat first one, though he had never answered any of them. But the smalldaily interruption of her acting was no longer enough. The taste ofliberty had bred an intense craving for more of it, and she dreamed ofbeing alone for days together. 

She wrote to Reanda now without the slightest hope of receiving anyreply, as madmen sometimes write endless letters to women they love, though they have never exchanged a word with them. It was a vent for herpent-up suffering. It could make no difference, and Griggs could neverknow. Her strange position put the point of faithfulness out of thequestion. She was in love with her husband, and the man who loved herheld her to her play of love by the terror she felt of what lay behindhis gentleness. She dreamed once that he had found out the truth, andwas tearing her head from her body with those hands of his, slowly, almost gently, with mysterious eyes and still face. She woke, and foundthat the heavy tress of her hair was twisted round her throat and waschoking her; but the impression remained, and her dread of Griggsincreased, and it became harder and harder to act her part. 

At the same time the attraction of secretly writing to her husband grewstronger, day by day. She did not send him all she wrote, nor a tenthpart of all, and the greater portion of her outpourings went into thefire, or they were torn to infinitesimal bits and thrown into thewaste-paper basket. She was critical, in a strangely morbid way, of whatshe wrote. The fact that she was acting for Griggs, and knew it, madeher dread to write anything to Reanda which could possibly seeminsincere. No aspiring young author ever took greater pains over hiswork than she sometimes bestowed upon the composition of these letters, or judged his work more conscientiously and severely than she. And theresult was that she told of her life with wonderful sincerity and truth. Truth was her only luxury in the midst of the great lie she had tosustain. She revelled in it, and yet, fearing to lose it, she used itwith a conscientiousness which she had never exhibited in anything shehad done before. It was her single delight, and she treasured it withscrupulous and miserly care. In her letters, at least, she could bereally herself. 

But the strain was telling upon her visibly, and Griggs was very anxiousabout her, and hastened their departure for Subiaco as soon as theweather began to grow warm, hoping that the mountain air would bring thecolour back to her pale cheeks. For her beauty's sake, he could almosthave deprecated the prospect, strange to say, for she had never seemedmore perfectly beautiful than now. She was thinner than she had formerlybeen, and her pallor had refined her by softening the look of hard andbrilliant vitality which had characterized her before she had leftReanda. There is perhaps no beauty which is not beautified by a touchof sadness. Griggs saw it, and while his eyes rejoiced, his heart sank. 

He knew what an utterly lonely life she was leading, even as he judgedher existence, and the tender string was touched in his deep nature. Shehad sacrificed everything for him, as he told himself many a time in hissolitary walks. All the love he had given and had to give could neverrepay her for what she had given him. Marriage, he reflected, was oftena bargain, but such devotion as hers was a gift for which there could beno return. She had ruined herself in the eyes of the world for him, butthe world would never accuse him, nor shut its doors upon him because hehad accepted what she had so freely given. He was not an emotional man, but even he longed for some turn of life in which for her sake he mightdo something above the dead level of that commonplace heroism whichbegins in hard work and ends in the attainment of ordinary necessities. He felt his strength in him and about him, and he wished that he couldlet it loose upon some adversary in the physical satisfaction offighting for what he loved. It was not a high aspiration, but it was amanly one. 

He drew upon his resources to the utmost, in order to make hercomfortable in Subiaco when they should get there. He was not a dreamer, though he dreamed when he had time. It was his nature to take all thethings which came to him to be done and to do them one after anotherwith untiring energy. He worked at his correspondence, and gotadditional articles to write for periodicals, though it was no easymatter in that day when the modern periodical was in its infancy. 

Gloria, acting her part, complained sadly that he worked too hard. Workas he might, he had no such stress to fear as was wearing out her life. She hated him, she feared him, and she envied him. Sometimes she pitiedhim, and then it was easier for her to act the play. As for Griggs, helaughed and told her for the hundredth time that he was indestructibleand defied fate. 

So far as he could see what he had to deal with, he could defy anything. But there was that beyond of which he could not dream, and destiny, withleaden hands, was already upon him, on the day when a great, old-fashioned carriage, loaded with boxes and belongings, brought himand his to the door of Stefanone's house in Subiaco. 

Sora Nanna, grey-haired, and withered as a brown apple, but tough asleather still, stood on the threshold to receive them. She no longerwore the embroidered napkin on her hair, for civilization had advanced ageneration in Subiaco, and a coloured handkerchief flapped about herhead, and she had caught one corner of it in her teeth to keep it out ofher eyes, as the afternoon breeze blew it across her leathery face. 

First at the door of the carriage she saw the baby, held up by itsnurse, and the old woman threw up her hands and clapped them, and crowedto the child till it laughed. Then Griggs got out. And then, out of thedark shadow of the coach, a face looked at Sora Nanna, and it was a faceshe had known long ago, with dark eyes, beautiful and deadly pale, andvery fateful. 

She turned white herself, and her teeth chattered. 

"Madonna Santissima!" she cried, shrinking back. 

She crossed herself, and did not dare to meet Gloria's eyes again forsome time. 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

SORA NANNA showed her new lodgers their rooms. They were the onesDalrymple had occupied long ago, together with a third, openingseparately from the same landing. In what had been the Scotchman'slaboratory, and which was now turned into a small bedroom, a large cheststood in a corner, of the sort used by the peasant women to this day fortheir wedding outfits. 

"If it is not in your way, I will leave it here, " said Sora Nanna. "There are certain things in it. "

"What things?" asked Gloria, idly, and for the sake of makingacquaintance with the woman, rather than out of curiosity. 

"Things, things, " answered Nanna. "Things of that poor girl's. We had adaughter, Signora. "

"Did she die long ago?" inquired Gloria, in a tone of sympathy. 

"We lost her, Signora, " said Nanna, simply. "Look at these beds! Theyare new, new! No one has ever slept in them. And linen there is, as muchas you can ask for. We are country people, Signora, but we are goodpeople. I do not say that we are rich. One knows--in Rome everything isbeautiful. Even the chestnuts are of gold. Here, we are in the country, Signora. You will excuse, if anything is wanting. "

But Gloria was by no means inclined to find fault. She breathed morefreely in the mountain air, she was tired with the long drive fromTivoli, where they had spent the previous night, and she was more hungrythan she had been for a long time. 

It was not dark when they sat down to supper in the old guest chamberwhich opened upon the street. Nanna was anxious and willing to bringthem their supper upstairs, but Gloria preferred the common room. Shesaid it would amuse her, and in reality it was easier for her not to bealone with Griggs, and by going downstairs on the first evening shemeant to establish a precedent for the whole summer. He had told herthat he must go back to Rome for his work on the next day but one, andshe counted the hours before her up to the minute when she should befree and alone. 

They sat down at the old table at which Dalrymple had eaten his solitarymeals so often, more than twenty years earlier. There was no change. There were the same solid, old-fashioned silver forks and spoons, therewere plates of the same coarse china, tumblers of the same heavy pressedglass. Had Dalrymple been there, he would have recognized the old brasslamp with its three beaks which poor Annetta had so often brought inlighted when he sat there at dusk. On the shelf in the corner were theselfsame decanters full of transparent aniseed and pink alchermes andcoarse brown brandy. Stefanone came in, laid his hat upon the bench, andput his stick in the corner just as he had always done. There was nochange, except that Annetta was not there, and the husband and wife hadgrown almost old since those days. 

"How often does the post go to Rome?" Gloria asked of Sora Nanna, whilethey were at supper. 

"Every evening, at one of the night, Signora. There are also manyoccasions of sending by the carters. "

"I can write to you every day when you are away, " said Gloria in Englishto Griggs. 

She was thinking of those letters which she wrote to Reanda almost inspite of herself, but the loving smile did not play her false, andGriggs believed her. 

In her, the duality of her being had created two distinct lives. Forhim, the two elements of consciousness and perception were merged in oneby his love. All that he felt he saw in her, and all that he saw in herhe felt. The perfection of love, while it lasts, is in that doublecertainty from within and from without, which, if once disturbed, cannever be restored again. Singly, the one part or the other may remainas of old, but the wholeness of the two has but one chance of life. 

On that first night Gloria had an evil dream. She had fallen asleep, tired from the journey and worn out with the endless weariness of hersecret suffering. She awoke in the small hours, and moonlight wasstreaming into the room. She was startled to find herself in a strangeplace, at first, and then she realized where she was, and gazed at theclouded panes of common glass as her head lay on the pillow, and shemarked the moonlight on the brick floor by the joints of the bricks, andwatched how it crept silently away. For the moon was waning, and had notlong risen above the black line of the hills. 

Her eyelids drooped, but she saw it all distinctly still--moredistinctly than before, she thought. The level light rose slowly fromthe floor; very, very slowly, stiff and straight as a stark, shroudedcorpse, and stood upright between her and the window. She felt the heavyhair rising on her scalp, and an intense horror took possession of herbody, and thrilled through her from head to foot and from her feet toher head. But she could not move. She felt that something held her andpressed on her, as though the air were moulded about her like cast iron. 

The thing stood between her and the window, stiff and white. It showedits face, and the face was white, too. It was Angelo Reanda. She knewit, though there seemed to be no eyes in the white thing. She felt itsdead voice speaking to her. 

"An evil death on you and all your house, " it said. 

The face was gone again, but the thing was still there. Very, veryslowly, stiff and white, it lay back, straight from the heel upwards, unbending as it sank, till it laid itself upon the floor, and she wasstaring at the joints of the bricks in the moonlight. 

Then she shrieked aloud and awoke. The moonlight had moved a foot ormore, and she knew that she had been asleep. 

"It was only a dream, " she said to Griggs in the morning. "I thought Isaw you dead, dear. It frightened me. "

"I am not dead yet, " he laughed. "It was that salad--there were potatoesin it. "

She turned away; for the contrast between the triviality of what he saidand the horror of what she had felt brought an expression to her facewhich even her consummate art could not have concealed. 

The impression lasted all day, and when she went to bed she carefullyclosed the shutters so that the moonlight should not fall upon thefloor. The dream did not return. 

"It must have been the salad, " said Griggs, when she told him that shehad not been disturbed again. 

But Gloria was thinking of death, and his words jarred upon herhorribly, as a trivial jest would jar on a condemned man walking fromhis cell to the scaffold. In the evening Griggs went by the diligence toRome, and Gloria was left alone with her child and the nurse. 

Then she sat down and wrote to Reanda with a full heart and a tremblinghand. She told him of her dream, and how the fear of his death hadbroken her nerves. She implored him to come out and see her when Griggswas in Rome. She could let him know when to start, if he would write oneword. It was but a little journey, she said, and the cool mountain airwould do him good. But if he would not come, she besought him to writeto her, if it were only a line, to say that he was alive. She could notforget the dream until she should know that he was safe. 

She was not critical of her writing any more, for she was no longer infear of being misunderstood, and she wrote desperately. It seemed to herthat she was writing with her blood. She had sent him many letterswithout hope of answer, but something told her that she could not appealin vain forever, and that he would at last reply to her. 

Two days passed, and she spent much of her time with the child. Shefelt that in time she might love it, if Griggs were not beside her. Thenhe came back, and in the great joy of seeing her again after that firstshort separation, the stern voice grew as soft as a woman's, and thestill face was moved. She had looked forward with dread to his return, and she shivered when he touched her; she would have given all she hadif only he would not kiss her. Then, when she felt that he might havefound her cold to him at the first moment, that he might guess, that hemight find out her secret, she shivered again from head to heel, in fearof him, and she forced the smile upon her face with all her will. 

"I am so glad, that I am almost frightened!" she cried, and lest thesmile should be imperfect, she hid it against his shoulder. 

She could have bitten the cloth and the tough arm under it, as she felthim kiss the back of her neck just at the roots of the hair; as it was, she grasped his arm convulsively. 

"How strong you are!" he laughed, as he felt the pressure of herfingers. 

"Yes, " she answered. "It is the mountain air--and you, " she added. 

And, as ever, it seemed to him true. The days he spent with her wereheavenly to him as they were days of living earthly hell to her. He didnot even leave her alone for an hour or two, as he had done in thecity, for when he was in Rome without her he did double work andshortened his sleep by half, that he might lengthen the time he was tohave with her. The heat of the capital and the late hours brought outdark shadows under his eyes, and gave her another excuse for saying thathe was overworking for her sake, and that she was a burden upon him--sheand the child. 

On the morning before he next went to Rome, she received a letter fromReanda. The blood rushed scarlet to her face, but Griggs was busy withhis own letters and did not see it. 

She went to the baby's room. The child had been taken out by the nurse, and she sat down in the nurse's chair by the empty cradle and broke theseal of the note. There was a big sheet of paper inside, on which werewritten these lines in the artist's small, nervous handwriting:--

"I am perfectly well, but I understand your anxiety about my health. Ido not wish to see you, but as human life is uncertain I have giveninstructions that you may be at once informed of the good news of mydeath, if you outlive me. "

Gloria's hand closed upon the sheet of paper, and she reeled forward andsideways in the chair, as though she had received a stunning blow. Sheheard heavy footsteps on the brick floor in the next room and with adesperate effort at consciousness she hid the crumpled letter in herbosom before the door opened. But the room swam with her as she graspedthe straw cradle and tried to steady herself. 

In an agony of terror she heard the footsteps coming nearer and nearer, then retreating again, then turning back towards her. She prayed to Godat that moment that Griggs might not open the door. To gain strength, she forced herself to rise to her feet and stand upright, but with thefirst step she took, she stumbled against the chest that containedAnnetta's belongings. The physical pain roused her. She drew breath morefreely, and listened. Griggs was moving about in the other room, probably putting together some few things which he meant to take to Romewith him that evening. It seemed an hour before she heard him go away, and the echo of his footsteps came more and more faintly as he went downthe stairs. He evidently had not guessed that she was in the little roomwhich served as a nursery--the room which had once been Dalrymple'slaboratory. 

She did not read the letter again, but she found a match and set fire toit, and watched it as it burned to black, gossamer-like ashes on thebrick floor. It was long before she had the courage to go down and faceGriggs and say that she was ready for the daily walk together before themidday meal. And all that day she went about dreamily, scarcely knowingwhat she did or said, though she was sure that she did not fail inacting her part, for the habit was so strong that the acting wasnatural to her, except when something waked her to herself too suddenly. 

He went away at last in the evening, and she was free to do what shepleased with herself, to close the deadly wound she had received, ifthat were possible, to forget it even for an hour, if she could. 

But she could not. She felt that it was her death-wound, for it hadkilled a hope which she had tended and fostered into an inner life forherself. She felt that her husband hated her, as she hated Paul Griggs. 

She was impelled to fall upon her knees and pray to Something, somewhere, though she knew not what, but she was ashamed to do it whenshe thought of her life. That Something would turn upon her and curseher, as Reanda had cursed her in her dream--and in the cruel words hehad written. 

She hardly slept that night, and she rose in the morning heavy-eyed andweary. Going out into the old garden behind the house she met Sora Nannawith a basket of clothes on her head, just starting to go up to theconvent, followed by two of her women. 

"Signora, " said the old woman, with her leathern smile, "you areconsuming yourself because the husband is in Rome. You are doingwrong. "

Gloria started, stared at her, and then understood, and nodded. 

"Come up to the convent with us, " said Nanna. "You will divert yourself, and while they take in the clothes, I will show you the church. It isbeautiful. I think that even in Rome it would be a beautiful church. Iwill show you where the sisters are buried and I will tell you howSister Maria Addolorata was burned in her cell. But she was not buriedwith the rest. When you come back, you will eat with a double appetite, and I will make gnocchi of polenta for dinner. Do you like gnocchi, Signora? There is much resistance in them. "

Gloria went with the washerwomen. She was strong and kept pace withthem, burdened as they were with their baskets. It was good to be withthem, common creatures with common, human hearts, knowing nothing of herstrange trouble. Sora Nanna took her into the church and showed her thesights, explaining them in her strident, nasal voice without theslightest respect for the place so long as no religious service wasgoing on. The woman showed her the little tablet erected in memory ofMaria Addolorata, and she told the story as she had heard it, and dweltupon the funeral services and the masses which had been said. 

"At least, she is in peace, " said Gloria, in a low voice, staring at thetablet. 

[Illustration: "Let us not speak of the dead. "--Vol. II. , p. 203. ]

"Poor Annetta used to say that Sister Maria Addolorata sinned in herthroat, " said Nanna. "But you see. God can do everything. She wentstraight from her cell to heaven. Eh, she is in peace, Signora, as yousay. Requiesca'. Come, Signora, it takes at least three-quarters of anhour to make gnocchi. "

And they did not know. She was standing on her daughter's grave, and thetablet was a memorial of the mother of the woman beside her. 

"You make me think of her, Signora, " said the peasant. "You have herface. If you had her voice, to sing, I should think that you were she, returned from the dead. "

"Could she sing?" asked Gloria, dreamily, as they left the church. 

"Like the angels in Paradise, " answered Nanna. "I think that now, whenshe sings, they are ashamed and stand silent to listen to her. If Godwills that I make a good death, I shall hear her again. "

She glanced at her companion's dreamy, fateful face. 

"Let us not speak of the dead!" she concluded. "To-day we will makegnocchi of polenta. "

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

IN the afternoon Gloria called Sora Nanna to move the chest againstwhich she had stumbled in the morning. It would be more convenient, shesaid, to put it under the bed, if it could not be taken away altogether. It was a big, old-fashioned chest of unpainted, unvarnished wood, brownwith age, and fastened by a hasp, through which a splinter of whitechestnut wood had been stuck instead of a padlock. Gloria saw that itwas heavy, as Sora Nanna dragged it and pushed it across the room. Sheremarked that, if it held only clothes, it must be packed very full. 

Sora Nanna, glad to rest from her efforts, stood upright with her handon her hip and took breath. 

"Signora, " she said, "who knows what is in it? Things, certain things!There are the clothes of that poor girl. This I know. And then, certainother things. Who knows what is in it? It may be a thousand years sinceI looked. Signora, shall we open it? But I think there are certainthings that belonged to the Englishman. "

"The Englishman?" asked Gloria, with some curiosity. 

She was glad of anything which could interest her a little. For themoment she had not yet the courage to begin to write again afterReanda's message. Anything which had power to turn the current of herthoughts was a relief. She was sitting in the same chair beside thecradle in which she had sat in the morning, for she had called Nanna tomove the box at a time when the child had been taken out for its secondairing. She leaned back, resting her auburn hair against the bare wall, the waxen whiteness of her face contrasting with the bluish whitewash. 

"What Englishman?" she asked again, wearily, but with a show of interestin her half-closed eyes. 

"Who knows? An Englishman. They called him Sor Angoscia. " Nanna sat downon the heavy box, and dropped her skinny hands far apart upon her knees. "We have cursed him much. He took our daughter. It was a night of evil. In that night the abbess died, and Sister Maria Addolorata was burned inher cell, and the Englishman took our daughter. He took our onedaughter, Signora. We have not seen her more, not even her littlefinger. It will be twenty-two years on the eve of the feast of St. Luke. That is in October, Signora. He took our daughter. Poor little one! Shewas young, young--perhaps she did not know what she did. "

Gloria leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand and her elbow onher knee, gazing at the old woman. 

"She was a flower, " said Nanna, simply. "He tore her from us with theroots. Who knows what he did with her? She will be dead by this time. May the Madonna obtain grace for her! Signora, she seemed one of thoseflowers that grow on the hillside, just as God wills. Rain, sun, she wasalways fresh. Then came the storm. Who could find her any more? Poorlittle one!"

"Poor child!" exclaimed Gloria. 

And she made Nanna tell all she knew, and how they had found the girl'speasant dress in a corner of that very room. 

"Signora, if you wish to see, I will content you, " said Nanna, rising atlast. 

She opened the box. It exhaled the peculiar odour of heavy cloth whichhas been worn and has then been kept closely shut up for years. On thetop lay Annetta's carpet apron. Nanna held it up, and there were tearsin her eyes, glistening on her dry skin like water in a crevice of brownrock. 

"Signora, there are moths in it, see! Who cares for these things? Theyare a memory. And this is her skirt, and this is her bodice. Eh, it wasbeautiful once. The shoes, Signora, I wore them, for we had the samefeet. What would you? It seemed a sin to let them mould, because theywere hers. The apron, too, I might have worn it. Who knows why I didnot wear it? It was the affection. We are all so, we women. And nowthere are moths in it. I might have worn it. At least it would not havebeen lost. "

Gloria peered into the box, and saw under the clothes a number of bookspacked neatly with a box made of English oak. She stretched down herhand and took one of the volumes. It was an English medical treatise. She looked at the fly-leaf. 

A loud cry from Gloria startled the old woman. 

"Angus Dalrymple--but--" Gloria read the name and stared at Nanna. 

"Eh, eh!" assented Nanna, nodding violently and smiling a little as sheat last recognized the Scotchman's name which she had never been able topronounce. "Yes--that is it. That was the name of the Englishman. Anevil death on him and all his house! Stefanone says it always. I alsomay say it once. It was he. He took our daughter. Stefanone went afterthem, but they had the beast of the convent gardener. It was a goodbeast, and they made it run. Stefanone heard of them all the way to thesea, but the twenty-four hours had passed, and the war-ship was far out. He could see it. Could he go to the war-ship? It had cannons. They wouldhave killed him. Then I should have had neither daughter nor husband. Sohe came back. "

The long habit of acting had made Gloria strong, but her hands shook onthe closed volume. She had known that her mother had been an Italian, that they had left Italy suddenly and had been married on board anEnglish man-of-war by the captain, that same Walter Crowdie, a relativeof Dalrymple's, after whom Gloria and Griggs had named the child. Morethan that Dalrymple had never been willing to tell her. She remembered, too, that though she had once or twice begged him to take her to Tivoliand Subiaco, he had refused rather abruptly. It was clear enough now. Her mother had been this Annetta whom Dalrymple had stolen away in thenight. 

And the wrinkled, leathery old hag, with her damp, coarse mouth, her skinnyhands, and her cunning, ignorant eyes, was her grandmother--Stefanonewas her grandfather--her mother had been a peasant, like them, beautifiedby one of nature's mad miracles. 

There could be no doubt about it. That was the truth, and it fell uponher with its cruel, massive weight, striking her where many other truthshad struck her before this one, in her vanity. 

She grasped the book tightly with both hands and set her teeth. Afterthat, she did not know what Nanna said, and the old woman, thinkingGloria was not paying a proper attention to her remarks, pushed andheaved the box across the room rather discontentedly. It would not gounder the bed, being too high, so she wedged it in between the foot ofthe bedstead and the wall. There was just room for it there. 

"Signora, if ever your one child leaves you without a word, you willunderstand, " said Nanna, a little offended at finding no sympathy. 

"I understand too well, " answered Gloria. 

Then she suddenly realized what the woman wanted, and with greatself-control she held out her hand kindly. Nanna took it and smiled, andpressed it in her horny fingers. 

"You are young, Signora. When you are old, you will understand manythings, when evils have pounded your heart in a mortar. Oil is sweet, vinegar is sour; with both one makes salad. This is our life. Restyourself, Signora, for you walked well this morning. I go. "

Gloria felt the pressure of the rough fingers on hers, after Nanna hadleft her. The acrid odour of peeled vegetables clung to her own hand, and she rose and washed it carefully, though she was scarcely consciousof what she was doing. Suddenly she dropped the towel and went back tothe box. It had crossed her mind that the single book she had openedmight have been borrowed from her father and that she might find anothername in the others--that Nanna might have been mistaken in thinking thatshe recognized the English name--that it might all be a mistake, afterall. 

With violent hands she dragged out the moth-eaten clothes and threw thembehind her upon the floor, and seized the books, opening themdesperately one after the other. In each there was the name, 'AngusDalrymple, ' in her father's firm young handwriting of twenty years ago. She threw them down and lifted out the oak box. A little brass plate waslet into the lid, and bore the initials, 'A. D. ' There was no doubtleft. The books all bore dates prior to 1844, the year in which, as sheknew, her father had been married. It was impossible to hesitate, forthe case was terribly clear. 

She rose to her feet and carried the box to the window and set it upon achair, sitting down upon another before it. It was not locked. Sheraised the lid, and saw that it was a medicine chest. There was adrawer, or little tray, on the top, full of small boxes and very minutevials, lying on their sides. Lifting this out, she saw a number oflittle stoppered bottles set in holes made in a thin piece of board fora frame. One was missing, and there were eleven left. She counted themmechanically, not knowing why she did so. Then she took them out andlooked at the labels. The first she touched contained spirits ofcamphor. It chanced to be the only one of which the contents wereharmless. The others were strong tinctures and acids, vegetable poisons, belladonna, aconite, and the like, sulphuric acid, nitric acid, hydrochloric acid, and others. 

Gloria looked at them curiously and set them back, one by one, put inthe little tray and closed the lid. Then she sat still a long time andgazed out of the window at the rugged line of the hills. 

Between her and the pale sky she saw her own life, and the hideousfailure of it all, culminating in the certainty that she was of theblood of the old peasant couple to whose house a seeming chance hadbrought her to die. She felt that she could not live, and would not liveif she could. It was all too wildly horrible, too utterly desolate. 

The only human being that clung to her was the one of all others whomshe most feared and hated, whose very touch sent a cold shiver throughher. She and fate together had pounded her heart in a mortar, as the oldwoman had said. With a bitterness that sickened her she thought of herbrief married life, of her poor social ambition, of her hopeless effortsto be some one amongst the great. What could she be, the daughter ofpeasants, what could she have ever been? Probably some one knew thetruth about her, in all that great society. Such things might be known. Francesca Campodonico's delicate noble face rose faintly between her andthe sky, and she realized with excruciating suddenness the distance thatseparated her from the woman she hated, the woman who perhaps knew thatGloria Dalrymple was the daughter of a peasant and a fit wife by herbirth for Angelo Reanda, the steward's son. 

The ruin of her life spread behind her and before her. She could notface it. The confusion of it all seemed to blind her, and the confusionwas pierced by the terrible thought that on the next day but one Griggswould return again, the one being who would not leave her, who believedin her, who worshipped her, and whom she hated for himself and for thedestruction of her existence which had come by him. 

In the box before her was death, painful perhaps, but sure as the graveitself. She was not a coward, except when she was afraid of Paul Griggs, and the fear lest he, too, should find out the truth was worse than thefear of mortal pain. 

She sat still in her place, staring out of the window. After a longtime, the nurse came in, carrying the child asleep in her arms, coveredwith a thin gauze veil. Gloria started, and then smiled mechanically asshe had trained herself to smile whenever the child was brought to her. The nurse laid the small thing in its cradle, and Gloria, as in a dream, put the books and the clothes back into the box, and was glad that thenurse asked no questions. When she had shut down the lid, she rose toher feet and saw that she had left the medicine chest on the chair. Shetook it into the bedroom and set it upon the table. 

Then she sat down and wrote to Reanda. There was no haste in thewriting, and her head was clear and cool, for she was not afraid. Griggscould not return for two days, and she had plenty of time. She went overher story, as she had gone over it many times before in her letters. Shetold him all, but not the discovery she had just made. That should diewith her, if it could. It would be easy enough, on the next day, whenthe nurse was out, to open the box again, and to tear out the fly-leaffrom each book and so destroy the name. As for the medicine chest, Griggs might see that it had belonged to her father, but he wouldsuppose that she had brought it amongst her belongings. He would neverguess that it had lain hidden in the old box for more than twenty years. That was her plan, and it was simple enough. But she should have to waituntil the next day. It was better so. She could think of what she wasgoing to do, and nobody would disturb her. She finished her letter. 

"You have killed me, " she wrote at the end. "If I had not loved you tothe very end, I would tell you that my death is on your soul. But it isnot all your fault, if I have loved you to death. I would not die if Icould be free in any other way, but I cannot live to be touched andcaressed again by this man whom I loathe with all my soul. I tell youthat when he kisses me it is as though I were stung by a serpent of ice. It is for your sake that I hate him as I do. For your sake I havesuffered hell on earth for more than a whole year. For your sake I die. I cannot live without you. I have told you so again and a hundred timesagain, and you have not believed me. You write to-day and you tell methat I shall be free, when you die, to marry Paul Griggs. I would rathermarry Satan in hell. But I shall be free to-morrow, for I shall be dead. God will forgive me, for God knows what I suffer. Good-bye. I love you, Angelo. I shall love you to-morrow, when the hour comes, and after thatI shall love you always. This is the end. Good-bye. I love you; I kissyour soul with my soul. Good-bye, good-bye. "GLORIA. "

She cut a lock from her auburn hair and twisted it round and round herwedding ring, and thrust it into the envelope. 

CHAPTER XL. 

TWO days later, Paul Griggs stood beside Gloria. She was not dead yet, but no earthly power could save her. She lay white and motionless on thehigh trestle bed, unconscious of his presence. They had sent a messengerfor him, and he had come. The door was locked. Stefanone and his wifewhispered together on the landing. In the third room, beyond, the nursewas shedding hysterical tears over the sleeping child. 

The strong man stood stone still with shadowy, unblinking eyes, gazinginto the dying face. Not a muscle moved, not a feature was distorted, his breath was regular and slow, for his grief had taken hold upon hissoul, and his body was unconscious of time, as though it were alreadydead. 

She had suffered horrible agonies for two nights and one day, and nowthe end was very near, for the wracked nerves could no longer feel. Shelay on her back, lightly covered, one white arm and hand above thecoverlet, the other hidden beneath it. 

The room was very hot, and the sun streamed through the narrow apertureof the nearly closed shutters, and made a bright streak on the redbricks, for it was morning still. 

The purple lids opened, and Gloria looked up. There was no shiver now, as she recognized the man she feared, for the nerves were almost dead. Perhaps there was less fear, for she knew that it was almost over. Thedark eyes were fixed on his with a mysterious, wondering look. 

He tried to speak, and his lips moved, but he could make no sound, andhis chest heaved convulsively, once. He knew what she had done, for theyhad told him. He knew, now that he tried to speak and could not, that hewas half killed by grief. She saw the effort and understood, and faintlysmiled. 

"Why?"

He wrenched the single broken word out of himself by an enormous effort, and his throat swelled and was dry. Suddenly a single great drop ofsweat rolled down his pale forehead. 

"I could not live, " she answered, in a cool, far voice beyond suffering, and still she smiled. 

"Why? Why?"

The repeated word broke out twice like two sobs, but not a featuremoved. The dying woman's eyelids quivered. 

"I was a burden to you, " she said faintly and distinctly. "You are freenow, you have--only the child. "

His calm broke. 

"Gloria, Gloria! In the name of God Almighty, do not leave me so!"

He clasped her in his arms and lifted her a little, pressing his lips toher face. She was inert as a statue. She feared him still, and she feltthe shiver of horror at his touch, but it could not move her limbs anymore. Her eyes opened and looked into his, very close, but his wereshut. The mask was gone. The man's whole soul was in his agonized face, and his arm shook with her. Her mind was clear and she understood. Shewas still herself, acting her play out in the teeth of death. 

"I could not live, " she said. "I could not be a millstone, dragging youdown, watching you as you killed yourself in working for me. It was tobe one of us. It was better so. "

In his agony he laid his head beside hers on the pillow. 

"Gloria--for Christ's sake--don't leave me--" The deep moan came fromhis tortured heart. 

"Bring--the child--Walter--" she said very faintly. 

Even in death she could not bear to be alone with him. He straightenedhimself, stood up, and saw the light fading in her eyes. Then, indeed, ashiver ran through her and shook her. Then the lids opened wide, and shecried out loudly. 

"Quick--I am going--"

Rather than that she should not have what she wished, he tore himselfaway and wrenched the door open, forgetting that it was locked. 

"Bring the child!" he cried, into the face of old Nanna, who wasstanding there, and he pushed her towards the door of the other roomwith one hand, while he already turned back to Gloria. 

He started, for she was sitting up, with wide eyes and outstretchedhands, gazing at the patch of sunlight on the floor. Dying, she saw theawful vision of her dream again, rising stiff and stark from the bricksto its upright horror between her and the light. Her hands pointed at itand shook, and her jaw dropped, but she was motionless as she sat. 

Nanna, sobbing, came in suddenly, holding up the little child straightbefore her, that it might see its mother before she was gone forever. The baby hands feebly beat its little sides, and it gasped for breath. 

Words came from Gloria's open mouth, articulate, clear, but very far insound. 

"An evil death on you and all your house!" the words said, as thoughspoken by another. 

The outstretched hands sank slowly, as the vision laid itself downbefore her, straight and corpse-like. The beautiful head fell back uponGriggs's arm, and the eyes met his. 

[Illustration: "The last great, true note died away. "--Vol. II. , p. 219. ]

Nanna prayed aloud, holding up the child mechanically, and the smalleyes were fixed, horrorstruck, upon the bed. A low cry trembled in theair. Stefanone, his hat in his hand, stood against the door, bowed alittle, as though he were in church. The cry came again. Then there wasa sort of struggle. 

In an instant Gloria was standing up on the bed to her full height. Andthe hot, still room rang with a burst of desperate, ear-breaking song, in majestic, passionate, ascending intervals. 

 "Calpesta il mio cadavere, ma salva il Trovator!"

The last great, true note died away. For one instant she stood up still, with outstretched hands, white, motionless. Then the flame in the darkeyes broke and went out, and Gloria fell down dead. 

"Maria Addolorata! Maria Addolorata!" Nanna screamed in deadly terror, as she heard the transcendent voice that one time, like a voice from thegrave. 

She sank down, fainting upon the floor, and the little child rolled fromher slackened arms upon the coarse bricks and lay on its face, moaningtremulously. No one heeded it. 

Stefanone, with instinctive horror of death, turned and went blindlydown the steps, not knowing what he had seen, the death notes stillringing in his ears. 

On the bed, the man lay dumb upon the dead woman. Only the poor littlechild seemed to be alive, and clutched feebly at the coarse red bricks, and moaned and bruised its small face. It bore the slender inheritanceof fatal life, the inheritance of vows broken and of faith outraged, andwith it, perhaps, the implanted seed of a lifelong terror, notremembered, but felt throughout life, as real and as deadly as aninheritance of mortal disease. Better, perhaps, if death had taken it, too, to the lonely grave of the outcast and suicide woman, among therocks, out of earshot of humanity. Death makes strange oversights andleaves strange gleanings for life, when he has reaped his field andhoused his harvest. 

They would not give Gloria Christian burial, for it was known throughoutSubiaco that she had poisoned herself, and those were still the olddays, when the Church's rules were the law of the people. 

Paul Griggs took the body of the woman he had loved, and loved beyonddeath, and he laid her in a deep grave in a hollow of the hillside. Suchwords as he had to speak to those who helped him, he spoke quietly, andnone could say that they had seen the still face moved by sorrow. But asthey watched him, a human sort of fear took hold of them, at his greatquiet, and they knew that his grief was beyond anything which could beshown or understood. It was night, and they filled the grave after hehad thrown earth into it with his hands. He sent them away, and theyleft him alone with the dead, leaving also one of their lanterns upon astone near by. 

All that night he lay on the grave, dumb. Then, when the dawn came uponhim, he kissed the loose earth and stones, and got upon his feet andwent slowly down the hillside to the town beyond the torrent. He wentinto the house noiselessly, and lay down upon the bed on which she haddied. And so he did for two nights and two days. On the third, a greatcarriage came from Rome, bringing twelve men, singers of the SistineChapel and of the choir of Saint Peter's and of Saint John Lateran, twelve men having very beautiful voices, as sweet as any in the world. He had sent for them when he had been told that she could not haveChristian burial. 

They were talking and laughing together when they came, but when theysaw his face they grew very quiet, and followed him in silence where heled them. Two little boys followed them, too, wondering what was tohappen, and what the thirteen men were going to do, all dressed inblack, walking so steadily together. 

When they all came to the hollow in the hillside, they saw a mound, asof a grave, amidst the stones, and on it there lay a cross of blackwood. The singers looked at one another in silence, and they understoodthat whoever lay in the grave had been refused a place in thechurchyard, for some great sin. But they said nothing. The man who ledthem stood still at the head of the cross and took off his hat, andlooked at his twelve companions, who uncovered their heads. They hadsheets of written music with them, and they passed them quietly aboutfrom one to another and looked towards one who was their leader. 

Overhead, the summer sky was pale, and there were twin mountains ofgreat clouds in the northwest, hiding the sun, and in the southeast, whence the parching wind was blowing in fierce gusts. It blew the drydust from the clods of earth on the grave, and the dust settled on theblack clothes of the men as they stood near. 

The voices struck the first chord softly together, and the music for thedead went up to heaven, and was borne far across the torrent to thedistance in the arms of the hot wind. And one voice climbed above theothers, sweet and clear, as though to reach heaven itself; and anothersank deep and true and soft in the full close of the stave, as though itwould touch and comfort the heart that was quite still at last in thedeep earth. 

Then one who was young stood a little before the rest, a strong, palesinger, with an angel's voice. And he sang alone to the sky and thedusty rocks and the solemn grave. He sang the 'Cujus animam gementempertransivit gladius' of the Stabat Mater, as none had sung it beforehim, nor perhaps has ever sung it since that day--he alone, withoutother music. 

They came also to the words 'Fac ut animę donetur Paradisi gloria, ' andthe word was a name to him who listened silently in their midst. 

Besides these they sang also a 'Miserere, ' and last of all, 'Requiemeternam dona eis. '

Then there was silence, and they looked at the still face, as thoughasking what they should do. The mysterious eyes met theirs with shadows. The pale head bent itself in thanks, twice or thrice, but there were nowords. 

So they turned and left him there on the hillside, and went back to thetown, awestruck by the vastness of the man's sorrow. And afterwards, formany years, when any of them heard of a great grief, he shook his headand said that he and those who had sung with him over a lonely grave inthe mountains, alone knew what a man could feel and yet live. 

And Paul Griggs lived through those days, and is still alive. His griefcould not spend itself, but his stern strength took hold of life again, and he took the child with him and went back to Rome, to work for itfrom that time forward, and to shield it from evil if he could, and tobring it up to be a man, ignorant of what had happened in Subiaco inthose summer days, ignorant of the tie that made it his, to be a manfree from the burden of past fates and sins and broken vows and trampledfaith, and of the death his dead mother had died, having a clean name ofhis own, with which there could be no memories of misery and fear andhorror. 

He wrote a few short words to Angus Dalrymple, now Lord Redin at last, to tell him the truth as far as he knew it. The hand that had labouredso bravely for Gloria could hardly trace the words that told of herdeath. 

Then, when the summer heat was passed, he took little Walter Crowdiewith him, hiring an Englishwoman to tend the child, and he crossed theocean and gave it to certain kinsfolk of his in America, telling themthat it was the child of one who had been very dear to him, that he hadtaken it as his own, and would provide for it and take it back when itshould be older. And so he did, and little Walter Crowdie grew up withan angel's voice, and other gifts which made him famous in his day. Butmany things happened before that time came. 

He could do no better than that. For a time he strove to earn money withhis pen in his own country. But the land was still trembling from theconvulsion of a great war, and there were many before him, and he waslittle known. After a year had passed, he saw that he could not thensucceed, and very heavy at heart he set his face eastward again, totoil at his old calling as a correspondent for a great London paper, toearn bread for himself and for the one living being that he loved. 

PART III. 

_DONNA FRANCESCA CAMPODONICO. _

CHAPTER XLI. 

NOT long after this Dalrymple returned to Rome, after an absence ofseveral years. Family affairs had kept him in England and Scotlandduring his daughter's married life with Reanda; and after she had leftthe latter, it was natural that he should not wish to be in the samecity with her, considering the view he took of her actions. Then, afterhe had learned from Griggs's brief note that she was dead, he felt thathe could not return at once, hard and unforgiving as he was. But at lastthe power that attracted him was too strong to be resisted any longer, and he yielded to it and came back. 

He took up his abode in a hotel in the Piazza di Spagna, not far fromhis old lodgings. Long as he had lived in Rome, he was a foreigner thereand liked the foreigners' quarter of the city. He intended once more toget a lodging and a servant, and to live in his morose solitude as ofold, but on his first arrival he naturally went to the hotel. He did notknow whether Griggs were in Rome. Reanda was alive, and living at thePalazzetto Borgia; for the two had exchanged letters twice a year, written in the constrained tone of mutual civility which suited thecircumstances in which they were placed towards each other. 

In Dalrymple's opinion, Reanda had been to blame to a certain extent, inhaving maintained his intimacy with Francesca when he was aware that itdispleased his wife. At the same time, the burden of the fault wasundoubtedly the woman's, and her father felt in a measure responsiblefor it. Whether he felt much more than that it would be hard to say. Hisgloomy nature had spent itself in secret sorrow for his wife, with afaithfulness of grief which might well atone for many shortcomings. Itis certain that he was not in any way outwardly affected by the news ofGloria's death. He had never loved her, she had disgraced him, and nowshe was dead. There was nothing more to be said about it. 

He was not altogether indifferent to the inheritance of title andfortune which had fallen to him in his advanced middle age. But ifeither influenced his character, the result was rather an increasedtendency to live his own life in scorn and defiance of society, for itmade him conscious that he should find even less opposition to hiseccentricities than in former days, when he had been relatively a poorman without any especial claim to consideration. 

Two or three days after he had arrived in Rome, he went to thePalazzetto Borgia and sent in his card, asking to see FrancescaCampodonico. In order that she might know who he was, he wrote his namein pencil, as she would probably not have recognized him as Lord Redin. In this he was mistaken, for Reanda, who had heard the news, had toldher of it. She received him in the drawing-room. She looked very ill, hethought, and was much thinner than in former times, but her manner wasnot changed. They talked upon indifferent subjects, and there was aconstraint between them. Dalrymple broke through it roughly at last. 

"Did you ever see my daughter after she left her husband?" he asked, asthough he were inquiring about a mere acquaintance. 

Francesca started a little. 

"No, " she answered. "It would not have been easy. "

She remembered her interview with Griggs, but resolved not to speak ofit. She would have changed the subject abruptly if he had given hertime. 

"It certainly was not to be expected that you should, " said Lord Redin, thoughtfully. "When a woman chooses to break with society, she knowsperfectly well what she is doing, and one may as well leave her toherself. "

Francesca was shocked by the cynicism of the speech. The colour rosefaintly in her cheeks. 

"She was your daughter, " she said, reproachfully. "Since she is dead, you should speak less cruelly of her. "

"I did not speak cruelly. I merely stated a fact. She disgraced herselfand me, and her husband. The circumstance that she is dead does notchange the case, so far as I can see. "

"Do you know how she died?" asked Francesca, moved to righteous anger, and willing to pain him if she could. 

He looked up suddenly, and bent his shaggy brows. 

"No, " he answered. "That man Griggs wrote me that she had died suddenly. That was all I heard. "

"She did not die a natural death. "

"Indeed?"

"She poisoned herself. She could not bear the life. It was verydreadful. " Francesca's voice sank to a low tone. 

Lord Redin was silent for a few moments, and his bony face had a grimlook. Perhaps something in the dead woman's last act appealed to him, asnothing in her life had done. 

"Tell me, please. I should like to know. After all, she was mydaughter. "

"Yes, " said Francesca, gravely. "She was your daughter. She was veryunhappy with Paul Griggs, and she found out very soon that she had madea dreadful mistake. She loved her husband, after all. "

"Like a woman!" interjected Lord Redin, half unconsciously. 

Francesca paid no attention to the remark, except, perhaps, that sheraised her eyebrows a little. 

"They went out to spend the summer at Subiaco--"

"At Subiaco?" Dalrymple's steely blue eyes fixed themselves in a look ofextreme attention. 

"Yes, during the heat. They lodged in the house of a man calledStefanone--a wine-seller--a very respectable place. "

Lord Redin had started nervously at the name, but he recovered himself. 

"Very respectable, " he said, in an odd tone. 

"You know the house?" asked Francesca, in surprise. 

"Very well indeed. I was there nearly five and twenty years ago. Isupposed that Stefanone was dead by this time. "

"No. He and his wife are alive, and take lodgers. "

"Excuse me, but how do you know all this?" asked Lord Redin, with suddencuriosity. 

"I have been there, " answered Francesca. "I have often been to theconvent. You know that one of our family is generally abbess. ACardinal Braccio was archbishop, too, a good many years ago. CasaBraccio owns a good deal of property there. "

"Yes. I know that you are of the family. "

"My name was Francesca Braccio, " said Francesca, quietly. "Of course Ihave always known Subiaco, and every one there knows Stefanone, and thestory of his daughter who ran away with an Englishman many years ago, and never was heard of again. "

Lord Redin grew a trifle paler. 

"Oh!" he exclaimed. "Does every one know that story?"

There was something so constrained in his tone that Francesca looked athim curiously. 

"Yes--in Subiaco, " she answered. "But Gloria--" she lingered a littlesadly on the name--"Gloria wrote letters to her husband from there andbegged him to go and see her. "

"He could hardly be expected to do that, " said Lord Redin, his hard tonereturning. "Did you advise him to go?"

"He consulted me, " answered Francesca, rather coldly. "I told him tofollow his own impulse. He did not go. He did not believe that she wassincere. "

"I do not blame him. When a woman has done that sort of thing, there isno reason for believing her. "

"He should have gone. I should have influenced him, I think, and I didwrong. She wrote him one more letter and then killed herself. Shesuffered horribly and only died two days afterwards. Shall I tell youmore?"

"If there is more to tell, " said Lord Redin, less hardly. 

"There is not much. I went out there last year. They had refused herChristian burial. Paul Griggs bought a piece of land amongst the rock, on the other side of the torrent, and buried her there. It is surroundedby a wall, and there is a plain slab without a name. There are flowers. He pays Stefanone to have it cared for. They told me all they knew--itis too terrible. She died singing--she was out of her mind. It must havebeen dreadful. Old Nanna, Stefanone's wife, was in the room, and faintedwith terror. It seems that poor Gloria, oddly enough, had anextraordinary resemblance to that unfortunate nun of our family who wasburned to death in the convent, and whom Nanna had often seen. She sanglike her, too--at the last minute Nanna thought she saw poor sisterMaria Addolorata standing up dead and singing. It was rather strange. "

Lord Redin said nothing. He had bowed his head so that Francesca couldnot see his face, but she saw that his hands were trembling violently. She thought that she had misjudged the man, and that he was really verydeeply moved by the story of his daughter's death. Doubtless, hisemotion had made him wish to control himself, and he had overshot themark and spoken cruelly only in order to seem calm. No one had everspoken to him of his wife, and even now he could hardly bear to hear hername. It was long before he looked up. Then he rose almost immediately. 

"Will you allow me to come and see you occasionally?" he asked, with agentleness not at all like his usual manner. 

Francesca was touched at last, misunderstanding the cause of the change. She told him to come as often as he pleased. As he was going, heremembered that he had not asked after his son-in-law. Reanda had alwaysseemed to belong to Francesca, and it was natural enough that he shouldinquire of her. 

"Where is Reanda to be found?" he asked. 

"He is very ill, " said Francesca, in a low voice. "I am afraid youcannot see him. "

"Where does he live? I will at least inquire. I am sorry to hear that heis ill. "

"He lives here, " she answered with a little hesitation. "He is in hisold rooms upstairs. "

"Oh! Yes--thank you. " Their eyes met for a moment. Lord Redin'sglittered, but Francesca's were clear and true. "I am sure you take goodcare of him, " he added. "Good-bye. "

He left her alone, and when he was gone, she sat down wearily and laidher head back against a cushion, with half-closed eyes. Her lips werealmost colourless, and her mouth had grown ten years older. 

Reanda was dying, and she knew it, and with him the light was going outof her life, as it had gone out long ago from Dalrymple's, as it hadgone out of the life of Paul Griggs. The idea crossed her mind thatthese two men, with herself, were linked and bound together by somestrange fatality which she could not understand, but from which therewas no escape, and which was bringing them slowly and surely to theblank horror of lonely old age. 

The same thought occurred to Lord Redin as he slowly threaded thestreets, going back to his hotel, to his lonely dinner, his lonelyevening, his lonely, sleepless night. He alone of the three now knew allthat there was to know, and in the chronicle of his far memories all ledback to that day at Subiaco, long ago, when he had first knocked at theconvent gate--beyond that, to the evening when poor Annetta had told himof the beautiful nun with the angel's voice. Many lives had been wreckedsince that first day, and every one of them owed its ruin to him. Hefelt strangely drawn to Francesca Campodonico. There was something inher face that very faintly reminded him of his dead wife, herkinswoman, and of his dead daughter, another of her race. His gloomynorthern nature felt the fatality of it all. He never could repent ofwhat he had done. The golden light of his one short happiness shonethrough the shrouding veil of fatal time. In his own eyes, with hisbeliefs, he had not even sinned in taking what he had loved so well. Butall the sorrow he saw, came from that deed. Francesca Campodonico's eyeswere as clear and true as her heart. But he knew that Reanda's life waseverything on earth to her, and he guessed that she was to lose that, too, before long. He would willingly have parted with his own, butthrough all his being there was a rough, manly courage that forbade thelast act of fear, and there was a stern old Scottish belief that it waswrong--plainly wrong. 

He did not wish to see Paul Griggs any more than he had wished to seehis daughter after she had left her husband. But no thought of vengeancecrossed his mind. It seemed to him fruitless to think of avenginghimself upon fate; for, after all, it was fate that had done the diremischief. Possibly, he thought, as he walked slowly towards his hotel, fate had brought him back to Rome now, to deal with him as she had dealtwith his. He should be glad of it, for he found little in life that wasnot gloomy and lonely beyond any words. He did not know why he had come. He had acted upon an impulse in going to see Francesca that day. 

When he reached the Corso, instead of going to his hotel he walked downthe street in the direction of the Piazza del Popolo. He wished to seethe house in which Gloria had lived with Griggs, and he remembered thestreet and the number from her having written to him when she wantedmoney. He reached the corner of the Via della Frezza, and turned down, looking up at the numbers as he went along. He glanced at the littlewine shop on the left, with its bush, its red glass lantern, and itsrush-bottomed stools set out by the door. In the shadow within he sawthe gleam of silver buttons on a dark blue jacket. There was nothinguncommon in the sight. 

He found the house, paused, looked up at the windows, and looked twiceat the number. 

"Do you seek some one?" inquired the one-eyed cobbler, resting his blackhands on his knees. 

"Did Mr. Paul Griggs ever live here?" asked Lord Redin. 

"Many years, " answered the cobbler, laconically. 

"Where does he live now?"

"Always here, except when he is not here. Third floor, on the left. Youcan ring the bell. Who knows? Perhaps he will open. I do not wish totell lies. "

The old man grunted, bent down over the shoe, and ran his awl throughthe sole. He was profoundly attached to Paul Griggs, who had always beenkind to him, and since Gloria's death he defended him from visitors withmore determination than ever. 

Lord Redin stood still and said nothing. In ten seconds the cobblerlooked up with a surly frown. 

"If you wish to go up, go up, " he growled. "If not, favour me by gettingout of my light. "

The Scotchman looked at him. 

"You do not remember me, " he observed. "I used to come here with theSignore. "

"Well? I have told you. If you want him, there is the staircase. "

"No. I do not want him, " said Lord Redin, and he turned away abruptly. 

"As you please, " growled the cobbler without looking up again. 

CHAPTER XLII. 

PAUL GRIGGS had gone back to the house in the Via della Frezza after hisreturn from America, and lived alone in the little apartment in whichthe happy days of his life had been spent. He was a man able to live twolives, --the one in the past, the other in the active present. It was hisinstinct to be alone in his sorrow, and alone in the struggle which laybefore him, for himself and his child. But he would have with him allthat could make the memory of Gloria real. The reality of such thingssoftened with their contrast the hardness of life. 

He had taken the same rooms again. Out of boxes and trunks stored in agarret of the house, he had taken many things which had belonged toGloria. Alone, he had arranged the rooms as they used to be. Hiswriting-table stood in the same place, and near it was Gloria's chair;beside it, the little stand with her needlework, her silks, herscissors, and her thimble, all as it used to be. A novel she had onceread when sitting there lay upon the chair. Many little objects whichhad belonged to her were all in their accustomed places. On themantelpiece the cheap American clock ticked loudly as in old days. 

Day after day, as of old, he sat in his place at work. He had made theroom so alive with her that sometimes, looking up from a long spell ofwriting, he forgot, and stared an instant at the bedroom door, andlistened for her footstep. Those were his happiest moments, though eachwas killed in turn by the vision of a lonely grave among rocks. 

With intensest longing he called her back to him. In his sleep, the lastwords he had spoken to her were spoken again by his unconscious lips inthe still, dark night. Everything in him called her, his living soul andhis strong bodily self. There were times when he knew that if he openedhis eyes, shut to see her, he should see her really, there in her chair. He looked, trembling, and there was nothing. In dreams he sought her andcould not find her, though he wandered in dark places, across endlesswastes of broken clods of earth and broken stone. It was as though hergrave covered the whole world round, and his path lay on the shadowedarms of an infinite great cross. And again the grey dawn awoke him fromthe search, to feel that, for pity's sake, she must be alive and nearhim. But he was always alone. 

Silent, iron-browed, iron-handed, he faced the world alone, doing allthat was required of him, and more also. As he had said to Gloria inthat very room, he was building up a superiority for himself, sincegenius was not his. He had in the rough ore of his strength the metalwhich some few men receive as a birth-gift from nature, ready smeltedand refined, ready for them to coin at a single stroke, and throwbroadcast to the applauding world. He had not much, perhaps, but he hadsomething of the true ore, and in the furnace of his untiring energy hewould burn out the dross and find the precious gold at last. It couldnot be for her, now. It was not for himself, but it was to be for thelittle child, growing up in a far country with a clean name--to be hisfather's friend, and nothing more, but to be happy, for the dead woman'ssake who bore him. 

As in all that made a part of Paul Griggs, there was in his memory ofGloria and in his sorrow for her that element of endurance which was thefoundation of his nature. That portion of his life was finished, andthere could never be anything like it again; but it was to be alwayspresent with him, so long as he lived. He was sure of that. It wouldalways be in his power to close his eyes and believe that she was nearhim. If it were possible, he loved her more dead than he had loved herliving. 

And she had loved him to the last, and had given her life in the madthought of lightening his burden. Her last words to him had told himso. Her last wish had been to see the child. And the greatest sacrificehe could now make to her was to separate himself from the child, and lethim grow up to look upon the man who provided for him as his friend, butas nothing more. It was an exaggerated idea, perhaps, though it was byfar the wisest course. Yet in doing what he did, Griggs deprived himselffor months at a time of something that was of her, and he did it for hersake. He knew that in her heart there had been the unspoken shame of herruined life. Shame should never come near little Walter Crowdie. Thesecret could be kept, and Paul Griggs meant to keep it, as he kept manythings from the world. 

All his lonely life grew in the perfect memory, cut short though it wasby fate's cruel scythe-stroke. Even that one fearful day held no shadowof unfaithfulness. She had been mad, but she had loved him. She had donea deed of horror upon herself, but she had loved him, and madly had doneit for his sake. She had laid down her life for him. All that he coulddo would be nothing compared with that. All that he could tear from theworld and lay tenderly as an offering at her feet would be but a handfulof dust in comparison with what she had done in the madness of love. 

His heart strings wound themselves about their treasure, closer andcloser, stronger and stronger. The two natures that strove together inhim, the natures of body and soul, were at one with her, and drew lifefrom her though she was gone. It seemed impossible that they could everagain part and smite one another for the mastery, as of old, for onesorrow had overwhelmed them both, and together they knew the depths ofone grief. 

Again, as of old, he defied fate. Death could take the child from him, but could not separate the three in death or life. So long as the childlived, to do or die for him was the question, while life should last. But Paul Griggs defied fate, for fate's grim hand could not uproot hisheart from the strong place of his great dead love, to buffet it andtear it again. He was alone, bodily, but he was safe forever. 

Out of the dimness of twilight shadows the pale face came to him, andthe sweet lips kissed his; in a light not earthly the dark eyeslightened, and the red auburn hair gleamed and fell about him. In thedarkness, a tender hand stole softly upon his, and words yet more tenderstirred the stillness. He knew that she was near him, close to him, withhim. The truth of what had been made the half dream all true. Only inhis sleep he could not find her, and was wandering ever over a drearygrave that covered the whole world. 

So his life went on with little change, inwardly or outwardly, from dayto day, in the absolute security from danger which the dead give us ofthemselves. The faith that had gone beyond her death could go beyond hisown life, too. He defied fate. 

Then fate, silent, relentless, awful, knocked at his door. 

He was at work as usual. It was a bright winter's day, and the high sunof the late morning streamed across one corner of his writing-table. Hewas thinking of nothing but his writing, and upon that his thoughts wereclosely intent in that everlasting struggle to do better which hadnearly driven poor Gloria mad. 

The little jingling bell rang and thumped against the outer door towhich it was fastened. He paid no attention to it, till it rang again, an instant later. Then he looked up and waited, listening. Again, again, and again he heard it, at equal intervals, five times in all. That wasthe old cobbler's signal, and the only one to which Griggs everresponded. He laid down his pen and went to the door. The one-eyed man, his shoemaker's apron twisted round his waist, stood on the landing, andgave him a small, thick package, tied with a black string, under whichwas thrust a note. Griggs took it without a word, and the bandy-leggedold cobbler swung away from the door with a satisfied grunt. 

Griggs took the parcel back to his work-room, and stood by the windowlooking at the address on the note. He recognized FrancescaCampodonico's handwriting, though he had rarely seen it, and he brokethe seal with considerable curiosity, for he could not imagine why DonnaFrancesca should write to him. He even wondered at her knowing that hewas in Rome. He had never spoken with her since that day long ago, whenshe had sent for him and begged him to take Gloria back to her father. He read the note slowly. It was in Italian, and the language was ratherformal. 

 "SIGNORE:--My old and dear friend, Signor Angelo Reanda, died the day before yesterday after a long illness. During the last hours of his life he asked me to do him a service, and I gave him the solemn promise which I fulfil in sending you the accompanying package. You will see that it was sealed by him and addressed to you by himself, probably before he was taken ill, and he saw it before he died and said that it was the one he meant me to send. That was all he told me regarding it, and I am wholly ignorant of the contents. I have ascertained that you are in Rome, and are living, as formerly, in the Via della Frezza, and to that address I send the parcel. Pray inform me that you have received it. 

 "Believe me, Signore, with perfect esteem, "FRANCESCA CAMPODONICO. "

Griggs read the note twice through to the end, and laid it upon thetable. Then he thrust his hands into his pockets, and turnedthoughtfully to the window without touching the parcel, of which he hadnot even untied the black string. 

So Reanda was dead at last. It was nothing to him, now, though it mighthave meant much if the man had died two years earlier. Living peoplewere very little to Paul Griggs. They might as well be dead, he thought. Nevertheless, the bald fact that Reanda was gone, made him thoughtful. Another figure had disappeared out of his life, though it had not meantvery much. He believed, and had always believed, that Reanda had lovedFrancesca in secret, though she had treated him as a mere friend, as aprotectress should treat one who needs her protection. 

Griggs turned and took up the note to look at it keenly, for he believedhimself a judge of handwriting, and he thought that he might detect inhers the indications of any great suffering. The lines ran down a littleat the end, but otherwise the large, careful hand was the same as ever, learned in a convent and little changed since, even as the woman herselfhad changed little. She was the same always, simple, honest, strangelymaidenlike, thoroughly good. 

He turned to the window again. So Reanda was dead. He would not findGloria, to whatsoever place he was gone. The shadow of a smile wreatheditself about the mouth of the lonely man--the last that was there for along time after that day. Gloria was dead, but Gloria was his, and hehers, for ever and ever. Neither heaven nor hell could tear up his heartnor loosen the strong hold of all of him that clung to her and had grownabout her and through her, till he and she were quite one. 

Then, all at once, he wondered what it could be that Reanda had wishedto send him from beyond the grave. He turned, took the parcel, andsnapped the black string with his fingers, and took off the paper. Within was the parcel, wrapped in a second paper and firmly tied withbroad tape. A few words were written on the outside. 

"To be given to Paul Griggs when I am dead. A. R. "

The superscription told nothing, but he looked at it curiously as onedoes at such things, when the sender is beyond answer. He cut the whitetape, for it was tied so tightly that he could not slip a finger underit to break it. There was something of hard determination in the way itwas tied. 

It contained letters in their envelopes, as they had reached Reandathrough the post, all of the same size, laid neatly one upon theother--a score or more of them. 

Griggs felt his hand shake, for he recognized Gloria's writing. Hisfirst impulse was to burn the whole package, as it was, reverently, assomething which had belonged to Gloria, in which he had no part, orshare, or right. He laid his hand upon the pile of letters, and lookedat the small fire to see whether it were burning well. Under his hand hefelt something hard inside the uppermost envelope. His fate was uponhim--the fate he had so often defied to do its worst, since all that hehad was dead and was his forever. 

Without another thought, he took from the envelope the letter itcontained, and the hard thing which was inside the letter. He held it amoment in his hand, and it flamed in the beam of sunlight that fellacross the end of the table, and dazzled him. Then he realized what itwas. It was Gloria's wedding ring, and twisted round and round it and inand out of it was a lock of her red auburn hair, serpent-like, flamingin the sunshine, with a hundred little tongues that waved and movedsoftly under his breath. 

An icy chill smote him in the neck, and his strong limbs shook to hisfeet as he laid the thing down upon the corner of the table. There was afearful fascination in it. The red gold hairs stirred and moved in thesunlight still, even when he no longer breathed upon them. It was herhair, and it seemed alive. 

In his other hand he still held the letter. Fate had him now, and wouldnot let him go while he could feel. Again and again the cruel chillsmote him in the back. He opened the doubled sheet, and saw the date andthe name of the place, --Subiaco, --and the first words--'Heart of myheart, this is my last cry to you'--and it was to Angelo Reanda. 

Rigid and feeling as though great icy hands were drawing him up by theneck from the ground, he stood still and read every word, with all themessage of loathing and abject fear and horror of his touch, which everyword brought him, from the dead, through the other dead. 

Slowly, regularly, without wavering, moved by a power not his own, hishands took the other letters and opened them, and his eyes read all thewords, from the last to the first. One by one the sheets fell upon thetable, and all alone in the midst the lock of red auburn hair sent upits little lambent flame in the sunshine. 

Paul Griggs stood upright, stark with the stress of rending soul andbreaking heart. 

As he stood there, he was aware of a man in black beside him, likehimself, ghastly to see, with shadows and fires for eyes, and thin, parted lips that showed wolfish teeth, strong, stern, with iron hands. 

"You are dead, " said his own voice out of the other's mouth. "You aredead, and I am Gorlias. "

Then the strong teeth were set and the lips closed, and the gladiator'sunmatched arms wound themselves upon the other's strength, with grip andclutch and strain not of earthly men. 

Silent and terrible, they wrestled in fight, arm to arm, bone to bone, breath to breath. Hour after hour they strove in the still room. The sunwent westering away, the shadows deepened. The night came stealing blackand lonely through the window. Foot to foot, breast to breast, in thedark, they bowed themselves one upon the other, dumb in the agony oftheir reeling strife. 

Late in the night, in the cold room, Paul Griggs felt the carpet underhis hands as he lay upon his back. 

His heart was broken. 

CHAPTER XLIII. 

LORD REDIN had barely glanced at the man in the blue jacket with silverbuttons, whom he had seen in the deep shadow of the little wine shop ashe strolled down the Via della Frezza. But Stefanone had seen him andhad gone to the door as he passed, watching him when he stood talking tothe one-eyed cobbler, and keeping his keen eyes on him as he passedagain on his homeward way. And all the way to the hotel in the Piazza diSpagna Stefanone had followed him at a distance, watching the greatloose-jointed frame and the slightly stooping head, till the Scotchmandisappeared under the archway, past the porter, who stood aside, hisgold-laced cap in his hand, bowing low to the 'English lord. '

Stefanone waited a few moments and then accosted the porter civilly. 

"Do you know if the proprietor wishes to buy some good wine of lastyear, at a cheap rate?" he asked. "You understand. I am of the country. I cannot go in and look for the proprietor. But you are doubtless thedirector and you manage these things for him. That is why I ask you. "

The porter smiled at the flattery, but said that he believed wine hadbeen bought for the whole year. 

"The hotel is doubtless full of rich foreigners, " observed Stefanone. "It is indeed beautiful. I should prefer it to the Palazzo Borghese. Isit not full?"

"Quite full, " answered the porter, proud of the establishment. 

"For instance, " said Stefanone, "I saw a great signore going in, justbefore I took the liberty of speaking with you. I am sure that he is agreat English signore. Not perhaps a mylord. But a great signore, havingmuch money. "

"What makes you think that?" inquired the porter, with a superior smile. 

"Eh, the reasons are two. First, you bowed to him, as though he weresome personage, and you of course know who he is. Secondly, he liftedhis hat to you. He is therefore a real signore, as good perhaps as aRoman prince. We say a proverb in the country--'to salute is courtesy, to answer is duty. ' Therefore when any one salutes a real signore, heanswers and lifts his hat. These are the reasons why I say this one mustbe a great one. "

"For that matter, you are right, " laughed the porter. "That signore isan English lord. What a combination! You have guessed it. His name isLord Redin. "

Stefanone's sharp eyes fixed themselves vacantly, for he did not wish tobetray his surprise at not hearing the name he had expected. 

"Eh!" he exclaimed. "Names? What are they, when one is a prince. Princeof this. Duke of that. Our Romans are full of names. I daresay thissignore has four or five. "

But the porter knew of no other, and presently Stefanone departed, wondering whether he had made a mistake, after all, and recalling thefeatures of the man he had followed to compare them with those youngerones he remembered so distinctly. He went back to the Via della Frezzaand drank a glass of wine. Then he filled the glass again and carried itcarefully across the street to his friend the cobbler. 

"Drink, " he said. "It will do you good. A drop of wine at sunset givesforce to the stomach. "

The one-eyed man looked up, and smiled at his friend, a phenomenonrarely observed on his wrinkled and bearded face. He shrugged one roundshoulder, by way of assent, held his head a little on one side andstretched out his black hand with the glass in it, to the light. Hetasted it, smelt it, and looked up at Stefanone before he drank inearnest. 

"Black soul!" he exclaimed by way of an approving asseveration. "This isindeed wine!"

"He took it for vinegar!" observed Stefanone, speaking to the air. 

"It is wine, " answered the cobbler when he had drained the glass. "It isa consolation. "

Then they began to talk together, and Stefanone questioned him about hisinterview with the tall gentleman an hour earlier. The cobbler reallyknew nothing about him, though he remembered having seen him severaltimes, years ago, before Gloria had come. 

"You know nothing, " said Stefanone. "That signore is the father of SorPaolo's signora, who died in my house. "

"You are joking, " returned the cobbler, gravely. "He would have come tosee his daughter while she lived--requiescat!"

"And I say that I am not joking. Do you wish to hear the truth? Well. You have much confidence with Sor Paolo. Tell him that the father of thepoor Signora Gloria came to the door and asked questions. You shall hearwhat he will say. He will say that it is possible. Then he will ask youabout him. You will tell him, so and so--a very tall signore, all madeof pieces that swing loosely when he walks, with a beard like the Mosesof the fountain, and hard blue eyes that strike you like two balls froma gun, and hair that is neither red nor white, and a bony face like anold horse. "

"It is true, " said the cobbler, reflectively. "It is he. It is hispicture. "

"You will also say that he is now an English lord, but that formerlythey called him Sor Angoscia. You, who are friends with Sor Paolo, youshould tell him this. It may be that Sor Angoscia wishes him evil. Whoknows? In this world the combinations are so many!"

It was long before the cobbler got an opportunity of speaking withGriggs, and when he had the chance, he forgot all about it, thoughStefanone reminded him of it from time to time. But when he at lastspoke of the matter he was surprised to find that Stefanone had beenquite right, as Griggs admitted without the least hesitation. He toldStefanone so, and the peasant was satisfied, though he had long beenpositive that he had found his man at last, and recognized him in spiteof his beard and his age. 

After that Stefanone haunted the Piazza di Spagna in the morning, talking a little with the models who used to stand there in theirmountain costumes to be hired by painters in the days when pictures ofthem were the fashion. Many of them came from the neighbourhood ofSubiaco, and knew Stefanone by sight. When Lord Redin came out of thehotel, as he generally did between eleven and twelve if the day werefine, Stefanone put his pipe out, stuck it into his breeches' pocketwith his brass-handled clasp-knife, and strolled away a hundred yardsbehind his enemy. 

If Lord Redin noticed him once or twice, it was merely to observe thatmen still came to Rome wearing the old-fashioned dress of therespectable peasants. Being naturally fearless, and at present whollyunsuspicious, it never struck him that any one could be dogging hisfootsteps whenever he went out of his hotel. In the evening he went outvery little and then generally in a carriage. Two or three times, on aSunday, he walked over to Saint Peter's and listened to the music atVespers, as many foreigners used to do. Stefanone followed him into thechurch and watched him from a distance. Once the peasant saw DonnaFrancesca, whom he knew by sight as a member of the Braccio family, sitting within the great gate of the Chapel of the Choir, where theservice was held. Lord Redin always followed the frequented streets, which led in an almost direct line from the Piazza di Spagna by the ViaCondotti to the bridge of Saint Angelo. It was the nearest way. He neverwent back to the Via della Frezza, for he had no desire to see PaulGriggs, and his curiosity had been satisfied by once looking at thehouse in which his daughter had lived. He spent his evenings alone inhis rooms with a bottle of wine and a book. Luxury had become a habitwith him, and he now preferred a draught of Chāteau Lafitte to the roughRoman wine barely a year old, while three or four glasses of a certainbrandy, twenty years in bottle, which he had discovered in the hotel, were a necessary condition of his comfort. He had the intention of goingout one evening, in cloak and soft hat, as of old, to dine in his oldcorner at the Falcone, but he put it off from day to day, feeling notaste for the coarser fare and the rougher drink when the hour came. 

He often went to see Francesca Campodonico in the middle of the day, atwhich hour the Roman ladies used to be visible to their more intimatefriends. An odd sort of sympathy had grown up between the two, thoughthey scarcely ever alluded to past events, and then only by an accidentwhich both regretted. Francesca exercised a refining influence upon thegloomy Scotchman, and as he knew her better, he even took the trouble tobe less rough and cynical when he was with her. In character she wasutterly different from his dead wife, but there was something of familyresemblance between the two which called up memories very dear to him. 

Her influence softened him. In his wandering life he had more than onceformed acquaintances with men of tastes more or less similar to his own, which might have ripened into friendships for a man of less morosecharacter. But in that, he and Paul Griggs were very much alike. Theyfound an element in every acquaintance which roused their distrust, andas men to men they were both equally incapable of making a confidence. Dalrymple's life had not brought him into close relations with any womanexcept his wife. For her sake he had kept all others at a distance in astrange jealousy of his own heart which had made her for him the onlywoman in the world. Then, too, he had hated, for her, the curiosity ofthose who had evidently wished to know her story. That had been always asecret. He had told it to his father, and his father had died with it. No one else had ever known whence Maria had come, nor what her name hadbeen. If Captain Crowdie had ever guessed the truth, which was doubtful, he had held his tongue. 

But Angus Dalrymple was no longer the man he had been in those days. Hehad changed very much in the past two or three years; for though he hadalmost outlived the excesses into which he had fallen in his firstsorrow, his hardy constitution had been shaken, if not weakened, bythem. Physically his nerves were almost as good as ever, but morally hewas not the same man. He felt the need of sympathy and confidence, whichwith such natures is the first sign of breaking down, and of thedegeneration of pride. 

That was probably the secret of what he felt when he was with Francesca. She had that rarest quality in women, too, which commands men withoutinspiring love. It is very hard to explain what that quality is, butmost men who have lived much and seen much have met with it at leastonce in their lives. 

There is a sort of manifested goodness for which the average man of theworld has a profound and unreasonable contempt. And there is anothersort which most wholly commands the respect of that man who has livedhardest. From a religious point of view, both may be equally real andconducive to salvation. The cynic, the worn out man of the world, theman whose heart is broken, all look upon the one as a weakness and theother as a strength. Perhaps there is more humanity in the one than inthe other. A hundred women may rebuke a man for something he has done, and he will smile at the reproach, though he may smile sadly. The onewill say to him the same words, and he will be gravely silent and willfeel that she is right and will like her the better for it everafterwards. And she is not, as a rule, the woman whom such men wouldlove. 

"I have never before met a woman whom I should wish to have for myfriend, " said Lord Redin, one day when he was alone with Francesca. "Idaresay I am not at all the kind of man you would select for purposes offriendship, " he added, with a short laugh. 

Francesca smiled a little at the frankness of the words, and shook herhead. 

"Perhaps not, " she said. "Who knows? Life brings strange changes whenone thinks that one knows it best. "

"It has brought strange things to me, " answered Lord Redin. 

Then he was silent for a time. He felt the strong desire to speak out, for no good reason or purpose, and to tell her the story of his life. She would be horrorstruck at first. He fancied he could see theexpression which would come to her face. But he held his peace, for shehad not met him half-way, and he was ashamed of the weakness that wasupon him. 

"Yes, " she said thoughtfully, after a little pause. "You must have had astrange life, and a very unhappy one. You speak of friendship as menspeak who are in earnest, because there is no other hope for them. Iknow something of that. "

She ceased, and her clear eyes turned sadly away from him. 

"I know you do, " he answered softly. 

She looked at him again, and she liked him better than ever before, andpitied him sincerely. She had discovered that with all his faults he wasnot a bad man, as men go, for she did not know of that one deed of hisyouth which to her would have seemed a monstrous crime of sacrilege, beyond all forgiveness on earth or in heaven. 

Then she began to speak of other things, for her own words, and his, had gone too near her heart, and presently he left her and strolledhomeward through the sunny streets. He walked slowly and thoughtfully, unconscious of the man in a blue jacket with silver buttons, whofollowed him and watched him with keen, unwinking eyes set under heavybrows. 

But Stefanone was growing impatient, and his knife was every day alittle sharper as he whetted it thoughtfully upon a bit of smoothoilstone which he carried in his pocket. Would the Englishman ever turndown into some quiet street or lane where no one would be looking? AndStefanone's square face grew thinner and his aquiline features more andmore eagle-like, till the one-eyed cobbler noticed the change, and spokeof it. 

"You are consuming yourself for some female, " he said. "You have whitehair. This is a shameful thing. "

But Stefanone laughed, instead of resenting the speech--a curiouslynervous laugh. 

"What would you have?" he replied. "We are men, and the devil iseverywhere. "

As he sat on the doorstep by the cobbler's bench, which was pushed farforward to get the afternoon light, he took up the short sharpshoemaker's knife, looked at it, held it in his hands and pared hiscoarse nails with it, whistling a little tune. 

"That is a good knife, " he observed carelessly. 

The cobbler looked up and saw what he was doing. 

"Black soul!" he cried out angrily. "That is my welt-knife, like arazor, and he pares his hoofs with it!"

But Stefanone dropped it into the little box of tools on the front ofthe bench, and whistled softly. 

"You seem to me a silly boy!" said the cobbler, still wrathful. 

"Apoplexy, how you talk!" answered Stefanone. "But I seem so to myself, sometimes. "

CHAPTER XLIV. 

THE life of Paul Griggs was not less lonely than it had been before theday on which he had received and read Gloria's letters to Reanda, but itwas changed. Everything which had belonged to the dead woman was gonefrom the room in which he sat and worked as usual. Even the position ofthe furniture was changed. But he worked on as steadily as before. 

Outwardly he was very much the same man as ever. Any one who knew himwell--if such a person had existed--would have seen that there was alittle difference in the expression of his impassive face. The jaw was, if possible, more firmly set than ever, but there was a line in theforehead which had not been there formerly, and which softened the ironfront, as it were, with something more human. It had come suddenly, andhad remained. That was all. 

But within, the difference was great and deep. He felt that the man whosat all day long at the writing-table doing his work was not himself anylonger, but another being, his double and shadow, and in all respectshis slave, except in one. 

That other man sometimes paused in his work, fingering the penunconsciously, as men do who hold it all day long, and thinking ofGloria with an expression of horror and suffering in his eyes. But he, the real Paul Griggs, never thought of her. The link was broken, thethread that had carried the message of dead love between him and thelonely grave beyond Subiaco was definitely broken. Stefanone came toreceive the small sum which Griggs paid him monthly for his care of theplace, and Griggs paid him as he would have paid his tailor, mechanically, and made a note of the payment in his pocket-book. Whenthe man was gone, Griggs felt that his double was staring at the wall asa man stares at the dark surface of the pool in which the thing he loveshas sunk for the last time. 

It was always the other self that felt at such moments. He couldabstract himself from it, and feel that he was watching it; he coulddirect it and make it do what he pleased; but he could neither controlits thoughts nor feel any sympathy for them. Until the fatal day, theworld had all been black to him; only by closing his eyes could he bringinto it the light that hovered about a dead woman's face. 

But now the black was changed to a flat and toneless white in whichthere was never the least variation. Life was to him a vast blank, inwhich, without interest or sensation, he moved in any direction hepleased, and he pleased that it should be always the same direction, from the remembrance of a previous intention and abiding principle. Butit might as well have been any other, backwards, or to right or left. Itwas all precisely the same, and it was perfectly inconceivable to himthat he should ever care whether in the endless journey he ever cameupon a spot or point in the blank waste which should prove to him thathe had moved at all. Nothing could make any difference. He was beyondthat state in which any difference was apprehensible between one thingand another. 

His double had material wants, and was ruled by material circumstances. His double was a broken-hearted creature, toiling to make money for alittle child to which it felt itself bound by every responsibility whichcan bind father to son; acknowledging the indebtedness in every act ofits laborious life, denying itself every luxury, and almost everycomfort, that there might be a little more for the child, now and intime to come; weary beyond earthly weariness, but untiring in themechanical performance of its set task; fatally strong and destined, perhaps, to live on through sixty or seventy years of the same unceasingtoil; fatally weak in its one deep wound, and horribly sensitive withinitself, but outwardly expressionless, strong, merely a little more paleand haggard than Paul Griggs had been. 

This was the being whom Paul Griggs employed, as it were, to work forhim, which he thoroughly understood and could control in every partexcept in its thoughts, and they were its own. But he himself existed inanother sphere, in which there were neither interests norresponsibilities, nor landmarks, nor touches of human feeling, neithermemories for the dead nor hopes for the living; in which everything wasthe same, because there was nothing but a sort of universal impersonalconsciousness, no more attached to himself than to the beings he sawabout him, or to that particular being which was his former self, --inwhich he chose to reside, merely because he required a bodily evidenceof some sort in order to be alive--and there was no particular reasonwhy he should not be alive. He therefore did not cease to live, but astraw might have turned the balance to the side of death. 

It was certainly true that, so far as it could be said that there wasany link between him and humanity, it lay in the existence of the littleboy beyond the water. But it would have been precisely the same iflittle Walter Crowdie had died. He did not wish to see the child, for hehad no wishes at all. Life being what it was, it would be very muchbetter if the child were to die at once. Since it happened to be alive, he forced his double to work for it. It was no longer any particularchild so far as he himself was concerned. It belonged to his double, which seemed to be attached to it in an unaccountable way and did notcomplain at being driven to labour for it. 

At certain moments, when he seemed to have got rid of his doublealtogether for a time, a question presented itself to his real self. Thequestion was the great and old one--What was it for? And to what was ittending? Then the people he saw in the streets appeared to him to bevery small, like ants, running hither and thither upon the ant-hill andabout it, moved by something which they could not understand, but whichmade them do certain things with an appearance of logical sequence, justas he forced his double to work for little Walter Crowdie from morningtill night. So the people ran about anxiously, or strolled lazilythrough the hours, careful or careless, as the case might be, but quiteunconscious that they were of no consequence and of no use, and that itwas quite immaterial whether they were alive or dead. Most of themthought that they cared a good deal for life on the whole, and that itheld a multitude of pleasant and interesting things to be liked andsought, and an equal number of unpleasant and dangerous things to beavoided; all of which things had no real existence whatever, as theimpersonal consciousness of Paul Griggs was well aware. He watched thepeople curiously, as though they merely existed to perform tricks forhis benefit. But they did not amuse him, for nothing could amuse him, nor interest him when he had momentarily got rid of his double, assometimes happened when he was out of doors. 

One day, the month having passed again, Stefanone came for his money. Itwas very little, and the old peasant would willingly have undertakenthat the work should be done for nothing. But he was interested in PaulGriggs, and he was growing very impatient because he could not get anopportunity of falling upon Lord Redin in a quiet place. He had formed anew plan of almost childlike simplicity. When Griggs had paid him themoney, he lingered a moment and looked about the room. 

"Signore, you have changed the furniture, " he observed. "That chair wasformerly here. This table used to be there. There are a thousandchanges. "

"Yes, " said Griggs, taking up his pen to go on with his work. "You havegood eyes, " he added good-naturedly. 

"Two, " assented Stefanone; "each better than the other. For instance, Iwill tell you. When that chair was by the window, there was a littletable beside it. On the table was the work-basket of your poor Signora, whom may the Lord preserve in glory! Is it truth?"

"Yes, " answered Griggs, with perfect indifference. "It is quite true. "

The allusion did not pain him, the man who was talking with Stefanone. It would perhaps hurt the other man when he thought of it later. 

"Signore, " said Stefanone, who evidently had something in his mind, "Iwas thinking in the night, and this thought came to me. The dead aredead. Requiescant! It is better for the living to live in holy peace. You never see the father of the Signora. There is bad blood between you. This was my thought--let them be reconciled, and spend an eveningtogether. They will speak of the dead one. They will shed tears. Theywill embrace. Let the enmity be finished. In this way they will enjoylife more. "

"You are crazy, Stefanone, " answered Griggs, impatiently. "But how doyou know who is the father of the Signora?"

"Every one knows it, Signore!" replied the peasant, with well-feignedsincerity. "Every one knows that it is the great English lord who livesat the hotel in the Piazza di Spagna this year. Signore, I have said aword. You must not take it ill. Enmity is bad. Friendship is a goodthing. And then it is simple. With maccaroni one makes acquaintanceagain. There is the Falcone, but it would be better here. We will cookthe maccaroni in the kitchen; you will eat on this table. What are allthese papers for? Study, study! A dish of good paste is better, withcheese. I will bring a certain wine--two flasks. Then you will befriends, for you will drink together. And if the English lord drinks toomuch, I will go home with him to the hotel in the Piazza di Spagna. Butyou will only have to go to bed. Once in a year, what is it to be alittle gay with good wine? At least you will be good friends. Thenthings will end well. "

Griggs looked at Stefanone curiously, while the old peasant wasspeaking, for he knew the people well, and he suspected something thoughhe did not know what to think. 

"Perhaps some day we may take your advice, " he said coldly. "Goodmorning, Stefanone; I have much to write. "

"I remove the inconvenience, " answered Stefanone, in the stock Italianphrase for taking leave. 

"No inconvenience, " replied Griggs, civilly, as is the custom. "But Ihave to work. "

"Study, study!" grumbled Stefanone, going towards the door. "What doesit all conclude, this great study? Headache. For a flask of wine youhave the same thing, and the pleasure besides. It is enough. Signore, "he added, reluctantly turning the handle, "I go. Think of what I havesaid to you. Sometimes an old man says a wise word. "

He went away very much discontented with the result of the conversation. His mind was a medley of cunning and simplicity backed by an absolutelyunforgiving temper and great caution. His plan had seemed exceedinglygood. Lord Redin and Griggs would have supped together, and the formerwould very naturally have gone home alone. Stefanone was oddly surprisedthat Griggs should not have acceded to the proposition at once, thoughin reality there was not the slightest of small reasons for his doingso. 

It was long since anything had happened to rouse Griggs into thinkingabout any individual human being as anything more than a bit of theworld's furniture, to be worn out and thrown away in the course of time, out of sight. But something in the absolutely gratuitous nature ofStefanone's advice moved his suspicions. He saw, with his intimateknowledge of the Roman peasant's character, the whole process of the oldwine-seller's mind, if only, in the first place, the fellow had thedesire to harass Dalrymple. That being granted, the rest was plainenough. Dalrymple, if he really came to supper with Griggs, would staylate into the night and finish all the wine there might be. On his wayhome through the deserted streets, Stefanone could kill him at hisleisure and convenience, and nobody would be the wiser. The onlydifficulty lay in establishing some sufficient reason why Stefanoneshould wish to kill him at all, and in this Griggs signally failed, which was not surprising. 

All at once, as generally happened now, he lost all interest in thematter and returned to his work; or rather, to speak as he might havespoken, he set his mechanical self to work for him, while his own beingdisappeared in blank indifference and unconsciousness. But on thefollowing day, which chanced to be a Sunday, he went out in the morningfor a walk. He rarely worked on Sundays, having long ago convincedhimself that a day of rest was necessary in the long run. 

As he was coming home, he saw Lord Redin walking far in front of himdown the Corso, easily recognizable by his height and his loose, swinging gait. Griggs had not proceeded many steps further whenStefanone passed him, walking at a swinging stride. The peasant hadprobably seen him, but chose to take no notice of him. Griggs allowedhim to get a fair start and then quickened his own pace, so as to keephim in view. Lord Redin swung along steadily and turned up the ViaCondotti. Stefanone almost ran, till he, too, had turned the corner ofthe street. Griggs, without running, nearly overtook him as he took thesame turn a moment later. 

It was perfectly clear that Stefanone was dogging the Scotchman'ssteps. The latter crossed the Piazza di Spagna, and entered the deeparchway of his hotel. The peasant slackened his speed at once andlounged across the square towards the foot of the great stairway whichleads up to the Trinitą de' Monti. Griggs followed him, and came up withhim just as he sat down upon a step beside one of the big stone posts, to take breath and light his pipe. The man looked up, touched his hat, smiled, and struck a sulphur match, which he applied to the tobacco inthe red clay bowl before the sulphur was half burned out, after themanner of his kind. 

"You have taken a walk, Signore, " he observed, puffing away at thewillow stem and watching the match. 

"You walk fast, Stefanone, " answered Griggs. "You can walk as fast asLord Redin. "

Stefanone did not show the least surprise. He pressed down the burningtobacco with one horny finger, and carefully laid the last glowing bitof the burnt-out wooden match upon it. 

"For this, we are people of the mountains, " he answered slowly. "We canwalk. "

"Why do you wish to kill that signore?" inquired Griggs, calmly. 

Stefanone looked up, and the pale lids of his keen eyes were contractedas he stared hard and long at the other's face. 

"What are you saying?" he asked, with a short, harsh laugh. "What ispassing through your head? What have I to do with the Englishman?Nothing. These are follies!"

And still he gazed keenly at Griggs, awaiting the latter's reply. Griggsanswered him contemptuously in the dialect. 

"You take me for a foreigner! You might know better. "

"I do not know what you mean, " answered Stefanone, doggedly. "It isSunday. I am at leisure. I walk to take a little air. It is my affair. Besides, at this hour, who would follow a man to kill him? It is aboutto ring midday. There are a thousand people in the street. Those whokill wait at the corners of streets when it is night. You say that Itake you for a foreigner. You have taken me for an assassin. At yourpleasure. So much the worse for me. An assassin! Only this was wanting. It is better that I go back to Subiaco. At least they know me there. Here in Rome--not even dogs would stay here. Beautiful town! Where oneis called assassin for breakfast, without counting one, nor two. "

By this time Griggs was convinced that he was right. He knew the manwell, and all his kind. The long speech of complaint, with its peculiartone, half insolent, half of injured innocence, was to cover thefellow's embarrassment. Griggs answered him in his own strain. 

"A man is not an assassin who kills his enemy for a good reason, Stefanone, " he observed. "How do I know what he may have done to you?"

"To me? Nothing. " The peasant shrugged his sturdy shoulders. 

"Then I have made a mistake, " said Griggs. 

"You have made a mistake, " assented Stefanone. "Let us not talk about itany more. "

"Very well. "

Griggs turned away and walked slowly towards the hotel, well aware thatStefanone was watching him and would think that he was going to warnLord Redin of his danger. That, indeed, was Griggs's first impulse, andit was probably his wisest course, whatever might come of the meeting. But the Scotchman had made up his mind that he would not see Griggsunder any circumstances, and though the latter had seen him enter thehotel less than ten minutes earlier, the servant returned almostimmediately and said that Lord Redin was not at home. Griggs understoodand turned away, thoughtfully. 

Before he went down the Via Condotti again, he looked over his shouldertowards the steps, and he saw that Stefanone was gone. As he walkedalong the street, the whole incident began to fade away in his mind, asall real matters so often did, nowadays. All at once he stopped short, and roused himself by an effort--directing his double, as he would havesaid, perhaps. There was no denying the fact that a man's life washanging in the balance of a chance, and to the man, if not to Griggs, that life was worth something. If it had been any other man in theworld, even that fact would have left him indifferent enough. Why shouldhe care who lived or died? But Dalrymple was a man he had injured, andhe was under an obligation of honour to save him, if he could. 

There was only one person in Rome who could help him--FrancescaCampodonico. She knew much of what had happened; she might perhapsunderstand the present case. At all events, even if she had not seenLord Redin of late, she could not be supposed to have broken relationswith him; she could send for him and warn him. The case was urgent, asGriggs knew. After what he had said to Stefanone, the latter, if hemeant to kill his man, would not lose a day. 

CHAPTER XLV. 

IT was past midday when Paul Griggs reached the Palazzetto Borgia andinquired for Donna Francesca. He was told that she was out. It was hercustom, the porter said, always to breakfast on Sundays with herrelatives, the Prince and Princess of Gerano. Griggs asked at what timeshe might be expected to return. The porter put on a vague look and saidthat it was impossible to tell. Sometimes she went to Saint Peter's onSunday afternoon, to hear Vespers. Vespers began at twenty-two o'clock, or half-past twenty-two--between half-past three and four by Frenchtime, at that season of the year. 

Griggs turned away, and wandered about for half an hour in the vicinityof the palace, uncertain as to what he should do, and yet determined notto lose sight of the necessity for immediate action of some sort. Atlast he went back to the Piazza di Spagna, intending to write a word ofwarning to Lord Redin, though he knew that the latter would pay verylittle attention to anything of such a nature. Like most foreigners, hewould laugh at the idea of being attacked in the streets. Even in aninterview it would not be easy to persuade him of the truth which Griggshad discovered more by intuition and through his profound knowledge ofthe Roman character than by any chain of evidence. 

Lord Redin had gone out, he was told. It was impossible to say with anycertainty whether this were true or not, and Griggs wrote a few words onhis card, sealed the latter in an envelope, and left it to be deliveredto the Scotchman. Then he went back to the Via della Frezza, determinedto renew his attempt to see Francesca Campodonico, at a later hour. 

At the door of the little wine shop Stefanone was seated on one of therush stools, his hat tilted over his eyes, and his white-stockinged legscrossed. He was smoking and looking down, but he recognized Griggs'sstep at some distance, and raised his eyes. Griggs nodded to himfamiliarly, passing along on the other side of the narrow street, and hesaw Stefanone's expression. There was a look of cunning and amusement inthe contraction of the pale lids, which the younger man did not like. Stefanone spoke to him across the street. 

"You are well returned, Signore, " he said, in the common phrase ofgreeting after an absence. 

The words were civil enough, but there was something of mockery in thetone. Griggs might not have noticed it at any other time, but histhoughts had been occupied with Stefanone during the last two hours, and he resented what sounded like insolence. The tone implied that hehad been on a fool's errand, and that Stefanone knew it. He saidnothing, but stood still and scrutinized the man's face. There was anunwonted colour about the cheek bones, and the keen eyes sparkled underthe brim of the soft hat. Stefanone had a solid head, and was not givento drinking, especially in the morning; but Griggs guessed that to-dayhe had drunk more than usual. The man's next words convinced him of thefact. 

"Signore, " he said, slowly rising, "will you favour us by tasting thewine I brought last week? There is no one in the shop yet, for it isearly. If you will, we can drink a glass. "

"Thank you, " answered Griggs. "I have not eaten yet. "

"Then Sor Angoscia did not ask you to breakfast!" laughed Stefanone, insolently. "At midday, too! It was just the hour! But perhaps heinvited you to his supper, for it is ordered. "

And he laughed again. Griggs glanced at him once more, and then wentquietly on towards his own door. He saw that the man had drunk too much, and the idea of bandying words in the attempt to rebuke him wasdistasteful. Griggs had very rarely lost his temper, so far as to strikea man, even in former days, and it had seemed to him of late that hecould never be really angry again. Nothing could ever again be ofenough importance to make it worth while. If a man of his own class hadinsulted him, he would have directed his double, as it were, to resentthe offence, but he himself would have remained utterly indifferent. 

The one-eyed cobbler was not in his place, as it was Sunday. If he hadbeen there, Griggs would very possibly have told him to watch Stefanoneand to try and keep him in the wine shop until he should grow heavy overhis wine and fall asleep. In that state he would at least be harmless. But the cobbler was not there. Griggs went up to his rooms to wait untila later hour, when he might hope to find Francesca. 

Stefanone, being left alone, sat down again, pulled his hat over hiseyes once more and felt in his pocket for his clasp-knife. His mind wasby no means clear, for he had eaten nothing, he had swallowed a gooddeal of strong wine, and he had made up his mind that he must kill hisenemy on that day or never. The intention was well-defined, but that wasall. He had put off his vengeance too long. It was true that he had notyet caught Dalrymple alone in a quiet street at night, that is to say, under the most favourable circumstances imaginable; but more than oncehe might have fallen upon him suddenly from a doorway in a narrow lane, in which there had been but a few women and children to see the deed, ifthey saw it at all. He knew well enough that in Rome the fear of beingin any way implicated in a murder, even as a witness, would have madewomen, and probably men, too, run indoors or out of the way, rather thaninterfere or pursue him. He told himself therefore that he had beenunreasonably cautious, and that unless he acted quickly Lord Redin, being warned by Griggs, would take measures of self-defence which mightput him beyond the reach of the clasp-knife forever. Stefanone's ideasabout the power of an 'English lord' were vague in the extreme. 

He had not been exactly frightened by Griggs's sudden accusation thatmorning, but he had been made nervous and vicious by the certainty thathis intentions had been discovered. Peasant-like, not being able to hiton a plan for immediate success, he had excited himself and stimulatedhis courage with drink. His eyes were already a little bloodshot, andthe flush on his high cheek bones showed that he was in the first stageof drunkenness, which under present circumstances was the most dangerousand might last all day with a man of his age and constitution, providedthat he did not drink too fast. And there was little fear of that, forthe Roman is cautious in his cups, and drinks slowly, never wishing tolose his head, and indeed very much ashamed of ever being seen in ahelpless condition. 

By this time he was well acquainted with Lord Redin's habits; and thoughGriggs had been told that the Scotchman was out, Stefanone knew verywell that he was at home and would not leave the hotel for another houror more. 

Leaning back against the wall and tipping the stool, he swung hiswhite-stockinged legs thoughtfully. 

"One must eat, " he remarked aloud, to himself. 

He held his head a little on one side, thoughtfully considering thequestion of food. Then he turned his face slowly towards the low door ofthe shop and sniffed the air. Something was cooking in the back regionswithin. Stefanone nodded to himself, rose, pulled out a blue and redcotton handkerchief, and proceeded to dust his well-blacked low shoesand steel buckles with considerable care, setting first one foot andthen the other upon the stool. 

"Let us eat, " he said aloud, folding his handkerchief again andreturning it to his pocket. 

He went in and sat down at one of the trestle tables, --a heavy board, black with age. The host was nodding on a chair in the corner, a fat manin a clean white apron, with a round red face and fat red prominencesover his eyes, with thin eyebrows that were scarcely perceptible. 

Stefanone rapped on the board with his knuckles; the host awoke, lookedat him with a pleased smile, made an interrogatory gesture, and havingreceived an affirmative nod for an answer retired into the dark kitchen. In a moment he returned with a huge earthenware plate of soup in which acouple of large pieces of fat meat bobbed lazily as he set the dish onthe table. Then he brought bread, a measure of wine, an iron spoon, anda two-pronged fork. 

Stefanone eat the soup without a word, breaking great pieces of breadinto it. Then he pulled out his clasp-knife and opened it; the longblade, keen as a razor and slightly curved, but dark and dull in colour, snapped to its place, as the ring at the back fell into thecorresponding sharp notch. With affected delicacy, Stefanone held itbetween his thumb and one finger and drew the edge across the fat boiledmeat, which fell into pieces almost at a touch, though it was tough andstringy. The host watched the operation approvingly. At that time it wasforbidden to carry such knives in Rome, unless the point were round andblunt. The Roman always stabs; he never cuts his man's throat in a fightor in a murder. 

"It is a prohibited weapon, " observed the fat man, smiling, "but it isvery beautiful. Poor Christian, if he finds it between his ribs! Hewould soon be cold. It is a consolation at night to have such a toy. "

"Truly, it is the consolation of my soul, " answered Stefanone. 

"Say a little, dear friend, " said the fat man, sitting down and restinghis bare elbows upon the table, "that arm, has it ever sent any one toParadise?"

"And then I should tell you!" exclaimed Stefanone, laughing, and hesipped some wine and smacked his lips. "But no, " he added presently. "Iam a pacific man. If they touch me--woe! But I, to touch any one? Noteven a fly. "

"Thus I like men, " said the host, "serious, full of scruples, people whodrink well, quiet, quiet, and pay better. "

"So we are at Subiaco, " answered Stefanone. 

He cleaned his knife on a piece of bread very carefully, laid it openbeside him, and threw the crust to a lean dog that appeared suddenlyfrom beneath the table, as though it had come up through a trap-door;the half-famished creature bolted the bread with a snap and a gulp anddisappeared again as suddenly and silently, just in time to avoid thefat man's slow, heavy hand. 

When he had finished eating, Stefanone produced his little piece ofoilstone, which he carried wrapped in dingy paper, and having greased itproceeded to draw the blade over it slowly and smoothly. 

"Apoplexy!" ejaculated the host. "Are you not contented? Or perhaps youwish to shave with it?"

"Thus I keep it, " answered the peasant, smiling. "A minute here, aminute there. The time costs nothing. What am I doing? Nothing. Idigest. To pass the time I sharpen the knife. I am like this. I say itis a sin to waste time. "

Every now and then he sipped his wine, but there was no perceptiblechange in his manner, for he was careful to keep himself just at thesame level of excitement, neither more nor less. 

Half an hour later he was smoking his pipe in the Piazza di Spagna, lounging near the great fountain in the sunshine, his eyes generallyturned towards the door of the hotel. He waited a long time, andreplenished his pipe more than once. 

"This would be the only thing wanting, " he said impatiently and halfaloud. "That just to-day he should not go out. "

But Lord Redin appeared at last, dressed as though he were going to makea visit. He looked about the square, standing still on the threshold fora moment, and a couple of small open cabs drove up. But he shook hishead, consulted his watch, and strode away in the direction of thePropaganda. 

Stefanone guessed that he was going to the Palazzetto Borgia, andfollowed him as usual at a safe distance, threading the winding waystowards the Piazza di Venezia. There used to be a small café then underthe corner of that part of the Palazzo Torlonia which has now beenpulled down. Lord Redin entered it, and Stefanone lingered on the otherside of the street. A man passed him who sold melon seeds and aquavitę, and Stefanone drank a glass of the one and bought a measure of theother. The Romans are fond of the taste of the tiny dry kernel which isfound inside the broad white shell of the seed. Presently Lord Redincame out, wiping his mouth with his handkerchief, and went on. Stefanonefollowed him again, walking fast when his enemy had turned a corner andslackening his speed as soon as he caught sight of him again. 

Francesca was out. He saw Lord Redin's look of annoyance as the latterturned away after speaking with the porter, and he fell back into theshadow of a doorway, expecting that the Scotchman would take the streetby which he had come. But Dalrymple turned down the narrow lane besidethe palace, in the direction of the Tiber. Stefanone's bloodshot eyesopened suddenly as he sprang after him; with a quick movement he got hisknife out, opened it, and thrust his hand with it open into the widepocket of his jacket. Lord Redin had never gone down that lane before, to Stefanone's knowledge, and it was a hundred to one that at that hourno one would be about. Stefanone himself did not know the place. 

Dalrymple must have heard the quick and heavy footsteps of the peasantbehind him, but it would not have been at all like him to turn hishead. With loose, swinging gait he strode along, and his heavy stickmade high little echoes as it struck the dry cobble-stones. 

Stefanone was very near him. His eyes glared redly, and his hand withthe knife in it was half out of his pocket. In ten steps more he wouldspring and strike upwards, as Romans do. He chose the spot on the darkovercoat where his knife should go through, below the shoulder-blade, atthe height of the small ribs on the left side. His lips were parted anddry. 

There was a loud scream of anger, a tremendous clattering noise, and asound of feet. Stefanone turned suddenly pale, and his hand went to thebottom of his pocket again. 

On an open doorstep lay a copper 'conca'--the Roman water jar--awretched dog was rushing down the street with something in its mouth, infront of Lord Redin, a woman was pursuing it with yells, swinging asmall wooden stool in her right hand, to throw it at the dog, and theneighbours were on their doorsteps in a moment. Stefanone slunk underthe shadow of the wall, grinding his teeth. The chance was gone. Thestreets beyond were broader and more populous. 

Lord Redin went steadily onward, evidently familiar with every turn ofthe way, down to the Tiber, across the Bridge of Quattro Capi, and overthe island of Saint Bartholomew to Trastevere, turning then to the rightthrough the straight Lungaretta, past Santa Maria and under the heightsof San Pietro in Montorio, and so to the Lungara and by Santo Spirito tothe Piazza of Saint Peter's. He walked fast, and Stefanone twice wipedthe perspiration from his forehead on the way, for he was nervous fromthe tension and the disappointment, and felt suddenly weak. 

The Scotchman never paused, but crossed the vast square and went up thesteps of the basilica. He was evidently going to hear the Vespers. ThenStefanone, instead of following him into the church, sat down outsidethe wine shop on the right, just opposite the end of the Colonnade. Heordered a measure of wine and prepared to wait, for he guessed that LordRedin would remain in the church at least an hour. 

CHAPTER XLVI. 

LORD REDIN lifted the heavy leathern curtain of the door on the right ofthe main entrance to the basilica, and went into the church. For somereason or other, the majority of people go in by that door rather thanthe other. It may be that the reason is a very simple one, after all. Most people are right handed, and of any two doors side by side leadinginto the same place, will instinctively take the one on the right. Thepractice of passing to the left in the street, in almost all oldcountries, was for the sake of safety, in order that a man might havehis sword hand towards any one he met. 

The air of the church was warm, and had a faint odour of incense in it. The temperature of the vast building varies but little with the seasons;going into it in winter, it seems warm, in summer it is very cold. Onthat day there were not many people in the nave, though a soft sound ofunceasing footsteps broke the stillness. Very far away an occasionalstrain of music floated on the air from the Chapel of the Choir, thelast on the left before the transept is reached. Lord Redin walkedleisurely in the direction of the sound. 

The chapel was full, and the canons were intoning the psalms of theoffice. At the conclusion of each one the choir sang the 'Gloria' fromthe great organ loft on the right. It chanced that there were a numberof foreigners on that day, and they had filled all the available spacewithin the gate, and there was a small crowd outside, pressing as closeas possible in order to hear the voices more distinctly. Lord Redin wastaller than most men, and looking over the heads of the others he sawFrancesca Campodonico's pale profile in the thick of the press. Sheevidently wished to extricate herself, and she seemed to be sufferingfrom the closeness, for she pressed her handkerchief nervously to herlips, and her eyes were half closed. Lord Redin forced his way to herwithout much consideration for the people who hindered him. A fewminutes later he brought her out on the side towards the transept. 

"Thank you, " said Francesca. "I should like to sit down. I had almostfainted--there was a woman next to me who had musk about her. "

They went round the pillar of the dome to the south transept where thereare almost always a number of benches set along the edges of a hugegreen baize carpet. They sat down together on the end of one of theseats. 

"We can go back, by and bye, and hear the music, if you like, " saidFrancesca. "The psalms will last some time longer. "

"I would rather sit here and talk, since I have had the good luck tomeet you, " answered Lord Redin, resting his elbows on his knees, andidly poking the green carpet with the end of his stick. "I went to yourhouse, and they told me that you would very probably be here. "

"Yes. I often come. But you know that, for we have met here before. Ionly stay at home on Sundays when it rains. "

"Oh! Is that the rule?"

"Yes, if you call it a rule, " answered Francesca. 

"I like to know about the things you do, and how you spend your life, "said the Scotchman, thoughtfully. 

"Do you? Why? There is nothing very interesting about my existence, itseems to me. "

"It interests me. It makes me feel less lonely to know about some oneelse--some one I like very much. "

Francesca looked at her companion with an expression of pity. She waslonely, too, but in a different way. The little drama of her life hadrun sadly and smoothly. She was willing to give the man her friendshipif it could help him, rather because he seemed to ask for it in a mutefashion than because she desired his. 

"Lord Redin, " she said, after a little pause, "do you always mean tolive in this way?"

"Alone? Yes. It is the only way I can live, at my age. "

"At your age--would it make any difference if you were younger?" askedFrancesca. She dropped her voice to a low key. "You would never marryagain, even if you were much younger. "

"Marry!" His shoulders moved with a sort of little start. "You do notknow what you are saying!" he added, almost under his breath, though sheheard the words distinctly. 

She looked at him again, in silence, during several seconds, and she sawhow the colour sank away from his face, till the skin was like oldparchment. The hand that held the heavy stick tightened round it andgrew yellow at the knuckles. 

"Forgive me, " she said gently. "I am very thoughtless--it is the secondtime. "

He did not speak for some moments, but she understood his silence andwaited. The air was very quiet, and the enormous pillar of the domealmost completely shut off the echo of the distant music. The lowafternoon sun streamed levelly through the great windows of the apse, for the basilica is built towards the west. There were very few peoplein the church that day. The sun made visible beams across the highshadows overhead. 

Suddenly Lord Redin spoke again. There was something weak and tremulousin the tone of his rough voice. 

"I am very much attached to you, for two reasons, " he said. "We haveknown each other long, but not intimately. "

"That is true. Not very intimately. "

Francesca did not know exactly what to say. But for his manner and forhis behaviour a few moments earlier, she might have fancied that he wasabout to offer himself to her, but such an idea was very far from herthoughts. Her woman's instinct told her that he was going to tell hersomething in the nature of a confidence. 

"Precisely, " he continued. "We have never been intimate. The reason whywe have not been intimate is one of the reasons why I am more attachedto you than you have ever guessed. "

"That is complicated, " said Francesca, with a smile. "Perhaps the otherreason may be simpler. "

"It is very simple, very simple indeed, though it will not seem naturalto you. You are the only very good woman I ever knew, who made me feelthat she was good instead of making me see it. Perhaps you think itunnatural that I should be attracted by goodness at all. But I am notvery bad, as men go. "

"No. I do not believe you are. And I am not so good as you think. " Shesighed softly. 

"You are much better than I once thought, " answered Lord Redin. "Onceupon a time--well, I should only offend you, and I know better now. Forgive me for thinking of it. I wish to tell you something else. "

"If it is something which has been your secret, it is better not told, "said Francesca, quietly. "One rarely makes a confidence that one doesnot regret it. "

"You are a wise woman. " He looked at her thoughtfully. "And yet you mustbe very young. "

"No. But though I have had my own life apart, I have lived outwardlyvery much in the world, although I am still young. Most of the secretswhich have been told me have been repeated to me by the people in whomothers had confided. "

"All that is true, " he answered. "Nevertheless--" He paused. "I amdesperate!" he exclaimed, with sudden energy. "I cannot bear this anylonger--I am alone, always, always. Sometimes I think I shall go mad!You do not know what a life I lead. I have not even a vice to comfortme!" He laughed low and savagely. "I tried to drink, but I am sick ofit--it does no good! A man who has not even a vice is a very lonelyman. "

Francesca's clear eyes opened wide with a startled look, and gazedtowards his averted face, trying to catch his glance. She felt that shewas close to something very strong and dreadful which she could notunderstand. 

"Do not speak like that!" she said. "No one is lonely who believes inGod. "

"God!" he exclaimed bitterly. "God has forgotten me, and the devil willnot have me!" He looked at her at last, and saw her face. "Do not beshocked, " he said, with a sorrowful smile. "If I were as bad as I seemto you just now, I should have cut my throat twenty years ago. "

"Hush! Hush!" Francesca did not know what to say. 

His manner changed a little, and he spoke more calmly. 

"I am not eloquent, " he said, looking into her eyes. "You may notunderstand. But I have suffered a great deal. "

"Yes. I know that. I am very sorry for you. "

"I think you are, " he answered. "That is why I want to be honest andtell you the truth about myself. For that reason, and because I cannotbear it any longer. I cannot, I cannot!" he repeated in a low, despairing tone. 

"If it will help you to tell me, then tell me, " said Francesca, kindly. "But I do not ask you to. I do not see why we should not be the best offriends without my knowing this thing which weighs on your mind. "

"You will understand when I have told you, " answered Lord Redin. "Thenyou can judge whether you will have me for a friend or not. It will seemvery bad to you. Perhaps it is. I never thought so. But you are a RomanCatholic, and that makes a difference. "

"Not in a question of right and wrong. "

"It makes the question what it is. You shall hear. "

He paused a moment, and the lines and furrows deepened in his face. Thesun was sinking fast, and the long beams had faded away out of theshadows. There was no one in sight now, but the music of the benedictionservice echoed faintly in the distance. Francesca felt her heart beatingwith a sort of excitement she could not understand, and though she didnot look at her companion, her ears were strained to catch the firstword he spoke. 

"I married a nun, " he said simply. 

Francesca started. 

"A Sister of Charity?" she asked, after a moment's dead silence. "Theydo not take vows--"

"No. A nun from the Carmelite Convent of Subiaco. "

His words were very distinct. There was no mistaking what he said. Francesca shrank from him instinctively, and uttered a low exclamationof repugnance and horror. 

"That is not all, " continued Lord Redin, with a calm that seemedsupernatural. "She was your kinswoman. She was Maria Braccio, whom everyone believed was burned to death in her cell. "

"But her body--they found it! It is impossible!" She thought he must bemad. 

"No. They found another body. I put it into the bed and set fire to themattress. It was burned beyond recognition, and they thought it wasMaria. But it was the body of old Stefanone's daughter. I lived in hishouse. The girl poisoned herself with some of my chemicals--I was ayoung doctor in those days. Maria and I were married on board an Englishman-of-war, and we lived in Scotland after that. Gloria was the daughterof Maria Braccio, the Carmelite nun--your kinswoman. "

Francesca pressed her handkerchief to her lips. She felt as though shewere losing her senses. Minute after minute passed, and she could saynothing. From time to time, Lord Redin glanced sideways at her. Hebreathed hard once or twice, and his hands strained upon his stick asthough they would break it in two. 

"Then she died, " he said. When he had spoken the three words, heshivered from head to foot, and was silent. 

Still Francesca could not speak. The sacrilege of the deed was horriblein itself. To her, who had grown up to look upon Maria Braccio as a holywoman, cut off in her youth by a frightful death, the truth wasoverwhelmingly awful. She strove within herself to find something uponwhich she could throw the merest shadow of an extenuation, but she couldfind nothing. 

"You understand now why, as an honourable man, I wished to tell you thetruth about myself, " he said, speaking almost coldly in the effort hewas making at self-control. "I could not ask for your friendship until Ihad told you. "

Francesca turned her white face slowly towards him in the dusk, and herlips moved, but she did not speak. She could not in that first momentfind the words she wanted. She felt that she shrank from him, that shenever wished to touch his hand again. Doubtless, in time, she might getover the first impression. She wished that he would leave her to thinkabout it. 

"Can you ever be my friend now?" he asked gravely. 

"Your friend--" she stopped, and shook her head sadly. "I--I amafraid--" she could not go on. 

Lord Redin rose slowly to his feet. 

"No. I am afraid not, " he said. 

He waited a moment, but there was no reply. 

"May I take you to your carriage?" he asked gently. 

"No, thank you. No--that is--I am going home in a cab. I would rather bealone--please. "

"Then good-bye. "

The lonely man went away and left her there. His head was bent, and shethought that he walked unsteadily, as she watched him. Suddenly a greatwave of pity filled her heart. He looked so very lonely. What right hadshe to judge him? Was she perfect, because he called her good? Shecalled him before he turned the great pillar of the dome. 

"Lord Redin! Lord Redin!"

But her voice was weak, and in the vast, dim place it did not reach him. He went on alone, past the high altar, round the pillar, down the nave. The benediction service was not quite over yet, but every one who wasnot listening to the music had left the church. He went towards the doorby which he had entered. Before going out he paused, and looked towardsthe little chapel on the right of the entrance. He hesitated, and thenwent to it and stood leaning with his hands upon the heavy marblebalustrade, that was low for his great height as he stood on the step. 

A single silver lamp sent a faint light upwards that lingered upon thePietą above the altar, upon the marble limbs of the dead Christ, uponthe features of the Blessed Virgin, the Addolorata--the sorrowingmother. 

Bending a little, as though very weary, the friendless, wifeless, childless man raised his furrowed face and looked up. There was no hopeany more, and his despair was heavy upon him whose young love hadblasted the lives of many. 

His teeth were set--he could have bitten through iron. He trembled alittle, and as he looked upward, two dreadful tears--the tears of thestrong that are as blood--welled from his eyes and trickled down uponhis cheeks. 

"Maria Addolorata!" he whispered. 

CHAPTER XLVII. 

FRANCESCA had half risen from her seat when she had seen that Lord Redindid not hear her voice, calling to him. Then she realized that she couldnot overtake him without running, since he had got so far, and she kepther place, leaning back once more, and trying to collect her thoughtsbefore going home. The music was still going on in the Chapel of theChoir, and though it was dusk in the vast church, it would not be darkfor some time. The vergers did not make their rounds to give warning ofthe hour of closing until sunset. Francesca sat still and tried tounderstand what she had heard. She was nervous and shaken, and shewished that she were already at home. The great dimness of the lonelytransept was strangely mysterious--and the tale of the dead girl, burnedto take the place of the living, was grewsome, and made her shiver withdisgust and horror. She started nervously at the sound of a distantfootstep. 

But the strongest impression she had, was that of abhorrence for theunholy deeds of the man who had just left her. To a woman for whomreligion in its forms as well as in its meaning was the mainstay oflife on earth and the hope of life to come, the sacrilege of the crimeseemed supernatural. She felt as though it must be in some way her dutyto help in expiating it, lest the punishment of it should fall upon allher race. And as she thought it over, trying to look at it as simply asshe could, she surveyed at a glance the whole chain of the fatal story, and saw how many terrible things had followed upon that one great sin, and how very nearly she herself had been touched by its consequences. She had been involved in it and had become a part of it. She had felt itabout her for years, in her friendship for Reanda. It had contributed tothe causes of his death, if it had not actually caused it. She, inhelping to bring about his marriage with the daughter of her sinningkinswoman, had unconsciously made a link in the chain. Her friendshipfor the artist no longer looked as innocent as formerly. Gloria hadaccused him of loving her, Francesca. Had she not loved him? Whether shehad or not, she had done things which had wounded his innocent youngwife. In a sudden and painful illumination of the past, she saw that sheherself had not been sinless; that she had been selfish, if nothingworse; that she had craved Reanda's presence and devoted friendship, ifnothing more; that death had taken from her more than a friend. She sawall at once the vanity of her own belief in her own innocence, and sheaccused herself very bitterly of many things which had been quite hiddenfrom her until then. 

She was roused by a footstep behind her, and she started at the sound ofa voice she knew, but which had changed oddly since she had last heardit. It was stern, deep, and clear still, but the life was gone out ofit. It had an automatic sound. 

"I beg your pardon, Princess, " said Paul Griggs, stopping close to herbehind the bench. "May I speak to you for a moment?"

She turned her head. As the sun went down, the church grew lighter for alittle while, as it often does. Yet she could hardly see the man's eyesat all, as she looked into his face. They were all in the shadow and hadno light in them. 

"Sit down, " she said mechanically. 

She could not refuse to speak to him, and, indeed, she would not haverefused to receive him had she been at home when he had called that day. Socially speaking, according to the standards of those around her, hehad done nothing which she could very severely blame. A woman he haddearly loved had come to him for protection, and he had not driven heraway. That was the social value of what he had done. The moral view ofit all was individual with herself. Society gave her no right to treathim rudely because she disapproved of his past life. For the rest, shehad liked him in former times, and she believed that there was much moregood in him than at first appeared. 

She was almost glad that he had disturbed her solitude just then, for anervous sense of loneliness was creeping upon her; and though there hadbeen nothing to prevent her from rising and going away, she had feltthat something was holding her in her seat, a shadowy something that wasoppressive and not natural, that descended upon her out of the gloomyheights, and that rose around her from the secret depths below, wherethe great dead lay side by side in their leaden coffins. 

"Sit down, " she repeated, as Griggs came round the bench. 

He sat down beside her. There was a little distance between them, and hesat rather stiffly, holding his hat on his knees. 

"I should apologize for disturbing you, " he began. "I have been twice toyour house to-day, but you were out. What I wish to speak of is ratherurgent. I heard that you might be here, and so I came. "

"Yes, " she said, and waited for him to say more. 

"What is it?" she asked presently, as he did not speak at once. 

"It is about Dalrymple--about Lord Redin, " he said at last. "You used toknow him. Do you ever see him now?"

Francesca looked at him with a little surprise, but she answeredquietly, as though the question were quite a natural one. 

"He was here five minutes ago. Yes, I often see him. "

"Would you do him a service?" asked Griggs, in his calm and indifferenttone. 

He was forcing himself to do what was plainly his duty, but he wasutterly incapable of taking any interest in the matter. Francescahesitated before she answered. An hour earlier she would have assentedreadily enough, but now the idea of doing anything which could tend tobring her into closer relations with Lord Redin was disagreeable. 

"I do not think you will refuse, " said Griggs, as she did not speak. "His life is in danger. "

She turned quickly and scrutinized the expressionless features. In theglow of the sunset the church was quite light. The total unconcern ofthe man's manner contrasted strangely with the importance of what hesaid. Francesca felt that something must be wrong. 

"You say that very coolly, " she observed, and her tone showed that shewas incredulous. 

"And you do not believe me, " answered Griggs, quite unmoved. "It isnatural, I suppose. I will try to explain. "

"Please do. I do not understand at all. "

Nevertheless, she was startled, though she concealed her nervousness. She had not spoken with Griggs for a long time; and as he talked, shesaw what a great change had taken place. He was very quiet, as he hadalways been, but he was almost too quiet. She could not make out hiseyes. She knew of his superhuman strength, and his stillness seemedunnatural. What he said did not sound rational. An impression got holdof her that he had gone mad, and she was physically afraid of him. Hebegan to explain. She felt a singing in her ears, and she could notfollow what he said. It was like an evil dream, and it grew upon hersecond by second. 

He talked on in the same even, monotonous tone. The words meant nothingto her. She crossed her feet nervously and tried to get a soothingsensation by stroking her sable muff. She made a great effort atconcentration and failed to understand anything. 

All at once it grew dark, as the sunset light faded out of the sky. Again she felt the desire to rise and the certainty that she could not, if she tried. He ceased speaking and seemed to expect her to saysomething, but she had not understood a word of his long explanation. Hesat patiently waiting. She could hardly distinguish his face in thegloom. 

The sound of irregular, shuffling footsteps and low voices moved thestillness. The vergers were making their last round in a hurried, perfunctory way. They passed across the transept to the high altar. Itwas so dark that Francesca could only just see their shadows moving inthe blackness. She did not realize what they were doing, and herimagination made ghosts of them, rushing through the silence of thedeserted place, from one tomb to another, waking the dead for the night. They did not even glance across, as they skirted the wall of the church. Even if they had looked, they might not have seen two persons in black, against the blackness, sitting silently side by side on the dark bench. They saw nothing and passed on, out of sight and out of hearing. 

"May I ask whether you will give him the message?" inquired Griggs atlast, moving in his seat, for he knew that it was time to be going. 

Francesca started, at the sound of his voice. 

"I--I am afraid--I have not understood, " she said. "I beg your pardon--Iwas not paying attention. I am nervous. "

"It is growing late, " said Griggs. "We had better be going--I will tellyou again as we walk to the door. "

"Yes--no--just a moment!" She made a strong effort over herself. "Tellme in three words, " she said. "Who is it that threatens Lord Redin'slife?"

"A peasant of Subiaco called Stefanone. Really, Princess, we must begoing; it is quite dark--"

"Stefanone!" exclaimed Francesca, while he was speaking the last words, which she did not hear. "Stefanone of Subiaco--of course!"

"We must really be going, " said Griggs, rising to his feet, andwondering indifferently why it was so hard to make her understand. 

She rose to her feet slowly. Lord Redin's story was intricately confusedin her mind with the few words which she had retained of what Griggs hadsaid. 

"Yes--yes--Stefanone, " she said in a low voice, as though to herself, and she stood still, comprehending the whole situation in a flash, andimagining that Griggs knew the whole truth and had been telling it toher as though she had not known it. "But how did you know that LordRedin took the girl's body and burnt it?" she asked, quite certain thathe had mentioned the fact. 

"What girl?" asked Griggs in wonder. 

"Why, the body of Stefanone's daughter, which he managed to burn in theconvent when he carried off my cousin! How did you know about it?"

"I did not know about it, " said Griggs. "Your cousin? I do notunderstand. "

"My cousin--yes--Maria Braccio--Gloria's mother! You have just beentalking about her--"

"I?" asked Griggs, bewildered. 

Francesca stepped back from him, suddenly guessing that she had revealedLord Redin's secret. 

"Is it possible?" she asked in a low voice. "Oh, it is all a mistake!"she cried suddenly. "I have told you his story--oh, I am losing myhead!"

"Come, " said Griggs, authoritatively. "We must get out of the church, atall events, or we shall be locked in. "

"Oh no!" answered Francesca. "There is always somebody here--"

"There is not. You must really come. "

"Yes--but there is no danger of being locked in. Yes--let us walk downthe nave. There is more light. "

They walked slowly, for she was too much confused to hasten her steps. Her inexplicable mistake troubled her terribly. She remembered how shehad warned Lord Redin not to tell her any secrets, and how seriouslyshe, the most discreet of women, had resolved never to reveal what hehad said. But the impression of his story had been so much more directand strong than even the first words Griggs had spoken, that so soon asshe had realized that the latter was speaking approximately of the samesubject, she had lost the thread of what he was saying and had seemed tohear Lord Redin's dreadful tale all over again. She thought that she waslosing her head. 

It was almost quite dark when they reached the other side of the highaltar. Griggs walked beside her in silence, trying to understand themeaning of what she had said. 

The gloom was terrible. The enormous statues loomed faintly like vastghosts, high up, between the floor and the roof, their whitenessglimmering where there seemed to be nothing else but darkness below themand above them. A low, far sound that was a voice but not a word, trembled in the air. Francesca shuddered. 

"They have not gone yet, " said Griggs. "They are still talking. But wemust hurry. "

"No, " said Francesca, "that was not any one talking. " And her teethchattered. "Give me your arm, please--I am frightened. "

He held out his arm till she could feel it in the dark, and she took it. He pressed her hand to his side and drew her along, for he feared thatthe doors might be already shut. 

"Not so fast! Oh, not so fast, please!" she cried. "I shall fall. Theydo not shut the doors--"

"Yes, they do! Let me carry you. I can run with you in the dark--thereis no time to be lost!"

"No, no! I can walk faster--but there is really no danger--"

It is a very long way from the high altar to the main entrance of thechurch. Francesca was breathless when they reached the door and Griggslifted the heavy leathern curtain. If the door had been still open, hewould have seen the twilight from the porch at once. Instead, all wasblack and close and smelled of leather. Francesca was holding hissleeve, afraid of losing him. 

"It is too late, " he said quietly. "We are probably locked in. We willtry the door of the Sacristy. "

He seized her arm and hurried her along into the south aisle. He struckhis shoulder violently against the base of the pillar he passed in thedarkness, but he did not stop. Almost instinctively he found the door, for he could not see it. Even the hideous skeleton which supports ablack marble drapery above it was not visible in the gloom. He found thebevelled edge of the smoothly polished panel and pushed. But it wouldnot yield. 

"We are locked in, " he said, in the same quiet tone as before. 

Francesca uttered a low cry of terror and then was silent. 

"Cannot you break the door?" she asked suddenly. 

"No, " he answered. "Nothing short of a battering-ram could move it. "

"Try, " she said. "You are so strong--the lock might give way. "

To satisfy her he braced himself and heaved against the panel with allhis gigantic strength. In the dark she could hear his breath drawnthrough his nostrils. 

"It will not move, " he said, desisting. "We shall have to spend thenight here. I am very sorry. "

For some moments Francesca said nothing, overcome by her terror of thesituation. Griggs stood still, with his back to the polished door, trying to see her in the gloom. Then he felt her closer to him and heardher small feet moving on the pavement. 

"We must make the best of it, " he said at last. "It is never quite darknear the high altar. I daresay, too, that there is still a littletwilight where we were sitting. At least, there is a carpet there andthere are benches. We can sit there until it is later. Then you can liedown upon the bench. I will make a pillow for you with my overcoat. Itis warm, and I shall not need it. "

He made a step forwards, and she heard him moving. 

"Do not leave me!" she cried, in sudden terror. 

He felt her grasp his arm convulsively in the dark, and he felt herhands shaking. 

"Do not be frightened, " he said, in his quiet voice. "Dead people do noharm, you know. It is only imagination. "

She shuddered as he groped his way with her toward the nave. Theypassed the pillar and saw the soft light of the ninety little flames ofthe huge golden lamps around the central shrine below the high altar. Far beyond, the great windows showed faintly in the height of theblackness. They walked more freely, keeping in the middle of the church. In the distant chapels on each side a few little lamps glimmered likefireflies. Before the last chapel on the right, the Chapel of theSacrament, Francesca paused, instinctively holding fast to Griggs's arm, and they both bent one knee, as all Catholics do, who pass before it. But when they reached the shrine, Francesca loosed her hold and sankupon her knees, resting her arms upon the broad marble of thebalustrade. Griggs knelt a moment beside her, by force of habit, thenrose and waited, looking about him into the depths of blackness, andreflecting upon the best spot in which to pass the night. 

She remained kneeling a long time, praying more or less consciously, butaware that it was a relief to be near a little light after passingthrough the darkness. Her mind was as terribly confused as hercompanion's was utterly calm and indifferent. If he had been alone hewould have sat down upon a step until he was sleepy and then he wouldhave stretched himself upon one of the benches in the transept. But toFrancesca it was unspeakably dreadful. 

The strangeness of the whole situation forced itself upon her more andmore, when she thought of rising from her knees and going back to thebench. She felt a womanly shyness about keeping close to her companion, her hand on his arm, for hours together, but she knew that the terrorshe should feel of being left alone, even for an instant, or of merelythinking that she was to be left alone, would more than overcome that ifshe went away from the lights. She would grasp his arm and hold ittightly. 

Then she felt ashamed of herself. She had always been told that she cameof a brave race. She had never been in danger, and there was really nodanger now. It was absurd to remain on her knees for the sake of thelamps. She rose to her feet and turned. Griggs was not looking at her, but at the ornaments on the altar. The soft glimmer lighted up his darkface. A moment after she had risen he came forward. She meant to proposethat they should go back to the transept, but just then she shudderedagain. 

"Let us sit down here, on the step, " she said, suddenly. 

"If you like, " he answered. "Wait a minute, " he added, and he pulled offhis overcoat. 

He spread a part of it on the step, and rolled the rest into a pillowagainst which she could lean, and he held it in place while she satdown. She thanked him, and he sat down beside her. At first, as sheturned from the lamps, the nave was like a fathomless black wall. Neither spoke for some time. Griggs broke the silence when he supposedthat she was sufficiently recovered to talk quietly, for he had beenthinking of what she had said, and it was almost clear to him at last. 

"I should like to speak to you quite frankly, if you will allow me, " hesaid gravely. "May I?"

"Certainly. "

"The few words you said about Lord Redin's story have explained a greatmany things which I never understood, " said Griggs. "Is it too much toask that you should tell me everything you know?"

"I would rather not say anything more, " answered Francesca. "I am verymuch ashamed of having betrayed his secret. Besides, what is to begained by your knowing a few more details? It is bad enough as it is. "

"It is more or less the story of my life, " he said, almostindifferently. 

She turned her head slowly and tried to see his face. She could justdistinguish the features, cold and impassive. 

"I came to you to ask you to warn Dalrymple of a danger, " he continued, as she did not speak. "I knew that fact, but not the reason why his lifewas and is threatened. Unless I have mistaken what you said, Iunderstand it now. It is a much stronger one than I should ever haveguessed. Lord Redin ran away with your cousin, and made it appear thathe had carried off Stefanone's daughter. Stefanone has waited patientlyfor nearly a quarter of a century. He has found Dalrymple at last andmeans to kill him. He will succeed, unless you can make Dalrympleunderstand that the danger is real. I have no evidence on which I couldhave the man arrested, and I have no personal influence in Rome. Youhave. You would find no difficulty in having Stefanone kept out of thecity. And you can make Dalrymple see the truth, since he has confided inyou. Will you do that? He will not believe me, and you can save him. Besides, he will not see me. I have tried twice to-day. He has made uphis mind that he will not see me. "

"I will do my best, " said Francesca, leaning her head back against themarble rail, and half closing her eyes. "How terrible it all is!"

"Yes. I suppose that is the word, " said Griggs, indifferently. "Sacrilege, suicide, and probably murder to come. "

She was shocked by the perfectly emotionless way in which he spoke ofGloria's death, so much shocked that she drew a short, quick breathbetween her teeth as though she had hurt herself. Griggs heard it. 

"What is the matter?" he asked. 

"Nothing, " she said. 

"I thought something hurt you. "

"No--nothing. "

She was silent again. 

"Yes, " he continued, in a tone of cold speculation, "I suppose that anyone would call it terrible. At all events, it is curious, as a sequenceof cause and effect, from one tragedy to another. "

"Please--please do not speak of it all like that--" Francesca feltherself growing angry with him. 

"How should I speak of it?" he asked. "It is an extraordinaryconcatenation of events. I look upon the whole thing as very curious, especially since you have given me the key to it all. "

Francesca was moved to anger, taking the defence of the dead Gloria, asalmost any woman would have done. At the moment Paul Griggs repelled hereven more than Lord Redin. It seemed to her that there was somethingdastardly in his indifference. 

"Have you no heart?" she asked suddenly. 

"No, I am dead, " he answered, in his clear, lifeless voice, that mighthave been a ghost's. 

The words made her shiver, and she felt as though her hair were moving. From his face, as she had last seen it, and from his voice, he mightalmost have been dead, as he said he was, like the thousands of silentones in the labyrinths under her feet, and she alone alive in the midstof so much death. 

"What do you mean?" she asked, and her own voice trembled in spite ofherself. 

"It is very like being dead, " he answered thoughtfully. "I cannot feelanything. I cannot understand why any one else should. Everything is thesame to me. The world is a white blank to me, and one place is exactlylike any other place. "

"But why? What has happened to you?" asked Francesca. 

"You know. You sent me those letters. "

"What letters?"

"The package Reanda gave you before he died. "

"Yes. What was in it? I told you that I did not know, when I wrote toyou. I remember every word I wrote. "

"I know. But I thought that you at least guessed. They were Gloria'sletters to her husband. "

"Her old letters, before--" Francesca stopped short. 

"No, " he answered, with the same unnatural quiet. "All the letters shewrote him afterwards--when we were together. "

"All those letters?" cried Francesca, suddenly understanding. "Ohno--no! It is not possible! He could not, he would not, have doneanything so horrible. "

"He did, " said Griggs, calmly. "I had supposed that she loved me. He hadhis vengeance. He proved to me that she did not. I hope he is satisfiedwith the result. Yes, " he continued, after a moment's pause, "it was thecruelest thing that ever one man did to another. I spent a bad night, Iremember. On the top of the package was the last letter she wrote him, just before she killed herself. She loathed me, she said, she hated me, she shivered at my touch. She feared me so that she acted a comedy oflove, in terror of her life, after she had discovered that she hated me. She need not have been afraid. Why should I have hurt her? In that lastletter, she put her wedding ring with a lock of her hair wound in andout of it. Reanda knew what he was doing when he sent it to me. Do youwonder that it has deadened me to everything?"

"Oh, how could he do it? How could he!" Francesca repeated, for theworst of it all to her was the unutterable cruelty of the man she hadbelieved so gentle. 

"I suppose it was natural, " said Griggs. "I loved the woman, and he knewit. I fancy few men have loved much more sincerely than I loved her, even after she was dead. I was not always saying so. I am not that kindof man. Besides, men who live by stringing words together for money donot value them much in their own lives. But I worked for her. I did thebest I could. Even she must have known that I loved her. "

"I know you did. I cannot understand how you can speak of her at all. "Francesca wondered at the man. 

"She? She is no more to me than Queen Christina, over there in her tombin the dark! For that matter, nothing else has any meaning, either. "

For a long time Francesca said nothing. She sat quite still, resting theback of her head against the marble, in the awful silence under thefaint lights that glimmered above the great tomb. 

"You have told me the most dreadful thing I ever heard, " she said atlast, in a low tone. "Is she nothing to you? Really nothing? Can younever think kindly of her again?"

"No. Why should I? That is--" he hesitated. "I could not explain it, " hesaid, and was silent. 

"It does not seem human, " said Francesca. "You would have a memory ofher--something--some touch of sadness--I wonder whether you really lovedher as much as you thought you did?"

Griggs turned upon Francesca slowly, his hands clasped upon one knee. 

"You do not know what such love means, " he said slowly. "It isGod--faith--goodness--everything. It is heaven on earth, and earth inheaven, in one heart. When it is gone there is nothing left. It wenthard. It will not come back now. The heart itself is gone. There isnothing for it to come to. You think me cold, you are shocked because Ispeak indifferently of her. She lied to me. She lied and acted in everyword and deed of her life with me. She deceived herself a little atfirst, and she deceived me mortally afterwards. It was all an immense, loathsome, deadly lie. I lived through the truth. Why should I wish togo back to the lie again? She died, telling me that she died for me. Shedied, having written to Reanda that she died for him. I do not judgeher. God will. But God Himself could not make me love the smallestshadow of her memory. It is impossible. I am beyond life. I am outsideit. My eternity has begun. "

"Is it not a little for her sake that you wish to save her father?"asked Francesca. 

"No. It is a matter of honour, and nothing else, since I injured him, asthe world would say, by taking his daughter from her husband. Do youunderstand? Can you put yourself a little in my position? It is notbecause I care whether he lives or dies, or dies a natural death or isstabbed in the back by a peasant. It is because I ought to care. I domany things because I ought to care to do them, though the things andtheir consequences are all one to me, now. "

"It cannot last, " said Francesca, sadly. "You will change as you growolder. "

"No. That is a thing you can never understand, " he answered. "I am twoindividuals. The one is what you see, a man more or less like other men, growing older--a man who has a certain mortal, earthly memory of thatdead woman, when the real man is unconscious. But the real man is beyondgrowing old, because he is beyond feeling anything. He is stationary, outside of life. The world is a blank to him and always will be. "

His voice grew more and more expressionless as he spoke. Francesca feltthat she could not pity him as she had pitied poor Lord Redin when shehad seen him going away alone. The man beside her was in earnest, andwas as far beyond woman's pity as he was beyond woman's love. Yet she nolonger felt repelled by him since she had understood what he hadsuffered. Perhaps she herself, suffering still in her heart, wished thatshe might be even as he was, beyond the possibility of pain, even thoughbeyond the hope of happiness. He wanted nothing, he asked for nothing, and he was not afraid to be alone with his own soul, as she wassometimes. The other man had asked for her friendship. It could meannothing to Paul Griggs. If love were nothing, what could friendship be?

Yet there was something lofty and grand about such loneliness as his. She could not but feel that, now that she knew all. She thought of himas she sat beside him in the monumental silence of the enormoussepulchre, and she guessed of depths in his soul like the deepness ofthe shadows above her and before her and around her. 

"My suffering seems very small, compared with yours, " she said softly, almost to herself. 

Somehow she knew that he would understand her, though perhaps herknowledge was only hope. 

"Why should you suffer at all?" he asked. "You have never done anythingwrong. Nothing, of all this, is your fault. It was all fatal, from thefirst, and you cannot blame yourself for anything that has happened. "

"I do, " she answered, in a low voice. "Indeed I do. "

"You are wrong. You are not to blame. Dalrymple was--MariaBraccio--I--Gloria--we four. But you! What have you done? Compared withus you are a saint on earth!"

She hesitated a moment before she spoke. Then her voice came in a brokenway. 

"I loved Angelo Reanda. I know it, now that I have lost him. "

Griggs barely heard the last words, but he bent his head gravely, andsaid nothing in answer. 

CHAPTER XLVIII. 

THE stillness was all around them and seemed to fold them together asthey sat side by side. A deep sigh quivered and paused and was drawnagain almost with a gasp that stirred the air. Suddenly Francesca's facewas hidden in her hands, and her head was bowed almost to her knees. Amoment more, and she sobbed aloud, wordless, as though her soul werebreaking from her heart. 

In the great gloom there was something unearthly in the sound of herweeping. The man who could neither suffer any more himself nor feelhuman pity for another's suffering, turned and looked at her withshadowy eyes. He understood, though he could not feel, and he knew thatshe had borne more than any one had guessed. 

She shed many tears, and it was long before her sobbing ceased to calldown pitiful, heart-breaking echoes from the unseen heights of darkness. Her head was bent down upon her knees as she sat there, striving withherself. 

He could do nothing, and there was nothing that he could say. He couldnot comfort her, he could not deny her grief. He only knew that therewas one more being still alive and bearing the pain of sins done longago. Truly the judgment upon that man by whom the offence had come, should be heavy and relentless and enduring. 

At last all was still again. Francesca did not move, but sat bowedtogether, her hands pressing her face. Very softly, Griggs rose to hisfeet, and she did not see that he was no longer seated beside her. Hestood up and leaned upon the broad marble of the balustrade. When she atlast raised her head, she thought that he was gone. 

"Where are you?" she asked, in a startled voice. 

Then, looking round, she saw him standing by the rail. She understoodwhy he had moved--that she might not feel that he was watching her andseeing her tears. 

"I am not ashamed, " she said. "At least you know me, now. "

"Yes. I know. "

She also rose and stood up, and leaned upon the balustrade and lookedinto his face. 

"I am glad you know, " she said, and he saw how pale she was, and thather cheeks were wet. "Now that it is over, I am glad that you know, " shesaid again. "You are beyond sympathy, and beyond pitying any one, thoughyou are not unkind. I am glad, that if any one was to know my secret, itshould be you. I could not bear pity. It would hurt me. But you are notunkind. "

"Nor kind--nor anything, " he said. 

"No. It is as though I had spoken to the grave--or to eternity. It issafe with you. "

"Yes. Quite safe. Safer than with the dead. "

"He never knew it. Thank God! He never knew it! To me he was always thesame faithful friend. To you he was an enemy, and cruel. I thought himabove cruelty, but he was human, after all. Was it not human, that heshould be cruel to you?"

"Yes, " answered Griggs, wondering a little at her speech and tone. "Itwas very human. "

"And you forgive him for it?"

"I?" There was surprise in his tone. 

"Yes, " she answered. "I want your forgiveness for him. He died withoutyour forgiveness. It is the only thing I ask of you--I have not theright to ask anything, I know, but is it so very much?"

"It is nothing, " said Griggs. "There is no such thing as forgiveness inmy world. How could there be? I resent nothing. "

"But then, if you do not resent what he did, you have forgiven him. Haveyou not?"

"I suppose so. " He was puzzled. 

"Will you not say it?" she pleaded. 

"Willingly, " he answered. "I forgive him. I remember nothing againsthim. "

"Thank you. You are a good man. "

He shook his head gravely, but he took her outstretched hand and pressedit gently. 

"Thank you, " she repeated, withdrawing hers. "Do not think it strangethat I should ask such a thing. It means a great deal to me. I could notbear to think that he had left an enemy in the world and was gone wherehe could not ask forgiveness for what he had done. So I asked it of you, for him. I know that he would have wished me to. Do you understand?"

"Yes, " said Griggs, thoughtfully. "I understand. "

Again there was silence for a long time as they stood there. The tearsdried upon the woman's sweet pale face, and a soft light came where thetears had been. 

"Will you come with me?" she asked at last, looking up. 

He did not guess what she meant to do, but he left the step on which hewas standing and stood ready. 

"It must be late, " he said. "Should you like to try and rest? I willarrange a place for you as well as I can. "

"Not yet, " she answered. "If you will come with me--" she hesitated. 

"Yes?"

"I will say a prayer for the dead, " she said, in a low voice. "I alwaysdo, every night, since he died. "

Griggs bent his head, and she came down from the step. He walked besideher, down the silent nave into the darkness. Before the Chapel of theSacrament they both paused and bent the knee. Then she hesitated. 

"I should like to go to the Pietą, " she said timidly. "It seems so far. Do you mind?"

He held out his arm silently. She felt it and laid her hand upon it, andthey went on. It was very dark. They knew that they were passing thepillars when they could not see the little lights from the chapels inthe distance on their left. Then by the echo of their own footsteps theyknew that they were near the great door, and at last they saw the singletiny flame in the silver lamp hanging above the altar they sought. 

Guided by it, they went forward, and the solitary ray showed them themarble rail. They knelt down side by side. 

"Let us pray for them all, " said Francesca, very softly. 

She looked up to the marble face of Christ's mother, the Addolorata, themother of sorrows, and she thought of that sinning nun, dead long ago, who had been called Addolorata. 

"Let us pray for them all, " she repeated. "For Maria Braccio, forGloria--for Angelo Reanda. "

She lowered her head upon her hands. Then, presently, she looked upagain, and Griggs heard her sweet voice in the darkness repeating theancient Commemoration for the Dead, from the Canon of the Mass. 

"Remember also, O Lord, thy servants who are gone before us with thesign of faith, and sleep the sleep of peace. Give them, O Lord, and toall who rest in Christ, a place of refreshment, light, and peace, forthat Christ's sake, who liveth and reigneth with Thee in the unity ofthe Holy Spirit. Amen. "

Once more she bent her head and was silent for a time. Then as sheknelt, her hands moved silently along the marble and pressed the twofolded hands of the man beside her, and she looked at him. 

"Let us be friends, " she said simply. 

"Such as I am, I am yours. "

Then their hands clasped. They both started and looked down, for thefingers were cold and wet and dark. 

It was the blood of Angus Dalrymple that had sealed their friendship. 

The swift sure blade had struck him as he stood there, repeating thename of his dead wife. There had been no one near the door and none tosee the quick, black deed. Strong hands had thrown his falling bodywithin the marble balustrade, that was still wet with his heart's blood. 

There Paul Griggs found him, lying on his back, stretched to his lengthin the dim shadow between the rail and the altar. He had paid the priceat last, a loving, sinning, suffering, faithful, faultful man. 

But the friendship that was so grimly consecrated on that night, was thetruest that ever was between man and woman. 

END OF VOL. II. 

THE RALSTONS. 

BY

F. MARION CRAWFORD. 

2 vols. 16mo. Cloth. $2. 00. 

PRESS COMMENTS. 

 "The interest is unflagging throughout. Never has the author done more brilliant, artistic work than here. "--_Ohio State Journal. _

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 "There is a long succession of exceedingly strong dramatic situations which hold the reader's attention enchained to the end. This is one of the strong books of the year, and will have a large circle of readers. "--_New Orleans Picayune. _

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UNIFORM EDITION

OF THE WORKS OF

F. MARION CRAWFORD. 

=12mo. Cloth. Price $1. 00 per volume. =

KATHARINE LAUDERDALE. 

=The first of a series of novels dealing with New York life. =

 "Mr. Crawford at his best is a great novelist, and in 'Katharine Lauderdale' we have him at his best. "--_Boston Daily Advertiser. _

 "A most admirable novel, excellent in style, flashing with humor, and full of the ripest and wisest reflections upon men and women. "--_The Westminster Gazette. _

 "It is the first time, we think, in American fiction that any such breadth of view has shown itself in the study of our social framework. "--_Life. _

 "It need scarcely be said that the story is skilfully and picturesquely written, portraying sharply individual characters in well-defined surroundings. "--_New York Commercial Advertiser. _

 "'Katharine Lauderdale' is a tale of New York, and is up to the highest level of his work. In some respects it will probably be regarded as his best. None of his works, with the exception of 'Mr. Isaacs, ' shows so clearly his skill as a literary artist. "--_San Francisco Evening Bulletin. _

PIETRO GHISLERI. 

 "The imaginative richness, the marvellous ingenuity of plot, the power and subtlety of the portrayal of character, the charm of the romantic environment, --the entire atmosphere, indeed, --rank this novel at once among the great creations. "--_The Boston Budget. _

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WITH THE IMMORTALS. 

 "Altogether an admirable piece of art worked in the spirit of a thorough artist. Every reader of cultivated tastes will find it a book prolific in entertainment of the most refined description, and to all such we commend it heartily. "--_Boston Saturday Evening Gazette. _

 "The strange central idea of the story could have occurred only to a writer whose mind was very sensitive to the current modern thought and progress, while its execution, the setting it forth in proper literary clothing, could be successfully attempted only by one whose active literary ability should be fully equalled by his power of assimilative knowledge both literary and scientific, and no less by his courage and capacity for hard work. The book will be found to have a fascination entirely new for the habitual reader of novels. Indeed, Mr. Crawford has succeeded in taking his readers quite above the ordinary plane of novel interest. "--_Boston Advertiser. _

MARZIO'S CRUCIFIX. 

 "We take the liberty of saying that this work belongs to the highest department of character-painting in words. "--_Churchman. _

 "We have repeatedly had occasion to say that Mr. Crawford possesses in an extraordinary degree the art of constructing a story. His sense of proportion is just, and his narrative flows along with ease and perspicuity. It is as if it could not have been written otherwise, so naturally does the story unfold itself, and so logical and consistent is the sequence of incident after incident. As a story 'Marzio's Crucifix' is perfectly constructed. "--_New York Commercial Advertiser. _

KHALED. 

A Story of Arabia. 

 "Throughout the fascinating story runs the subtlest analysis, suggested rather than elaborately worked out, of human passion and motive, the building out and development of the character of the woman who becomes the hero's wife and whose love he finally wins, being an especially acute and highly finished example of the story-teller's art. . . . That it is beautifully written and holds the interest of the reader, fanciful as it all is, to the very end, none who know the depth and artistic finish of Mr. Crawford's work need be told. "--_The Chicago Times. _

PAUL PATOFF. 

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ZOROASTER. 

 "The field of Mr. Crawford's imagination appears to be unbounded. . . . In 'Zoroaster' Mr. Crawford's winged fancy ventures a daring flight. . . . Yet 'Zoroaster' is a novel rather than a drama. It is a drama in the force of its situations and in the poetry and dignity of its language; but its men and women are not men and women of a play. By the naturalness of their conversation and behavior they seem to live and lay hold of our human sympathy more than the same characters on a stage could possibly do. "--_The Times. _

A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 

 "It is a pleasure to have anything so perfect of its kind as this brief and vivid story. . . . It is doubly a success, being full of human sympathy, as well as thoroughly artistic in its nice balancing of the unusual with the commonplace, the clever juxtaposition of innocence and guilt, comedy and tragedy, simplicity and intrigue. "--_Critic. _

 "Of all the stories Mr. Crawford has written, it is the most dramatic, the most finished, the most compact. . . . The taste which is left in one's mind after the story is finished is exactly what the fine reader desires and the novelist intends. . . . It has no defects. It is neither trifling nor trivial. It is a work of art. It is perfect. "--_Boston Beacon. _

AN AMERICAN POLITICIAN. 

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A CIGARETTE-MAKER'S ROMANCE. 

 "It is a touching romance, filled with scenes of great dramatic power. "--_Boston Commercial Bulletin. _

 "It is full of life and movement, and is one of the best of Mr. Crawford's books. "--_Boston Saturday Evening Gazette. _

 "The interest is unflagging throughout. Never has Mr. Crawford done more brilliant realistic work than here. But his realism is only the case and cover for those intense feelings which, placed under no matter what humble conditions, produce the most dramatic and the most tragic situations. . . . This is a secret of genius, to take the most coarse and common material, the meanest surroundings, the most sordid material prospects, and out of the vehement passions which sometimes dominate all human beings to build up with these poor elements scenes and passages, the dramatic and emotional power of which at once enforce attention and awaken the profoundest interest. "--_New York Tribune. _

GREIFENSTEIN. 

 "'Greifenstein' is a remarkable novel, and while it illustrates once more the author's unusual versatility, it also shows that he has not been tempted into careless writing by the vogue of his earlier books. . . . There is nothing weak or small or frivolous in the story. The author deals with tremendous passions working at the height of their energy. His characters are stern, rugged, determined men and women, governed by powerful prejudices and iron conventions, types of a military people, in whom the sense of duty has been cultivated until it dominates all other motives, and in whom the principle of 'noblesse oblige' is, so far as the aristocratic class is concerned, the fundamental rule of conduct. What such people may be capable of is startlingly shown. "--_New York Tribune. _

A ROMAN SINGER. 

 "One of Mr. Crawford's most charming stories--a love romance pure and simple. "--_Boston Home Journal. _

 "'A Roman Singer' is one of his most finished, compact, and successful stories, and contains a splendid picture of Italian life. "--_Toronto Mail. _

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MR. ISAACS. 

A Tale of Modern India. 

 "The writer first shows the hero in relation with the people of the East and then skilfully brings into connection the Anglo-Saxon race. It is in this showing of the different effects which the two classes of minds have upon the central figure of the story that one of its chief merits lies. The characters are original, and one does not recognize any of the hackneyed personages who are so apt to be considered indispensable to novelists, and which, dressed in one guise or another, are but the marionettes, which are all dominated by the same mind, moved by the same motive force. The men are all endowed with individualism and independent life and thought. . . . There is a strong tinge of mysticism about the book which is one of its greatest charms. "--_Boston Transcript. _

 "No story of human experience that we have met with since 'John Inglesant' has such an effect of transporting the reader into regions differing from his own. 'Mr. Isaacs' is the best novel that has ever laid its scenes in our Indian dominions. "--_The Daily News, London. _

DR. CLAUDIUS. 

A True Story. 

 "There is a suggestion of strength, of a mastery of facts, of a fund of knowledge, that speaks well for future production. . . . To be thoroughly enjoyed, however, this book must be read, as no mere cursory notice can give an adequate idea of its many interesting points and excellences, for without a doubt 'Dr. Claudius' is the most interesting book that has been published for many months, and richly deserves a high place in the public favor. "--_St. Louis Spectator. _

 "To our mind it by no means belies the promises of its predecessor. The story, an exceedingly improbable and romantic one, is told with much skill; the characters are strongly marked without any suspicion of caricature, and the author's ideas on social and political subjects are often brilliant and always striking. It is no exaggeration to say that there is not a dull page in the book, which is peculiarly adapted for the recreation of student or thinker. "--_Living Church. _

TO LEEWARD. 

 "A story of remarkable power. "--_Review of Reviews. _

 "Mr. Crawford has written many strange and powerful stories of Italian life, but none can be any stranger or more powerful than 'To Leeward, ' with its mixture of comedy and tragedy, innocence and guilt. "--_Cottage Hearth. _

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SARACINESCA. 

 "His highest achievement, as yet, in the realms of fiction. The work has two distinct merits, either of which would serve to make it great, --that of telling a perfect story in a perfect way, and of giving a graphic picture of Roman society in the last days of the pope's temporal power. . . . The story is exquisitely told. "--_Boston Traveler. _

 "One of the most engrossing novels we have ever read. "--_Boston Times. _

SANT' ILARIO. 

A sequel to "Saracinesca. "

 "The author shows steady and constant improvement in his art. 'Sant' Ilario' is a continuation of the chronicles of the Saracinesca family. . . . A singularly powerful and beautiful story. . . . Admirably developed, with a naturalness beyond praise. . . . It must rank with 'Greifenstein' as the best work the author has produced. It fulfils every requirement of artistic fiction. It brings out what is most impressive in human action, without owing any of its effectiveness to sensationalism or artifice. It is natural, fluent in evolution, accordant with experience, graphic in description, penetrating in analysis, and absorbing in interest. "--_New York Tribune. _

DON ORSINO. 

A continuation of "Saracinesca" and "Sant' Ilario. "

 "The third in a rather remarkable series of novels dealing with three generations of the Saracinesca family, entitled respectively 'Saracinesca, ' 'Sant' Ilario, ' and 'Don Orsino, ' and these novels present an important study of Italian life, customs, and conditions during the present century. Each one of these novels is worthy of very careful reading, and offers exceptional enjoyment in many ways, in the fascinating absorption of good fiction, in interest of faithful historic accuracy, and in charm of style. The 'new Italy' is strikingly revealed in 'Don Orsino. '"--_Boston Budget. _

 "We are inclined to regard the book as the most ingenious of all Mr. Crawford's fictions. Certainly it is the best novel of the season. "--_Evening Bulletin. _

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THE THREE FATES. 

 "The strength of the story lies in its portrayal of the aspirations, disciplinary efforts, trials, and triumphs of the man who is a born writer, and who, by long and painful experiences, learns the good that is in him and the way in which to give it effectual expression. The analytical quality of the book is excellent, and the individuality of each one of the very dissimilar three fates is set forth in an entirely satisfactory manner. . . . Mr. Crawford has manifestly brought his best qualities as a student of human nature and his finest resources as a master of an original and picturesque style to bear upon this story. Taken for all in all it is one of the most pleasing of all his productions in fiction, and it affords a view of certain phases of American, or perhaps we should say of New York, life that have not hitherto been treated with anything like the same adequacy and felicity. "--_Boston Beacon. _

CHILDREN OF THE KING. 

A Tale of Southern Italy. 

 "A sympathetic reader cannot fail to be impressed with the dramatic power of this story. The simplicity of nature, the uncorrupted truth of a soul, have been portrayed by a master-hand. The suddenness of the unforeseen tragedy at the last renders the incident of the story powerful beyond description. One can only feel such sensations as the last scene of the story incites. It may be added that if Mr. Crawford has written some stories unevenly, he has made no mistakes in the stories of Italian life. A reader of them cannot fail to gain a clearer, fuller acquaintance with the Italians and the artistic spirit that pervades the country. "--M. L. B. In _Syracuse Journal_. 

THE WITCH OF PRAGUE. 

A Fantastic Tale. 

ILLUSTRATED BY W. J. HENNESSY. 

 "'The Witch of Prague' is so remarkable a book as to be certain of as wide a popularity as any of its predecessors. The keenest interest for most readers will lie in its demonstration of the latest revelations of hypnotic science. . . . It is a romance of singular daring and power. "--_London Academy. _

 "Mr. Crawford has written in many keys, but never in so strange a one as that which dominates 'The Witch of Prague. ' . . . The artistic skill with which this extraordinary story is constructed and carried out is admirable and delightful. . . . Mr. Crawford has scored a decided triumph, for the interest of the tale is sustained throughout. . . . A very remarkable, powerful, and interesting story. "--_New York Tribune. _

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Transcriber's Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired. 

Vol. 1

Page 50, "retractation" changed to "retraction" (of a generalretraction)

Page 83, "baiscchi" changed to "baiocchi" (ten baiocchi for)

Vol. 2

Page 27, "premiss" changed to "premise" (a false premise)

Page 29, "premisses" changed to "premises" (assumed premises)

Page 118, "np" changed to "up" (paused, looked up)

Page 152, "orf" changed to "or" (or the letter was)

Page 219, "Calpasta" changed to "Calpesta" (Calpesta il mio)

Page xvi, letter "i" missing in "generations" replaced (generations ofthe Saracinesca)