THE WHITE SISTER

------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE MACMILLAN COMPANYNEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGOSAN FRANCISCO

MACMILLAN & CO. , LimitedLONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTAMELBOURNE

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd. TORONTO

------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Illustration: VIOLA ALLEN AS THE WHITE SISTER]

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The White Sister_By_ F. Marion Crawford

Author of "The Diva's Ruby, " "Saracinesca, " "In the Palace of theKing, " etc. 

A. L. BURT COMPANYPUBLISHERS--NEW YORK

Macmillan Standard LibraryAll Rights Reserved

------------------------------------------------------------------------

COPYRIGHT, 1908, BY F. MARION CRAWFORD. 

COPYRIGHT, 1909, BY F. MARION CRAWFORD. 

COPYRIGHT, 1909, BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. 

Set up and electrotyped. Published May, 1909. Reprinted May, June, twice, July, August, twice, September, October, November, December, 1909; February, 1910; March, November, 1910; February, 1911;September, 1913. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE WHITE SISTER

CHAPTER I

'I cannot help it, ' said Filmore Durand quietly. 'I paint what I see. If you are not pleased with the likeness, I shall be only too happy tokeep it. '

The Marchesa protested. It was only a very small matter, she said, asomething in the eyes, or in the angle of the left eyebrow, or in theturn of the throat; she could not tell where it was, but it gave herniece a little air of religious ecstasy that was not natural to her. If the master would only condescend to modify the expression the leastbit, all would be satisfactory. 

Instead of condescending, Filmore Durand smiled rather indifferentlyand gave his pallet and brushes to his man, who was already waiting athis elbow to receive them. For the famous American portrait-painterdetested all sorts of litter, such as a painting-table, brush-jars, and the like, as much as his great predecessor Lenbach ever did, andwhen he was at work his old servant brought him a brush, a tube ofcolour, a knife, or a pencil, as each was needed, from a curtainedrecess where everything was kept ready and in order. 

'I like it as it is, ' said Giovanni Severi, resting his hands on thehilt of his sabre, as he sat looking thoughtfully from the portrait tothe original. 

The young girl smiled, pleased by his approbation of the likeness, which she herself thought good, though it by no means flattered. Onthe contrary, it made her look older than she was, and much more sad;for though the spring laughed in her eyes when she looked at theofficer to whom people said she was engaged, their counterparts in theportrait were deep and grave. Certain irregularities of feature, too, were more apparent in the painting than in nature. For instance, therewas a very marked difference between the dark eyebrows; for whereasthe right one made a perfect curve, the other turned up quite sharplytowards the forehead at the inner end, as if it did not wish to meetits fellow; and the Marchesa del Prato was quite sure that Angela'sdelicate nose had not really that aquiline and almost ascetic lookwhich the great master had given it. In fact, the middle-aged womanalmost wished that it had, for of all things that could happen shewould have been best pleased that her niece should turn out to have avocation and should disappear into some religious order as soon aspossible. This was not likely, and the Marchesa was by no means readyto accept, as an alternative, a marriage with Giovanni Severi, whomshe had long looked upon as her own private property. 

Filmore Durand glanced from one to another of the three in quicksuccession, stroked his rather bristly moustache, and lit a cigarette, not because he wanted to smoke, but because he could not help it, which is a very different thing. Then he looked at his picture andforgot that he was not alone with it; and it still pleased him, aftera fashion, though he was not satisfied with what he had done. 

Great artists and great writers are rarely troubled by theories; oneof the chief characteristics of mature genius is that it springsdirectly from conception to expression without much thought as to themeans; a man who has used the same tools for a dozen years is notlikely to take his chisel by the wrong end, nor to hesitate inchoosing the right one for the stroke to be made, much less to 'take asledge-hammer to kill a fly, ' as the saying is. His unquiet mind hasdiscovered some new and striking relation between the true and thebeautiful; the very next step is to express that relation in clay, orin colour, or in words. While he is doing so he rarely stops to think, or to criticise his own half-finished work; he is too sure of himself, just then, to pause, and, above all, he is too happy, for all the realhappiness he finds in his art is there, between the painfullydisquieting ferment of the mental chaos that went before and the moreor less acute disappointment which is sure to come when the finishedwork turns out to be less than perfect, like all things human. It isin the race from one point to the other that he rejoices in hisstrength, believes in his talent, and dreams of undying glory; it isthen that he feels himself a king of men and a prophet of mankind; butit is when he is in this stage that he is called vain, arrogant, andself-satisfied by those who do not understand the distress that hasgone before, nor the disillusionment which will follow soon enough, when the hand is at rest and cool judgment marks the distance betweena perfect ideal and an attainable reality. Moreover, the less the lackof perfection seems to others, the more formidable it generally looksto the great artist himself. 

It was often said of Durand that his portraits were prophetic; andoften again that his brushes were knives and scalpels that dissectedhis sitters' characters upon the canvas like an anatomicalpreparation. 

'I cannot help it, ' he always said. 'I paint what I see. '

It was not his fault if pretty Donna Angela Chiaromonte had thrown awhite veil over her dark hair, just to try the effect of it, the veryfirst time she had been brought to his studio, or that she had beenstanding beside an early fifteenth century altar and altar-piece whichhe had just bought and put up at one end of the great hall in which hepainted. He was not to blame if the veiling had fallen on each side ofher face, like a nun's head-dress, nor if her eyes had grown shadowyat that moment by an accident of light or expression, nor yet if hertender lips had seemed to be saddened by a passing thought. She hadnot put on the veil again, and he had not meant that a suggestion ofsuffering ecstatically borne should dim her glad girlhood in hispicture; but he had seen the vision once, and it had come out againunder his brush, in spite of him, as if it were the necessary truthover which the outward expression was moulded like a lovely mask, butwhich must be plain in her face to every one who had once had aglimpse of it. 

The painter contemplated his work in silence from within an Olympiancloud of cigarette smoke that almost hid him from the others, who nowexchanged a few words in Italian, which he only half understood. Theyspoke English with him, as they would have spoken French with aFrenchman, and probably even German with a German, for modern Romansociety has a remarkable gift of tongues and is very accomplished inother ways. 

'What I think most wonderful, ' said the Marchesa del Prato, whodetested her husband's pretty niece, 'is that he has not made a CarloDolce picture of you, my dear. With your face, it would have been soeasy, you know!'

Giovanni Severi's hands moved a little and the scabbard of his sabrestruck one of his spurs with a sharp clink; for he was naturallyimpatient and impulsive, as any one could see from his face. It waslean and boldly cut; his cheeks were dark from exposure rather than bynature, there were reddish lights in his short brown hair, and hissmall but vigorous moustache was that of a rather fair man who haslived much in sun and wind in a hot climate. His nose was Roman andenergetic, his mouth rather straight and hard; yet few would havethought his face remarkable but for the eyes, which betrayed hisnature at a glance; they were ardent rather than merely bold, and thewarm, reddish-brown iris was shot with little golden points thatcoruscated in the rays of the sun, but emitted a fiery light of theirown when his temper was roused. If his look had been less frank anddirect, or if his other features had suggested any bad quality, hiseyes would probably have been intolerably disagreeable to meet; as itwas, they warned all comers that their possessor was one of thoseuncommon and dangerous men who go to the utmost extremes when theybelieve themselves in the right and are constitutionally incapable ofmeasuring danger or considering consequences when they are roused. Giovanni Severi was about eight-and-twenty, and wore the handsomeuniform of an artillery officer on the Staff. He had not liked theMarchesa's remark, and the impatient little clink of his scabbardagainst his spur only preceded his answer by a second. 

'Happily for Angela, ' he said, 'we are not in the studio of acaricaturist. '

The Marchesa, who could be near-sighted on occasion, put up hertortoiseshell-mounted eyeglass and looked at him aggressively; but ashe returned her gaze with steadiness, she soon turned away. 

'You are extremely rude, ' she said coldly. 

For she herself made clever caricatures in water-colours, and she knewwhat Giovanni meant. Angela's mother had been a very devout woman andhad died young, but had incurred the hatred of the Marchesa bymarrying the very man whom the latter had picked out for herself, namely, the elder of two brothers, and the Marchesa had reluctantlyconsented to marry the other, who had a much less high-sounding titleand a far smaller fortune. She had revenged herself in various smallways, and had often turned her brother-in-law's wife to ridicule byrepresenting her as an ascetic medięval saint, in contorted attitudesof ecstasy, with sunken cheeks and eyes like saucers full of ink. Likemany other people, Giovanni had seen some of these drawings, for theresentful Marchesa had not destroyed them when the PrincessChiaromonte died; but no one had yet been unkind enough to tell Angelaof their existence. The girl did not like her aunt by marriage, it wastrue, but with a singularly simple and happy disposition, and a totalabsence of vanity, she apparently possessed her mother's almostsaintly patience, and she bore the Marchesa's treatment with acheerful submission which exasperated the elder woman much more thanany show of temper could have done. 

Just now, seeing that trouble of some sort was imminent, she made adiversion by coming down from the low movable platform, on which herchair had been placed for the sitting, and she spoke to the artistwhile she studied her own portrait. Durand was a very thin man, and sotall that Angela had to look very high to see his face as she stoodbeside him. 

'I could never be as good as the picture looks, ' she said in English, with a little laugh, 'nor so dreadfully in earnest! But it is verynice of you to think that I might!'

'You will never be anything but good, ' answered Filmore Durand, 'andit's not necessarily dreadful to be in earnest about it. '

'You are a moralist. I see. ' observed the Marchesa, putting on a sweetsmile as she rose and came forward, followed by Giovanni. 

'I don't know, ' replied the painter. 'What is a moralist?'

'A person who is in earnest about other people's morals, ' suggestedAngela gaily. 

'Really!' cried the Marchesa, with a most emphatic Englishpronunciation of the word. 'One would think that you had been broughtup in a Freemasons' lodge!'

In view of the fact that Angela's father was one of the very lastsurvivors of the 'intransigent' clericals, this was quite the mostcutting speech the Marchesa could think of. But Filmore Durand failedto see the point. 

'What has Freemasonry to do with morality?' he inquired with blandsurprise. 

'Nothing at all, ' answered the Marchesa smartly, 'for it is thereligion of the devil. '

'Dear me!' The artist smiled. 'What strong prejudices you have inRome!'

'Are you a Freemason?' the noble lady asked, with evident nervousness;and she glanced from his face to Angela, and then at the door. 

'Well--no--I'm not, ' the painter admitted with a slight drawl, andevidently amused. 'But then I'm not a moralist either, though Isuppose I might be both and yet go on painting about the same. '

'I think not, ' said the Marchesa so stiffly that Giovanni almostlaughed aloud. 'We must be going, ' she added, suddenly relaxing tograciousness again. 'It has been such a privilege to see you day afterday, my dear Mr. Durand, and to watch you working in your ownsurroundings. My brother-in-law will come to-morrow. I have no doubtthat he will be much pleased with the portrait. '

Filmore Durand smiled indifferently but with politeness as he bowedover the Marchesa's hand. He did not care a straw whether Angela'sfather liked the picture or not, being in love with it himself, andmuch more anxious to keep it than to be paid for it. 

'When shall I see you again?' Giovanni had asked of Angela, almost ina whisper, while the Marchesa was speaking. 

Instead of answering she shook her head, for she could not decide atonce, but as her glance met his a delicate radiance tinged her cheeksfor a moment, as if the rosy light of a clear dawn were reflected inher face. The young soldier's eyes flashed as he watched her; he drewhis breath audibly, and then bit his upper lip as if to check thesound and the sensation that had caused it. Angela heard and saw, forshe understood what moved him, so far as almost childlike simplicitycan have intuition of what most touches a strong man. She was lesslike the portrait now than a moment earlier; her lips, just parting ina little half-longing, half-troubled smile, were like dark rose leavesdamp with dew, her eyelids drooped at the corners for an instant, andthe translucent little nostrils quivered at the mysterious thrill thatstirred her maiden being. 

The two young people had not known each other quite a year, for shehad never seen Severi till she had left the convent to go out intosociety and to take her place at her widowed father's table as hisonly child; but at their first meeting Giovanni had felt that of allwomen he had known, none but she had ever called his nature to herswith the longing cry of the natural mate. At first she was quiteunconscious of her power, and for a long time he looked in vain forthe slightest outward sign that she was moved when she saw him makinghis way to her in a crowded drawing-room, or coming upon her suddenlyout of doors when she was walking in the villa with her old governess, the excellent Madame Bernard, or riding in the Campagna with herfather. Giovanni's duties were light, and he had plenty of time tospare, and his pertinacity in finding her would have been compromisingif he had been less ingeniously tactful. It was by no means easy tomeet her in society either, for, in spite of recent socialdevelopments, Prince Chiaromonte still clung to the antiquatedpolitical mythology of Blacks and Whites, and strictly avoided thefamilies he persisted in calling 'Liberals, ' on the ground that hisfather had called them so in 1870, when he was a small boy. It was notuntil he had bored himself to extinction in the conscientious effortto take the girl out, that he appealed to his sister-in-law to helphim, though he knew that neither she nor his brother was trulyclerical at heart. Even then, if it had been clear to him thatGiovanni Severi had made up his mind to marry Angela if he married atall, the Prince would have forced himself to bear agonies of boredomnight after night, rather than entrust his daughter to the Marchesa;but such an idea had never entered his head, and he would have scoutedthe suggestion that Angela would ever dare to encourage a young man ofwhom he had not formally approved; and while she was meeting Giovannialmost daily, and dancing with him almost every evening, her fatherwas slowly negotiating an appropriate marriage for her with the eldestson of certain friends who were almost as clerical and intransigent ashimself. The young man was a limp degenerate, with a pale face, a weakmouth, and an inherited form of debility which made him fall asleepwherever he was, if nothing especial happened to keep his eyes open;he not only always slept from ten at night till nine the next morningwith the regularity of an idiot, but he went to sleep wherever he satdown, in church, at dinner, and even when he was driving. Neither hisown parents nor Prince Chiaromonte looked upon this as a seriousdrawback in the matter of marriage. A man who slept all day and allnight was a man out of mischief, not likely to grumble nor to makelove to his neighbour's wife; he would therefore be a model husband. When he fell asleep in the drawing-room in summer, his consort wouldsit beside him and brush away the flies; in winter she would becareful to cover him up lest he should catch cold; at mass she couldprick him with a hat-pin to keep him awake; as for the rest, she wouldbear one of the oldest names in Europe, her husband would be astrictly religious and moral person, and she would be very rich. Whatmore could any woman ask? Evidently nothing, and Prince Chiaromontetherefore continued to negotiate the marriage in the old-fashionedmanner, without the least intention of speaking about it to Angelatill everything was altogether settled between the family lawyers, andthe wedding could take place in six weeks. It was not the business ofyoung people to fathom the intentions of their all-wise parents, andmeanwhile Angela was free to go to parties with her aunt, and herintended husband was at liberty to sleep as much as he liked. Thenegotiations would probably occupy another two or three months, forthe family lawyers had disagreed as to the number of times that Angelashould be allowed to take the carriage out every day, and this had tobe stipulated in the marriage contract, besides the number of dishesthere were to be at luncheon and dinner and the question whether, ifAngela took coffee after her meals, it should be charged to herhusband, who took none, or against the income arising from her dowry. The family lawyers were both very old men and understood thesedifficult matters thoroughly, but neither would have felt that he wasdoing his duty to his client if he had not quarrelled with the otherover each point. From week to week each reported progress to hisemployer, and on the whole the two fathers felt that matters weregoing on well, without any undue delay. 

But the Fates frowned grimly on the marriage and on all thingsconnected with it, for on the very morning during which Filmore Durandfinished Angela's portrait, and before she had left his studio in thePalazzo Borghese, something happened which not only put a stop to theleisurely labours of the two lawyers, but which profoundly changedAngela's existence, and was the cause of her having a story quitedifferent from that of a good many young girls who are in love withone man but are urged by their parents to marry another. The interestof this tale, if it has any, lies in no such simple conflict of forcesas that, and it is enough to know that while her father had been busyover her marriage, Angela Chiaromonte had fallen in love with GiovanniSeveri, and had, indeed, as much as promised to marry him; and that agood many people, including the Marchesa del Prato, already suspectedthis, though they had not communicated their suspicions to the girl'sfather, partly because he was not liked, and partly because he hardlyever showed himself in the world. The situation is thus clearlyexplained, so far as it was known to the persons concerned at themoment when the Great Unforeseen flashed from its hiding-place andhurled itself into their midst. 

As Filmore Durand went with the Marchesa towards the entrance hall, followed by the young people, he called his man to open the outerdoor, but almost at the same moment he heard his voice at thetelephone; the servant was a Swiss who spoke German, English, andItalian, and had followed the artist for many years. He was evidentlyanswering an inquiry about the Marchesa just as he heard her step. 

'The lady is here, ' he said. 'She is coming to the telephone herself. '

He looked round as the four approached, for the instrument was placedon the right side of the large door that opened upon the landing. 

'Some one for your ladyship, ' he said in English, holding out thereceiver to the Marchesa. 

She took it and put it to her ear, repeating the usual Italianformula. 

'Ready--with whom am I speaking? Yes. I am the Marchesa del Prato, sheherself. What is it?'

There was a pause while she listened, and then Angela saw her facechange suddenly. 

'Dead?' she shrieked into the telephone. 'Half-an-hour ago?'

She still held the receiver to her ear, but she was stretching out herleft hand as if she needed support. Durand took her by the arm andelbow, prepared to hold her up if she showed signs of fainting. Angelawas already on her other side. 

'Who is dead?' the girl asked quietly enough, but with evidentanxiety. 

'Your father, ' answered the Marchesa, with such sudden and brutaldirectness that Giovanni started forward, and Durand stared insurprise, for he knew enough Italian to understand as much as that. 

Angela made two steps backwards, slowly and mechanically, like a blindman who has unexpectedly run against a wall; like the blind, too, sheheld out her hands before her, as if to assure herself that she wasgetting out of reach of the obstacle. Her face had turned white andher eyes were half closed. 

The Marchesa no longer seemed to be in need of support and watchedher. 

'My poor child!' she cried, in a tone of conventional sympathy. 'Ishould have broken the news to you gradually----'

'You should indeed!' answered Giovanni with stern emphasis. 

He was already leading Angela to one of the nearest of the high-backedchairs that stood ranged against the dark-green wall of the hall. Shesat down, steadying herself by his arm. 

'Run over by a motor car almost at his own door, ' said the Marchesa, in a lower tone and in English, as she turned slightly towards Durand. 'Killed on the spot! It is too awful! My poor brother-in-law!'

'Get some brandy and some cold water, ' said the artist to his man, watching the girl's pale face and twitching hands. 

'Yes, ' said Giovanni, who was bending over her anxiously. 'Bringsomething quickly! She is going to faint. '

But Angela was not fainting, nor even half-unconscious. She had feltas if something hard had struck her between the eyes, without quitestunning her. She attempted to get up, but realised her weakness andwaited a moment before trying again. Then she rose to her feet with aneffort and stood straight and rigid before her aunt, her eyes quiteopen now. 

'Come!' she said, almost imperiously, and in a voice unlike her own. 

In a moment they were gone, and the artist was standing before theportrait he had finished, looking into its eyes as if it were alive. He had been deeply shocked by what had just happened, and wassincerely sorry for Angela, though he had not the least idea whethershe had loved her father or not, but his face was calm and thoughtfulagain, now that she was gone, and expressed a quiet satisfaction whichhad not been there before. For it seemed to him that the picture was aprecious reality, and that the young girl who had sat for it was onlynature's copy, and not perfect at that; and perhaps the reality wouldnot be taken from him, now, since Prince Chiaromonte had come to anuntimely end; and the prospect of keeping the canvas was exceedinglypleasing to Filmore Durand. He had never painted anything that haddisappointed him less, or that he was less willing to part with, andduring the last day or two he had even thought of making a replica ofit for the Prince in order to keep the original, for no copy, thoughit were made by himself most conscientiously, could ever be quite sogood. But now that the Prince was dead, it was possible that theheirs, if there were any besides Angela, would be glad to be excusedfrom paying a large sum for a picture they did not want. He was surefrom the young girl's manner that she would no more care to possess aportrait of herself than a coloured postcard of the Colosseum or aplaster-cast of one of Canova's dancing-girls. This was not flatteringto the artist, it was true, but in the present case he would ratherkeep his own painting than have it appreciated ever so highly by anyone else. 

Late in the afternoon he stopped before the closed gateway of thePalazzo Chiaromonte and pushed the little postern that stood ajar. Thebig porter was within, standing dejectedly before the door of hislodge, and already dressed in the deep mourning which is kept inreadiness in all the great Roman houses. The painter asked in brokenItalian if the bad news was true, and the man nodded gravely, pointingto the gates. They would not be shut unless the master were dead. Durand asked after Donna Angela, but the porter was not communicative. She had come in with her aunt and both were upstairs; he suspected thepainter of being a foreign newspaper correspondent and would saynothing more. 

The American thanked him and went away; after all, he had come to makesure that the Prince was really dead, and he was conscious that hiswish to keep the portrait was the only motive of his inquiry. 

He strolled away through the crowded streets, blowing such clouds ofcigarette smoke about him that people looked at him in surprise. Itwas almost sunset, in February, and it was just before Lent. Rome isat her gayest then, though the old Carnival is as dead and gone as PioNono, Garibaldi, the French military occupation, the hatred of theJesuits, and all that made the revival of Italy in the nineteenthcentury the most thrilling romance that ever roused Italian passionand stirred the world's sympathy. Durand was not old enough toremember those times, and he had never been in Rome at all till he wasnearly thirty years of age and on the first wave of his high success;but he had read about the past, and to his unspoiled sight and vividimagination Rome was still romantic and the greatest city in theworld, ancient or modern; and somehow when he thought of his pictureand of Angela's face, and remembered the scene at the telephone, hefelt that he was himself just within the sphere of some mysterious andtragic action which he could not yet understand, but which mightpossibly affect his own life. 

'This is a serio-comic world, ' he said to himself as he slowly madehis way down the Corso, watching the faces of the people he passed, because he never passed a face in the street without glancing at it, stopping now and then to look into a shop window where there wasnothing to see that he had not seen a thousand times elsewhere, smoking cigarettes without number, thinking of Angela's portrait, andmechanically repeating his little epigram over and over again, to asort of tune in his head, with variations and transpositions thatmeant nothing at all. 

'This is a serio-comic world. This is a comico-serious world. Thisworld is a serious comico-serial. This is a worldly-serious comedy. 'And so forth, and so on; and a number of more or less good-lookingwomen of the serio-comic world, whose portraits he had painted, andseveral more or less distinguished men who had sat to him, passed theman of genius and greeted him as if they were rather pleased to showthat they knew him; but they would have been shocked if they couldhave heard the silly words the great painter was mechanicallyrepeating to himself as he idled along the pavement, musing on thepicture he hoped to keep, and already regarded as his masterpiece andchief treasure. 

CHAPTER II

The excellent Madame Bernard had been Angela's governess before thechild had been sent to the convent, on the Trinitą dei Monti, andwhenever she was at home for the holidays, and also during the briefinterval between her leaving school and going into society; and afterthat, during the winter which preceded Prince Chiaromonte's death, shehad accompanied the motherless girl to concerts and had walked withher almost daily in the mornings. She was one of those thoroughlytrustworthy, sound-minded, well-educated Frenchwomen of the middleclass of whom many are to be found in the provinces, though the typeis rare in Paris; nearly fifty years of age, she had lived twentyyears in Rome, always occupying the same little apartment in arespectable street of Trastevere, where she had a spare room which shewas glad to let to any French or English lady of small means who cameto Rome for a few months in the winter and spring. 

Angela sent her maid for Madame Bernard on the day of the catastrophe, since her aunt neither offered to take her in at once nor seemedinclined to suggest any arrangement for the future. The Marchesa did, indeed, take charge of everything in the Palazzo Chiaromonte within anhour of her brother-in-law's death; she locked the drawers of hisprivate desk herself, sent for the notary and had the customary sealsplaced on the doors of the inner apartments 'in the name of theheirs'; she spoke with the undertaker and made every arrangement forthe customary lying in state of the body during the following nightand day; saw to the erection of the temporary altar at which massesfor the dead would be celebrated almost without interruption frommidnight to noon by sixteen priests in succession; gave fullinstructions to the effect that the men-servants should take theirturn of duty in regular watches, day and night, until the funeral; andfinally left the palace, after showing herself to be an exceedinglypractical woman. 

When she went away, she was holding her handkerchief to her eyes withboth hands and she forgot her parasol; but she remembered it as she wasjust going out by the postern, her carriage being outside because thegates were shut, and she sent her footman back for it and for the littlemorocco bag in which she carried her handkerchief and card-case. It wasa small matter, but the porter, the footman, and the butler upstairs allremembered it afterwards, and the footman himself, while coming down, took the trouble to look into the little wallet, and saw that thecard-case was there, but nothing else; for the Marchesa sometimescarried certain little cigarettes in it, which the man had foundparticularly good. But to-day there was not even one. 

Madame Bernard arrived in tears, for she was a warm-hearted woman, andwas overcome with sympathy for the lonely girl. She found Angelasitting by a small fire in her own little morning-room on the upperfloor. A tray with something to eat had been set beside her, she knewnot by whom, but she had not tasted anything. Her eyes were dry, buther hands were burning and when she was conscious of feeling anythingshe knew that her head ached. She had forgotten that she had sent forthe governess, and looked at her with a vaguely wondering expressionas if she took the kindly Frenchwoman in black for a new shadow in herdream. 

But presently mechanical consciousness returned, though without muchdefinite sensation, and she let Madame Bernard have her way ineverything, not making the slightest resistance or offering thesmallest suggestion; she even submitted to being fed like a littlechild, with small mouthfuls of things that had no taste whatever forher. 

By and by there was a dressmaker in the room, with an assistant, andservants brought a number of big bandboxes with lids covered withblack oilcloth; and Angela's maid was there, too, and they tried onething after another on her, ready-made garments for the first hours ofmourning. Then they were gone, and she was dressed in black, and theroom was filled with the unmistakable odour of black crape, which isnot like anything else in the world. 

Again time passed, and she was kneeling at a faldstool in the greathall downstairs; but a dark screen had been placed so that she couldnot be seen by any one who came in to kneel at the rail that dividedthe upper part of the hall from the lower; and she saw nothingherself--nothing but a Knight of Malta, in his black cloak with thegreat white Maltese cross on his shoulder, lying asleep on his back;and on each side of him three enormous wax torches were burning insilver candlesticks taller than a tall man. 

Quite at the end of the hall, five paces from the Knight's motionlesshead, three priests in black and silver vestments were kneeling beforea black altar, reciting the Penitential Psalms in a quiet, monotonousvoice, verse and verse, the one in the middle leading; and Angelaautomatically joined the two assistants in responding, but so low thatthey did not hear her. 

The Knight bore a resemblance to her father, that was all. Perhaps itwas only a waxen image she saw, or a wraith in that long dream ofhers, of which she could not quite remember the beginning. She knewthat she was nothing to the image, and that it was nothing to her. While her lips repeated the grand dirge of the King-poet in SaintJerome's noble old Latin words, her thoughts followed broken threads, each cut short by a question that lacks an answer, by the riddle manhas asked of the sky and the sea and the earth since the beginning:What does it mean?

What could it mean? The senseless facts were there, plain enough. That morning she had seen her father, she had kissed his hand in theold-fashioned way, and he had kissed her forehead, and they hadexchanged a few words, as usual. She remembered that for the thousandthtime she had wished that his voice would soften a little and that hewould put his arms round her and draw her closer to him. But he had beenjust as always, for he was bound and stiffened in the unwieldy armour ofhis conventional righteousness. Angela had read of the Puritans inhistory, and an Englishman might smile at the thought that she could notfancy the sternest of them as more thoroughly puritanical than herfather, who had been brought up by priests from his childhood. But suchas he was, he had been her father that morning. The motionless figure ofthe Knight of Malta on the black velvet pall was not he, nor a likenessof him, nor anything human at all. It was the outward visible presenceof death, it was a dumb thing that knew the answer to the riddle butcould not tell it; in a way, it was the riddle itself. 

While her half-stunned intelligence stumbled among chasms of thoughtthat have swallowed up transcendent genius, her lips unconsciouslysaid the Penitential Psalms after the priests at the altar. At theconvent she had been a little vain of knowing them by heart betterthan the nuns themselves, for she had a good memory, and she had oftenbeen rebuked for taking pride in her gift. It was not her fault if thenoble poetry meant nothing to her at the most solemn hour of her life, though its deep human note had appealed profoundly to her the lasttime she had repeated the words. Nothing meant anything now, in theface of the unanswered riddle; nothing but the answer could have anymeaning. 

The great apostle of modern thought asked three questions: What can Iknow? As a reasoning being what is it my duty to do in life? What mayI dare to hope hereafter? Angela had never even heard of Kant; sheonly asked what it all meant; and the Knight of Malta was silent underthe steady yellow light of the six wax torches. Perhaps the whitecross on his cloak was the answer, but the emblem was too far fromwords for mere humanity to understand it. She wished they would takehim away, for he was not her father, and she would be far better ableto pray alone in her own room than in the stately presence of that onemaster whom all living things fear, man and bird and beast, andwhatsoever has life in the sea. 

To pray, yes; but for what? Rebellious against outward things, thegirl's prime intuition told her that her father was quite separatedfrom his mortal symbol now, having suddenly left that which couldchange to become a part of the unknown truth, which must beunchangeable if it is true; invisible, without form or dimension, 'being' not 'living, ' 'conscious' not 'aware, ' 'knowing' not 'seeing, ''eternal' not 'immortal. ' That might be the answer, but it meant toomuch for a girl to grasp, and explained too little to be comforting. The threads of thought broke short off again, and Angela's lips wenton making words, while she gazed unwinking on the Knight'sexpressionless face. 

Suddenly her mind awoke again in a sort of horror of darkness, and herlips ceased from moving for a while, for she was terrified. 

Was there anything beyond? Was it really God who had taken her fatherfrom her in an instant, or was it a blind force that had killed him, striking in the dark? If that was the answer, what was there left?

The sensitive girl shivered. Perhaps no bodily danger could have sentthat chill through her. It began in her head and crept quickly to herhands and then to her feet, for it was not a fear of death that cameupon her, nor of anything outward. To lose life was nothing, if therewas heaven beyond; pain, torture, martyrdom would be nothing if Godthe good was standing on the other side. All life was but one longopportunity for sinning, and to lose it while in grace was to be safefor ever; so much she had been taught and until now she had believedit. But what loss could be compared with losing God? There wereunbelievers in the world, of course, but she could not understand howthey could still live on, and laugh, and seek pleasure and feel itkeenly. What had they to fill the void of their tremendous loss?Surely, not to believe was not to hope, to be for ever without hopewas the punishment of the damned, and to live hopeless in the worldwas to suffer the pains of hell on earth. 

She felt them now. 'The pains of hell gat hold upon me, ' she moaned, heedless of the priest's recitation. Darkness rose like a flood-tideall round her and she shut her eyes to keep it out, for her willfought for hope, as her body would have struggled against drowning. Itwas no longer a mere question that assailed her, but imminentdestruction itself. 

It passed away this first time and she grew calm again. Not to believewas sin, and against all sin, prayer and steadfast will must beavailing. The will, she had; she could remember many prayers, too, andsay them earnestly, and was thankful for her memory which held orisonsin readiness for every circumstance of daily duty or spiritual life. From her childhood she had found a gentle delight in the Church'sliturgies and hymns, and now, as she prayed with the forms of languageshe had always loved, habit brought back belief to lighten herdarkness. She still felt the bitter cold of the outer night that wasvery near her; but she kept it off now, and warmed her poor littlesoul in the fervour of her praying till she felt that she was comingagain to life and hope. 

She opened her eyes at last and saw that nothing was changed. TheKnight of Malta slept on, as he was to sleep for ever; the priestsknelt motionless before the black altar; their quiet, monotonousvoices went on with the Penitential Psalms as priests had said themfor at least fifteen centuries. Angela listened till she caught thewords and then began to respond again, and once more her thoughtsfollowed broken threads. 

Surely, by all she had been taught, her father was in heaven already. It was not possible that any human being should obey every written andunwritten ordinance of his religion more strictly than he had doneever since she could remember him. He had been severe, almost tocruelty, but he had been quite as unyieldingly austere in dealing withhimself. He had fasted rigidly, not only when fasts were ordered, butof his free will when others only abstained, he had never begun a daywithout hearing mass nor a week without confession and communion, hehad retired into spiritual retreat in Lent, he had prayed early andlate; in his dealings with men, he had not done to others what hewould not have had them do to him, he had not said of his neighbourwhat he would not have said of himself, he had wronged no man; he hadgiven much to charity and more to the 'imprisoned' head of the Church. He had so lived that no confessor could justly find fault with him, and he had never failed to pray for those in whom he discerned anyshortcoming. 

Who would condemn such a just person? Not God, surely. Therefore whenhis life had ended so suddenly that morning, his soul had been takendirectly to heaven. 

Such righteousness as his had venial sins to expiate, what hope wasthere left for men of ordinary earthly passions and failings?

It was a consolation to think of that, Angela told herself, now thatthe tide of darkness had ebbed back to the depth of terror whence ithad risen; and when at last the long dream slowly dissolved beforereturning reality the lonely girl's eyes overflowed with natural tearsat the thought that her father's motionless lips would never moveagain, even to reprove her, and that she was looking for the last timeon all that earth still held of him who had given her life. 

CHAPTER III

Three days later Angela sat alone in her morning-room, reading a letterfrom Giovanni Severi. All was over now--the lying in state, the funeralat the small parish church, the interment in the cemetery of SanLorenzo, where the late Prince had built a temporary tomb for himselfand his family, under protest, because modern municipal regulationswould not allow even such a personage as he to be buried within thewalls, in his own family vault, at Santa Maria del Popolo. But he hadbeen confident that even if he did not live to see the return of thePope's temporal power, his remains would soon be solemnly transferred tothe city, to rest with those of his fathers; and he had looked forwardto his resurrection from a sepulchre better suited to his earthly rankand spiritual worth than a brick vault in a public cemetery, within ahundred yards of the thrice-anathematised crematorium, and of theunhallowed burial-ground set aside for Freemasons, anarchists, Protestants, and Jews. But no man can be blamed fairly for wishing tolie beside his forefathers, and if Prince Chiaromonte had failed to seethat the destiny of Italy had out-measured the worldly supremacy of theVatican in the modern parallelogram of forces, that had certainly been afault of judgment rather than of intention. He had never wavered in hisfidelity to his ideal, nor had he ever voluntarily submitted to any lawimposed by the 'usurper. '

'That excellent Chiaromonte is so extremely clerical, ' Pope Leo theThirteenth had once observed to his secretary with his quiet smile. 

But Angela missed her father constantly, not understanding that he hadsystematically forced her to look to him as the judge and master ofher existence, and she wondered a little why she almost longed for hisgrave nod, and his stern frown of disapproval, and even for the dailyand hourly reproof under which she had so often chafed. Madame Bernardhad been installed in the palace since the day of the fatal accident, and she was kindness personified, full of consideration andforethought; yet the girl was very lonely and miserable from morningtill night, and when she slept she dreamed of the dead Knight ofMalta's face, of the yellow light of the wax torches, and the voicesof the priests. 

On the fourth day a letter came from Giovanni, the first she had everreceived from him. She did not even know his handwriting, and shelooked at the signature before reading the note to see who had writtento her so soon. When she understood that it was he, a flood ofsunshine broke upon her gloom. The bright morning sun had indeed beenshining through the window for an hour, but she had not known it tillthen. 

It was not a love-letter. He used those grammatically illogical butsuperfinely courteous forms which make high Italian a mystery tostrangers who pick up a few hundred words for daily use and dream thatthey understand the language. He used the first person for himself, but spoke of her in the third singular; he began with: 'Most gentleDonna Angela, ' and he signed his full name at the end of a formalphrase setting forth his profoundly respectful homage. She would havebeen much surprised and perhaps offended if he had expressed himselfin any more familiar way. Brought up as she had been under the mostold-fashioned code in Europe when at home, and under the frigid ruleof the Ladies of the Sacred Heart when she was at school, anyfamiliarity of language seemed to her an outrage on good manners, andmight even be counted a sin if she condescended to it in speaking witha man who was not yet her husband. She had been made to address herfather in the third person feminine singular ever since she hadlearned to talk, precisely as Giovanni wrote to her; and if she prayedto the Deity with the less formal second person plural, this wasdoubtless because the Italian prayers had been framed in less refinedand courteous times than her own. 

In spite of his stiff grammar, however, Severi managed to write thingsthat brought the colour to her face and the light to her eyes. Hesaid, for instance, that he was coming to see her that very afternoon;that in order not to attract attention at the gate of the palace hewould wear civilian's dress, and that he hoped she would not onlyreceive him, but would send Madame Bernard out of the room for alittle while, so that he might speak to her alone. 

The proposal was so delightful and yet so disturbing that Angelathought it must be wicked and tried to examine her conscience at once;but it shut up like an oyster taken out of the water and pretended tobe perfectly insensible, turn it and probe it how she would. 

So she gave it up; and she did so the more readily because it would bequite impossible to see Giovanni that afternoon, enchanting as theprospect would have been. Her aunt the Marchesa had sent word that shewas coming at four o'clock with the lawyer to explain Angela'sposition to her, and it was impossible to say how long the two mightstay. Meanwhile she must send word to Giovanni not to come, for itwould not suffice that he should be refused admittance at the gate, since he might chance to present himself just when the Marchesa droveup, which would produce a very bad impression. Angela was ashamed tosend her maid with a note to a young officer, and she would not trustone of the men-servants; she turned for advice to Madame Bernard, whowas her only confidante. 

'What am I to do?' she asked when she had explained everything. 'He isgenerally at the War Office at this time and he may not even go homebefore he comes here. I see no way but to send a note. '

'He would certainly go home to change his clothes, ' answered thepractical Frenchwoman; 'but it is not necessary for you to write. Iwill telephone to the War Office, and if the Count is there I willexplain everything. '

Angela looked at her doubtfully. 

'But then the servant who telephones will know, ' she objected. 

'The servant? Why? I do not understand. I shall speak myself. No onewill be there to hear. '

'Yourself? My father never could, and I never was shown how to do it. Are you sure you understand the thing? It is very complicated, Ibelieve. '

Madame Bernard was not surprised, for she knew the ways of the PalazzoChiaromonte; but she smiled and assured the young girl that atelephone was not really such a dangerous instrument as she had beenled to believe. 

'I once tried to make a few stitches with a sewing-machine, ' Angelasaid, apparently in explanation. 

'A telephone is different, ' Madame Bernard answered gravely. 'Shall Iask the Count to come to-morrow at four o'clock, instead of to-day?'

Angela hesitated, and then blushed faintly. 

'Do you think----' she began, but she stopped and hesitated. 'He wouldbe angry, I am sure----' She seemed to be suddenly distressed. 

'Your father?' asked the Frenchwoman, guessing what she meant. 'Mydear Princess----'

'Oh, please don't call me that!' cried Angela. 'You never do----'

'You see, you are a great personage now, my dear child, ' MadameBernard answered, 'and I am no longer your governess----'

'But you are my friend, dear, dear Madame Bernard! Indeed, I think youare my only friend now!'

And thereupon Angela threw her arms round the little woman's neck andkissed her very affectionately. Madame Bernard's fresh face beamedwith pleasure. 

'Thank you, my dear, ' she answered. 'And as for your father, my child, he is without doubt in heaven; and that means that he now judges youby your intentions and no longer by appearances only. '

This sage little speech reassured Angela, though she soon afterwardsasked herself whether it was quite loyal to allow any one to say thatthe Prince had ever judged her 'by appearances only. ' But while she wasmaking this reflection Madame Bernard was already telephoning toGiovanni, who was at the War Office, as Angela supposed, and he answeredwith alacrity that he would come to the palace on the followingafternoon and ask to see Madame Bernard on a matter of business. It wasreally her business to teach French, as all the servants knew, and ifthey thought that the young officer came to ask about some lessons forhimself or a friend, so much the better. Madame Bernard was naturallypractical, and Giovanni was by nature quick-witted; so the matter wassettled in a few words, to the satisfaction of both; and when Angela wasmerely told that he was coming she was much more pleased than she waswilling to show, and she said no more about her father's hypotheticaldisapproval. 

That afternoon she received the Marchesa del Prato and the lawyerdownstairs in the second of the outer drawing-rooms. It was cold there, but she had not quite dared to order a fire to be made, because thePrince had never allowed fires except in the inner rooms, which werestill closed under the notarial seals. The place had a certain grandeurof its own, for the massive decorations, the heavy furniture, and therich brocade curtains all dated from the best period of Louis theFourteenth's reign. On the walls there were four or five first-ratepictures, the largest of which was a magnificent portrait of a formerChiaromonte by Vandyke; there was a Holy Family by Guercino, another byBonifacio, a Magdalen with the box of ointment, by Andrea del Sarto, andone or two smaller paintings of no inconsiderable value. 

But at that hour the light was bad, for the afternoon had turned coldand rainy after a beautiful morning, and at four o'clock it was stilltoo early to have lamps. A few moments after the hour, a servantopened the door, held the curtains aside, and announced the visitor. 

'Her Excellency, the Princess Chiaromonte!'

Angela started slightly at the name. The last Princess Chiaromonte whohad passed through that doorway had been her mother, and in hersolitude the girl had not even been told that her uncle had alreadyassumed the title of the head of the house. The lacquey paid noattention whatever to the quiet man in black who followed thePrincess, holding his hat against his chest with both hands andadvancing with a bowing motion at every step, as if he were salutingthe family chairs as he passed them. Angela vaguely remembered hissolemnly obsequious face. 

Her aunt seemed to have grown taller and larger, as she bent toimprint a formal kiss on the girl's cheek, and then sat down in one ofthe huge old easy-chairs, while the lawyer seated himself at arespectful distance on an ottoman stool with his high hat on hisknees. Angela took her place at one end of the stiff sofa that stooddirectly under the Vandyke portrait, and she waited for her aunt tospeak. 

The Princess had evidently prepared herself, for she spoke clearly anddid not pause for some time. 

'Your uncle has a slight attack of influenza, ' she said; 'otherwise hewould have come with me, and I should have been more than glad if hehimself could have explained the whole situation to you instead ofleaving that painful duty to me. You are well aware, my dear Angela, that your father always clung to the most prejudiced traditions of theintransigent clericals, and could never be induced to conform to anyof the new regulations introduced by the Italian Government. In pointof fact, I do not think he quite realised that the old order hadpassed away when he was a mere boy, and that the new was to bepermanent, if not everlasting. If he had, he would have acted verydifferently, I am sure, and my present duty would have been mucheasier than it is. Are you quite certain that you understand that?'

Angela was quite certain that she did, and nodded quietly, though shecould not see how her father's political convictions could affect herown present situation. 

'I have no doubt, ' continued the Princess, 'that he brought you up toconsider yourself the heiress of all his fortune, though not of thetitle, which naturally goes to the eldest male heir. Am I right?'

'He never told me anything about my inheritance, ' Angela replied. 

'So much the better. It will be easier for me to explain your ratherunusual position. In the first place, I must make it clear to you thatyour father and mother declined to go before the mayor at the Capitolwhen they were married, in spite of the regulations which had thenbeen in force a number of years. They were devout Catholics and theblessing of the Church was enough for them. According to your father, to go through any form of civil ceremony, before or after the wedding, was equivalent to doubting the validity of the sacrament of marriage. '

'Naturally, ' Angela assented, as her aunt paused and looked at her. 

'Very naturally. ' The Princess's eyes began to glitter oddly, and thelawyer turned his hat uneasily on his knees. 'Very naturally, indeed!Unfortunately for you, however, your father was not merely overlookinga municipal regulation, as he supposed; he was deliberately biddingdefiance to the laws of Italy. '

'What do you mean?' asked Angela rather nervously. 

'It is very painful to explain, ' answered the elder woman withgleaming eyes and a disagreeable smile. 'The simple truth is that asyour father and mother were not civilly married--civilly, youunderstand--they were not legally married at all, and the law willnever admit that they were!'

Angela's hand tightened on the arm of the old sofa. 

'Not married?' she cried. 'My father and mother not married? It isimpossible, it is monstrous----'

'Not "legally" married, I said, ' replied the Princess. 'To be legallymarried, it is absolutely necessary to go before the mayor at theCapitol and have the civil ceremony properly performed. Am I right?'she asked, turning suddenly to the lawyer. 'It is absolutelynecessary, is it not?'

'Absolutely, Excellency, ' the legal adviser answered. 'Otherwise thechildren of the marriage are not legitimate. '

'What does that mean?' asked Angela in a frightened tone. 

'It means, ' explained the Princess, 'that in the eyes of the law youdo not exist----'

Angela tried to laugh. 

'But I do exist! Here I am, Angela Chiaromonte, to say that I amalive!'

'Angela, but not Chiaromonte, ' corrected the Princess, hardly able tohide her satisfaction. 'I am sorry to say that your dear father wouldnot even submit to the regulation which requires all parents alike todeclare the birth of children, and he paid a heavy fine for hisrefusal. The consequence is that when your birth was entered at theMunicipality, you were put down as a foundling child whose parentsrefused to declare themselves. '

'A foundling! I, a foundling!' Angela half rose in amazed indignation, but almost instantly sat down again, with an incredulous smile. 'Either you are quite mad, ' she said, 'or you are trying to frightenme for some reason I do not understand. '

The Princess raised her sandy eyebrows and looked at the lawyer, evidently meaning him to speak for her. 

'That is your position, Signorina, ' he said calmly. 'You have, unhappily, no legal status, no legal name, and no claim whatever on theestate of His Excellency Prince Chiaromonte, who was not married to yourmother in the eyes of the law, and refused even to acknowledge you ashis child by registering your birth at the mayoralty. Every inquiry hasbeen made on your behalf, and I have here the certified copy of theregister as it stands, declaring you to be a foundling. It was still inyour father's power to make a will in your favour, Signorina, and as thelaws of entail no longer exist, His Excellency may have left you hiswhole estate, real and personal, though his titles and dignities will inany case pass to his brother. I must warn you, however, that such a willmight not prove valid in law, since His Excellency did not even legallyacknowledge you as his child. So far, no trace of a will has been foundwith his late Excellency's notary, nor with his lawyer, nor depositedwith his securities at his banker's. It is barely possible that somepaper may exist in the rooms which are still closed, but I think it myduty to tell you that I do not expect to find anything of the kind whenwe break the seals to-morrow, in the presence of the heirs andwitnesses. '

He ceased speaking and looked at the Princess as if asking whether heshould say more, for Angela had bent her head and quietly covered hereyes with one hand, and in this attitude she sat quite motionless inher place. The lawyer thought she was going to burst into tears, forhe did not know her. 

'That will do, Calvi, ' said the Princess calmly. 'You have made it allvery clear, and you may retire for the present. The young lady isnaturally overcome by the bad news, and would rather be alone with mefor a little while, I daresay. '

Signor Calvi rose, made a profound obeisance to the Princess, scarcelybent his head to Angela, and retired, apparently bowing to the familychairs as he passed each. The young girl dropped her hand and lookedafter him with a sort of dull curiosity; she was the last person inthe world to take offence or to suppose that any one meant to be rudeto her, but it was impossible not to notice the lawyer's behaviour. Inhis opinion she was suddenly nobody, and deserved no more notice thana shop-girl. She understood enough of human nature to be sure that hecounted on the Princess's approval. 

The elder woman was watching her with a satisfaction she hardly triedto conceal. Her small hands were encased in marvellously fitting blackgloves, though black gloves rarely fit so well as others, and werecrossed on her knee over the little leather bag she always carried. She was leaning back in the great arm-chair, and the mourning she woremade her faultless complexion look even more brilliant than it was. Noone knew how near forty the Princess might be, for she appeared in the_Almanach de Gotha_ without a birthday, and only the date of hermarriage was given; but the year was 1884, and people said it wasimpossible that she should have been less than seventeen when herparents had brought her to Rome and had tried to marry her to theelder of the Chiaromonte family; as twenty years had passed since theyhad succeeded in capturing the second son for their daughter, it wasclear that she could not be under thirty-seven. But her complexion wasextraordinary, and though she was a tall woman she had preserved thefigure and grace of a young girl. 

Angela did not look directly at her enemy for some seconds after thelawyer had left the room, closing the door behind him, not loudly butquite audibly; but she was the first to speak when she was sure thathe was out of hearing. 

'You hate me, ' she said at last. 'What have I done to you?'

The Princess was not timid, nor very easily surprised, but thequestion was so direct that she drew further back into her chair witha quick movement, and her bright eye sparkled angrily as she raisedher sandy eyebrows. 

'In this world, ' she said, 'the truth is always surprising andgenerally unpleasant. In consideration of what I have been obliged totell you about yourself, I can easily excuse your foolish speech. '

'You are very kind, ' Angela answered quietly enough, but in a tonethat the Princess did not like. 'I was not asking your indulgence, butan explanation, no matter how disagreeable the rest of the truth maybe. What have I done that you should hate me?'

The Princess laughed contemptuously. 

'The expression is too strong, ' she retorted. 'Hatred would imply aninterest in you and your possible doings, which I am far from feeling, I assure you! Since it turns out that you are not even one of thefamily----'

She laughed again and raised her eyebrows still higher, instead ofending the speech. 

'From what you say, ' Angela answered with a good deal of dignity, 'Ican only understand that if you followed your own inclination youwould turn me out into the street. '

'The law will do so without my intervention, ' answered the elderwoman. 'If my brother-in-law had even taken the trouble to acknowledgeyou as his child, without legitimising you, you would have beenentitled to a small allowance, perhaps two or three hundred francs amonth, to keep you from starving. But as he has left no legal proofthat you are his daughter, and since he was not properly married toyour mother, you can claim nothing, not even a name! You are, in fact, a destitute foundling, as Calvi just said!'

'It only remains for you to offer me your charity, ' Angela said. 

'That was not my intention, ' returned the Princess with a savagesneer. 'I have talked it over with my husband, and we do not see whyhe should be expected to support his brother's--natural child!'

Angela rose from her seat without a word and went quietly towards thedoor; but before she could reach it the Princess had followed her witha rush and a dramatic sweep of her black cloth skirt and plentifulcrape, and had caught her by the wrist to bring her back to the middleof the great room. 

'I shall not keep you long!' cried the angry woman. 'You ask me whatyou have done that I should hate you, and I answer, nothing, since youare nobody! But I hated your mother, because she robbed me of the manI wanted, of the only man I ever loved--your father--and when I marriedhis brother I swore that she should pay me for that, and she has! Ifshe can see you as you are to-day, all heaven cannot dry her tears, for all heaven itself cannot give you a name, since the one on her owntombstone is not hers by any right. I hope she sees you! Oh, I hope itwas not for nothing that she fasted till she fainted, and prayed tillshe was hoarse, and knelt in damp churches till she died of it! I hopeshe has starved and whined her way to paradise and is looking down atthis very moment and can see her daughter turned out of my house, apauper foundling, to beg her bread! I hope you are in a state ofgrace, as she is, and that the communion of saints brings you nearenough together for her to see you!'

'You are mad, ' Angela said when the Princess paused for breath. 'Youdo not know what you are saying. Let go of my wrist and try to getback to your senses!'

Whether the Princess was really out of her mind, as seemed at leastpossible, or was only in one of her frequent fits of rage, the wordshad an instantaneous effect. She dropped Angela's wrist, drew herselfup, and recovered her self-control in a few seconds. But there wasstill a dangerous glare in her cat-like eyes as she turned towards thewindow and faced the dull yellowish light of the late afternoon. 

'You will soon find out that I have not exaggerated, ' she said, droppingfrom her late tone of fury to a note of icy coldness. 'The seals will beremoved to-morrow at noon, and I suppose no one can prevent you frombeing present if you choose. After that you will make such arrangementsfor your own future as you see fit. I should recommend you to apply toone of the two convents on which my brother-in-law lavished nearly threemillions of francs during his life. One or the other of them willcertainly take you in without a dowry, and you will have at least adecent roof over your head. '

With this practical advice the Princess Chiaromonte swept from theroom and Angela was left alone to ask herself whether such a suddencalamity as hers had ever before overtaken an innocent girl in herRoman world. She went back very slowly to the sofa and sat down againunder the great Vandyke portrait; her eyes wandered from one object toanother, as if she wished to make an inventory of the things that hadseemed to be hers because they had been her father's, but she was fartoo completely dazed by what had happened to think very connectedly. Besides, though she did not dare let the thought give her courage, shestill had a secret conviction that it was all a mistake and that herfather must have left some document which would be found among hispapers the next day, and would clear away all this dreadfulmisunderstanding. 

As for the rest of her aunt's story, no one had ever hinted at such athing in her hearing, but Madame Bernard would know the truth. Therewas little indeed which the excellent Frenchwoman did not know aboutthe old Roman families, after having lived among them and taught theirchildren French for nearly a quarter of a century. She was verydiscreet and might not wish to say much, but she certainly knew thetruth in this case. 

It was not till she was upstairs in her own room, and was trying torepeat to her old governess just what had been said, that Angela beganto realise what it meant. Madame Bernard was by turns horrified, righteously angry, and moved to profound pity; at first she could notbelieve her ears, but when she did she invoked the divine wrath on theinhuman monster who had the presumption to call herself a woman, amother, and an aunt; finally, she folded Angela in a motherly embraceand burst into tears, promising to protect her at the risk of her ownlife--a promise she would really have kept if the girl had been inbodily danger. 

In her secret heart the little Frenchwoman was also making somereflections on the folly and obstinacy of the late Prince, but out ofsheer kindness and tact she kept them to herself for the present. Meanwhile she said she would go and consult one of the great legallights, to whose daughters she had lately given lessons and who hadalways been very kind to her. It was nonsense, she said, to believethat the Prince's brother could turn Angela out of her home withoutmaking provision for her, such a liberal provision as would beconsidered a handsome dowry--four hundred thousand francs would be thevery least. The Commendatore was a judge in the Court of Appeals andknew everything. He would not even need to consult his books! Hisbrain was an encyclopędia of the law! She would go to him at once. 

But Angela shook her head as she sat looking at the small wood fire inthe old-fashioned red-brick fireplace. Now that she had told her storyshe saw how very sure the Princess and the lawyer must have been tospeak as they had both spoken. 

But Madame Bernard put on her hat and went out to see the judge, whowas generally at home late in the afternoon; and Angela sat alone inthe dusk for a while, poking her little fire with a pair of very rustywrought-iron tongs, at least three hundred years old, which would havedelighted a collector but which were so heavy and clumsy that theyhurt her hands. 

Her aunt's piece of advice came back to her; she had better ask to betaken in at one of the convents which her father had enriched andwhere she would be received without a dowry. She knew them both, andboth were communities of cloistered nuns; the one was established in agloomy medięval fortress in the heart of the city, built round alittle garden that looked as unhealthy as the old Prioress's ownmuddy-complexioned face and stubbly chin; the other was shut up in ahideous modern building that had no garden at all. She felt nothingbut a repugnance that approached horror when she thought of either, though she tried to reprove herself for it because her father hadgiven so much money to the sisters, and had always spoken of them toher as 'holy women. ' No doubt they were; doubtless, too, Saint Anthonyof Thebes had been a holy man, though it would have been unpleasant toshare his cell, or even his meals. Angela felt that if she was to liveon bread, water, and salad, she might as well have liberty with herdinner of herbs. It was heartless to think of marrying, no doubt, whenher father had not yet been dead a week, but since she was forced totake the future into consideration, she felt sure that Giovanni wouldmarry her without a penny, and that she should be perfectly happy withhim. She could well afford to laugh at the Princess's advice so longas Giovanni was alive. He was coming to see her to-morrow, she wouldtell him everything, and when the year of her mourning expired theywould be married. 

The question was, what she was to do in the meantime, since it wasquite clear that she must soon leave the home in which she had beenbrought up. Like all people who have never been face to face withwant, or any state of life even distinctly resembling poverty, she hada vague idea that something would be provided for her. It was not tillshe tried to define what that something was to be that she felt alittle sinking at her heart; but the cheering belief soon returned, that the whole affair was a mistake, unless it was a pure invention ofher aunt's, meant to frighten her into abandoning her rights. In alittle while Madame Bernard would come back, beaming withsatisfaction, with a message from the learned judge to say that suchinjustice and robbery were not possible under modern enlightened laws;and Angela smiled to think that she could have been so badlyfrightened by a mad woman and an obsequious old lawyer. 

Decidedly, in spite of her gift for remembering prayers and litanies, the mere thought of a cloistered life repelled her. Like most veryreligiously brought up girls she had more than once fancied that shewas going to have a 'vocation' for the veil; but a sensible confessorhad put that out of her head, discerning at once in her mental statethose touches of maiden melancholy which change the look of the younglife for a day or a week, as the shadow of a passing cloud saddens asunlit landscape. It was characteristic of Angela that the possibilityof becoming a nun as a refuge from present and future trouble did notpresent itself to her seriously, now that trouble was really imminent. She was too buoyant by nature, her disposition was too even andsensible, and above all, she was too courageous to think of yieldingtamely to the fate her aunt wished to impose upon her. 

It might have been expected that she should at least break down for alittle while that afternoon and have a good cry in her solitude, whileMadame Bernard was on her errand to the judge; but she did not, thoughthere was a moment when she felt that tears were not far off. By wayof keeping them back she went into her bedroom, lit a candle and kneltdown to recite the prayers she had selected to say daily for herfather. They were many, some of them were beautiful, and more thanhalf of them were centuries old. Her conviction that the very just manwas certainly in heaven already did not make it seem wholly useless topray for him. No one could be quite sure of what happened in paradise, and in any case, if he was in no need of such intercession himself, she was allowed to hope that grace might overflow and avail to helpsome poor soul in purgatory, by means of the divine indulgence. 

Madame Bernard came back at last, but there was consternation in herkindly face, for the great legal light had confirmed every word thePrincess and her lawyer had said to Angela, and had shrugged hisshoulders at the suggestion that a will might still be found. He hadtold the governess plainly that a man married to a woman only by areligious ceremony was not legally her husband, and that his childrenhad neither name nor rights unless he went through the legal form ofrecognising them before the proper authorities. If the parents diedwithout making a will, the children had no claim whatever on theestate unless they had been properly recognised. If there was a will, however, they might inherit, even if they had not been legitimised, provided that no lawful heirs of the testators were living, ascendantsor descendants. The Commendatore had expressed great surprise that thelate Prince should not have been warned of his daughter's irregularposition by his legal advisers. It only showed, he said, how necessarythe law was, since people who disregarded it got into such terribletrouble. 

The French teacher instinctively felt that there was something wrongwith the final syllogism, but it was only too clear that theCommendatore knew his business, and that unless a legally executedwill were found on the morrow Angela had not the smallest chance ofgetting a penny from the great estate her father had left. 

'If they are so inhuman as to turn you out of your home withoutproviding for you, ' Madame Bernard said, with tears in her eyes, 'I donot see what you are to do, my dear child. I am ashamed to offer youthe little spare room I sometimes let to single foreign ladies--andyet--if you would take it--ah, you would be so welcome! It is not a badexposure--it has the sun on it all day, though there is only onewindow. The carpet is getting a little threadbare, but the curtainsare new and match the furniture--a pretty flowered chintz, you know. And I will make little dishes for you, since you have no appetite! A"navarin, " my dear, I make it well, and a real "fricassée"! WeFrenchwomen can all cook! The "navarin" was my poor husband'spredilection--when he had eaten one made by me, he used to say that thefleshpots of Egypt were certainly the "navarin" and nothing else. Butwhen I am alone it is not worth while to take so much trouble. An egg, five sous' worth of ham and brawn, and a roll--that suffices me when Iam alone! But if you will accept the little room--ah, then I will puton an apron and go into the kitchen, and you shall taste the Frenchcookery of a Frenchwoman!'

Angela was not listening to all this, for she was too much touched bythe generous intention to hear half of what Madame Bernard said, andshe could only press the little governess's hand again while she triedto edge in a word of thanks between the quick sentences. 

'And as for the rest, ' Madame Bernard ran on, 'I have chaperoned halfthe young girls in Roman society to concerts and to the dentist's, andI have a nice little sitting-room, and there is no reason in the worldwhy Count Severi should not come to see us, until you can be married!'

This, at least, did not escape Angela, who squeezed the small plumphand very hard, and at last succeeded in speaking herself. 

'You are too good!' she cried. 'Too kind! If it turns out to be true, if I am really to be a beggar, I would rather beg of you than ofdistant cousins and people I know! Besides, they are all so afraid ofmy aunt's tongue that not one of them would dare to take me in, evenfor a week! But I will not come unless you will let me work to helpyou, in some way--I do not know how--is there nothing I know well enoughto teach?'

'Oh, la, la!' cried Madame Bernard. 'Will you please not say suchthings, my dear! As if it were not the greatest happiness in the worldyou will be giving me, a lonely old woman, to come and live with me, and help me take care of the parrot and water the flowers in thewindow every evening at sunset, and learn how to make a "navarin!"Work? Oh yes! You shall work, my dear child! If you think it is easyto please a parrot, try it! I only say that!'

'I will do my best, ' Angela said, smiling. 'To-morrow, at this hour, we shall know what is to happen. '

'What has happened, has happened, ' said Madame Bernard, as calmly asany Hindu, though she was not a fatalist. 'Even if there is a papersomewhere, do you think the Marchesa will not be the first to find itand tear it to a thousand bits? No, I will not call her "PrincessChiaromonte"! I, who knew your mother, my dear! Trust me, if there isa will in the sealed rooms, the Marchesa will discover it before anyone!'

Angela thought that this might be true, for she had a most vividrecollection of her aunt's look and voice during the late interview. The more she thought of the immediate future, the clearer it became toher that she must accept her old governess's offer of shelter for thepresent. She could not bring herself to beg a lodging and the barenecessaries of life from any of those people whom she had called herfriends. There were at least half-a-dozen girls with whom she had beenintimate at the Sacred Heart, and during the past winter, and some ofthem were connections of her father's and would be profoundly shockedto learn what her position now was. No doubt their parents would takeher in for a few days, and would very possibly do more than that, andformally protest to her aunt and uncle against the treatment she hadreceived. But could she stay with any of them longer than a week onsuch a footing? Would she be anything better than a waif, not knowingwhere she should sleep or get a meal a few days hence? No; her onlychoice lay between accepting Madame Bernard's offer, and presentingherself as a candidate for charity at one of the two convents herfather had protected. Afterwards, a year hence or more, when sheshould be married to Giovanni Severi, she would find some means ofamply repaying the generous woman, without hurting her feelings. Untilthen, she must accept the kindness and be thankful that it came fromsuch a true friend. 

She had no intention of showing herself downstairs the next day, whenthe seals were to be removed and the papers examined. If she hadcherished any illusion as to the existence of a document in herfavour, Madame Bernard's last speech had effectually destroyed it, which was the best thing that could have happened. At least, she wassure of Giovanni, and a year must pass in a year's time! That wasaxiomatic, and when the twelve months were over she would be marriedquietly. She would not bring him a handsome dowry as she had fullyexpected to do, and though his father was well-off, there were otherchildren, so that she could not expect to be rich; but what differencecould that make to two young people who loved each other? Evidently, none at all. 

It rained all the morning and Angela spent most of the time in a sortof apathy, so far as her companion could see, sitting still for anhour with a book she did not read, then moving about to rooms in anobjectless way only to go back to her chair in a few minutes and tosit motionless again before the smouldering wood fire. 

Madame Bernard, on the contrary, was very busy in making preparationsto take her away if a sudden move should be necessary. Though theservants were evidently informed of what was taking place, shesucceeded in getting a couple of trunks and a valise brought up, andshe began to pack them with clothing from Angela's wardrobe, takingonly such things as would be useful in the quiet life of mourning thegirl was to lead for a year. The maid had disappeared, presumably tolook for a place, and when it was time for luncheon it was not withoutdifficulty that Madame Bernard got a footman to bring something coldon a tray. It was quite clear by this time that the whole householdknew the truth and expected Angela to leave the palace that day, andthe little woman paused more than once in her packing to shake herfist at the slim visions of the Princess Chiaromonte that crossed thefield of her imagination. 

Downstairs matters proceeded as she had foreseen. The Princess, twolawyers, a notary, and several clerks had removed the seals and lockedthemselves in the inner apartment to examine the papers and suchvaluables as were there; but it is needless to say that they foundnothing in the nature of a will, nor any document even expressing awish on the part of the deceased. The notary observed that it was verystrange, but one of the lawyers shrugged his shoulders and smiled, while the other asked why, in the nature of things, a man so young andhealthy as the late Prince should have been expected to make carefulpreparations against his sudden demise when he might well expect tolive thirty years longer. The Princess said nothing, and her husbanddid not appear; indeed, he never did, and on all occasions ofimportance, like the present, the Princess was provided with a powerof attorney to represent him, speak for him, decide for him, and signdocuments for him. There were many stories about him in society, noneof which contained more than the merest particle of truth. Some peoplesaid he was mad, others maintained that he was paralysed; there werethose who confidently asserted that his face was disfigured by anunsightly claret mark, and it was even suggested that he was a leper. When any of these tales were repeated to his wife by dear friends, sheanswered that he was very well and had just gone to the Abruzzi tolook after one of the large holdings of the estate, or that he was inHungary, shooting with distant cousins who had lands there, or that, if the truth must be known, he had a touch of the influenza and wouldprobably run down to Sicily for a change, as soon as he was able totravel. Angela herself had not seen him since she had been a merechild. She remembered that once, when she was at her aunt's, a tall, pale man with a thoughtful face had passed through the room quicklywithout paying the least attention to any one; she had asked her smallcousins who he was, and had been told in an awe-struck whisper that itwas their father. That was probably the only time she had ever laideyes on him; and somehow she did not connect him with what washappening to her now. It was all her aunt's doing; the thin andthoughtful man had not looked as if he were heartless, he would nothave allowed his brother's child to be turned out a beggar, under theletter of the law. 

Yet the Princess's most ultimate and affectionate enemies had notsucceeded in fathoming the mystery. Two of them, who were connectionsof her husband's, had once had a theory that she had locked him up andkept him a prisoner for her own ends; a similar case had then recentlyoccurred in Palermo, where a widowed lady and her daughter had beenkept in confinement during several years, and almost starved to death, by the wicked steward of their estates. Accordingly, the aforesaidconnections had appealed to the chief of secret police for informationabout their relative; but in a few days he had been able to tell themconfidently that the Marchese del Prato was in good health and quitefree, that he was an enthusiastic scholar, and was writing anexhaustive work on the mythology of Pindar's _Odes_, and that therewas no cause for any anxiety about him. So that matter was settled forever. 

At half-past three o'clock the Princess went away, leaving the lawyersand clerks to finish their work, for she was more than satisfied thatno will nor any similar document would be found amongst the latePrince's papers, and everything else was mere formality; the regularinventories would be made later when the succession duties had to bepaid, but meanwhile there was nothing to hinder her from takingpossession in her husband's name. Before leaving the palace she sentfor the butler, and told him that 'Signorina Angela' was to berequested to 'remove her effects' the next day. She furthercondescended to inform him that the 'Signorina' had been ascertainedto be a nameless foundling who had no share in the inheritance andmust shift for herself, as it was not the intention of the Prince tosupport such a person. The butler had learned something of the greatRoman families during a brilliant career in the servants' hall, and hecould have told some singularly romantic tales, but he had never hadexperience of anything like this. He tried to look at the Princess fora moment before he answered her, but he could not face her glitteringeyes. 

'Very well, Excellency, ' he said, bowing. 'Is the young lady to haveher meals here till she leaves? The French governess is also stayingin the house. '

'Send them up something from the servants' dinner, ' the Princessanswered. 

'Very well, Excellency. '

But the butler looked after her with considerable curiosity, watchingher graceful figure as she went down the grand staircase and holdingthe swinging door open on the landing till she was out of sight. Thenhe went in again, looked round the empty hall, and spoke aloud, askinga question that has never had any answer. 

'Women, women--who can understand you?'

CHAPTER IV

Half-an-hour later Giovanni Severi entered the gate below incivilian's dress and asked if he could see Madame Bernard, the Frenchteacher, who had let him know that she was stopping in the palace. Theporter told him to ring at the right-hand door on the second landing, but added that it was doubtful whether any one would let him in, asthere was 'confusion in the house. '

Madame Bernard was waiting for him, however; he had arrived punctuallyand she let him in herself. 

'Have you heard, Monsieur?' she asked, before he could speak. 'Do youknow what is happening?'

'Yes, ' he answered. 'All Rome knows it by this time, for the story wasin the morning papers. May I see Donna Angela?'

'Come, Monsieur. '

She had fastened the outer door while he was speaking, and she now ledthe way without any more words. 

Angela knew Giovanni's step at a distance, and when he entered she wasstanding in the middle of the room. He had never before seen her inblack, and she was paler than usual; he looked anxiously into her faceas he took her hand, and she, meeting his eyes expectantly, saw achange in them. Neither Angela nor Severi spoke at first, and in thesilence Madame Bernard passed them and went into the next room, shutting the door after her. 

'Have you heard?' Angela asked, still standing and still holdingGiovanni's hand. 

'Yes. It is in all the papers to-day. There is an outcry. If your auntshows herself in the streets she will be hissed. But she has the lawon her side. I have been to two lawyers to inquire. '

He spoke in short sentences, nervously, and when he stopped he bit hismoustache. 

'There is something else, ' Angela answered. 'I see it in your eyes. There is something I do not know, some still worse news. Sit downthere by the fire opposite me and tell me everything, for I am notafraid. Nothing can frighten me now. '

She seated herself where she had sat more than half the day, and hetook the chair to which she had pointed. She poked the small greenlogs with the antiquated tongs and watched the sparks that flewupwards with every touch while she waited for him to speak. But helooked at her in silence, forgetting everything for a while exceptthat he was really alone with her, almost for the first time in hislife. He changed his position and bent forward with his elbows on hisknees and his hands together, so that he was nearer to her. Withoutturning her face from the fire she saw him in a side-glance, but madeno answering motion. 

'Tell me what it is, ' she said softly. 'Only one thing could hurt menow. '

'It is hard to tell, ' he answered in rather a dull voice. 

She misunderstood, and turned to him slowly with wondering andfrightened eyes. Her hand weakened, without quite losing its hold, andthe ends of the clumsy tongs clattered on the brick hearth. The doubtthat had sprung upon her like a living thing as soon as she saw him, began to dig its claws into her heart. 

'If it is so hard to tell, ' she said, 'it must be that one thing. ' Sheturned resolutely to the fire again. 'If it is to be good-bye, pleasego away quietly and leave me alone. '

The words were not all spoken before he had caught her arm, sosuddenly that the old tongs fell on the bricks with a clang. Like him, she had been leaning forward in her low chair, and as he drew her tohim she involuntarily slipped from her seat and found herself kneelingon one knee beside him. She gave a little cry, more of surprise thanof displeasure or timidity, but he did not heed her. It was the firsttime they had ever been left alone together, and while he still heldher with his right hand his left stole round her neck, to bring herface nearer. 

But she resisted him almost fiercely; she set both her hands againsthis chest and pushed herself from him with all her might, and the redblush rose even to her forehead at the thought of the kiss she almostsaw on his lips, a kiss that hers had never felt. He meant nothingagainst her will, and when he felt that she was matching her girl'sstrength against his, as if she feared him, his arms relaxed and helet her go. She sprang to her feet like a young animal released, andleaned against the mantelpiece breathing hard, and fixing her burningeyes on the old engraving of Saint Ursula, asleep in a queer four-postbedstead with her crown at her feet, that hung over the fireplace. Butinstead of rising to stand beside her, Giovanni leaned back in hischair, his hands crossed over one knee; and instead of looking up toher face, he gazed steadily down at the hem of her long black skirt, where it lay motionless across the wolf's skin that served for ahearth-rug. 

'What is it?' she asked, after a long pause, and rather unsteadily. 

He understood that she was going back to the question she had askedhim at first, but still he did not answer. She kept her eyes steadilyon Saint Ursula while she spoke again. 

'If it is not good-bye, what is it that is so hard to say?'

'I have had a long talk with my father. '

Angela moved a little and looked down at his bent head, for he spokein an almost despairing tone. She thought she understood him at last. 

'He will not hear of our marriage, now that I am a beggar, ' she said, prompting him. 

But Giovanni raised his face at once, and rather proudly. 

'You are unjust to him, ' he said. 'He is not changed. It is a verydifferent matter. He has had a great misfortune, and has lost almostall he had, without much hope of recovering anything. We were verywell off, and I should have had a right to marry you, though you hadnot a penny, if this had not happened. As it is, my father is leftwith nothing but his General's pension to support my mother. Mybrothers will both need help for years to come, for they are muchyounger than I am, and I must live on my pay if I mean to stay in theservice. '

'Is that all?' Angela's voice trembled a little. 

'Yes, my pay, and nothing more----'

'I did not mean that, ' she hastened to say, interrupting him, andthere was a note of returning gladness in her voice. 'I meant to askif that was all the bad news. '

'It is enough, surely, since it half ruins our lives! What right haveI to ask you to keep your promise and marry me, since I have notenough for us to live on?'

Angela turned quite towards him now and repeated his own words. 

'And what right have I to ask you to keep your promise and marry me?When you gave your word, you thought I had a great name and was heirto a splendid fortune. You were deceived. I am a "destitutefoundling"--the lawyers have proved it, and the proof of their proofsis that I am obliged to accept the charity of my old governess, Godbless her! If ever a man had a right to take back his word, you have. Take it, if you will. You are free!'

Giovanni stood up beside her, almost angry. 

'Do you think I wanted your fortune?' he asked, a little pale underhis tan. 

'Do you think I am afraid of poverty?'

Her lips were still parted in a smile after she had asked thequestion, and with the gesture of an older woman she tapped his armhalf reproachfully. The colour came back to his brown face. 

'I fear poverty for you, ' he answered, 'and I am going to fight it foryour sake if you have the courage to wait for me. Have you?'

'I will wait for ever, ' she said simply as she laid her hand in his. 

'Then I shall leave the army at once, ' he replied. 'So far, I havemade what is called a good career, but promotion is slow and the payis wretched until a man is very high up. An artillery officer is anengineer, you know, and a military engineer can always find well-paidwork, especially if he is an electrician, as I am. In two years Ipromise you that we shall be able to marry and be at leastcomfortable, and there is no reason why I should not make a fortunequite equal to what my father has lost. '

He spoke with the perfect confidence of a gifted and sanguine man, sure of his own powers, and his words pleased her. Perhaps what hadattracted her most in him from the beginning had been his enthusiasmand healthy faith in the world, which had contrasted brilliantly withher father's pessimism and bigoted political necrolatry, if I may coina word from the Greek to express an old-fashioned Roman's blindworship of the dead past. 

Angela was pleased, as any woman would have been, but she protestedagainst what she knew to be a sacrifice. 

'No, ' she said decidedly, 'you must not give up the army and yourcareer for the sake of making money, even for me. Do no officers marryon their pay? I am sure that many do, and manage very well indeed. Youtold me not long ago that you were expecting promotion from day today; and in any case I could not marry you within a year, at theleast. '

'If I do not begin working at once, that will be just a year lost, 'objected Giovanni. 

'A year! Will that make much difference?'

'Why not ten, then? As if a year would not be a century long, while Iam waiting for you--as if it were not already half a lifetime sincelast month, when we told each other the truth! Wait? Yes, if I must;for ever, as you said awhile ago, if there is no other way. But if itcan be helped, then not an hour, not a minute! Why should we lethappiness pass us by and not take it when we may and can? There is notenough in the world, as it is; and you cannot even pretend that youare generous if you do not take your share, since what fate means foryou is useless for any one else! No, dear, no! We will take the fruitthere is on the tree, and leave none to rot on the branch after we aregone. Promise to marry me a year from to-day, and leave the rest tome--will you?'

'Yes--but promise me one thing, too. Do not resign to-morrow, nor nextweek, as I know you mean to do. Take a month to think it over, and tolook about you. You are so impulsive--well, so generous--that you arecapable of sending in your resignation to-morrow. '

'It is already written, ' Giovanni answered. 'I was going to send it into-night. '

'I knew it! But you must not. Please, please, take a little time--itwill be so much wiser. I will wait for you for ever, or I will promiseto marry you a year from to-day, even if we have to live on bread andwater. Indeed I will! But, at least, be a little cautious! It will befar better to marry on your pay--and you will surely get your captaincyin a few months--than to be stranded without even that, in case you donot find the work you hope for. Don't you see? I am sure it is goodadvice. '

Giovanni knew that it was, if caution were ever worth practisingin human affairs; but that has often been doubted by brave andlight-hearted men. Giovanni yielded a little reluctantly. If she hadasked him to make it two months instead of one, he would have refused, for it seemed to him intolerable to lose a moment between decision andaction, and his thoughts doubled their stride with every step, in ageometrical progression; a moment hence, a minute would be an hour, anhour a month, a month a lifetime. Men have won battles in that temper;but it has sometimes cost them their life. 

'I know you are sensible, ' Giovanni said, taking Angela's hand betweenhis, 'but it is to please you that I agree to wait a month. It is notbecause it looks wise, as it does. For one man who succeeds by wisdom, ten win by daring. Who knows what may chance in a month, or what mayhappen to put out of reach what I could do to-day?'

'Nothing!'

Angela gave her answer with the delicious little smile of superioritywhich the youngest woman and even the merest girl can wear, when sheis sure that she is right and that the man she loves is wrong. It maybe only about sewing on a button, or about the weather, or it mayconcern great issues; but it is always the same when it comes: itexasperates weak men, and the stronger sort like it, as they moreespecially delight in all that is womanly in woman, from heroic virtueto pathetic weakness. 

'Nothing can happen in a month to prevent you from resigning then, asyou could to-day, ' Angela said confidently. 

The faint smile disappeared, and she grew thoughtful, not for herself, but for him, and looked at Saint Ursula again. Her hand still lay inhis, on the edge of the mantelpiece, and while she gazed at theengraving she knew that he was looking at her and was moving nearer;she felt that he was going to kiss her, but she did not resist thistime though the colour was rising in her throat, and just under theexquisitely shaped petal of peach-blossom on which his eyes werefixed, and which was really only the tip of her ear, though it was solike the leaf of a flower that the scent of the bloom came to hismemory when his lips touched the spot at last. 

His hand shut closer over hers at the same moment, and hers flutteredunder his fingers like a small soft bird; but there was no resistance. He kissed the tip of her ear, and she turned towards him a little; hiskiss pressed her cool cheek, and she moved again; their eyes met, verynear, and dark, and full of light, and then his lips touched hers atlast. 

Destiny has many disguises and many moods. Sometimes, as on that dayat the telephone, the unexpected leaps up from its hiding-place andstrikes stunning blows, right and left, like Orestes among the steersin Tauris, or a maniac let loose among sane men; but sometimes Fatelurks in her lair, silently poring over the tablets of the future, andshe notes all we say, scrawling 'Folly' against our wisest speeches, and stamping 'So be it' under the carelessly spoken jest. 

She was busy while the young lovers kissed for the first time, by themantelpiece; but no inward warning voice had told Angela that sheherself was sealing the order of her life irrevocably when she gaveGiovanni the best advice she could, and he accepted it to please her, making his instinct obey his judgment for her sake. A man is foolishwho takes an important step without consulting the woman who loves himmost dearly, be she mother, sister, wife, or sweetheart; but he israrely wise if he follows her advice, like a rule, to the letter, forno woman goes from thought to accomplishment by the same road as aman. You cannot make a pointer of a setter, nor teach a bulldog toretrieve. 

If Giovanni had sent in his resignation that evening, or even duringthe next day, as he was ready to do, it would have been accepted inthe ordinary course of things; he would then, without doubt, havefound employment for his talents and energy, either at home or abroad. He would in all probability have succeeded in life, because hepossessed the elements of success; he would have married Angela in duetime, and the two would probably have lived happily for many years, because they were suited to each other in all ways and were possessedof excellent constitutions. If all this had happened, their storywould have little interest except for themselves, or as an example toyoung couples; and it is a deplorable fact that there is hardlyanything so dull and tiresome in the world as a good example. Thehoardings along life's dusty roads are plentifully plastered with goodexamples, in every stage of preservation, from those just fresh fromthe moral bill-poster's roll, redolent of paste, to the good old onesthat are peeling off in tatters, as if in sheer despair because nobodyhas ever stopped to look at them. May the gods of literature keep allgood story-tellers from concocting advertisements of the patentvirtues!

The most important and decisive moment in Angela's life, from itsbeginning to its end, had passed so quietly that she never suspectedits presence, and almost the very next instant brought her the firstkiss of the only man she had ever loved, or was to love thereafter. 

CHAPTER V

Madame Bernard had not overstated the advantages of the lodging sheoccasionally let to foreign ladies who travelled alone and practisedeconomy, and Angela refused to occupy it till she had satisfiedherself that her old governess's own room was just as large and justas sunny and just as comfortable. 

In the first place, it was much bigger than she had expected, and whenshe had spread out all her possessions and put away her clothes, andhad arranged her pretty toilet set and the few books that were quiteher own, she found that she was not at all cramped for space. Theceiling was not very high, it was true, and there was only one window, but it was a very wide one, and outside it there was a broad ironshelf securely fixed, on which four good-sized flower-pots were setout in the sunshine. It was true that there were no flowers yet, butthe two plants of carnations were full of buds and had been verycarefully tended, a tiny rose-bush promised to bear three or fourblossoms before long, and the pot of basil was beginning to send upcurly green shoots. Opposite the window, and beyond the quiet street, there was a walled garden, in which there were some orange andmandarin trees. 

Between the two bedrooms there was the sitting-room, which was alittle smaller than either, but quite big enough for two women. Indeed, Madame Bernard ate her meals there all winter, because thelittle dining-room at the back of the house was not so cheerful andwas much colder. An enlarged coloured photograph of the long-deceasedCaptain Bernard, in the uniform worn by the French artillery at thetime of the Franco-Prussian War, hung on one of the walls, over anupright piano; it had a black frame, and was decorated with a wreathof everlasting daisies tied with a black bow. Underneath the portraita tiny holy-water basin of old Tyrolese pewter was fastened to thewall. This Madame Bernard filled every year at Easter, when the parishpriest came to bless the rooms, and every year she renewed the wreathon the anniversary of her husband's death; for she was a faithful souland practised such little rites with a sort of cheerful satisfactionthat was not exactly devout, but certainly had a religious source. Captain Bernard had been a dashing fellow and there was no knowingwhat his soul might not need in the place his widow vaguely describedas 'beyond' when she spoke of his presumable state, though in the caseof Angela's father, for instance, it was always 'heaven' or'paradise. ' Apparently Madame Bernard had the impression that herhusband's immortal part was undergoing some very necessary cure beforepartaking of unmixed bliss. 

'Military men have so many temptations, my dear, ' she said to Angela, thinking more of the deceased Captain than of being tactful, --'I mean, 'she said, correcting herself, 'in France. '

Angela was not afraid of temptation for Giovanni; rightly or wrongly, she trusted that her love would be his shield against the wicked worldand her name his prayer in need, and she smiled at Madame Bernard'sspeech. The big old parrot on his perch cocked his head. 

'Especially the cavalry and artillery, ' the good lady went on toexplain. 

'Ą drrroite--conversion!' roared the parrot in a terrific voice ofcommand. 

Angela jumped in her chair, for it was the first time she had heardthe creature speak in that tone; but Madame Bernard laughed, as if itpleased her. 

'It is absolutely my poor husband's tone, ' she said calmly. 'Coco, 'she said, turning to the bellicose bird, 'the Prussians are there!'

'Feu!' yelled the parrot suddenly, dancing with rage on his bar. 'Feu!'cré nom d'un nom d'un p'tit bon Dieu!'

'Every intonation!' laughed the little Frenchwoman gaily. 'Youunderstand why I love my Coco!'

But Angela thought there was something grimly horrible in the comingback of the dead soldier's voice from battles fought long ago. 

Giovanni came to see her two days after she had moved, but this timeMadame Bernard did not leave them together very long. She had a livelysense of her responsibility, now that the young girl was altogether inher charge, and she felt that the proprieties must be strictlyobserved. It must never be thought that Giovanni was free to seeAngela alone whenever he pleased, merely because her people had turnedher out. 

He looked distressed, and the young girl at once suspected some newtrouble; and she was not mistaken, for her advice had begun to bearfruit already, and the inevitable was closing in upon them both. 

He told the story in a few words. It had been decided in the WarOffice for some time that a small exploring and surveying expeditionshould be sent up the country from the Italian colony at Massowah withthe idea of planning some permanent means of inland communication withthe British possessions. Giovanni's father had seen a chance for himto distinguish himself and to obtain more rapid promotion, and byusing all the considerable influence he possessed in high quarters hehad got him appointed to be the engineering officer of the party. Theyoung man had already been two years in Africa, before being appointedto the Staff, and had done exceptionally good service, which was anexcellent reason for using him again; and chance further favoured theplan, because the officer who had first been selected for the place, and who was an older man, was much needed in the War Office, to hisown exceeding disgust. The expedition might be attended withconsiderable danger and would certainly be full of adventure, forthere had recently been trouble with the tribes in that very region;but to send a strong force was out of the question, for politicalreasons, though the work to be done was so urgently necessary that itcould not be put off much longer. 

Old General Severi sincerely hoped Angela might yet marry his son, andwas convinced that the best thing possible would be to secure for thelatter the first opportunity for quick promotion, instead of allowinghim to leave the army in order to find more lucrative employment. Theexpedition would be gone five or six months, perhaps, and there weremany reasons why it would be better to keep the young people apart fora time. Any one would understand that, he was sure. While Angela wasliving obscurely with a former governess, a brilliant young officer ofsome distinction, like Giovanni, could not see her regularly withoutseriously compromising her. It was the way of the world and could notbe helped, yet if Giovanni stayed in Rome it would be too much toexpect that he should stay away from the little apartment inTrastevere. So the matter was settled, and when he came to see Angelathat afternoon he had just had an interview with his chief, who hadinformed him of his appointment, and at the same time of his promotionto be captain. The expedition was to leave Italy in a few days, and hewould have barely time to provide himself with what was strictlynecessary for the climate. He explained all this to Angela and MadameBernard. 

'If you had only let me resign the other day, ' he said ruefully, whenhe had finished his account, 'nobody could have found fault then! Butnow, I must face the laugh of every man I know!'

Angela looked up quickly, in evident surprise. 

'Why?' she asked. 'I see nothing to laugh at in such an expedition. '

'I am not going to accept the appointment, ' Giovanni answered withdecision. 'I asked for twenty-four hours to consider it, though theGeneral seemed very much surprised. '

'But you cannot refuse!' Angela cried. 'They will say you are afraid!'

'They may say whatever occurs to them, for I will not go, and I shallresign at once, as I said I would. My mind is made up. '

'You cannot refuse this, ' Angela repeated confidently. 'If you areobliged to admit that there is some danger in it, though you wishthere were none, because you safely could refuse to go, it must bevery dangerous indeed. Tell me the truth, as far as you know it. '

'It would depend on circumstances----' Giovanni hesitated. 

'You have told me that if the Government dared, it would send a largeforce to protect the expedition. The larger that force would be, thegreater the danger if there is no protection at all. Is that true, ornot?'

'It is true, in one way, but----'

'There is no condition!' Angela interrupted him energetically. 'It isenough that it is going to be dangerous in one way, as you say!'

'No one can say that I ever avoided danger before, ' he objected. 

'They will say many things if you refuse to go. They will shrug theirshoulders and say that you have lost your nerve, perhaps! That is afavourite expression, and you know how people say it. Or if you makemoney soon after you resign, they will say that you preferred afortune to risking your life for your country. Or else they will saythat a woman has made a coward of you, and that I am she!'

'Coward!' yelled the parrot in a tone of withering contempt, and thecreature actually spat in disgust. 

Giovanni started violently, for he had not noticed the bird in theroom. Then he tried to laugh at his own surprise. 

'I do not wonder that you are surprised, Monsieur, ' said MadameBernard with a pleasant smile. 'Oh, Coco has exactly my poor husband'svoice!'

'I can brave a parrot's opinion, ' Giovanni said, attempting to speakgaily. 

'Will you brave mine?' Angela asked. 

'You certainly do not think I am afraid to go, ' he answered, 'for youknow why I mean to refuse. My first duty is to you. As I am placed, itwould be cowardly to be afraid to face public opinion in doing thatduty, and to keep you waiting six months or a year longer thannecessary, when I have promised to provide means for us to marrywithin a year. That would deserve to be called cowardice!'

'Sale Prussien! 'cré nom d'une pipe!' yelled Coco in a tone ofdisgust. 

'Really!' exclaimed Giovanni, with some annoyance. 'Does the thingtake me for an hereditary enemy, Madame?'

Madame Bernard rose with a little laugh and went to the parrot'sperch, holding out her hand. 

'Come, Coco!' she said, coaxing him. 'It is peace now, and we can gohome to Paris again. '

'Paris' meant her bedroom in bird language; it also meant being bribedto be quiet with good things, and Coco strutted from his perch to herfinger. 

'Marche!' he commanded in a sharp tone, and as she moved he began towhistle the Marseillaise with great spirit. 

She marched off, laughing and keeping step to the tune till shedisappeared into her room, shutting the door behind her. As it closedGiovanni caught Angela's left hand and drew it to him. She laid herright on his, quietly and affectionately. 

'Am I never to see you alone?' he asked, almost in a whisper. 

'When you come to say good-bye before starting, ' Angela answered. 'Iwill ask her to leave us quite alone then. But now it will only be fora minute or two. '

Thereupon, with the most natural movement in the world, she lifted herhands, brought his face close to hers and kissed him, drew back alittle, looked gravely into his astonished eyes for some seconds, andthen kissed him again. 

'I love you much more than you love me, ' she said with greatseriousness. 'I am sure of it. '

It was all very different from what he had expected. He had vaguelyfancied that for a long time every kiss would have to be won from herby a little struggle, and that every admission of her love would bethe reward of his own eloquence; instead, she took the lead herselfwith a simplicity that touched him more than anything else could havedone. 

'You see!' she cried, with the intonation of a laugh not far away. 'Itook you by surprise, because I am right about it! What have you tosay?'

He said nothing, but his lips hurt hers a little in the silence. Sheshivered slightly, for she had not yet dreamed that a kiss could hurtand yet be too short. The sound of Madame Bernard's voice came fromthe next room, still talking to the parrot. Angela laid her hand onGiovanni's gold-laced sleeve and nestled beside him, with her head inthe hollow of his shoulder. 

'I have always wanted to do this, ' she said in a drowsy little voice, as if she wished she could go to sleep where she was. 'It is my place. When you are away in Africa, at night, under the stars, you will dreamthat I am just here, resting in my very own place. '

She felt his warm breath in her hair as he answered. 

'I will not go; I will not leave you. '

'But you must, ' she said, quickly straightening herself and lookinginto his face. 'I should not love you as I do, if I could bear tothink of your staying here, to let men laugh at you, as you say theywould!'

'It is not like resigning on the day after war is declared!' heretorted, trying to speak lightly. 

'It is!' she cried, with a sort of eager anxiety in her voice. 'Thereis only a difference in the degree--and perhaps it is worse! If therewere war, you would be one man in a hundred thousand, but now you willbe one in ten or twenty, or as many as are to go. Think what it wouldbe if you were the only man in Italy, the one, single, only officerwho could certainly accomplish something very dangerous to help yourcountry--and if you refused to do it!'

'There are hundreds of better men than I for the work, ' objectedGiovanni. 

'I doubt it. Are there hundreds of engineer officers on the GeneralStaff?'

'No, but there are plenty----'

'A score, perhaps, and you have been chosen, no matter why, and thereis danger, and there is a great thing to be done, perhaps a greatgood, which in the end will save the lives, or help the lives, of manyItalians! And you want to refuse to do it--for what? For a woman, for agirl you love! Do you think she will love you the more, or less, forkeeping out of danger, if she is a true Italian as she thinks you are?Why is it that our Italy, which no one thought much of a few yearsago, is coming to the front in so many ways now? It was not by stayingat home for women's sake that our sailors have got nearer the NorthPole than all the others who have tried! It is not by avoiding dangerthat our officers are learning to astonish everybody with theirriding----'

'That is different, ' objected Giovanni. 'It is one thing to do daringthings----'

'Yes, ' interrupted Angela, not letting him speak, 'it is the one andonly thing, when it is good daring and can bring good, and helps theworld to see that Italy is not dead yet, in spite of all that has beensaid and written against us and our unity. No, no, I say! Go, do yourduty, do and dare, wherever and howsoever your country needs you, andI will wait for you, and be glad to wait for that one reason, which isthe best of all. If you love me half as dearly as I love you, go backat once and tell your chief that you are ready, and are proud to beused wherever you can be of any use! And if there is danger to befaced, think that you are to face it for my sake as well as forItaly's, and not in spite of me, for I would ten thousand times ratherthat you should die in doing your duty--ever so obscurely--than stayhere to be called a coward in order that we may be rich when wemarry!'

Giovanni listened, more and more surprised at her energy and quickflow of words, but glad at heart that she was urging him to do whatwas right and honourable. 

'It was for you that I meant to stay, ' he said. 'Hard as it is toleave you, it would have been harder to refuse the appointment. I willgo. '

A little silence followed, and Madame Bernard, no longer hearing theirvoices, and having said everything she had to say to her parrot, judged that it was time for her to come back and play chaperon again. She was careful to make a good deal of noise with the latch before sheopened the door. 

'Well, Monsieur, ' she asked, on the threshold, 'has Donna Angelapersuaded you that she is right? I heard her making a great speech!'

'She is a firebrand, ' laughed Giovanni, 'and a good patriot as well!She ought to be in Parliament. '

'You are a feminist, I perceive, ' answered Madame Bernard. 'But Joanof Arc would be in the Chambers if she could come back to this world. The people would elect her, she would present herself in the tribune, and she would say, "Aha, messieurs! Here I am! We shall talk, you andI. " And our little Donna Angela is a sort of Joan of Arc. People donot know it, but I do, for I have often heard her make beautifulspeeches, as if she were inspired!'

'It takes no inspiration to see what is right, ' Angela said, shakingher head. 'The only difficulty is to do it!'

'Even that is easy when you lead, ' Giovanni answered thoughtfully, andwithout the least intention of flattering her. 

He had seen a side of her character of which he had not even suspectedthe existence, and there was something about it so large and imposingthat he was secretly a little ashamed of feeling less strong than sheseemed. In two successive meetings he had come to her with his ownmind made up, but in a few moments she had talked him over to herpoint of view without the least apparent difficulty, and had sent himaway fully determined to do the very opposite of that which he hadpreviously decided to do. It was a strange experience for a young manof great energy and distinctly exceptional intelligence, and he didnot understand it. 

He stayed barely half-an-hour, for Madame Bernard showed nodisposition to leave the room again, and he felt the difficulty ofkeeping up an indifferent conversation in her presence, as well as theimpossibility of talking freely to Angela of what was uppermost in herthoughts and his own. It was true that the governess knew all aboutit, and there are excellent women of that sort whose presence does notalways hinder lovers from discussing their future; but either MadameBernard was not one of these by nature, or else the two felt thedifference of her nationality too much. The French are perhaps theonly civilised nation whom no people of other nations can thoroughlyunderstand, and who, with very few individual exceptions, do notunderstand any people but themselves. They have a way of looking atlife which surprises and sometimes amuses men of all othernationalities; they take some matters very seriously which seem oftrivial consequence to us, but they are witty at the expense ofcertain simple feelings and impulses which we gravely regard asfundamentally important, if not sacred. They can be really and trulyheroic, to the point of risking life and limb and happiness, aboutquestions at which we snap our fingers, but they can be almostinsolently practical, in the sense of feeling no emotion while keenlydiscerning their own interest, in situations where our tempers or ourprejudices would rouse us to recklessness. In their own estimationthey are always right, and so are we in ours, no doubt; but whereasthey consider themselves the Chosen People and us the Gentiles, orcompare themselves with us as the Greeks compared themselves with theBarbarians, we, on our side, do not look down upon their art andliterature as they undoubtedly do on ours, and a good many of us arerather too ready to accept them as something more than our equals inboth. When I say 'we, ' I do not mean only English-speaking people, butother Europeans also. I have overheard Frenchmen discussing all sortsof things in trains, on steamers, in picture-galleries, in libraries, in the streets, from Tiflis to London and from London to the Pacific, but I have never yet heard Frenchmen admit among themselves that amodern work of art, or book, or play was really first-rate, if it wasnot French. There is something monumental in their conviction of theirown superiority, and I sincerely believe it has had much to do withtheir success, as a nation, in the arts of peace as well as in war. Aman who is honestly convinced that he is better than his opponent isnot easily put down in peaceful competition, and will risk his life inaction with a gallantry and daring that command the admiration of allbrave men; and it is a singular fact that German soldiers did not callFrenchmen cowards after the great war, whereas it was a very commonthing to hear Frenchmen inveigh against 'those dirty, cowardlyPrussians' who had got the better of them. Men who can take such apoint of view as that must be utterly unlike other people. 

This little digression should explain why Angela and Madame Bernardnever quite understood each other, in spite of the elder woman'salmost motherly love for the girl and the latter's devoted gratitude. 

They talked about Giovanni when he was gone, of course, but neithersaid all she thought about him, because she feared that the otherwould think a little differently. The cheerful Frenchwoman had gonethrough life with the belief that it is better, on the whole, to makeoneself comfortable in this world, if it can be managed on honestprinciples, than to worry oneself about heroics, and in the calmrecesses of her practical little soul she was sure that, in Angela'splace, she would have told Giovanni to resign as soon as possible andfind some pleasant and well-paid occupation for his married life. AllAngela's talk about a man's duty to his country would be very well intime of war, when there was glory to be got; but it was nonsense inordinary times, where one man would do as well as another, to risk hislife in a small expedition, and when it was distinctly advisable notto be that one. But she knew also that she had better not try toexplain this to Angela, who was evidently a little mad on the point, most probably because she was an Italian. For Italians, Germans, Spaniards, Englishmen, and Americans were all completely insane; therewas some little hope for Austrians and a good deal for Russians, inMadame Bernard's opinion, but there was none for the rest, though theymight be very nice people. The safest thing was to humour them. Shehad given lessons in Roman families that were half Austrian and evenhalf Russian, for the Romans have always been very cosmopolitan intheir marriages, but Angela was quite Italian on both sides, and sowas Giovanni. It was therefore pretty certain that they would behavelike lunatics, sooner or later, the good lady thought; and theyapparently were beginning already. 

It is needless to dwell long on what followed, since what has beennarrated so far is only the introduction to Angela's story and theexposition of the circumstances which determined her subsequent life. As in most cases, it happened in hers that the greatest events werethe direct consequences of one very small beginning. If she had noturged Giovanni to wait some time before leaving the army, he would nothave been obliged to remain in the service almost as a matter ofhonour, yet it had seemed very sensible to advise him to do nothing ina hurry. Everything else followed logically upon that first step. 

It was the inevitable, and it was therefore already in nature tragic, before active tragedy took the stage. Yet Angela did not feel itspresence, nor any presentiment of the future, when she bade Giovannifarewell ten days after he had first been to see her in MadameBernard's apartment. 

What she felt was just the common pain of parting that has been thelot of loving men and women since the beginning; it is not the lesssharp because almost every one has felt it, but it is as useless todescribe it as it would be to write a chapter about a bad toothache, asick headache, or an attack of gout. Angela was a brave girl and setherself the task of bearing it quietly because it was a natural andhealthy consequence of loving dearly. It was not like the wrench ofsaying good-bye to a lover on his way to meet almost certain death. She told herself, and Giovanni told her, that in all probability hewas not going to encounter any danger worse than may chance in a day'shunting over a rough country or in a steeple-chase, and that the riskwas certainly far less than that of fighting a duel in Italy, whereduelling is not a farce as it is in some countries. He would come backwithin a few months, with considerable credit and the certainty ofpromotion; it was a hundred to one that he would, so that this wasmerely a common parting, to be borne without complaint. He thought sohimself, and they consoled each other by making plans for theirmarried life, which would be so much nearer when he came home. 

Madame Bernard left them alone for an hour in the sitting-room andthen came in to say good-bye to Giovanni herself, bringing Cocoperched upon her wrist, but silent and well-behaved. Angela was pale, and perhaps her deep mourning made her look paler than she was, buther face was as quiet and collected as Giovanni's. He took leave ofthe governess almost affectionately. 

'Take care of her, Madame, ' he said, 'and write me some news of hernow and then through the War Office. It may reach me, or it may not!'

He kissed Angela's hand, looked into her eyes silently for a moment, and went out. 

'Marche! 'cré nom d'un nom!' screamed the parrot after him, as if hewere going too slowly. 

But this time Angela could not speak of him with her friend just afterhe was gone, and when Madame Bernard tried to talk of other thingswith the idea of diverting her attention, she went and shut herself upin her own room. It was distracting to know that he was still in Rome, and that until nearly midnight, when the train left for Naples, itwould be possible to see him once more. If she had insisted, MadameBernard would have consented to go with her in a cab to find him. Itwas hard to resist, as she sat by the window, listening to the distantsound of wheels in the street; it was the first great temptation shehad ever felt in her life, and as she faced it she was surprised atits strength. But she would not yield. In her own gentle womanlinessshe found something she recognised but could not account for; was itpossible that she had some strength of character, after all? Could itbe that she inherited a little of that rigid will that had made herfather so like her idea of a Puritan? He had always told her that shewas weak, that she would be easily influenced by her surroundings, that her only hope must be to obtain Divine aid for her feeble, feminine nature. She had believed him, because he had taught her thatshe must, even in the smallest things, and this was a great one. 

But now something cruelly strong was tearing at her, to make her go intothe next room and beg Madame Bernard to help her find Giovanni, if onlythat she might see his face and hear his voice and say good-bye justonce more. She laid her hands on the window-sill as if she would holdherself down in her chair, and she refused to move; not because itlooked foolish, for that would not have mattered, but because she chosenot to yield. Perhaps she was too proud to give way, and pride, theytold her, was always a sin, but that did not matter either. There was anunexpected satisfaction in finding one thin strand of steel among thepliant threads of her untried young will. 

Besides, she would have much to bear, and if she did not begin atonce, she would never grow used to the burden. That was another reasonfor not following her instinct, and a very good one. 

To help herself, she began to say one of those prayers of which sheknew so many by heart. To her surprise, it disturbed her instead ofstrengthening her determination, and while her lips were moving shefelt an almost overwhelming impulse to do what she was determined notto do at any cost. The sensation startled her, and in a moment shefelt that tide of darkness rising to drown her which had almostoverwhelmed her while she was kneeling beside her dead father. Herhand pressed the stone window-sill in terror of the awful presence. 

It is familiar to those few who have knowingly or unwittingly tried topenetrate the darkness to the light beyond. It has been called theGuardian, the Dweller on the Threshold, the Wall, the Destroyer, theGiant Despair. Many have turned back from it as from death itself, some have gone raving mad in fighting their way through it, some haveactually died in it, of failure of the heart from fright. Some comeupon it unawares in their reasoning, some in the hour of profoundmeditation; some know by long experience where it is and keep awayfrom it; some are able to pass through it with unshaken mind andunbroken nerves. Scarcely one in a million even guesses that itexists; of those who do, ninety-nine in a hundred turn from it inhorror; of the remaining score of those who face it in a wholegeneration of men, more than half perish in mind or body; the lastten, perhaps, win through, and these are they that have understood thewriting over the temple door, the great 'Know thyself, ' the precept ofthe Delphic Oracle and of all mystics before Trophonios and since. 

Angela's lips ceased moving, and very soon she was herself again, quietly sitting there and wondering what had frightened her so badly, and whether there might not be something wrong with her heart, becauseshe remembered how it had beat twice quickly in succession and thenhad seemed to stand still while she could have counted ten, quiteslowly. 

What she called her temptation left her at peace till she knew thatGiovanni's train had started. In imagination she could hear the engine'swhistle, the hissing of the steam from the purge-cocks at starting, thequickening thunder of the high-pressure exhaust, the clanking noise asthe slowly moving train passed over the old-fashioned turn-tables, andthe long retreating rumble as the express gathered speed and ran out ofsight. 

Then it was over, for good and all; Giovanni was gone beyond thepossibility of seeing him again and the strain relaxed. Angela put outher light, and when she fell asleep a quarter of an hour later, dropsshe did not even feel were slowly trickling from her lids to thepillow; for there are women who do not easily cry when they are awake, but when they are sleeping their tired eyes shed the pent-up tears andare refreshed by them. 

Angela was not left alone with Madame Bernard as much as she hadexpected after the first few days, nor even as much as she might havewished. The feeling against the Princess Chiaromonte was strong, andas soon as it became known that Angela had found a safe refuge withher former governess, she received several invitations from more orless distant connections to spend some time with them in the countryduring the coming summer. At the present juncture, in the height ofthe season, it was natural that no one should want a forlorn younggirl in deep mourning to make a town visit. She would have been akilljoy and a wet blanket in any house, that was clear, and nothingcould be more thoroughly respectable and proper than that she shouldspend the first weeks under Madame Bernard's roof and protection. 

Some of Angela's friends of her own age came to see her by and by andoffered to take her to drive in their mothers' carriages or motorcars, but she would not go, and though she thanked them with gratefulwords for thinking of her, most of them thought, and told each other, that she had not been very glad to see them and would rather be leftalone. They supposed that she was still too much overcome to wish fortheir society, and as young people who drop out of the world afterbeing in it a very short time are soon forgotten, they troubledthemselves very little about her. If she ever chose to come out of hersolitude, they said, she would be welcome again, but since she wishedto be left to herself it was very convenient to humour her, becausethe Princess Chiaromonte had as good as declared that there were'excellent reasons' for her own apparently heartless conduct. No oneknew what that meant, but when she spoke in that way it was moreblessed to accept her statement than to get her enmity by doubting it. The Chiaromonte family were at liberty to settle their own affairs asseemed best in their own eyes, and as the law could not interfere, noone else felt inclined to do so. Angela had no near relations on hermother's side to protect her or take her in. 

Six weeks passed away without incident after Giovanni had left, andshe had received three letters from him--one from Naples, writtenbefore going on board the steamer, one from Port Said, and one fromMassowah after his arrival there. The expedition was to start in threedays, he said; it had been waiting for him and the officer who was totake the command, and who had gone with him. 

A short time after receiving this last letter Angela was reading thenews from an evening paper to Madame Bernard, translating theparagraphs offhand into French, by force of habit, because her oldgoverness had often made her do it for practice. 

Suddenly her eyes became fixed, the colour left her face, and shedropped the newspaper with a short, loud cry, falling back in herchair at the same moment. 

Madame Bernard snatched up the sheet and glanced at the place wherethe girl had last been reading. 

The expedition had fallen in with hostile natives a week afterstarting and had been massacred to a man. The names of the dead weregiven, and Giovanni's was the second on the list. 

CHAPTER VI

Angela lived for weeks in a state of sleepless apathy, so far as hercompanion could see. She scarcely spoke, and ate barely enough to keepherself alive. She seemed not to sleep at all, for two or three timesduring every night Madame Bernard got up and came to her room, and shealways found her lying quite motionless on her back, her eyes wideopen and staring at the tasteless little pattern of flowers stencilledin colours on the ceiling. Once Madame Bernard proposed to take awaythe night-light that burned in a cup on the floor, but Angela shookher head almost energetically. She never opened a book either, noroccupied herself in any way, but seemed content to sit still all dayand to lie awake all night, never complaining, and never even speakingunless her friend asked her a direct question. Every morning atsunrise she put on her hat and went to the ancient church of SanCrisogono, which is served by Trinitarian monks. Sometimes MadameBernard went with her, but more often she was accompanied by the onewoman-servant who cooked and did the housework. 

The unhappy girl found neither consolation nor hope in the dailyservice; she went to it because, somehow, it seemed to be the onlything she could do for the dead. She knelt down every day on the samespot, and remained kneeling till after the priest and the acolyte weregone; she took her missal with her, but never looked at it, and herlips never moved in prayer; she felt no impulse to go to confession, nor any devotional craving for the Communion. The mass was a mere formto her, but she attended it regularly, as if she expected that much ofherself and would not do less than the least that seemed to be herduty. That was all. Prayer in any form of words frightened her, for itsoon brought her near to that blinding darkness which she had alreadymet twice and had learned to dread; her present misfortune wasincomparably greater than those that had gone before, and she was surethat if the outer night rose round her again it would take her souldown into itself to eternal extinction. If she had been physicallystronger, she might have tried to call this a foolish delusion; weakas she was, and growing daily weaker, it seemed as certain as that herbody must perish instantly if she walked over a precipice. The pastwas distorted, the present had no meaning, and there was no future;she vaguely understood Dante's idea that the body may be left onearth, apparently alive, for years after the soul has departed fromit, for the evil Alberigo's spirit told the poet that his own body andBranca d'Oria's were still animated by demons when their souls werealready in the torment of the eternal ice. But Angela felt rather asif her living self were a mere senseless shell, uninhabited by anyspirit, bad or good, and moved by the mechanics of nature rather thanby her own will or another's. 

Madame Bernard watched her with growing anxiety as the days and weeksbrought no change. The little lodging in Trastevere was very silent, and Coco sat disconsolately drooping his wings on his perch when hismistress was out, as she was during more than half the day, giving thelessons by which she and Angela lived. The girl sometimes did not movefrom her chair throughout the long morning any more than if she hadbeen paralysed, or at most she tried to tend the flowers. The roseswere blooming now, and on fine days, when the windows were open, thearomatic perfume of the young carnations floated in with the sunbeams. Angela did not notice the scent, and for all the pleasure the blossomsgave her they might have been turnips and potatoes. But there was afeeble underlying thought of duty in plucking off a small witheredleaf here and there, and in picking out the tiny weeds that tried togrow round the flower-stems. From very far away she heard MadameBernard telling her, an age ago, that she could tend the flowers andtake care of the parrot by way of helping in the house. 

Coco regarded her efforts with melancholy contempt, and turned hisback on her when she came near him, and even when she changed thewater in his tin cup. As he only drank three or four drops in a day, it probably seemed to him a work of supererogation. While his mistresswas out he rarely uttered a sound; but when he heard her footstep inthe short passage outside, he gave vent to his feelings and hailed herreturn with boisterous shouts and unearthly whistling of old Frenchmilitary tunes. Even the noise he made did not disturb Angela; shehardly heard him, for her nerves were not overwrought, but deadenedalmost to insensibility. 

Madame Bernard consulted a young doctor, a man of talent, who wastaking lessons of her for the sake of his practice among foreigners. She used to say that between her pupils, and their friends andrelations, she could get the best advice on any matter without payinga penny for it. The young physician answered that he could not helpher much without seeing the patient, but that the best thing forAngela would be to eat and sleep well and not to fret. 

Some such idea had probably occurred to the little Frenchwoman, forshe laughed gaily in the doctor's face, and he, not being paid to lookserious, joined in her laughter. 

'You cannot say it is bad advice, ' he said, 'and you wanted me to saysomething. Let me see the young lady, and I will tell you honestlywhether I know of anything that will do her good, as I would tell acolleague. '

They agreed that he should call one evening on pretence of taking anextra lesson in a leisure hour; he came at the appointed time, andwatched Angela narrowly during the short time she remained in theroom. When she was gone, he gave his opinion without hesitation. 

'The best thing for her would be a good illness, ' he said. 'You looksurprised! I will try to explain. That young lady is stronger than youthink. It would do her a world of good to shed tears, but she cannotbecause her unconscious power of resistance has been exercised till ithas grown rigid. You have heard of Hindu devotees who hold up one armtill it stiffens in that position, so that they could not move it ifthey tried. That is an image of what I mean, unless it is the thingitself. After learning the terrible news Donna Angela unconsciouslysteeled herself against her natural impulse to break down. She has astrong will, and the result is what you see. The strain of resistingwas so great that it deadened her to all sensation in a few hours. Ifshe could fall ill, the tension would relax; in my opinion it will doso when her physical strength is worn out by starvation and lack ofsleep, but a simple specific malady, like the whooping-cough or themeasles, would be better for her. If you cannot break up her presentcondition, and if she has any organic weakness of the heart, it maystop beating one of these days. That is what is called dying of abroken heart, my dear Madame Bernard. There is no medicine againstthat like a broken leg!'

'Fie!' cried Madame Bernard. 'You have no human feeling at all!'

'I am sorry, ' answered the physician, with a smile, 'but it is mybusiness to have a head instead. You asked my opinion and I have givenit, as I would to another doctor. The old-fashioned ones would laughat me, the younger ones would understand. '

'If you could only make the poor child sleep a little! Is therenothing?'

'She is not neurasthenic, ' the doctor objected. 'It would be of no useto give her sleeping medicines, for after a few days they would haveno effect, except to excite her nerves unnaturally. '

'Or something to give her an appetite, ' suggested Madame Bernardvaguely. 

'She has an excellent appetite if she only knew it. The reason why shedoes not eat is that she does not know she is hungry, though she ishalf starved. I served in the African campaign when I was a youngmilitary surgeon. I have seen healthy men faint for want of food whenthey had plenty at hand because they could not realise that they werehungry in their intense preoccupation. Great emotions close theentrance to the stomach, often for a considerable time. It is wellknown, and it is easier than you think to form the habit of living onnext to nothing. It is the first step that counts. '

'As they said of Saint Denis when he carried his head three stepsafter it was cut off, ' said Madame Bernard thoughtfully, and without asmile. 

'Precisely, ' the doctor assented. 'I myself have seen a man sit hishorse at a full gallop, without relaxing his hold, for fifty yardsafter he had been shot through the head. The seat of the nerves thatdirect automatic motion is not in the brain, but appears to be in thebody, near the spine. When it is not injured, what used to be calledunconscious cerebration may continue for several seconds after death. Similarly, bodily habits, like feeling hunger or being insensible toit, appear to have their origin in those ganglions and not in any sortof thought. Consequently, thought alone, without a strong exercise ofthe will, has little effect upon such habits of the body. When a mandoes a thing he does not mean to do, and says "I cannot help it, " heis admitting this fact. If you were to ask Donna Angela if she meansto starve herself to death deliberately, she would deny it withindignation, but would tell you that she really cannot eat, andmeanwhile she is starving. Give her a comparatively harmless illnesslike the measles, severe enough to break up the ordinary automatichabits of the body, and she will eat again, with an excellentappetite. In all probability I could give her the measles byartificial means, but unfortunately that sort of treatment is not yetauthorised!'

The young doctor, who was not by any means a dreamer, seemed muchamused at his own conclusion, which looks absurd even on paper, andMadame Bernard did not believe a word he said. In questions ofmedicine women are divided into two great classes, those who willconsult any doctor and try anything, and those who only ask thedoctor's opinion when they are forced to, and who generally doprecisely the opposite of what he suggests. This is a more practicalview and is probably the safer, if they must go to one of the twoextremes. Moreover, doctors are so much inclined to disagree that whenthree of them give a unanimous opinion it is apt to be worthless. 

The only immediate result of Madame Bernard's consultation with thedoctor was that she disappointed one of her pupils the next day inorder to gain an hour, which she devoted to making a very exquisite'mousse de volaille' for Angela. The poor girl was much touched, butcould only eat two or three mouthfuls, and the effort she made toovercome her repugnance was so unmistakable that the good littleFrenchwoman was more anxious for her than hurt at the failure. 

She had tried two sciences, she said to herself, but the doctor ofmedicine had talked the nonsense of theories to her, and the combinedwisdom of Vatel, Brillat-Savarin, and Carźme had proved fruitless. Aperson who could not eat Madame Bernard's 'mousse de volaille' couldonly be cured by a miracle. Accordingly, she determined to consult achurchman without delay, and went out early in the afternoon. Angeladid not notice that she was dressed with more than usual care, as iffor a visit of importance. 

She had been gone about half-an-hour, and the young girl was sittingin her accustomed place, listless and apathetic as usual, when thedoor-bell rang, and a moment later the woman-servant came in, sayingthat a foreign gentleman was on the landing who insisted on seeingAngela, even though she was alone. After giving a long and notflattering description of his appearance, the woman held out the cardhe had given her. Angela glanced at it and read the name of FilmoreDurand, and above, in pencil, half-a-dozen words: 'I have brought youa portrait. '

Angela did not understand in the least, though she tried hard toconcentrate her thoughts. 

'Ask the gentleman to come in, ' she answered at last, hardly knowingwhat she said. 

She turned her face to the window again, and in the course of thirtyseconds, when she was roused by Durand's voice in the room, she hadalmost forgotten that he was in the house. She had not heard Englishspoken since she had left his studio on the morning when her fatherdied, and she started at the sound. For weeks, nothing had made suchan impression on her. 

She rose to receive the great painter, who was standing near the tablein the middle of the room, looking at her in surprise and realanxiety, for she was little more than a shadow of the girl he hadpainted six weeks or two months earlier. He himself had brought in agood-sized picture, wrapped in new brown paper; it stood beside him onthe floor, reaching as high as his waist, and his left hand rested onthe upper edge. He held out the other to Angela, who took itapathetically. 

'You have been very ill, ' he said in a tone of concern. 

'No, ' she answered. 'I am only a little tired. Will you not sit down?'

She sank into her seat again, and one thin hand lay on the cushionedarm of the chair. Instead of seating himself, Durand lifted thepicture, still wrapped up, and set it upright on the table, so that itfaced her. 

'I heard, ' he said in a low voice, 'so I did this for you from memoryand a photograph. '

There was a sudden crackling and tearing of the strong paper as heripped it off with a single movement, and then there was absolutesilence for some time. Angela seemed not even to breathe, as sheleaned forward with parted lips and unwinking, wondering eyes. 

Then, without even a warning breath, a cry broke from her heart. 

'He is not dead! You have seen him again! He is alive--they havecheated me!'

Then she choked and leaned back, pressing her handkerchief to hermouth. 

Instead of answering, the painter bent his head and looked downsideways at his own astounding handiwork, and for the second time inthat year he was almost satisfied. Presently, as Angela said nothingmore, he was going to move the canvas, to show it in a better light, but she thought he meant to take it away. 

'No!' she cried imperatively. 'Not yet! Let me see it--let meunderstand----'

Her words died away and she was silent again, her eyes fixed on theportrait. At last she rose, came forward, and laid both her thin handson the narrow black and gold frame. 

'I must have it, ' she said. 'You must let me have it, though I cannotpay for it. But I will some day. I will work till I can earn enoughmoney, or till I die--and if that comes soon, they will give you backthe picture. You cannot take it away!'

Durand saw that she had not understood. 

'It is for you, ' he said. 'I painted it to give to you. You see, afteryour father died, I kept yours--I never meant them to have it, but itseemed as if I owed you something for it, and this is to pay my debt. Do you see?'

'How kind you are!' she cried. 'How very, very kind! I do not quitefollow the idea--my head is always so tired now--but I knew you wouldunderstand how I should feel--if I accepted it without any return!'

So far as arithmetic went, the man of genius and the broken-heartedgirl were equally far from ordinary reckoning. Durand knew that by aturn of luck he had been able to keep the only portrait he had everbeen sorry to part with when it was finished, and he was intimatelyconvinced that he owed somebody something for such an unexpectedpleasure; on her side, Angela was quite sure that unless the portraitof the man she had loved was to be an equivalent for some sort ofobligation she could not be satisfied to keep it all her life unpaidfor. 

It filled the little sitting-room with light and colour, as a Titianmight have done; it was as intensely alive as Giovanni Severi hadbeen--the eyes were full of those quick little coruscations of firethat had made them so unlike those of other men, the impulsivenostrils seemed to quiver, the healthy young blood seemed to come andgo in the tanned cheeks, the square shoulders were just ready to makethat quick, impatient little movement that had been so characteristicof him, so like the sudden tension of every muscle when a thoroughbredscents sport or danger. No ordinary artist would ever have seen allthere was in the man, even in a dozen sittings, but the twin gifts ofsight and memory had unconsciously absorbed and held the whole, and askill that was never outdone in its time had made memory itselfvisible on the canvas. Something that was neither a 'harmless illness'nor a 'miracle' had waked Angela from her torpor. 

'How can I thank you?' she asked, after a long pause. 'You do not knowwhat it is to me to see his living face--you will call it anillusion--it seems as if----'

She broke off suddenly and pressed her handkerchief to her lips again. 

'Only what you call the unreal can last unchanged for a while, ' thepainter said, catching at the word she had used, and thinking more ofhis art than of her. 'Only an ideal can be eternal, but every honestattempt to give it shape has a longer life than any living creature. Nature makes only to destroy, but art creates for the very sake ofpreserving the beautiful. '

She heard each sentence, but was too absorbed in the portrait tofollow his meaning closely. Perhaps it would have escaped her if shehad tried. 

'Only good and evil are everlasting, ' she said, almost unconsciouslyrepeating words she had heard somewhere when she was a child. 

Durand looked at her quickly, but he saw that she was not reallythinking. 

'What is "good"?' he asked, as if he were sure that there was noanswer to the question. 

It attracted her attention, and she turned to him; she was coming backto life. 

'Whatever helps people is good, ' she said. 

'The French proverb says "Help thyself and God will help thee, "'suggested Durand. 

'No, it should be "Help others, and God will help you, "' Angelaanswered. 

The artist fixed his eyes on her as he nodded a silent assent; andsuddenly, though her face was so changed, he knew it was more like hisportrait of her than ever, and that the prophecy of his hand wascoming to fulfilment. 

He stayed a moment longer, and asked if he could be of any service toher or Madame Bernard. She thanked him vaguely, and almost smiled. Hefelt instinctively that she was thinking of what she had last said, and was wishing that some one would tell her how she might dosomething for others, rather than that another should do anything forher. 

She went with him to the door at the head of the stairs and let himout herself. 

'Thank you, ' she said, 'thank you! You don't know what you have donefor me!'

He looked at her in thoughtful silence for a few seconds, holding herhand as if they were old friends. 

'There is no such thing as death, ' he said gravely. 

And with this odd speech he left her and went slowly down the narrowstone steps; and though she watched him till he disappeared at thenext landing, he did not once turn his head. 

When she was in the sitting-room she set the framed picture on astraight chair near the window and sat down before it in heraccustomed seat; and Durand's last words came back to her again andagain, as if they were begging to be remembered and understood. Hermemory brought with them many exhortations and sayings from the sacredbooks, but none of them seemed to mean just what she knew that littlespeech of his must mean if she could quite understand it. 

She had come to life again unexpectedly, and the spell of her dreadfulsolitude was broken. She did not think it strange that her eyes weredry as she gazed at the well-loved face, while the inner voice toldher that there was 'no such thing as death. ' The dead man had done hisduty, and he expected her to do hers until the time came for them tomeet for ever. 

In the aimless wandering of her thoughts during the past weeks she hadonly understood that he was gone. In an uncounted moment, while shehad been turning over the leaves of a book, or idly talking withMadame Bernard, or plucking a withered leaf from one of the plantsoutside the window, he had been fighting for his life and had lost it. Perhaps she had been quietly asleep just then. She had heard peoplesay they were sure that if anything happened to those they dearlyloved, some warning would reach them; she had heard tales of personsappearing at the moment of their death to those dearest to them, andeven to indifferent people. Such stories were but idle talk, for whileshe had been reading the news out to Madame Bernard, she had beenexpecting to hear that the expedition was advancing successfully onits way, she had been wondering what chance there was of getting aletter from the interior, she had been intimately convinced thatGiovanni was safe, well, and making good progress, when he had beendead a fortnight. 

Madame Bernard had read the details, so far as they were known, butshe had wisely said nothing except that the news was fully confirmed. Angela herself had refused to touch a newspaper since that day; it hadbeen enough that he was gone--to know how, or even to guess, would be asuffering she could not face. What had been found of the poor men whohad perished had been brought home; there had been a great militaryfuneral for them; their names were inscribed for ever on the roll ofhonour. In time, when the political situation changed, an effort wouldbe made to avenge their death, no doubt; for every man who had beenmurdered a hundred would be slain, or more, if possible, till even aScythian might feel satisfied that their angry spirits were appeasedby blood. Angela knew nothing of all this, for she never left thehouse except to go to early mass every day, and Madame Bernard neverspoke of the dead man nor of the lost expedition. 

When the governess came home, a little after sunset, Angela was stillsitting before the picture, her chin resting on her hand and her elbowon her knee as she leaned forward to see better in the failing light. The girl turned her head with a bright smile, and Madame Bernardstarted in surprise when she saw the portrait. 

'It is he!' she cried. 'It is he, to the very life!'

'Yes, ' Angela answered softly, 'it is Giovanni. He has been telling methat I must do my part, as he did his. He is waiting for me, but Icannot go to him till my share is done. '

She was gazing at the face again, while Madame Bernard looked from itto her in undisguised astonishment. 

'I do not understand, my dear, ' she said very gently. 'Who has broughtyou this wonderful picture?'

She hardly expected an explanation, and she guessed that the portraitwas Durand's work, for few living painters could have made such alikeness, and none would have painted it in that way, which wasespecially his own. To her surprise Angela turned on her chair withoutrising, and told her just what had happened, since he had come inearly in the afternoon bringing the picture with him. When she hadfinished she turned to it again, as if there were nothing more to besaid, and at that moment Coco began to talk in a tone that madefurther conversation impossible. Madame Bernard took him on her handand disappeared with him. 

When she came back, Angela was standing on a chair holding up theportrait with both hands and trying to hang it by the inner edge ofthe frame on an old nail she had found already driven into the wall. Madame Bernard at once began to help her, as if not at all surprisedat her sudden energy, though it seemed nothing less than miraculous. 

They succeeded at last, and both got down from their chairs and drewback two steps to judge of the effect. 

'It is a little too high, ' Angela said thoughtfully. To-morrow I willget a cord and two rings to screw into the frame at the back, and thenwe will hang it just as it should be. '

'Perhaps we could put it in a better light, ' Madame Bernard suggested. 'The room is so dark now that one cannot judge of that. '

'He must be where he can see me, ' Angela said. 

Her friend looked puzzled, and the young girl smiled again, quitenaturally. 

'I am not dreaming, ' she said, as if answering a question not spoken. 'I do not mean that the picture can really see, any more than Ibelieve that what they call "miraculous images" of saints are thesaints themselves! But when I see the eyes of the portrait lookingstraight at me, I feel that he himself must see me, from where he is;and he will see me do my part, as he has done his. At least, I hope Imay. '

She went to her own room, and Madame Bernard followed her to light thelittle lamp for her as she had always done of late. But to-day Angelainsisted on doing it herself. 

'You must not wait on me any more, ' said the girl. 'I have been veryidle for weeks, but I did not understand, and you will forgive me, because you are so good and kind. '

'You are a little angel, my dear!' cried Madame Bernard, muchaffected. 'They did right to name you Angela!'

But Angela shook her head, as she put the paper shade over the cheaplamp, and then went to the window to close the inner shutters beforedrawing the chintz curtains. 

'I have been a very useless little angel, ' she answered, 'and I amsorry for it. But I mean to do better now, and you will help me, won'tyou?'

'That is all I ask! But to tell the truth, I was discouraged to-day, and I have been to ask the advice of a very good man. There! I havetold you, and I am glad of it, because I hate secrets! He has promisedto come and see you, and talk to you, but now that you are yourselfagain----' She stopped, as if embarrassed. 

'Who is he?' asked Angela with a shade of distrust. 'A priest?'

'Please do not be angry!' Madame Bernard began to repent of what shehad done. 'I was so much distressed--I felt that you were slipping outof the world day by day, just dying of a broken heart, so I went tosee him this afternoon. '

'I am not going to die, ' Angela said confidently. 'Who is he? I thinkI know at last what I must do, without the advice of a priest. Buttell me who he is. '

'He is such a good man, my dear--Monsignor Saracinesca. '

'That is different, ' Angela said, changing her tone at once. 'I shallbe very glad to see Monsignor Saracinesca. He is a real saint, ifthere is one living. '

CHAPTER VII

There is a religious house in Rome, beyond the Tiber and not far fromPorta Portese, which I will call the Convent of the White Sisters ofSanta Giovanna d'Aza. Their order is a branch of a great and ancientone, though it has not had a separate existence a very long time. Theconvent contains one of the best private hospitals in Italy, and theSisters also go out as trained nurses, like those of several otherorders. But they do something more, which the others do not; foralmost every year two or three, or even four of them go out to the FarEast to work in the leper hospitals which missionaries haveestablished in Rangoon and elsewhere; and a good many have gone in thelast ten years, but few will ever return. 

The convent is much larger than any one would suppose who judgedmerely from the uninteresting stuccoed wall which faces the quietstreet, and in which there are a few plain windows without shuttersand a large wooden door, painted a dull green. This door, which is themain entrance, is opened and shut by the portress as often as ahundred times a day and more; but when it is open there is nothing tobe seen within but a dark vestibule paved with flagstones; and theportress's wooden face is no more prepossessing than the wall itself. If any one asks her a question, she answers civilly in a businessliketone, with a hard foreign accent, for she is the widow of one of theSwiss Guards at the Vatican; but she is naturally silent, stolid, mechanical, and trustworthy. She is a lay sister and is called SisterAnna, and she lives in a small room on the left of the vestibule, asyou go in, five steps above the stone pavement. She is very rarelyrelieved from her duties for a few hours at a time, and all thepatients must pass her when they enter or leave the house, as well asthe doctors, and the visitors whose smart carriages and motor carsoften stand waiting in the narrow street. Fifty times a day, perhaps, the door-bell rings and Sister Anna deliberately flaps down the fivesteps in her heavily-soled slippers to admit one person or another, and fifty times, again, she flaps down to let them out again. Thereason why she does not go mad or become an imbecile is that she isSwiss. That, at least, is how it strikes the celebrated surgeon, Professor Pieri, who is at the convent very often because he has manyof his patients brought there to be operated on and nursed. 

The truth is that the hospital is a thoroughly modern one, which hasbeen built as an extension of buildings that date from the thirteenthand fourteenth centuries. It is managed on soundly scientificprinciples, without the least fuss, or any 'board of trustees' or'committee of management, ' or any of that cumbrous administrationwhich makes so many public hospitals as intricate as labyrinths, onlyto be threaded with a clue of red tape, and proportionatelyunpractical. 

There is a still and sunny garden within, surrounded by a wide and drycloister, above which the ancient building rises only one story on thethree sides of the square; but on the fourth side, which looks towardsthe sun at noon, there are three stories, which have been builtlately, and the hospital wards are in that wing, one above the other. On the opposite side, a door opens from the cloister to the choir ofthe church, which has also an outer entrance from the street, nowrarely used; for the chaplain comes and goes through the cloister, thevestibule, and the green door where the portress is. 

Beyond her lodge there is a wide hall, with clerestory windows andglass doors opening to the cloister and the garden; and from this hallthe hospital itself is reached by a passage through which all thepatients are taken. The Mother Superior's rooms are those above thecloister on the further side of the garden, and have three beautifulthirteenth century windows divided by pairs of slender columns, sothat each window has two little arches. 

In the middle of the garden there is an old well with three arches ofcarved stone that spring from three pillars and meet above the centreof the well-head, and the double iron chain runs over a wheel, and hastwo wrought copper buckets, one at each end of it; but the water isnow used only for watering the flowers. There are stone seats roundthe well, too, on which three old nuns often sit and sun themselves onfine days. They are the last of the Sisters of the old time, whenthere was no hospital and no training school, and the nuns used to doanything in the way of nursing that was asked of them by rich or poor, with a good heart and a laudable intention, but without even thesimplest elements of modern prophylaxis, because it had not beeninvented then. For that has all been discovered quite recently, as weolder men can remember only too well. 

There are many roses in the garden, and where there is most sun thereis a large bed of carnations, but not of the finer sorts; they arejust plain red and white ones, that fill the air with a scent of warmcloves on still mornings in the late spring, when it is beginning tobe hot. But if this description has seemed tedious, you must know thatAngela lived in the convent and worked there for five whole yearsafter Giovanni was lost in Africa; so that it was needful to saysomething about her surroundings. 

An accomplished psychologist would easily fill a volume with thehistory of Angela's soul from the day on which she learned the badnews till the morning when she made her profession and took the finalvows of her order in the little convent church. But one greatobjection to psychological analysis in novels seems to be that thewriter never gets beyond analysing what he believes that he himselfwould have felt if placed in the 'situation' he has invented for hishero or heroine. Thus analysed, Angela Chiaromonte would not haveknown herself, any more than those who knew her best, such as MadameBernard and her aunt the Princess, would have recognised her. I shallnot try to 'factorise' the result represented by her state of mindfrom time to time; still less shall I employ a mathematical process toprove that the ratio of _dx_ to _dy_ is twice _x_, the change inAngela at any moment of her moral growth. 

What has happened must be logical, just because it has happened; if wedo not understand the logic, that may or may not be the worse for us, but the facts remain. 

It is easy, too, to talk of a 'vocation' and to lay down the lawregarding it, in order to say that such and such a woman acted wiselyin entering a religious order, or that such another made a mistake. The fact that there is no such law is itself the reason why neither aman nor a woman is permitted nowadays to take permanent vows untilafter a considerable period of probation, first as a 'postulant' andthen as a novice. 

For my own part, when Angela Chiaromonte left Madame Bernard'spleasant rooms in Trastevere and went into the convent hospital ofSanta Giovanna d'Aza through the green door, I do not believe that shehad the very smallest intention of becoming a nun, nor that she feltanything like what devout persons call a 'vocation. ' It was not todisappear from the world for ever that she went there, and it was notin order to be alone with her sorrow, though that would have been anatural and human impulse; nor was it because she felt herself drawnto an existence of asceticism and mystic meditation. 

The prospect of work was what attracted her. She was a perfectlyhealthy-minded girl, and though she might never cease to mourn the manshe had loved, it was to be foreseen that in all other respects shemight recover entirely from the terrible shock and live out a normallife. Under ordinary circumstances that is what would have happened;she would have gone back to the world after a time, outwardly thesame, though inwardly changed in so far as all possibilities of loveand marriage were concerned; she would have lived in society, yearafter year, growing old gracefully and tenderly, as some unmarriedwomen do whose stories we never knew or have forgotten, but whosehearts are far away, watching for the great To-morrow, beside a deadman's grave, or praying before an altar whence the god has departed. They are women whom we never call 'old maids, ' perhaps because we feelthat in memory they are sharing their lives with a well-lovedcompanion whom we cannot see. That might have been Angela's future. 

But a brutal fact put such a possibility out of the question. She wasa destitute orphan, living on the charity of her former governess, whereas her nature was independent, brave, and self-reliant. When sherose above the wave that had overwhelmed her, and opened her eyes andfound her senses again, her instinct was to strike out for herself, and though she talked with Monsignor Saracinesca again and again, shehad really made up her mind after her first conversation with him. Shesaw that she must work for her living, but at the same time she longedto devote her life to some good work for Giovanni's sake. Thechurchman told her that if she could learn to nurse the sick, shemight accomplish both ends. 

He never suggested that she should become a nun, or take upon herselfany permanent obligation. He had seen much of human nature; the girlwas very young, and perhaps he underrated the strength of her love forthe dead man, and thought that she might yet marry happily and live anormal woman's life. But there was no reason why she should not becomea trained nurse in the meantime, and there was room for her in thenuns' hospital of Saint Joan of Aza, an institution which owes itsfirst beginnings and much of its present success to the protection ofthe Saracinesca family, and more particularly to the Princess herself, the beautiful Donna Corona of other days, and to her second son, Monsignor Ippolito. The hospital was always in need of young nurses, especially since a good many of the older ones were going to the FarEast, and when there was a choice the Mother Superior gave thepreference to applicants from the better classes. 

The matter was therefore settled without difficulty, and Angela wassoon installed in the tiny room which remained her cell for yearsafterwards. It contained a narrow iron bedstead, and during the day asmall brass cross always lay on the white coverlet; there was a chestof drawers, a minute table on which stood an American nickeled alarumclock; there was one rush-bottomed chair, and the only window lookedwestwards over the low city wall towards Monteverde, where the powdermagazine used to stand before it was blown up. The window was latticedhalf-way up, which did not hinder Angela from seeing the view when shehad time to look at it. 

She wore a plain grey frock at first, but when she was in the wards itwas quite covered by the wide white cotton garment which all thenurses wore when on duty. Occasionally Madame Bernard came and tookher for a walk, and sometimes she went out on an errand with one ofthe nuns; but she did not care very much for that, possibly becauseshe was not under any restraint. The beautiful enclosed garden waswide and sunny, and she could generally be alone there; when theweather was fine she could wander about between the beds of roses andcarnations or sit on a bench, and if it rained she could walk up anddown under the cloisters. The three old nuns who came out to sunthemselves paid no attention to her, beyond nodding rather shakilywhen she bent her head to them in respectful salutation. They had seenmore than a hundred girls enter the convent, to work and grow old likethemselves, and one more neither made any difference to them norpossessed for them the least interest. That strange petrifaction hadbegun in them which overtakes all very old monks and nuns who havenever had very active minds. From doing the same things, with noappreciable variation, at the same hours for fifty, sixty, and evenseventy years, they become so perfectly mechanical that their bodiesare always in one of a limited number of attitudes, less and lesspronounced as great age advances, till they at last cease to move atall and die, as the hands of a clock stop when it has run down. 

But the three old nuns belonged to a past generation, and it was notprobable that the younger Sisters would ever be like them. The MotherSuperior was a small and active woman, with quick black eyes, adetermined mouth, and a strangely pale face. She seemed to beincapable of being tired. Among themselves the novices called her thelittle white volcano. When the one who had invented the epithetrepeated it to Monsignor Saracinesca in confession, and he gently toldher that it was wrong to speak disrespectfully of her superior, sherather pertly asked him whether any one who lived under a volcanocould fail to 'respect' it; whereat he shook his head gravely insidethe confessional, but his spiritual mouth twitched with amusement, inspite of himself. The four novices were inclined to distrust Angela atfirst, however, as she was not even a postulant, and it was not tillshe became one of themselves that she was initiated into theirlanguage. 

It was not long before this took place, however. From the first, sheshowed a most unusual aptitude in learning the mechanical part of herprofession, and her extraordinary memory made it easy for her toremember the lectures which were given for the nurses three times aweek, generally by the house surgeon, but occasionally by the greatDoctor Pieri, who had been a pupil of Basini of Padua and was aprofessor in the University of Rome. He showed especial interest inAngela, and the pert little novice wickedly suggested that he wasfalling in love with her; but the truth was that he at oncedistinguished in her the natural gifts which were soon to make her themost valuable nurse at his disposal. 

The Mother Superior expected that she would become vain and gave hersome energetic lectures on the evils of conceit. There was a sort offury of good about the pale woman that carried everything before it. She was just, but her righteous anger was a ready firebrand, and whenit burst into flame, as often happened, her eloquence wasextraordinary. Her face might have been carved out of white ice, buther eyes glowed like coals and her words came low, quick, and clear, and wonderfully to the point. As a girl, her temper had been terrific, and had estranged her from her own family; but her unconquerable willhad forged it into a weapon that never failed her in a just cause andwas never drawn in an unjust one. Monsignor Saracinesca sometimesthought that Saint Paul must have had the same kind of fiery andfearless temperament. 

It sometimes outran facts, if it always obeyed her intention, ashappened one day when she privately gave Angela a sermon on vanitywhich would have made the other novices tremble at the time and feelvery uncomfortable for several days afterwards. When she had wound upher peroration and finished, she drew two or three fierce littlebreaths and scrutinised the young girl's face; but to her surprise ithad not changed in the least. The clear young eyes were as steady andquiet as ever; if they expressed anything, it was a quiet admirationwhich the older woman had not hitherto roused in the younger membersof her community. 

'Pray for me, Mother, ' Angela said, 'and I will try to be less vain. '

The other looked at her again very keenly, and then, instead ofanswering, asked a question. 

'Why do you wish to be a nun?'

Angela had lately asked herself the same thing, but she replied withsome diffidence:

'If I can do a little good, by working very hard all my life, I hopethat it may be allowed to help the soul of a person who diedsuddenly. '

The Mother Superior's white face softened a little. 

'That is a good intention, ' she said. 'If it is sincere and lasting, you will be a good nun. You may begin your noviciate on Sunday if youhave made up your mind. '

'I am ready. '

'Very well. I have only one piece of advice to give you, and perhaps Ishall remind you of it often, for it was given to me very late, and Ishould have been the better for it. Try to remember what I tell you. '

'I will remember, Mother. '

'It is this. Count your failures but not your successes. You cannotsurprise God by the amount of good you do. There are girls who enterupon the noviciate just as hard-working students go up for anexamination, hoping to astonish their examiners by the amount theyknow. That is well enough at the university, but it is all wrong inreligion. Work how you will, you cannot be perfect, and, if you were, you could only be what God made man before sin came. Each student istrying to beat all the others, and one succeeds. We are not trying tooutdo each other; there are no marks in our examination and there isno competition. We are working together to save life in a world wheremillions die for want of care. To do less than the best we can isfailure, for each of us, and the best we can all do together is verylittle compared with all there is to be done. Faith, Hope, and Charityare all we have to help us, all we can ask of Heaven. Believe, hope, and help others while you live, and all will go well hereafter, neverfear! Not to help, not to believe, not to hope, even during onemoment, is to fail in that moment. Where the sum is light, it is easyto count the dark places, but not the light itself. That is what Imean, my daughter, when I say, keep account of your failures but notof your successes. Try to remember it. '

'Indeed I will, ' Angela answered. 

She went back to her work, and the Mother Superior's words thereafterbecame the rule of her life; but she was not sent for again to listento a lecture on vanity, and the small White Volcano was inclined tothink that it had made a mistake in breaking out, and inwardly offereda conditional apology. 

Angela worked hard, and made such progress that before the two yearsof her noviciate were over Doctor Pieri said openly that she was thebest surgical nurse in the hospital, and one of the best for ordinaryillnesses, considering how limited her experience had been. Thenursing of wounds is more mechanical than the nursing of a fever, forinstance, and can be sooner learned by a beginner, where the surgeonhimself is always at hand. On the other hand, the value of surgicalnursing depends on relative perfection of detail and rigorousadherence to the set rules of prophylaxis, whereas other nursing oftenrequires that judgment which only experience can give. Surgery is afine art that has reached a high degree of development in thetreatment of facts, about which good surgeons are generally right. Agreat deal of noise is made over surgeons' occasional mistakes, whichare advertised by their detractors, but we hear little of their steadyand almost constant success. Medicine, on the other hand, must veryoften proceed by guesswork; but for that very reason it covers up itsdefects more anxiously, and is more inclined to talk loudly of itsvictories. Every great physician admits that a good deal of hisscience is psychological; and psychology deals with the unknown, orwith what is only partially knowable. A mathematician may smile andanswer that 'infinity' is much more than partially 'unknowable, ' butthat, by using it, the differential calculus gives results of mostamazing accuracy, and is such a simple affair that, if its mere namedid not inspire terror, any fourth-form schoolboy could easily be madeto understand it, and even taught to use it. What we call the soul maybe infinite or infinitesimal, or finite, or it may be the HegelianNothing, which is Pure Being under another name; whatever it is, ouracquaintance with it is not knowledge of it, since whatever we canfind out about it is based on the Criticism exercised by Pure Reasonand not on experience; and the information which Pure Reason gives usabout the soul is not categorical but antinomial; and by the timemedicine gets into these transcendental regions, consciously orunconsciously, it ceases to be of much practical use in curing'pernicious anaemia' or any similarly obscure disease. 

All this digression only explains why Angela was a better nurse insurgical cases than in ordinary illnesses after she had been two yearsin training; but that circumstance is connected with what happened toher later, as will be clear in due time. 

In most respects she changed very little, so far as any one could see. No one in the convent knew how she hoped against all reason, duringthose two years, that Giovanni might yet be heard of, though there wasnot the least ground for supposing that he could have escaped when allthe others had perished; and indeed, while she still hoped, she feltthat it was very foolish, and when she had a long talk with MonsignorSaracinesca before taking the veil, she did not even speak of such apossibility. 

She had long ago decided that she would take the veil at theexpiration of the two years, but she wished to define her positionclearly to the three persons whom she cared for and respected most. These were Madame Bernard, Monsignor Saracinesca, and the MotherSuperior, whose three characters were as different as it would havebeen possible to pick out amongst the acquaintance of a lifetime. 

Angela asked permission to go with Madame Bernard to the cemetery ofSan Lorenzo, where a monument marked the grave of those who had fallenin the expedition. It was a large square pillar of dark marble, surmounted by a simple bronze cross. On the four sides there werebronze tablets, on which were engraved the names of the officers andmen, and that of Giovanni Severi was second, for he had been thesecond in command. 

No one was near and Angela knelt down upon the lowest of the threesteps that formed the base. After a moment Madame Bernard knelt besideher. The novice's eyes were fixed on the bronze tablet and her lipsdid not move. Her companion watched her furtively, expecting to seesome sign of profound emotion, or of grief controlled, or at least theshadow of a quiet sadness. But there was nothing, and after two orthree minutes Angela rose deliberately, went up the remaining steps, and pressed her lips upon the first letters of Giovanni's name. Sheturned and descended the steps with a serene expression, as MadameBernard got up from her knees. 

'Death was jealous of me, ' Angela said. 

She had never heard of Erinna; she did not know that a maiden poetesshad made almost those very words immortal in one lovely broken linethat has come down to us from five and twenty centuries ago. In theEverlasting Return they fell again from a maiden's lips, but theyroused no response; Madame Bernard took them for a bit of girlishsentiment, and scarcely heeded them, while she wondered at Angela'sstrangely calm manner. 

They walked back slowly along the straight way between the tombs. 

'I loved him living and I love him dead, ' said the young noviceslowly. 'He cannot come back to me, but some day I may go to him. '

'Yes, ' answered Madame Bernard without conviction. 

The next world had always seemed very vague to her; and besides, poorGiovanni had been a soldier, and she knew something of military men, and wondered where they went when they died. 

'You are a very good woman, ' Angela continued, following her own trainof thought; 'do you think it is wrong for a nun to love a dead man?'

'Dear me!' exclaimed the little Frenchwoman in some surprise. 'How canone love a man who is dead? It is impossible; consequently it is notwrong!'

Angela looked at her quickly and then walked on. 

'There is no such thing as death, ' she said. 

It was Filmore Durand's odd speech that had come back to her oftenduring two years; when she repeated it to herself she saw his portraitof Giovanni, which still hung in Madame Bernard's sitting-room, andpresently it was not a picture seen in memory, but Giovanni himself. 

Madame Bernard shrugged her shoulders and smiled vaguely. 

'Death is a fact, ' she said prosaically. 'It is the reason why wecannot live for ever!'

The reason was not convincing to Angela, but as she saw no chance ofbeing understood, she went back to the starting-point. 

'Then you do not think it can possibly be wrong for a nun to love someone who is dead?' she asked, her tone turning the statement into aquestion. 

'Of course not!' cried the governess almost impatiently. 'You might aswell think yourself in love with his tombstone and then fancy it asin!'

So one of Angela's three friends had answered her question verydefinitely. The answer was not worthless, because Madame Bernard was avery honest, matter-of-fact woman; on the contrary, it represented apractical opinion, and that is always worth having, though the view itdefines may be limited. Angela did not try to explain further what shehad meant, and Madame Bernard always avoided subjects she could notunderstand. The two chatted pleasantly about other things as theyreturned to the convent, and the little Frenchwoman trottedcontentedly back to her lodgings, feeling that the person she lovedbest in the world was certain to turn out a very good and happy nun. 

Angela was not yet so sure of this, and she took the first opportunityof consulting Monsignor Saracinesca. They sat and talked together onone of the stone seats in the cloistered garden. He is a tall, thinman, with a thoughtful face and a quiet manner. In his youth he wasonce entangled in the quarrels of a Sicilian family, as I havenarrated elsewhere, and behaved with great heroism. After that, helaboured for many years as a simple parish priest in a fever-plagueddistrict, and he only consented to return to Rome when he realisedthat his health was gravely impaired. 

Angela put her question with her usual directness and watched hisface. He knew her story, so that there was nothing to explain. 

'Is it wrong to love him still?' she asked. 

But Monsignor Ippolito did not speak until his silence had lasted solong that Angela was a little frightened; not that he had any realdoubt as to her intention, but because it was his duty to examine sucha case of conscience in all its aspects. 

'What does your own instinct tell you?' he asked at last. 

'That it will not be wrong, ' Angela answered with conviction. 'But Imay be mistaken. That is why I come to you for advice. '

Again the churchman mused in silence for a while. 

'I will tell you what I think, ' he said, when he had made up his mind. 'There is a condition, which depends only on yourself, and of whichyou are the only judge. You ask my advice, but I can only show you howto ask it of your own heart. If your love for the man who is gonelooks forward, prays and hopes, it will help you; if it looks backwith tears for what might have been and with longing for what cannever be, it will hinder you. More than that I cannot say. '

'I look forward, ' Angela answered confidently. 'I pray and I hope. '

'If you are sure of that, you are safe, ' said Monsignor Saracinesca. 'No one but yourself can know. '

'I began to work here hoping and praying that if I could do any goodat all it might help him, wherever he is, ' Angela went on. 'That isthe only vocation I ever felt, and now I wish to take the veil becauseI think that as a professed nun I may be able to use better whatlittle I have learned in two years and a half than if I stay on as alay sister. It is not for myself, except in so far as I know that theonly way to help him is to do my best here. As I hope that God may bemerciful to him, so I hope that God will accept my work, my prayers, and my faith. '

The prelate looked at the delicate face and earnest eyes, and thequietly spoken words satisfied him and a little more. There could benothing earthly in such love as that, he was sure, and such simplefaith would not be disappointed. It was not the first time in hisexperience as a priest that he had known and talked with a woman fromwhom sudden death had wrenched the man she loved, or whom inevitablecircumstances had divided from him beyond all hope of reunion; but hehad never heard one speak just as Angela spoke, nor seen that look inanother face. He was convinced, and felt that he could say nothingagainst her intention. 

But she herself was not absolutely sure even then, and she went to theMother Superior that evening to ask her question for the last time. The Mother was seated at her writing-table, and one strong electriclamp shed its vivid light from under a perfectly dark shade upon thepapers that lay under her hand and scattered before her--bills, household accounts, doctors' and nurses' reports, opened telegrams, humble-looking letters written on ruled paper and smart notes infashionable handwritings. People who imagine that the Mother Superiorof a nursing order which has branches in many parts of the worldspends her time in meditation and prayer are much mistaken. 

'Sit down, ' said the small white volcano, without looking up orlifting her thin forefinger from the column of figures she waschecking. 

The room would have been very dark but for the light which the whitepaper reflected upwards upon the nun's whiter face, and into the darkair. Angela sat down at a distance as she was bidden, and waited someminutes, till the Mother Superior had set her initials at the foot ofthe sheet with a blue pencil, and raised her face to peer into thegloom. 

'Who is it?' she asked in a businesslike tone, still dazzled by thelight. 

'I am Angela, Mother. May I ask you a question?'

'Yes. '

The voice had changed even in that single word, and was kind andencouraging. 

'Two years ago, before I became a novice, you asked me why I wanted tobe a nun, Mother. You thought my intention was good. Now that there isstill time before I make my profession, I have come to ask you onceagain what you think. '

'So far as I know, I think you can be a good nun, ' answered the MotherSuperior without waiting to hear more, for she never wasted time ifshe could possibly help it. 

Angela understood her and told her story quickly and clearly, withouta quiver or an inflection of pain in her voice. It was necessary, forthe Mother did not know it all, and listened with concentratedattention. But before it was ended she had made up her mind what tosay. 

'My dear child, ' said she, 'I am not your confessor! And besides, I amprejudiced, for you are a good nurse and I need you and wish you tostay. Do you feel that there is any reason why you should be lessconscientious than you have been so far, if you promise to go onworking with us as long as you live?'

'No, ' Angela answered. 

'Or that there is any reason why you should have less faith in God, less hope of heaven, or less charity towards your fellow-creatures ifyou promise to give your whole life to God, in nursing those whosuffer, with the hope of salvation hereafter?'

'No, I do not feel that there can be any reason. '

'Then do not torment yourself with any more questions, for life is tooshort! To throw away time is to waste good, and save evil. Believealways, and then work with all your might! Work, work, work! Work donefor God's sake is prayer to God, and a thousand hours on your kneesare not worth as much as one night spent in helping a man to live--orto die--when you are so tired that you can hardly stand, and every bonein your body aches, and you are half-starved too! Work for every onewho needs help, spare every one but yourself, think of every onebefore yourself. It is easy to do less than your best, it isimpossible to do more, and yet you must try to do more, always more, till the end! That should be a nun's life. '

The Mother Superior had led that life till it was little less than amiracle that she was still alive herself, and altogether a wonder thather fiery energy had not eaten up the small frail earthly part of herlong ago. 

'But it must not be for the sake of the end, ' she went on, beforeAngela could speak, 'else you will be working only for the hope ofrest, and you will try to kill yourself with work, to rest the sooner!You must think of what you are doing because it is for others, not forwhat it will bring you by and by, God willing. Pray to live long andto do much more before you die, if it be good; for there is no end ofthe sickness and suffering and pain in this world; but few are willingto help, and fewer still know how!'

She was silent, but her eyes were speaking still as Angela saw themlooking at her over the shaded light, her pale features illuminatedonly by the soft reflection from the paper on the table. 

The young girl felt a deep and affectionate admiration for her, andresolved never to forget the brave words, but to treasure them withthose others spoken two years ago: 'Count your failures but not yoursuccesses. '

She rose to take her leave, and, standing before the writing-table, with each hand hidden in the opposite sleeve, she bent her headrespectfully. 

'Thank you, Mother, ' she said. 

The nun nodded gravely, still looking at her, but said nothing more, and Angela left the room, shutting the door without noise. The MotherSuperior did not go back to her accounts at once, though her handmechanically drew the next sheet from the pile, so that it lay readybefore her. She was thinking of her own beginnings, more than twentyyears ago, and comparing her own ardent nature with what she knew ofAngela's: and then, out of her great experience of character, a doubtarose and troubled her strangely, though she opposed it as if it hadbeen a temptation to injustice, or at least to ungenerous thinking. Itwas a suspicion that such marvellous calm as this novice showed couldnot be all real; that there was something not quite explicable abouther perfect submission, humility, and obedience; that under thesaintly exterior a fire might be smouldering which would break outirresistibly some day, and not for good. 

The woman who had been tried doubted the untried novice. Perhaps itwas nothing more than that, and natural enough; but it was verydisturbing, because she also felt herself strongly attached to Angela, and to suspect her seemed not only unfair, but disloyal. Yet it wasthe bounden duty of the Mother to study the characters of all wholived under her authority and direction, and to forestall theirpossible shortcomings by a warning, an admonition, or an encouragingword, as the case might be. 

She had done what she could, but she was dissatisfied with herself;and at the very moment when Angela was inwardly repeating her stirringwords and committing them to memory for her lifetime, the woman whohad spoken them was tormented by the thought that she had not saidhalf enough, or still worse, that she had perhaps made a mistakealtogether. For the first time since she had fought her first greatbattle with herself, she had the sensation of being near a mysteriousforce of nature which she did not understand; but she had been twentyyears younger then, and the present issue was not to depend on her ownstrength but on another's, and it involved the salvation of another'ssoul. 

It was long before she bent over the columns of figures again, yet shedid not reproach herself with having wasted time. The first of all hermany duties, and the most arduous, was to think for others; to workfor them was a hundred times easier and was rest and refreshment bycontrast. 

Angela would have been very much surprised if she could have knownwhat was passing in the Mother Superior's mind, while she herself feltnothing but relief and satisfaction because her decision had nowbecome irrevocable. If she had been bidden to wait another year, shewould have waited patiently and without a murmur, because she couldnot be satisfied with anything less than apparent certainty; butinstead, she had been encouraged to take the final step, after whichthere could be no return. 

That was the inevitable. Human destiny is most tragic when the men andwomen concerned are doing their very utmost to act bravely anduprightly, while each is in reality bringing calamity on the other. 

Acting on the only evidence she had a right to trust, the MotherSuperior knew that she would not be justified in hindering Angela fromtaking the veil. Few had ever done so well in the noviciate, none hadever done better, and her natural talent for the profession of nursingwas altogether unusual. There had never been one like her in thehospital. As for her character, she seemed to have no vanity, nojealousy, no temper, no moodiness. The Mother had never known such aneven and well-balanced disposition as hers. Would it have been wise tokeep her back longer, because she seemed too perfect? Would it have beenjust? Would it not, indeed, have been very wrong to risk discouragingher, now that she was quite ready? She was almost twenty-one years oldand had taken no step hastily. More than two years and a half had passedsince she had entered the convent, and in all that time no one had beenable to detect the smallest fault in her, either of weakness or ofhastiness, still less of anything like the pride she might actually havefelt in her superiority. To keep her back now would be to accuseperfection of being imperfect; it would be as irrational as to callexcellence a failing. More than that, it would have a bad effect on thewhole community, a danger which could not be overlooked. 

Three years later, the Mother understood the warning doubt that hadassailed her; and when a precious life was in the balance she putherself on trial before her judging conscience and the witness of hermemory. But though the judge was severe and the testimony unerring, they acquitted her of all blame, and told her that she had acted forthe best, according to her light, on that memorable evening. 

Within less than a month Angela took the veil in the convent church, and thenceforth she was Sister Giovanna, for that was the name shechose. 

CHAPTER VIII

Five years after Giovanni Severi had left Rome to join the ill-fatedexpedition in Africa, his brother Ugo obtained his captaincy and atthe same time was placed in charge of the powder magazine atMonteverde, which Sister Giovanna could see in the distance from herlatticed window. The post was of considerable importance, but was notcoveted because it required the officer who held it to live at aconsiderable distance from the city, with no means of getting intotown which he could not provide for himself; for there is no tramwayleading down the right bank of the Tiber. The magazine was actuallyguarded by a small detachment of artillery under two subalterns whotook the night duty by turns, and both officers and men were relievedat regular intervals by others; but the captain in command held hispost permanently and lived in a little house by himself, a stone'sthrow from the gate of the large walled enclosure in which the lowbuildings stood. For some time it had been intended to build a smallresidence for the officer in charge, but this had not been begun atthe date from which I now take up my story. 

The neighbourhood is a lonely one, but there are farm-houses scatteredabout at varying distances from the high-road which follows the river, mostly in the neighbourhood of the hill that bears the name ofMonteverde and seems to have been the site of a villa in which JuliusCęsar entertained Cleopatra. 

As every one will understand, Ugo Severi's duties consisted in keepingan account of the ammunition and explosives deposited in the vaults ofthe magazine and in exercising the utmost vigilance against fire andother accidents. The rule against smoking, for instance, did not applyoutside the enclosure, but Ugo gave up cigarettes, even in his ownhouse, as soon as he was appointed to the post, and took care thatevery one should know that he had done so. 

He was a hard-working, hard-reading, rather melancholic man who hadnever cared much for society and preferred solitude to a club; a fairman, with the face of a student and not over robust, but neverthelessenergetic and determined where his duty was concerned. He lived alonein the little house, with his orderly, a clever Sicilian, who cookedfor him; a peasant woman from a neighbouring farm-house came everymorning to sweep the rooms, make the two beds, and scrub the two stonesteps before the door and clean the kitchen. 

The house was like hundreds of other little houses in the Campagna. Onthe ground floor there was a cross-vaulted hall where the Captaintransacted business and received the reports of the watch; there was atiny kitchen also, a stable at the back for two horses, and a narrowchamber adjoining it, in which Pica, the orderly, slept. Upstairsthere was only one story, consisting of a large room with a loggialooking across the river towards San Paolo, a bedroom of moderatedimensions, and a dressing-room. 

The place was more luxuriously furnished than might have beenexpected, for though Captain Ugo was not a rich man, he was by nomeans dependent on his pay. General Severi had lived to retrieve apart of his fortune, and had died rather suddenly of heart-failureafter a bad attack of influenza, leaving his property to be dividedequally between his two surviving sons and their sister. The latterhad married away from Rome, and Ugo's younger brother was in the navy, so that he was now the only member of his family left in Rome. 

He was a man of taste and reading, who had entered the army to pleasehis father and would have left it on the latter's death if he had notbeen persuaded by his superiors that he had a brilliant career beforehim and might be a general at fifty, if he stuck to the service. Hehad answered that he would do so if he might have some post of trustin which he would have time for study; the command of the magazine atMonteverde was vacant just then, and as no more influential personwanted to live in such a dull place, he got it. 

Yet his house was not much more than a mile from the gate, by a goodhigh-road; whence it is clear that his solitude was a matter of choiceand not of necessity. He had few friends, however, and none who showedany inclination to come and see him, though his acquaintances werenumerous; for he had been rather popular in society when a youngsubaltern, and had been welcome wherever his elder brother Giovannitook him. 

Giovanni had been very reticent about his affairs, even with his ownfamily, and during that last winter in Rome, when he had fallen inlove with Angela Chiaromonte, Ugo had been stationed in Pavia and hadknown nothing of the affair. Ugo had a vague recollection thatGiovanni was supposed to have been unduly devoted to the gay Marchesadel Prato when he had been a mere stripling of a sub-lieutenant, freshfrom the Military Academy and barely twenty, though the Marchesa hadbeen well over thirty, even then. Ugo had been introduced to her longafterwards, when she was the Princess Chiaromonte, and she had shownthat she liked him, and had asked him to a dance, to which he had notgone simply because he had given up dancing. 

The Princess, however, had misunderstood his reason for not acceptingher invitation and had supposed that he kept away because he had knownAngela's story and resented, for his brother's sake, the treatment thegirl had received. In an hour of idleness, it now occurred to her thatshe might find out whether she had been mistaken in this. 

For some one had spoken of Giovanni on the previous evening, inconnection with a report that had lately reached Rome to the effectthat an Italian officer, hitherto supposed to have been among the deadafter the battle of Dogali, had been heard of and was living inslavery somewhere in the interior of Africa. A newspaper had made agood story of the matter, out of next to nothing, and it had been asubject of conversation during two or three days. The lady who told itto the Princess Chiaromonte had been one of her most assiduous andintimate enemies for years, and, in order to make her uncomfortable, advanced the theory that the officer in question was no other thanGiovanni Severi himself. 

The Princess was not so easily disturbed, however, and smiled in herdesigning friend's face. The poor man was dead and buried, she said, andevery one knew it. The report rested on nothing more substantial than aletter said to have been written by an English traveller and lion-hunterto one of the secretaries at the British Embassy in Washington, who wassaid, again, to have mentioned the fact to an Italian colleague, who hadrepeated it in writing to his sister, who lived somewhere in Piedmontand had spoken of it to some one else; and so on, till the story hadreached the ears of a newspaper paragraph-writer who was hard up for a'stick' of 'copy. ' All this the Princess knew, or invented, and she ranoff her explanation with a fluency that disconcerted her assailant. 

The immediate result was that she bethought her of Ugo Severi, whomshe had passed lately in her motor as he was riding leisurely alongthe road beyond Monteverde. She had noticed him because her chauffeurhad slackened speed a little, and she had nodded to him, though it wasnot likely that he should recognise her face through her veil. She hadthought no more about him at the time, but she now telephoned to afriend at headquarters to find out where he was living, and she soonlearned that he was in charge of the magazine. 

After a little reflection, she wrote him a note, recalling theiracquaintance and the fact that she had known his poor brother verywell. She had never seen a powder magazine, she said; would he showthe one at Monteverde to her and two or three friends, next Wednesday?

Ugo answered politely that this was quite impossible without a specialpermission from the Commander-in-Chief or the War Office, and that hegreatly regretted his inability to comply with her request. As he wasa punctilious man, though he lived almost like a hermit, he took thetrouble to send his orderly into the city on the following afternoonwith a couple of cards to be left at the Palazzo Chiaromonte for thePrince and Princess, in accordance with Roman social custom. 

A few days later a smart 'limousine' drew up to the door of Ugo'slittle house and a footman rang the old-fashioned bell, which went ontinkling in the distance for a long time after the rusty chain hadbeen pulled. Ugo's Sicilian orderly opened the door at last in aleisurely way and appeared on the threshold in grey linen fatiguedress; on seeing the car and the Princess he straightened himself andsaluted. 

His master was riding, he said, and would not come home for an hour. The Princess wrote a message on a card, asking if Ugo would come andsee her any day after five o'clock, and she wrote down the number ofher telephone. She gave the card to the man, and by way of impressingits importance on him, added that she was a very old friend of thefamily and had known the Captain's mother as well as the brother whohad been lost in Africa. She also smiled sweetly, for the Sicilian wasa handsome young man; she had a way of smiling at handsome men whenshe was speaking to them, especially if she wished them to rememberwhat she said. 

When the car was gone, Salvatore Pica, the orderly, shut the door andwent into the hall where the telephone was. He looked at the visitingcard before leaving it on the brass salver on the table, where lettersand reports were placed for the Captain whenever he was out; and beingan intelligent man and considerably impressed by what the Princess hadtold him, he promptly wrote the name, address, and telephone number inthe address-book which hung by a string beside the instrument. For Ugonever telephoned himself if he could help it, and was careless aboutaddresses, which it was Pica's business to copy and have at hand whenneeded. 

Moreover, the Princess had represented herself as being a very oldfriend of the Captain's family, and Pica mentally noted the fact, because he had often wondered that his master should apparently haveno intimate friends at all, though he was evidently respected andliked by his brother-officers. 

When Ugo came home and dismounted at the door, Pica at once told himof the Princess's visit, repeating her message without a mistake, andadding that he had copied her name and address in the telephone-book. The Captain nodded gravely and looked at the card before he wentupstairs, but said nothing to his man. Being very careful andpunctilious in such matters, as I have said, he wrote a line thatevening, thanking the Princess for her kind invitation and saying thathe hoped to avail himself of it some day, but that he was very busyjust at present. This was true, in a sense, for he had just receivedan important new book in two thick volumes, which he was anxious toread without delay. The fact that it was an exhaustive history ofConfucianism, and could not be considered as bearing on hisprofessional duties, was not likely to interest the Princess. 

She was not used to such rebuffs, however, and before long she madeanother attempt. This time she herself called up Pica and asked him atwhat hour the Captain could see her on a matter of importance. Whenthe orderly delivered the message, Severi was at first inclined tomake an excuse; but the Princess's persistency in trying to see himwas obvious, and as he thought it possible that she might wish to askhim some question relating to Giovanni, he bade Pica answer that hewould stay at home that afternoon, if it suited her convenience tocome. She replied that she would appear about four o'clock. 

Ugo was buried in the history of Confucianism when his man came totell him this, and he merely nodded, but looked up quickly when Picaturned to the door. 

'Shave and dress, ' he said laconically, and at once began to readagain. 

It was the order he gave when he expected the visit of a superiorofficer, for as a rule Pica only shaved twice a week, and never put ona cloth tunic except when he had leave for the afternoon and evening. The little house at Monteverde was a lonely place and the soldier didno military duty, living the life of an ordinary house servant. It wasa good place, for the Captain was generous. 

With an affectation of extreme punctuality, the Princess's footmanrang the bell at four o'clock precisely, and almost before the distanttinkle was heard Pica opened the door wide and saluted the visitor, flattening himself against the door-post to give her plenty of room. He looked very smart in his best uniform, and she smiled and glancedat his handsome Saracen face as she passed in. He shut the door atonce, leaving the footman outside. 

At the same moment Captain Severi was descending the short flight ofstone steps to meet her. He was not very like Giovanni, but in thehalf-light the Princess saw a resemblance that made her start. Ugo wasless energetically built, but he wore his uniform well and there wasmuch in his gait and the outline of his figure that recalled hisbrother. 

The Princess took his hand almost affectionately and held it insilence for a moment while she looked into his mild blue eyes. Picanoticed her manner, which certainly confirmed what she had said aboutbeing a friend of the family. 

The mere suggestion of a delicate and exotic perfume had floated intothe house with her. At first it faintly recalled Indian river grass, but presently Ugo thought it reminded him of muscatel grapes, and thenagain of dried rose leaves and violets. She smiled as she withdrew herhand, and spoke. 

'You did not guess that a woman could be so persistent, did you?'

Ugo also smiled, but without cordiality, and then led the wayupstairs. On reaching the large room, the Princess looked about her, judged the man, and at once expressed her admiration for his goodsense in leading a student's life, instead of squandering his time inthe futilities of society. 

The Captain did not ask her what she wanted of him, but offered tomake tea for her, and she saw that a little table had been set for thepurpose. Everything was very simple, but looked so serviceable thatshe accepted, judging that she ran no risk of being poisoned. In Italyit is only society that drinks tea. It was a little early for it, butthat did not matter. The water was boiling in a small copper kettleshaped like a flat sponge-cake, the tea-caddy was Japanese, and theteapot was of plain brown earthenware, but the two cups were of rareold Capodimonte and the spoons were evidently English. She noticedalso that the sugar was of the 'crystallised' kind, and was in acuriously chiselled silver bowl. The Princess had a good eye fordetails. 

'You seem to have made yourself very comfortable in your remote littlehouse, ' she laughed, with approval. 

'I only hope that you may be, as long as you please to stay, ' heanswered, making the tea scientifically. 

It was very good, and she chatted idly while she slowly drank it andnibbled a thin, crisp biscuit. When she had finished he took her cupand offered to refill it, but she declined and leaned back comfortablyin the big red leather easy-chair. 

'I daresay you heard that story about an officer who is reported to beliving in slavery in Africa?' she said, her tone changing and becomingvery grave. 

Ugo had read of it in the newspapers. 

'Did it occur to you, as it did to me, that he might be Giovanni?' sheasked. 

It had occurred to him and he had made inquiries at the War Office, but had been told that the story had no foundation. He had expected noother answer. The Princess was silent for a moment. 

'One grasps at straws, ' she said presently, in a low voice. 

He understood that she had really cared for his brother, and looked ather with more interest than he had hitherto shown. 

'I am afraid that there is not the slightest possibility of his beingalive, ' he said, with a sadness in which there was also some sympathyfor her. 

She had hoped for an indiscreet question, which would allow her to saysomething more. It was of no real importance to her to know whether hebore her any grudge or not, but since she had taken so much trouble tosee him she did not mean to go away without knowing the truth, andthough her curiosity was a mere caprice, it was perhaps not a veryunreasonable one. 

'Had you seen much of him during the last months before he went toAfrica?' she asked. 'I did not know you till long after that, youknow. I think you were always away?'

'I was stationed in Pavia, ' the Captain answered. 'Giovanni joined theexpedition at short notice and I was not able to see him before hestarted. I have always regretted it, for we had not met for eighteenmonths. '

'You were never very intimate, I suppose?' suggested the Princess. 

'We were always very good friends, but after he was appointed to theStaff we saw little of each other. '

The Princess mused in silence for a few moments. 

'I was very fond of him, ' she said at last. 'Did he ever talk about meto you?'

'No, ' Ugo answered. 'Not that I can remember. '

Their eyes met and she saw that he was telling the truth, as, in fact, he always did. 

'I suppose you have heard that he was in love with my poor niece, whowent into a convent after he was lost?' she said tentatively, andwatching his face. 

'Indeed?' He showed more interest. 'I never heard of that. Were theyengaged to be married?'

'No. At least, there was no formal engagement. My brother-in-law waskilled in a motor accident just at that time. Then Giovanni went toMassowah, and you know the rest. But they were very much in love witheach other, and Angela was broken-hearted. '

She now knew what she had come to find out, and she did not care torouse his curiosity as to her own share in the story, since no gossiphad taken the trouble to enlighten him. 

'Has she taken permanent vows?' he asked. 

'Yes. Three years ago, and now it is said that she means to go out tothe Rangoon Leper Hospital. I daresay you have heard that a good manynuns do that. It is almost certain death and we all feel very badlyabout Angela. '

'Poor girl!' exclaimed Ugo. 'She must have cared for him so much thatshe is tired of living. Very few of those Sisters ever come back, Ibelieve. '

'None, ' said the Princess Chiaromonte in a tone that would certainlyhave arrested his attention if he had known everything. 'It is thesaddest thing in the world, ' she went on quickly, fearing that herhatred had betrayed itself. 'To think that year after year those goodwomen voluntarily go to certain death! And not even to save life, forlepers cannot be cured, you know. The most that can be done is toalleviate their suffering!'

She said this very well, though the words were hackneyed. 

'It is heroic, ' said Captain Ugo quietly. 

She stayed some time longer, and he showed her the finest of his booksand a number of old engravings and etchings; and these reallyimpressed her because she knew something of their current value, whichwas her only standard in judging works of art. At last she showed thatshe was thinking of going. Women of the world generally give warningof their approaching departure, as an ocean steamer blows its horn atintervals before it starts. The Princess's voice was suddenlycolourless and what she said became more and more general, till sheobserved that it was really a lovely day. She looked down at her skirtcritically and then glanced quickly at the walls, one after another. When you do not know what a woman is looking for in an unfamiliardrawing-room, it is a mirror to see whether her hat is straight. ThePrincess saw none and rose gracefully out of the deep easy-chair. 

'It has been such a great pleasure to see you!' she said, thecordiality returning to her tone as soon as she was on her feet. 

'I am very much obliged for your visit, ' Ugo answered politely, because nothing else occurred to him to say, and he clapped his heelstogether with a jingle of his spurs as he took her proffered hand. 

He was neither shy nor dull of comprehension where women wereconcerned, and he understood quite well that she had not come with theintention of making an impression on him, nor out of mere curiosity tosee what Giovanni's brother was like. He knew what her reputation hadbeen, but he did not know whether she had retired from the lists atlast or still kept the field; and he cared very little, though he hadsometimes reflected that whereas Balzac had written of the Woman ofThirty, the 'woman of forty' was still to be studied by a clevernovelist; unless, indeed, Sophocles had made an end of her for everwhen Jocasta hanged herself. One thing, however, was clear: thePrincess had not sought him out with any idea of casting upon him thespell of a flirtation to make him a sort of posthumous substitute forhis brother. She had faced the light boldly several times in thecourse of her visit, so that he had seen the fine lines of middle ageabout her mouth and eyes very distinctly, and she had not made anyattempt to show herself off before him, nor to lead him on withsubdued confidences concerning the human affections as she had knownthem. He believed that she had come to find out whether he thoughtthat Giovanni might possibly be alive or not, and he rather liked herfor what seemed to him her frankness and courage, and wasunconsciously flattered, as the best men may be, by her trusting himso simply. 

No doubt it might be true that since the world had put up with herrather reckless behaviour for over fifteen years, her reputation wouldnot be lost at this late date by her spending an hour at the rooms ofan officer who was quartered out of town. No doubt, too, that samereputation was a coat of many colours, on which one small stain morewould scarcely show at all, but she had never been in the habit ofrisking spots for nothing. Moreover, it is a curious fact that men arebetter pleased at being trusted by a clever woman who has had manyadventures than when an angel of virtue places her good name undertheir protection: there is less irksome responsibility in playingconfidant to Lady Jezebel than in being guardian to the impeccableLucretia. 

If nothing more had happened, the Princess's visit would have hadlittle or no importance in this story; but as things turned out, theincident was one of the links in a chain of events which led to asingularly unexpected and dramatic conclusion, as will before longclearly appear. 

Fate often behaves like a big old lion, when he opens his sleepy eyesand catches a first sight of you as he lies alone, far out on theplain. He lifts his tawny head and gazes at you quietly for severalseconds and then lowers it as if not caring what you do. You creepnearer, cautiously, noiselessly, and holding your breath, till somefaint noise you make rouses his attention again and he takes anotherlook at you, longer this time and much less lazy, while you standmotionless. Nevertheless, you are only a man, and not worth killing;if he is an old lion, he may have eaten a score like you, white andblack, but he is not hungry just now and wants to sleep. Down goes hishead again, and his eyes shut themselves for another nap. On you go, stealthily, nearer and nearer, your rifle ready in both hands. But adry stalk of grass cracks under your foot, and almost before you canstand still he is up and glaring at you, his long tufted tail showingupright against the sky. If you move, even to lift your gun to yourshoulder, he will charge; and sooner or later, move you must. Then, suddenly, he is bounding forward, by leap after leap, hurling his hugestrength through the air, straight at you, and as the distance lessensyou see his burning eyes with frightful distinctness. Two more suchbounds as the last will do it. Take care, for within ten secondseither you or he will be dead. There is no other end possible. 

Fate does not always kill, it is true; but you have not that onechance against her which your weapon gives you against the lion, andshe may maul you badly before she has done with you, even worse thanthe biggest cat would. 

It was not Ugo Severi's fate that was waking, and that began to looktowards Monteverde when Princess Chiaromonte paid him a visit. It wasnot even the Princess's own. 

When she was gone, he went back to his history of Confucianism, andPica got into his grey linen fatigue suit again, and carefully brushedhis smart uniform before folding it and putting it away in the chest. Then he washed the tea-things, rubbed the two silver spoons with aspecial leather he kept for them, and shut up everything in thecupboard. After that, he opened the front door and sat down on thebrick seat that ran along the front of the house. He would have likedto smoke a pipe, but Captain Ugo was very particular about that, so hetook out half of a villainous-looking 'napoletano' cigar, bit offthree-quarters of an inch of it, and returned the small remainder tohis pocket; and after a few minutes he concluded, as usual, that achew was far cheaper than a smoke and lasted much longer. 

As the sun sank he looked across the yellow river towards SaintPaul's, and because he had been bred in sight of the sea it struck himthat the distant belfry tower was very like a lighthouse, and hesmiled at the thought, which has occurred to men of more cultivationthan he had. 

His eyes wandered to his left, and the sunset glow was on the low citywalls, not a mile away, reddening the upper story of an ancientconvent beyond. His sharp eyes counted the windows mechanically, andone of them belonged to the cell of Sister Giovanna, the Dominicannun, though he did not know it; and much less did he guess that beforevery long he himself, and his master, and the fine lady who had comein a motor that afternoon, were all to play their parts in the nun'slife. If he had known that, he would have tried to guess which windowwas hers. 

The first bitter tang of the vile tobacco was gone out of it, and Picathoughtfully rolled the quid over his tongue to the other side of hismouth. At that moment he was aware of a man in a little brown hat andshabby clothes who must have come round the house very quietly, fromthe direction of the magazine, for he was already standing still nearthe corner, looking at him. 

'What do you want?' Pica asked rather sharply. 

The man looked like a bad character, but raised his hat as he answeredwith a North Italian accent. 

'I am a stranger, ' he said. 'Can you tell me how to reach the nearestgate?'

'There is the road, ' the soldier replied, pointing to it, 'and thereis Rome, and the nearest gate is Porta Portese. '

'Thank you, ' the man said, and went on his way. 

CHAPTER IX

During the month of December the Princess Chiaromonte fell ill, muchto her own surprise and that of her children, for such a thing hadnever happened to her since she had been a mere child and had caughtthe measles; but there was no mistaking the fact that she now had abad attack of the influenza, with high fever, and her head felt verylight. During the first two days, she altogether refused to stay inher room, which made matters worse; but on the third morning sheyielded and stayed in bed, very miserable and furiously angry withherself. It had always been her favourite boast that she never caughtcold, never had a headache, and never broke down from fatigue; andconsidering the exceedingly gay life she had led she certainly hadsome cause to be vain of her health. 

Her eldest daughter and her maid took care of her that day, and hermaid sat up with her during the following night, after which it becamequite clear that she must have a professional nurse. The doctorinsisted upon it, though the Princess herself flew into a helplessrage at the mere suggestion; and then, all at once, and before thedoctor had left the room, she began to talk quite quietly aboutordering baby frocks and a perambulator, though her youngest boy wasalready twelve years old and went to school at the Istituto Massimo. The doctor and the maid looked at each other. 

'I will telephone for one of the White Sisters, ' the doctor said. 'They are the ones I am used to and I know the Mother Superior. '

It happened that the nurses of Santa Giovanna were much in demand atthat time, for there was an epidemic of influenza in the city, and asthey were almost all both ladies and Italians, society peoplepreferred them to those of other orders. Three-quarters of an hourafter the doctor had telephoned, one of them appeared at the PalazzoChiaromonte, a rather stout, grave woman of forty or more, who knewher business. 

She at once said, however, that she had come on emergency, but couldnot stay later than the evening, when another Sister would replaceher; it would be her turn on the next morning to begin her week assupervising nun in the Convent hospital, a duty taken in rotation bythree of the most experienced nuns, and it was absolutely necessarythat she should have her night's rest before taking charge of thewards. 

The Princess had fallen into a state of semi-consciousness which wasneither sleep nor stupor, but partook of both, and her face wasscarlet from the fever. Two or three times in the course of theafternoon, however, she was evidently aware of the nurse's presence, and she submitted without resistance to all that was done for her. Themaid, who had been in the sick-room all night and all the morning, wasnow asleep, and the doctor had advised that the children should bekept away from their mother altogether. When the doctor came again, about six o'clock, the nun explained her own position to him, andbegged him to communicate with the Convent before leaving the palace, as the Princess should certainly not be left without proper care, evenfor an hour. He did what she asked, and the answer came back in theMother Superior's own voice. She said that she was very short ofnurses, and that it would be extremely inconvenient to send one, andshe therefore begged of him to get a Sister from another order. 

He replied very crossly that he would do nothing of the sort, that hebelieved in the White Sisters and meant to have a White Sister, andthat a White Sister must come, and a good one; and that if it was onlya matter of inconvenience, it was better that the Convent should beinconvenienced for him than that he should be disappointed; and headded so much more to the same effect, with so many emphaticrepetitions, that the Mother Superior promised to break all rules andcome herself within an hour if no other Sister were available. For shehad a very high regard for him, in spite of his rough tone and harshvoice. 

Her difficulty was a very simple one. The only nurse who was free thatevening was Sister Giovanna, who had returned just before mid-day froma case that had ended badly, and she had been asleep ever since. Butthe Mother Superior knew how the Princess had treated her niece androbbed her of her fortune, and she could not foresee what might happenif the young nun took charge of the case. After giving her somewhatrash promise to the doctor, she sent for her, therefore, and explainedmatters. 

'I do not think that my aunt will recognise me, ' said Sister Giovanna. 'She has never set eyes on me since I was a girl of eighteen in deepmourning. Our dress changes us very much, and I must have changed, too, in five years. Even my voice is not the same, I fancy. '

The Mother Superior looked at her keenly. She was very fond of her, but it had never occurred to her to consider whether the youngSister's appearance had altered or not. Yet her own memory for faceswas good, and when she recalled the features of the slim, fair-hairedgirl in black whom she had first seen, and compared the recollectionwith the grave and almost saintly face before her, closely confined bythe white wimple and gorget, and the white veil that bound theforehead low above the serious brow, she really did not believe thatany one could easily recognise the Angela of other days. 

'I suppose I never realise how changed we all are, ' she saidthoughtfully. 'But do you not think the Princess Chiaromonte mayremember you when she hears your name?'

'Many Sisters have taken it, ' Sister Giovanna answered. 'And, afterall, what harm can there be? If she recognises me and is angry, shecan only send me away, and meanwhile she will be taken care of, atleast for the night. That is the main thing, Mother, and one of theSisters will surely be free to-morrow morning. '

So the matter was settled. Sister Giovanna got her well-worn littleblack bag, her breviary, and her long black cloak, and in half-an-hourshe was ascending the grand staircase of the palace in which she hadlived as a child. 

She felt more emotion than she had expected, but no sign betrayed thatshe was moved, nor showed the servant who led her through theapartments and passages that she was familiar with every turn. Thoughshe went through the great hall and her feet trod upon the very spotwhere the dead Knight of Malta had lain in state, not a sigh escapedher, nor one quickly-drawn breath. 

She was ushered to the very room that had been her father's, and stoodwaiting after the servant had tapped softly at the door. The other nuncame out noiselessly and pulled the door after her without quiteclosing it. She explained the case to Sister Giovanna, and said thatthe Princess seemed to be asleep again. She probably knew nothing ofany relationship between the patient and Sister Giovanna; but if sheremembered anything of the latter's story, it was not her business tocomment on the circumstance, even mentally. Even in the nursingorders, where the real names of the Sisters may often be known toothers besides the Mother Superior, the Sisters themselvesscrupulously respect one another's secret, though it may be almost anopen one, and never discuss the identity of a member of theircommunity. Where nuns are cloistered, actual secrecy is preserved asfar as possible, and though a Sister may sometimes talk to anotherabout her former life, and especially of her childhood, she nevermentions her family by name, even though she may be aware that thetruth is known. 

Sister Giovanna entered the sick-room alone, as the other nurse seemedto think that the unexpected sight of two nuns might disturb thepatient. If the Princess noticed the new face, when she next openedher eyes, she made no remark and showed no surprise; so that SisterGiovanna felt quite sure of not having been recognised. There was verylittle light in the room, too, by the doctor's advice, and a highscreen covered with old Cordova leather stood between the bed and thetable on which the single shaded candle was placed. 

The nun stood beside the pillow and looked long at the face of thewoman who had wronged her so cruelly and shamefully. After a fewseconds she could see her very distinctly in the shadow; the featureswere flushed and full, and strangely younger than when she had lastseen them, as often happens with fair people of a certain age at thebeginning of a sharp fever, when the quickened pulse sends the hotblood to the cheeks and brings back the vivid brilliancy of youth. Butthe experienced nurse knew that and was not surprised. After takingthe temperature and doing all she could for the moment, she left thebedside and sat down to read her breviary by the light on the otherside of the screen. The illness was only an attack of influenza afterall, and she knew how strong her aunt had always been; there was nocause for anxiety, nor any necessity for sitting constantly withinsight of the patient. Twice an hour she rose, went to the sick woman'sside and gave her medicine, or drink, or merely smoothed the pillow alittle, as the case might be, and then came back to the table. ThePrincess was not so restless as most people are in fever, and she didnot try to talk, but took whatever was given her like a model ofresignation. The delirium had left her for the present. 

Reading slowly, and often meditating on what she read, Sister Giovannadid not finish the office for the day and close her book till nearlymidnight. Her old watch lay on the table beside the candlestick, andher eyes were on the hands as she waited till it should be exactlytwelve before taking the patient's temperature again. But it stillwanted three minutes of the hour when the Princess's voice broke theprofound silence. The words were spoken quietly, in a far-away tone:

'I stole it. '

Sister Giovanna started more nervously than a nurse should, and lookedstraight at the screen as if she could see her aunt's face through theleather. In a few seconds she heard the voice again, and though thetone was lower, the words were as distinct as if spoken close to herear. 

'I hid it on me, and left my little bag behind on purpose because thefootman would be sure to open that, to take my cigarettes. I knew heoften did. It was very clever of me was it not? He will swear that hewent back for the bag and that there were no papers in it. '

It was not the first time, by many, that Sister Giovanna had heard adelirious patient tell a shameful secret that had been kept long andwell. She rose with an effort, pressing one hand upon the table. Itwas plainly her duty to prevent any further revelations if she couldand to forget what she had heard; for a trained nurse's standard ofhonour must be as high as a doctor's, since she is trusted as he is. 

Yet the nun waited a moment before going round the screen, unconsciously arguing that if the patient did not speak again it wouldbe better not to disturb her at that moment. To tell the truth, too, Sister Giovanna had not fully understood the meaning of what her aunthad said. She stood motionless during the long pause that followed thelast words. 

Then, without warning, the delirious woman began to laugh, vacantlyand foolishly at first, and with short interruptions of silence, butthen more loudly, and by degrees more continuously, till the spasmsgrew wild and hysterical, and bad to hear. Sister Giovanna wentquickly to her and at once tried to put a stop to the attack. ThePrincess was rolling her head from side to side on the pillows, withher arms stretched out on each side of her and her white hands clawingat the broad hem of the sheet with all their strength, as if they musttear the fine linen to strips, and she was shrieking withuncontrollable laughter. 

Sister Giovanna bent down and grasped one arm firmly with both hands. 

'Control yourself!' she said in a tone of command. 'Stop laughing atonce!'

The Princess shrieked again and again. 

'Silence!' cried the nurse in a stern voice, and she shook the arm sheheld with a good deal of roughness, for she knew that there was noother way. 

The delirious woman screamed once more, and then gulped several timesas if she were going to sob; at last she lay quite still for a moment, gazing up into her nurse's eyes. Then a change came into her face, andshe spoke in a hoarse whisper, and as if frightened. 

'Are you going to refuse me absolution for taking the will?' sheasked. 

The question was so unexpected that Sister Giovanna did not findanything to say at once, and before any words occurred to her thePrincess was speaking hurriedly and earnestly, but still in a loudwhisper, which occasionally broke into a very low and trembling toneof voice. 

'I did it for the best. What could that wretched girl have done withthe money, even if the lawyers had proved the will good? Why did notmy brother-in-law get civilly married, instead of leaving his daughterwithout so much as a name? There must have been a reason. Perhaps shewas not really his wife's child! It was all his fault, and the willwas not legal and would only have given trouble if I had let them findit! So I took it away, and burned it in my own room. What harm wasthere in that? It saved so many useless complications, and we had aright to the fortune! The lawyers said so! I cannot see that it wasreally a sin at all, Father, indeed I cannot! I have confessed it froma scruple of conscience, and you will not refuse me absolution! Howcan you, when I say I am sorry for it? Yes, yes, I am!' The voice roseto a low cry. 'Since you say it was a sin I repent, I will--what? Youare not in earnest, Father? Make restitution? Give the whole fortuneto a nun? Oh, no, no! You cannot expect me to do that! Rob my childrenof what would have been theirs even if I had not taken the will? It isout of the question, I tell you! Utterly out of the question! Besides, it is not mine at all--I have not got a penny of it! It is all myhusband's and I cannot touch it--do you understand?'

Sister Giovanna had listened in spite of herself. 

'The nun expects nothing and does not want the money, ' she said, bending down. 'Try to rest now, for you are very tired. '

'Rest?' cried the Princess, starting up in bed and leaning on onehand. 'How can I rest when it torments me day and night? I come to youfor absolution and you refuse it, and tell me to rest!'

She broke into a wild laugh again, but Sister Giovanna instantlyseized her arm as she had done before, and spoke in the samecommanding way. 

'Be silent!' she said energetically. 

The delirious woman began to whine. 

'You are so rough, Father--so unkind to-day! What is the matter withyou? You never treated me like this before!'

She was sobbing the next moment, and real tears trickled through herfingers as she covered her face with her hands. 

'You see--how--how penitent I am!' she managed to cry in a broken voice. 'Have pity, Father!'

She was crying bitterly, but though she was out of her mind the nuncould not help feeling that she was acting a part, even in herdelirium, and in spite of the tears that forced themselves through herhands and ran down, wetting the lace and spotting the scarlet ribbonsof her elaborate nightdress. Sister Giovanna put aside the thought asa possibly unjust judgment, and tried to quiet her. 

'If you are really sorry for what you did, you will be forgiven, ' saidthe nun. 

This produced an immediate effect: the sobbing subsided, the tearsceased to flow, and the Princess repeated the Act of Contrition in alow voice; then she folded her hands and waited in silence. SisterGiovanna stood upright beside the pillows, and prayed very earnestlyin her heart that she might forget what she had heard, or at leastbear her aunt no grudge for the irreparable wrong. 

But the delirious woman, who still fancied that her nurse was herconfessor, was waiting for the words of absolution, and after a fewmoments, as she did not hear them, she broke out again in senselessterror, with sobbing and more tears. She grasped the Sister's armswildly and dragged herself up till she was on her knees in bed, imploring and weeping, pleading and sobbing, while she trembledvisibly from head to foot. 

The case was a difficult one, even for an experienced nurse. A laywoman might have taken upon herself to personate the priest andpronounce the words of the absolution in the hope of quieting thepatient, but no member of a religious order would do such a thing, except to save life, and such a case could hardly arise. The PrincessChiaromonte was in no bodily danger, and the chances were that thedelirium would leave her before long; when it disappeared she wouldprobably fall asleep, and it was very unlikely that she shouldremember anything she had said in her ravings. Meanwhile it wascertainly not good for her to go on crying and throwing herself about, as she was doing, for the fever was high already and her wildexcitement might increase the temperature still further. 

Sister Giovanna took advantage of a brief interval, when she wasperhaps only taking breath between her lamentations, out of sheernecessity. 

'You must compose yourself, ' the nun said with authority. 'You seem toforget that you have been ill. Lie down for a little while, and I willcome back presently. In the meantime, I give you my word that yourniece has forgiven you with all her heart. '

She could say that with a clear conscience, just then, and gentlydisengaging herself, she succeeded without much difficulty in makingthe Princess lay her head on the pillow, for the words had produced acertain effect; then, leaving the bedside, she went back to the table. But she did not sit down, and only remained standing about a minutebefore going back to the patient. 

She went round by the opposite side of the screen, however, with thehope that the Princess, seeing her come from another direction, wouldtake her for a different person. Very small things sometimes affectpeople in delirium, and the little artifice was successful; she cameforward, speaking cheerfully in her ordinary voice, and at once puther arm under the pillow, propping her aunt's head in order to makeher drink comfortably. There was no resistance now. 

'You are much better already, ' she said in an encouraging tone. 'Doesyour head ache much?'

'It feels a little light, ' the Princess said, quite naturally, 'but itdoes not hurt me now. I think I have been asleep--and dreaming, too. '

Perhaps some suspicion that she had been raving crossed her unsettledbrain, for she glanced quickly at the nun and then shut her eyes. 

'Yes, ' she said, apparently satisfied; 'I have been dreaming. '

Sister Giovanna only smiled, as sympathetically as she could, andsitting down by the head of the bed, she stroked the burning foreheadwith her cool hand, softly and steadily, for several minutes; andlittle by little the Princess sank into a quiet sleep, for she wasexhausted by the effort she had unconsciously made. When she wasbreathing regularly, the nun left her side and went noiselessly backto her seat behind the screen. 

She did not open her breviary again that night. For a long time shesat quite still, with her hands folded on the edge of the table, gazing into the furthest corner of the room with unwinking eyes. 

She had said that she forgave her aunt with all her heart, and she hadbelieved that it was true; but she was less sure now that she couldthink of her past life, and of what might have been if she had notbeen driven from her home destitute and forced to take refuge withMadame Bernard. 

In the light of what she had just learned, the past had a verydifferent look. It was true that she had urged Giovanni to join theexpedition, and had used arguments which had convinced herself as wellas him. But she had made him go because, if he had stayed, he wouldhave sacrificed his career in the army in order to earn bread for her, who was penniless. If she had inherited even a part of the fortunethat should have been hers, it never would have occurred to him toleave the service and go into business for her support; or if it hadcrossed his mind, she would have dissuaded him easily enough. So faras mere money went, he had not wanted or needed it for himself, butfor her; and if she had been rich and had married him, he could nothave been reproached with living on her. To persuade him, she hadurged that his honour required him to accept a post of danger insteadof resigning from the army as soon as it was offered to him, and thishad been true to some extent; but if there had been no question of hisleaving the service, she would have found him plenty of satisfactoryreasons for not going to Africa, and he had not been the kind of manwhom gossips care to call a coward. Reasons? She would have inventedtwenty in those days, when she was not a nun, but just a loving girlwith all her womanhood before her!

If her aunt had not stolen the will and robbed her, she would havehindered Giovanni from leaving Italy, and she would have married him, that was the plain truth. He would have been alive now, in his youthand his strength and his love for her, instead of having perished inthe African desert. That was the thought that tormented the guiltywoman, too: it was the certainty that her crime had indirectly senthim to his death. So thought Sister Giovanna as she sat staring intothe dark corner through the hours of the night, and she wondered howshe had been able to say that she forgave, or had dared to hope thatshe could forget. If it had been only for herself, it might have beenquite different; but her imagination had too often unwillinglypictured the tragic death of the man she had loved so well to forgivethe woman who had caused it, now that she had revealed herself atlast. 

So long as Angela had believed that her father had left no will, because he had been in ignorance of the law, she had been able to tellherself that her great misfortune had been inevitable; but since itturned out that he had provided for her and had done his duty by her, according to his light, the element of inevitable fate disappeared, and the awful conviction that Giovanni's life had been wantonlysacrificed to enrich Princess Chiaromonte and her children forceditself upon her intelligence and would not be thrust out. 

It seemed to Sister Giovanna that this was the first real temptationthat had assailed her since she had taken her vows, the first momentof active regret for what might have been, as distinguished from thatheartfelt sorrow for the man who had perished which had not beenincompatible with a religious life. Recalling the Mother Superior'swords of warning, she recorded her failure, as the first of its kind, and prayed that it might not be irretrievable, and that resentment andregret might ebb away and leave her again as she had been before theunforgettable voice had pierced her ears with the truth she had neverguessed. 

It was a great effort now to go to the bedside and do what must bedone for the sick woman--to smooth the pillow for the head that hadthought such thoughts and to stroke the hand that had done such adeed. She was tempted to take the little black bag and leave the housequietly, before any one was up. That was not a very dreadful thought, of course, but it seemed terrible to her, whose first duty in life wasto help sufferers and soothe those who were in pain. It seemed to heralmost as bad as if a soldier in battle were suddenly tempted to turnhis back on his comrades, throw down his rifle, and run away. 

She felt it each time that she had to rise and go round the screen, and when she saw the flushed face on the pillow in the shadow, thelonging to be gone was almost greater than she could resist. She hadnot understood before what it meant to loathe any living thing, butshe knew it now, and if she did her duty conscientiously that night, easy and simple though it was, she deserved more credit than many ofthe Sisters who had gone so bravely to nurse the lepers in farRangoon. 

She did not feel the smallest wish to hurt the woman who had injuredher, let that be said in her praise; for though vengeance be theLord's, to long for it is human. She only desired to be out of thehouse, and out of sight of the face that lay where her father's hadlain, and beyond reach of the voice that had told her what she wishedshe had never known. 

But there was no escape and she had to bear it; and when the nightwore away at last, it had been the longest she remembered in all herlife. Her face was as white as the Mother Superior's and her dark blueeyes looked almost black; even Madame Bernard would not haverecognised the bright-haired Angela of other days in the weary andsad-faced nun who met the doctor outside the door of the sick-roomwhen he came at eight o'clock. 

She told him that the patient had been delirious about midnight, buthad rested tolerably ever since. He glanced at the temperature chartshe brought him and then looked keenly at her face and frowned. 

'What is the matter with all of you White Sisters?' he growleddiscontentedly. 'First they send me one who cannot stay over night, and then they send me one who has not been to bed for a week and oughtto stay there for a month! When did you leave your last case?'

'Yesterday morning, ' answered Sister Giovanna submissively. 'I sleptmost of the afternoon. I am not tired and can do my work very well, Iassure you. '

'Oh, you can, can you?' The excellent man glared at her savagelythrough his spectacles. 'You cannot say anything yourself, of course, but I shall go to your hospital to-day and give your Mother Superiorsuch a scolding as she never had in her life! She ought to be ashamedto send out a nurse in your worn-out condition!'

'I felt quite fresh and rested when I left the Convent in theevening, ' said the Sister in answer. 'It is not the Mother Superior'sfault. '

'It is!' retorted the doctor, who could not bear contradiction. 'Sheought to know better, and I shall tell her so. Go home at once, Sister, and go to bed and stay there!'

'I am quite able to work, ' protested Sister Giovanna quietly. 'Thereis nothing the matter with me. '

Still the doctor glared at her. 

'Show me your tongue!' he said roughly. 

The nun meekly opened her mouth and put out her little tongue: it wasas pink as a rose-leaf. The doctor grunted, grabbed her wrist andbegan to count the pulse. Presently he made another inarticulatenoise, as if he were both annoyed and pleased at having been mistaken. 

'Something on your mind?' he asked, more kindly--'some mentaldistress?'

'Yes. ' The word was spoken reluctantly. 

'I am sorry I was impatient, ' he said, and his large brown eyes softenedbehind his round spectacles as he turned to enter the sick-room. 

It was not his business to ask what had so greatly disturbed the peaceof Sister Giovanna. 

CHAPTER X

When the Princess Chiaromonte was getting well, she asked somequestions of her doctor, to which he replied as truthfully as hecould. She inquired, for instance, whether she had been delirious atthe beginning, and whether she had talked much when her mind waswandering, and his answers disturbed her a little. As sometimeshappens in such cases, she had disjointed recollections of what shehad said, and vague visions of herself that were not mere creations ofher imagination. It was like a dream that had not been quite a dream;opium-eaters know what the sensation is better than other men. Underthe influence of laudanum, or the pipe, or the hypodermic, they havetalked brilliantly, but they cannot remember what the conversation wasabout; or else they know that they have been furiously angry, butcannot recall the cause of their wrath nor the person on whom it wasvented; or they have betrayed a secret, but for their lives they couldnot say who it was to whom they told it. The middle-aged woman of theworld felt that her reputation was a coat of many colours, and herpast, when she looked back to it, was like a badly-constructed play inwhich the stage is crowded with personages who have little connectionwith each other. There was much which she herself did not care toremember, but much more that no one else need ever know; and as shehad never before been delirious, nor even ill, the thought that shehad now perhaps revealed incidents of her past life was anything butpleasant. 

'It is so very disagreeable to think that I may have talked nonsense, 'she said to the doctor, examining one of her white hands thoughtfully. 

'Do not disturb yourself about that, ' he answered in a reassuringtone, for he understood much better than she guessed. 'A good trainednurse is as silent about such accidental confessions as a good priestis about intentional ones. '

'Confession!' cried the Princess, annoyed. 'As if I were concealing acrime! I only mean that I probably said very silly things. By the bye, I had several nurses, had I not? You kept changing them. Do you happento know who that Sister Giovanna was, who looked so ill? You sent herback after two days, I think, because you thought she might breakdown. She reminded me of a niece of mine whom I have not seen foryears, but I did not like to ask her any questions, and besides, I wasmuch too ill. '

'I have no idea who she was before she entered the order, ' the doctoranswered. 

He was often asked such futile questions about nurses, and would nothave answered them if he had been able to do so. But in askinginformation the Princess was unwittingly conveying it, for it flashedupon him that Sister Giovanna was perhaps indeed that niece of whomshe spoke, and whom she was commonly said to have defrauded of herfortune; the nun herself had told him of the sick woman's deliriouscondition, and he remembered her looks and her admission that she wasin mental distress. All this tallied very well with the guess that heraunt had made some sort of confession of her deed while her mind waswandering, and that she now dimly recalled something of the sort. Heput the theory away for future consideration, and left the Princess inignorance that he had thought of it or had even attached any specialmeaning to her words. 

She was far from satisfied, however, and made up her mind to follow upthe truth at all costs. As a first step, she sent a generous donationto the Convent of the White Sisters, as soon as she was quiterecovered; and as her illness had not been serious enough to explainsuch an important thank-offering, she wrote a line to say that she hadnever been ill before, and had been so much impressed by the care shehad received that she felt she must really do something to help suchan excellent institution. It would give her keen pleasure to visit thehospital, she said in conclusion, but that was no doubt too great afavour to ask. 

In thanking her, the Mother Superior replied that it would be nofavour at all, and that the Princess would be welcome whenever shechose to send word that she was coming. On the day following that, theMother told Sister Giovanna what had happened, and with characteristicdirectness asked what she thought about her aunt's charity. 

'It is very kind of her, ' answered the young nun in that monotonous, businesslike tone which all religious use when speaking of anapparently charitable action for the motive of which they are notready to vouch, though they have no reasonable ground for criticism. 

People of the world often speak in that voice when unexpectedly askedto give an opinion about some person whom they dislike but do not dareto abuse. 

The little white volcano flared up energetically, however. 

'I hate that sort of answer!' she cried, with a delicate snort. 

Sister Giovanna looked at her in surprise, but said nothing. 

'I cannot refuse the money, ' said the Mother Superior, 'but I heartilywish I could! She has given it in order to come here and to be wellreceived if she chooses to come again. I am sure of that, and she canhave no object in coming here except to make mischief for you. It maybe wicked of me, but I do not trust that lady in the least! Do you?'

She asked the question suddenly. 

'She cannot harm me more than she did years ago, ' Sister Giovannaanswered. 

'I wish that were certain!' said the other. 'I wish I had gone tonurse her myself that night instead of sending you!'

She was so evidently in earnest that the Sister was even moresurprised than before, and wondered what was the matter. But as it wasnot her place to ask questions, and as the Mother Superior's doubt, orpresentiment of trouble, was evidently suggested by sincere affectionfor herself, she said nothing, and went about her work without lettingher mind dwell too long on the conversation. Men and women who leadthe religious life in earnest acquire a much greater control of theirsecret thoughts than ordinary people can easily believe it possible toexercise. 

Nevertheless, the Princess's voice came back to her ears when she wasalone and told the story over and over again; and somehow her aunt wasoften mentioned in the Convent as a recent benefactress who wasshowing a lively interest in the hospital, and would perhaps givefurther large sums to it which could be expended for good. SisterGiovanna never said anything when the subject came up, but she couldnot help thinking of Judas's suggestion that the alabaster box ofprecious ointment might have been sold and given to the poor, and adisturbing spirit whispered that Princess Chiaromonte, whose pastmight well be compared with the Magdalen's, had done what Iscariotwould have advised. 

In due time, too, the great lady visited the Convent and hospital, andwas shown over it systematically by the Mother Superior herself, followed by an approving little escort of nurses and novices, for itwas of course permissible to appreciate and admire the smart clothesof a benefactress, whereas it would have been the height of levity tobestow so much attention on a lady visitor who was merely fashionableand had done nothing for the institution. This, at least, was thenovices' point of view. But the little white volcano seemed quietlycross, and held her small head very high as she led the Princess fromone ward to another to the beautifully fitted operating-room; and whenshe spoke her tone was strangely cold and mordant, as a woman's voicesometimes sounds in the Alps, when she speaks across an ice-fall or afrozen lake. 

The Princess looked behind her repeatedly, and her eyes sought herniece's face amongst those she saw, but she asked no questions abouther, and apparently gave all her attention to what was shown her. Sister Giovanna was in her cell during all that time, and should nodoubt have been occupied; but instead, she was standing idly at herwindow, looking through one of the diamond-shaped openings in thelattice, in the direction of Monteverde. She was hardly aware of whatshe saw, however, for in imagination she was following her auntthrough the halls and wards and long corridors, and a struggle wasgoing on in her heart which hurt her and made her despise herself. 

The woman who had ruined her life was under the same roof with heragain, and she could not forgive her; and that seemed a very greatsin. What had she gained in the five years that had gone by since thebeginning of her noviciate, if she could not even forgive an injury?That was the question. Since her life had led her to nothing betterthan smouldering resentment and sharp regret, it had not been the holylife she had meant it to be--the failure she must score against herselfwas a total one, a general defeat--and all that she had believed shehad been doing for the dead man's sake must count for nothing, sinceshe had not once been really in a state of grace. 

No doubt her self-accusation went too far, as a confessor would havetold her, or even the Mother Superior, if that good and impulsivewoman had known what was in her mind. But Sister Giovanna did notbelieve she could go far enough in finding fault with herself for suchgreat sins as her regret for a married life that might have been, andher lasting anger against a person who had robbed her; and it waswhile she was standing at her latticed window that morning that shefirst thought of making an even more complete sacrifice by joining theSisters who intended to go out to the Rangoon leper hospital in thespring. 

It was not with the hope of dying young that she wished to go and facedeath daily, but in the earnest desire to escape from what she calledher temptation, and to regain that peace of mind which had been hersfor a long time and now was gone. She had made for herself a littletreasure-house of grace laid up, to be offered for Giovanni's soul, and the gold of her affliction and the jewels of her unselfish labourshad been gathered there to help him. That had been her simple andinnocent belief, but it had broken down suddenly as soon as shediscovered that she was only a human, resentful, regretful woman afterall, as far below the mystic detachment from the outward world as shehad been in those first days of her grief, at Madame Bernard's, whenshe had sat listless all the day long, a broken-hearted girl. What shehad taken for gold and had stored up for Giovanni's welfare was onlythe basest metal, her jewels were but chips of gaudy glass, hersacrifice was a failure after all. Worse than that, her dead man cameback alive from his grave and haunted her in dreams, threateningrighteous judgment on the woman who had cheated her and him of earthlyhappiness. 

I shall not dwell on what she felt. Men and women who have honestlytried to lead the good life for years and have suddenly realised thatthey are as human as ever before, will understand what I have written. The rest must either believe that it is true or, not believing, readon for the sake of knowing Sister Giovanna's strange story, or elsethrow my book aside for a dull novel not worth reading. We cannotalways be amusing, and real life is not always gay. 

The young nun waited in her cell till the Mother Superior herselfopened the door and entered. For the Princess was gone, after seeingeverything, praising everything with the flattering indiscriminationof total ignorance, and, finally, after asking permission to makeanother visit. She had spent ten minutes in the Mother's own roomsbefore leaving, and had asked the names of the three Sisters who hadtaken care of her in succession, writing them down on the back of avisiting-card. She wished to remember them in her prayers, she said;but the little white volcano almost laughed in her face, and the blackdiamond eyes twinkled furiously as they turned away to hide theirscornful amusement--so strong was the nun's conviction that the newbenefactress was a humbug. The Princess looked at the names quitecalmly after she had written them--Sister Saint Paul, Sister Giovanna, and Sister Marius--and asked whether she had seen any of them duringher visit. But the Mother Superior answered that they were all threeeither nursing private cases or not on duty, which might mean thatthey were resting in their cells. 

Sister Giovanna started slightly as the door of her cell opened, forshe had scarcely realised that she had not moved from the window for along time. The elder woman had not taken the trouble to knock, and, strange to say, a faint blush rose in the Sister's face as if she hadbeen surprised and were a little ashamed of being caught in idlenessinstead of reading her breviary for the day or doing something usefulwith her hands. The black eyes looked at her searchingly, for nothingescaped them. 

'What have you been thinking of?' asked the impulsive woman. 

There was a moment's silence. 

'The Rangoon lepers, ' answered the Sister in a quiet voice. 

The Mother Superior's white face hardened strangely. 

'The Princess Chiaromonte is gone, ' she said rather sharply, 'and youare wanted in the surgical ward at once. '

She turned without another word and went quickly away, leaving thedoor open. It was clear that she was not pleased with the answer shehad received. 

Six weeks later Sister Giovanna went to her rooms on the other side ofthe cloistered court after first chapel and knocked at the door. Itwas a Monday morning in March, and she was to be Supervising Nurse forthe week, but the custom was to go on duty at eight o'clock and it wasnot yet seven. 

'Well?' asked the Mother Superior, looking up from her papers, whilethe young nun remained standing respectfully at the corner of the bigdesk. 

The tone did not invite confidence; for some reason as yet unexplainedthe Mother had avoided speaking with her best nurse since that morningin the cell. 

'I have made up my mind to go to the lepers with the others, Mother, if you will give me your permission. '

The alabaster face suddenly glowed like white fire in the early light, the dark eyebrows knitted themselves angrily, and the lips parted tospeak a hasty word, but immediately closed again. A long silencefollowed Sister Giovanna's speech, and the elder nun looked down ather papers and moved some of them about mechanically, from one placeto another on the table. 

'Are you angry with me, Mother?' asked Sister Giovanna, notunderstanding. 

'With you, child?' The Mother looked up, and her face had softened alittle. 'No, I am not angry with you--at least, I hope I am not. '

It was rather an ambiguous answer, to say the least, and the young nunwaited meekly for an explanation. None came, but instead, advice, delivered in a direct and businesslike tone. 

'You had better put the idea out of your mind for a month or so, honestly and with all the intention of which you are capable. If thisis a mere impulse, felt under some mental distress, it will subsideand you will think no more about it. If it is a true call, it willcome back and you will obey it in due time. More than that, I cannottell you. If you are not satisfied that I am advising you well, go toMonsignor Saracinesca the next time he is here. It is my place towarn, not to hinder; to help you if I can, not to stand in your way. That is all, my daughter. Go to your duties. '

Sister Giovanna bent her head obediently and left the room at once. When she was gone, the Mother Superior rose from her desk and wentinto her cell, locking the door after her. An hour later she was stillon her knees and her face was buried in her hands. She was weepingbitterly. 

In all that numerous community which she governed and guided so wellthere was not one person who would have believed that she could shedtears, scalding and passionate, even rebellious, perhaps, if the wholetruth were known; for no Sister or novice of them all could haveimagined that such irresistible grief could take possession of a womanwho, as they all said among themselves, was made of steel and ice, merely because one more of them wished to go to the Far East where somany had gone already. 

But they did not know anything about the Mother Superior. Indeed, whenall was said, they knew next to nothing of her past, and as it wasagainst all rules to discuss such matters, it was not likely that theyshould ever hear more, even if a new Sister joined them who chanced tohave some information. They were aware, of course, that her name, inreligion, was Mother Veronica, though they did not speak of her exceptas the Mother Superior. It was true that they had never heard of a nunof their order taking the name of Veronica, but that was not a matterto criticise either. She spoke exceedingly pure Italian, with theaccent and intonation of a Roman lady, but it was no secret that whenshe had come to take the place of her predecessor, who had diedsuddenly, she had arrived from Austria; and she also spoke Germanfluently, which argued that she had been in that country some time. There was certainly nothing in these few facts to account for what shesuffered when Sister Giovanna spoke of going to Rangoon, and it wouldhave been hard to believe that her burning tears overflowed in spiteof her, not only that first time but often afterwards, at the merethought of parting with the best nurse in the hospital, even if shefelt some special sympathy for her. 

Whatever the cause of her trouble was, no one knew of it; and that shefound no cause for self-accusation in what she felt is clear, sinceshe made no mention of it in her next confession. Indeed, she moreoften found fault with herself for being harsh in her judgments andtoo peremptory and tyrannical in the government of her community, thanfor giving way easily to the impulses of human sympathy. She was notnervous either, in the sense of her nerves being unsteady oroverwrought in consequence of a long-continued strain; there wasnothing in her weeping that could have suggested a neurotic breakdowneven to the most sceptical of physicians. It was genuine, irresistible, overwhelming grief, and she knew that its cause was noteven in part imaginary, but was altogether real, and terrible beyondany expression. 

Nevertheless, she found strength to speak to Monsignor Saracinesca ofSister Giovanna's intention, one day when he came to see her early inthe morning on a matter of business; for he managed the finances ofthe Convent hospital and was also its representative in any questionsin which the institution, as distinguished from the order had seculardealings with the world. 

The prelate and the Mother met as usual in the cloistered garden, andwhen Convent affairs had been disposed of, they continued their walkin silence for a few moments. 

'I want your unprejudiced opinion about the future of one of theSisters, ' said the Mother Superior at last, in her usual tone. 

'I will try to give it, ' answered Monsignor Saracinesca. 

'Sister Giovanna wishes to go to Rangoon with the other three. '

The churchman betrayed no surprise, and answered without hesitation:

'You know what I always say in such cases, when I am consulted. '

'Yes. I have given her that advice--to wait a month to try to put theidea out of her mind, to make sure that it is not a passing impulse. '

'You cannot do more, ' said Monsignor Saracinesca, 'nor can I. '

The Mother Superior turned up her white face and looked at him sosteadily that he gazed at her in surprise. 

'It ought to be stopped, ' she said, with sudden energy. 'It may bewrong to call it suicide and to interfere on that ground, but there isanother, and a good one. I am responsible for the hospital here, forthe nursing in it, and for the Sisters who are sent out to privatecases. Year after year, one, two, and sometimes three of my best youngnurses go away to these leper asylums in Rangoon and other places inthe Far East. It is not the stupid ones that go, the dull, devotedcreatures who could do that one thing well, because it is perfectlymechanical and a mere question of prophylaxis, precaution, androutine--and charity. Those that go always seem to be the best, thevery nurses who are invaluable in all sorts of difficult cases from anoperation to a typhoid fever; the most experienced, the cleverest, themost gifted! How can I be expected to keep up our standard if thisgoes on year after year? It is outrageous! And the worst of it is thatthe "vocation" is catching! The clever ones catch it because they arethe most sensitively organised, but not the good, simple, humdrumlittle women who would be far better at nursing lepers than at a caseof appendicitis--and better in heaven than in a leper asylum, for thatmatter!'

Monsignor Saracinesca listened in silence to this energetic tirade;but when the little white volcano was quiescent for a moment, he shookhis head. It was less an expression of disapproval than of doubt. 

'It is manifestly impossible to send the least intelligent of theSisters, if they do not offer to go, ' he answered. 'Besides, how wouldyou pick out the dull ones? By examination?'

He was not without a sense of humour, and his sharply-chiselled lipstwitched a little but were almost instantly grave again. The MotherSuperior's profile was as still as a marble medallion. 

'It ought to be stopped altogether, ' she said presently, withconviction. 'Meanwhile, though I have told Sister Giovanna that it isnot my place to hinder her, much less my right, I tell you plainlythat I will prevent her from going, if I can!'

This frank statement did not surprise the prelate, who was used to herdirect speech and energetic temper, and liked both. But he said littlein answer. 

'That is your affair, Reverend Mother. You will do what yourconscience dictates. '

'Conscience?' repeated the nun with a resentful question in her tone. 'If the word really means anything, which I often doubt, it is aninstinctive discernment of right and wrong in one's own particularcase, to be applied to the salvation of one's own soul. Is it not?'

'Undoubtedly. '

'What have I to do with my own particular case?' The volcano flared upindignantly. 'It is my duty to do what is best for the souls andbodies of forty women and girls, more or less, and of a great numberof sick persons here and in their own homes, without consideringmyself at all, my instincts, or my little individual discernment of myown feelings, or my human likes and dislikes of people. If my dutyleads me into temptation, I have got to face temptation intentionally, instead of avoiding it, as we are taught to do, and if I break downunder it, so much the worse for me--the good of the others will havebeen accomplished nevertheless! That is one side of my life. Anotheris that if my duty demands that I should tear out my heart and trampleon it, I ought not to hesitate, though I knew I was to die of thepain!'

The clear low voice vibrated strangely. 

'But I will not do it, unless it is to bring about some real good toothers, ' she added. 

Monsignor Saracinesca glanced at her face again before he answered. 

'Your words are clear enough, but I do not understand you, ' he said. 'If I can possibly help you, tell me what it is that distresses you. If not, let us talk of other things. '

'You cannot help me. ' Her thin lips closed upon each other in an evenline. 

'I am sorry, ' answered the churchman gravely. 'As for SisterGiovanna's intention, I share your opinion, for I think she can domore good here than by sacrificing herself in Burmah. If she consultsme, I shall tell her so. '

'Thank you. '

They parted, and the Mother Superior went back to her room and herwork with a steady step and holding her head high. But she did noteven see a lay sister who was scrubbing her small private staircase, and who rose to let her pass, saluting her as she went by. 

Monsignor Saracinesca left the garden by the glass door that openedinto the large hall, already described, and he went out past theportress's little lodge. She was just opening the outer door when hecame up with her, and the next moment he found himself face to facewith Madame Bernard. He stepped back politely to let her pass, andlifted his hat with a smile of recognition; but instead of advancingshe uttered a little cry of surprise and satisfaction, and retreatedto let him come out. He noticed that her face betrayed greatexcitement, and she seemed hardly able to speak. 

'What is the matter?' he asked kindly, as he emerged from the deepdoorway. 

The portress was waiting for Madame Bernard to enter, but theFrenchwoman had changed her mind and held up her hand, shaking oneforefinger. 

'Not to-day, Anna!' she cried. 'Or later--I will come back, perhaps--Icannot tell. May I walk a few steps with you, Monseigneur?'

'By all means, ' answered the prelate. 

The door of the Convent closed behind them, but Madame Bernard wasevidently anxious to get well out of hearing before she spoke. At thecorner of the quiet street she suddenly stood still and looked up toher companion's face, evidently in great perturbation. 

'Well?' he asked. 'What is it?'

'Giovanni Severi is alive. '

Monsignor Saracinesca thought the good woman was dreaming. 

'It is impossible, ' he said emphatically. 

'On the contrary, ' returned Madame Bernard, 'it is perfectly true. Ifyou do not believe me, look at this!'

She opened her governess's reticule and fumbled amongst the littleschool-books and papers it contained. In a moment she brought out aletter, sealed, stamped, and postmarked, and held it up before thetall prelate's eyes. 

It was addressed to 'Donna Angela Chiaromonte, ' to the care of MadameBernard at the latter's lodgings in Trastevere, the stamp was anItalian one, and the postmark was that of the military post-office inMassowah. Monsignor Saracinesca looked at the envelope curiously, tookit from Madame Bernard and examined the stamped date. Then he askedher if she was quite sure of the handwriting, and she assured him thatshe was; Giovanni had written before he started into the interior withthe expedition, and she herself had received the letter from thepostman and had given it to Angela. What was more, after Angela hadgone to live at the Convent, Madame Bernard had found the old envelopeof the letter in a drawer and had kept it, and she had just looked atit before leaving her house. 

'He is alive, ' she said with conviction; 'he has written this letterto her, and he does not know that she is a nun. He is coming home, Iam sure!'

Monsignor Saracinesca was a man of great heart and wide experience, but such a case as this had never come to his knowledge. He stoodstill in deep thought, bending a little as he rested both his hands onthe battered silver knob of his old stick. 

'He is coming home!' repeated Madame Bernard in great distress. 'Whatare we to do?'

'What were you going to do just now, when I met you at the door?'asked the prelate. 

'I do not know! I was going to see her! Perhaps I would have brokenthe news to her gently, perhaps I would have said nothing and kept theletter to give it to her at another time! How can I tell what I wouldhave done? It would have depended so much on the way she took thefirst suggestion! People have died of joy, Monseigneur! A littleweakness of the heart, a sudden joyful surprise, it stops beating--thathas happened before now!'

'Yes. It has happened before now. I knew of such a case myself. '

'And I adore the child!' cried the impulsive Frenchwoman, ready toburst into tears. 'Oh, what shall we do? What ought we to do?'

'Do you know the Mother Superior?'

'Oh yes! Quite well. Are you going to tell me that I should take theletter to her? She is a cold, hard woman, Monseigneur! A splendidwoman to manage a hospital, perhaps, but she has no more heart than asteel machine! She will burn the letter, and never tell any one!'

'I think you are mistaken about her, ' answered the churchman gravely. 'She has more heart than most of us, and I believe that even youyourself are not more devoted to Sister Giovanna than she is. '

'Really, Monseigneur? Is it possible? Are you sure? What makes youthink so?'

'To the best of my knowledge and belief, what I have told you is thetruth, though I might find it hard to explain my reasons for sayingso. But before you go to the Mother Superior, or speak of the matterto Sister Giovanna, there is something else to be done. This letter, by some strange accident of the post, may have been written beforeGiovanni Severi died. There is a bare possibility that it may havebeen mislaid in the post-office, or that he may have given it to acomrade to post, who forgot it--many things may happen to a letter. '

'Well? What must I do?'

'If he is alive, the fact is surely known already at headquarters, andyou should make inquiries. To give Sister Giovanna a letter from thedead man would be wrong, in my opinion, for it would cause herneedless and harmful pain. If he is dead, it should be burned, Ithink. But if he is really alive, after all, you have no right to burnit, and sooner or later she must have it and know the truth, with aslittle danger to her health and peace of mind as possible. '

'You are right, Monseigneur, ' answered Madame Bernard. 'What you sayis full of wisdom. I have three lessons to give this morning, and assoon as I am free I will go myself to the house of a superior officerwhose daughter I used to teach, and he will find out the truth by thetelephone in a few minutes. '

'I think that is the best course, ' said the churchman. 

So they parted, for he was going to Saint Peter's, and she turned inthe direction of the nearest tramway, hastening to her pupils. Andmeanwhile the inevitable advanced on its unchanging course. 

For Giovanni Severi was alive and well, and was on his way to Rome. 

CHAPTER XI

Giovanni Severi's adventures, between his supposed death in themassacre of the expedition and his unexpected reappearance at Massowahnearly five years later, would fill an interesting little volume inthemselves; but inasmuch as an account of them would not make thisstory clearer and would occupy much space, it is enough to state thebare facts in a few words. Such tales of danger, suffering, andendurance have often been told at first hand, by the heroes of them, far more vividly and correctly than a mere story-teller can narratethem on hearsay. 

The expedition had been attacked and destroyed by a handful of nativesfrom a wandering tribe that was camping very near. Within a fewminutes their chief was informed of what they had done, and he rodeout to the spot with a large body of men at his heels. Among the dead, Giovanni Severi lay bleeding from a gash in the head, but not mortallyhurt. The chief was by no means a mere dull savage, and finding anItalian officer alive, he recognised at once that it would be amistake to knock him on the head and leave him with his comrades to bedisposed of by the vultures and hyęnas. On the other hand, he must notbe allowed to escape to the Italian colony with news of the disaster. At some future time, and from a safe distance, it might be possible toobtain a large ransom for him; or, on the other hand, if a large forcewere ever sent up the country to revenge the outrage, it might be tothe credit of the chief if he could prove that the deed had been donewithout his knowledge and that he had treated the only survivorhumanely. He therefore took possession of Giovanni and provided forhis safety in a simple manner by merely stating that if the prisonerescaped he would cut off ten heads, but if any harm came to him, hewould cut off at least a hundred. As no one doubted but that he wouldkeep his word, as he invariably did in such matters, Giovanni had butsmall chance of ever regaining his liberty, and none at all presenteditself for nearly five years. During that time he travelled with hiscaptors or lived in camps, many hundreds of miles from the outposts ofcivilisation; he learned their language and the chief insisted onlearning his, as it might be useful; furthermore, he was required toteach his master whatever he could about modern warfare and whatlittle he knew of agriculture and its arts of peace. In return he waswell fed, well lodged when possible, and as well clad as any man inthe tribe except the chief himself, which was not saying much. 

His chance came at last and he did not let it pass. It involvedkilling one of his guards, stunning another, and seizing the chief'sown camel, and it was not without great risk to his life that he gotaway. A fortnight later he had travelled five hundred miles andreported himself at headquarters in Massowah, dressed in a long nativeshirt, a dirty turban, and nothing else, as Captain Giovanni Severi, formerly of the Staff and late of the expedition that had perishedfive years earlier. 

It chanced, for the inevitable was at work, that the mail steamer forItaly was to leave the next morning and a small man-of-war on thefollowing day, also homeward bound. Giovanni wrote to AngelaChiaromonte by the former and went on board the Government vesseltwenty-four hours afterwards. He himself sent no telegram, because hedid not know where his brothers were and he feared lest a telegraphicmessage might give Angela a bad shock, if it reached her at all. Moreover, he had no news of her and could get no information whatever, so that he addressed his letter to Madame Bernard's old lodgings onthe mere possibility that it might reach its destination. 

Any one might have supposed that the news of his escape would havebeen in the papers before he reached Italy, for it was telegraphed tothe War Office in Rome by the officer in command of the force atMassowah. But the Minister chose to keep the intelligence a secrettill Giovanni's arrival, because he expected to gain much informationfrom him and feared lest the newspapers should get hold of him andlearn facts from him which would be more useful to Italy if not madepublic; and when the Italian Government wishes to keep a secret, itcan do so quite as well as any other, to the despair of the publicpress. 

The consequence of the Minister's instructions was that Giovanni wasmet by a superior officer who came on board the man-of-war at Naplesin order to forestall any possible attempt on the part ofcorrespondents to get hold of him, and also for the purpose of givinghim further directions for his conduct. He was to proceed to Rome atonce, and the Minister would receive him privately on the followingday at twelve o'clock. He was recommended not to go to an hotel, butto put up with his brother, who, as he now learned, was at Monteverde, and had been privately informed of his arrival and warned to bediscreet. 

The mail steamer which had brought Giovanni's letter to Madame Bernardhad stopped at Port Said, Alexandria, and Messina, but the man-of-warcame direct to Naples, and though slower than the packet-boat, arrivedthere only a few hours later. Madame Bernard's inquiries, made throughthe old colonel whose daughter she had formerly taught, provedfruitless, because the War Office would not allow Giovanni's coming tobe known, and the result was that she took the letter home with her inher bag, and spent the evening in a very disturbed state of mind, debating with herself as to what she ought to do. She would have givenanything to open the envelope, if only to see the date, and once ortwice, when she reflected on the importance of knowing whether thewriter was alive before giving his letter to Sister Giovanna, shealmost yielded; but not quite, for she was an honourable little woman, according to her lights. 

Late on that night Giovanni got into the train that was to bring himto Rome before Madame Bernard would be ready to go out in the morning. 

Ugo Severi had been summoned by the Minister some days previously, andhad been told that his brother was alive and coming home, and wouldlodge with him. Meanwhile Captain Ugo was put on his honour to saynothing of the matter to his friends. Such a recommendation was, infact, needed, as Ugo would otherwise have informed the PrincessChiaromonte, if no one else. Considering how much feeling she hadshown about Giovanni's supposed death, it would have been only humaneto do so; but the Minister's instructions were precise and emphatic, and Ugo kept what he knew to himself and thought about it socontinually that Confucianism temporarily lost its interest for him. 

He had always been on good terms with Giovanni, though they had notseen much of each other after the latter was appointed to the Staff. As for the brother who was in the Navy, Ugo rarely saw him or evenheard of him, and since their father had died he himself had led avery lonely existence. His delight on learning that Giovanni hadescaped and was returning may be imagined, for, in spite of hisapparent coldness and love of solitude, he was a man of heart, andlike many Italians of all classes his ideal of happiness would havebeen to live quietly under one roof with his brothers and sister. There is probably no other people in the world that finds suchpermanent satisfaction in what most of us would think a dull familylife. It is a survival of the ancient patriarchal way of living, whenthe 'family' was a religion and its head was at once its absoluteruler and its high priest. 

The only preparation which Ugo had made for receiving Giovanni was thepurchase of an iron folding camp-bed. He told his orderly that abrother officer of his might have to spend a night in the house beforelong, which was strictly true. In due time a soldier on a bicyclebrought him an official note from the Minister, informing him thatGiovanni had reached Naples and would appear at Monteverde on thefollowing morning. This note came late in the afternoon, and Ugothought it needless to inform Pica, as Giovanni would certainly notwish to go to bed as soon as he arrived, so that the little bedsteadneed not be set up till he actually came. 

At ten o'clock that evening, Ugo rose from his easy-chair, stretchedhimself, and whistled for Pica as usual. The orderly brought him hisboots, his cloak, his sabre, and his cap, all of which he put on, ashe always did, before going downstairs, for it was the hour at whichhe invariably inspected the neighbourhood. It was his practice tobegin by walking round the outside of the enclosure, his man carryinga good lantern; he then examined the interior of the space, andfinally visited the guard-room and exchanged a word with the officeron duty for the night. Of late, he had occasionally gone out againbetween twelve and one o'clock, before going to bed; for two or threesuspicious-looking characters had been seen in the neighbourhood ofthe magazine, like the man in the battered brown hat who had come uponPica one afternoon and had asked his way. There was, in fact, adisquieting suspicion at headquarters that an attempt might be made toblow up one of the magazines; the detachments of soldiers on duty hadtherefore been strengthened and the officers in charge had beeninstructed to exercise the greatest vigilance. 

When Captain Ugo went out of his door as usual, with Pica at hisheels, the night was dark and it was just beginning to rain. The twowent directly from the little house to the gate of the enclosure, andUgo answered the sentry's challenge mechanically and walked brisklyalong the straight wall to the corner. Turning to the right then, hewas following the next stretch at a good pace when he stumbled andnearly fell over something that lay in his path. As Pica held up thelantern close behind him, a man sprang up from the ground, where hemust have been lying asleep, probably in liquor. By the uncertainlight and in the rain, Ugo saw only the blurred vision of anindividual in a ragged and dripping overcoat, with an ugly, blotchedface and a ruined hat. 

An instant later, and just as Ugo was challenging the man, two shotswere fired. The first smashed and extinguished the lantern in Pica'shand without hurting him; the second took effect, and the Captainstaggered against the wall, but instead of falling, sat down suddenlyon the wet ground with his back against the masonry. The ruffian wasgone and Pica had dashed after him in a fruitless pursuit, for thebreaking of the lantern in his hand had checked the orderly as he wasabout to spring at the miscreant, who thus gained a sufficient startto ensure his escape. 

In a few seconds the officer on duty and three or four of the men wereon the spot with lights. 

'You will have to carry me, ' said the Captain calmly enough. 'I amshot in the foot and something is broken. Turn out the guard, Lieutenant, as a matter of principle and have the neighbourhoodsearched, though you will not find any one now. The fellow has gotclean away. '

The men lifted him and carried him towards his house. Before theyreached the door Pica met them, breathing hard and muttering Sicilianimprecations on the man who had wounded his master and got away; butwhile the Captain was being taken upstairs the orderly lit a candleand went to the telephone in the hall. He glanced at the address-bookand then without hesitation he asked the central office to give himPrincess Chiaromonte's number. His reason for doing so was simple: shewas the only person in Rome who had ever appeared in the light of afriend of the Captain's family; she would do the right thing at once, Pica thought, and would send the best surgeon in Rome out toMonteverde in a motor in the shortest possible time. She was at homethat evening, as it turned out, and at Pica's request she came to thetelephone herself and heard his story. 

She answered that she would try and get Doctor Pieri to go at once inher own motor, as he had the reputation of being the best surgeon inthe city, but that if he could not be found she would send anotherdoctor without delay. Pica went upstairs and found the Captainstretched on his bed in his wet clothes, while the three soldiers whohad carried him up were trying to pull his boot off instead of cuttingit. One of the younger officers from the magazine was already scouringthe neighbourhood in obedience to Ugo's orders. 

Pica sent the men away at once with the authority which a favouriteorderly instinctively exercises over his less fortunate comrades. Hewas neither stupid nor quite unskilled, however, and in a few minuteshe had slit the Captain's boot down the seam at the back and removedit almost without hurting him, as well as the merino sock. The smallround wound was not bleeding much, but it was clear that the bone ofthe ankle was badly injured and the whole foot was already muchswollen. The revolver had evidently been of small calibre, but thecharge had been heavy and the damage was considerable. Pica had thesense not to attempt to make any bandage beyond laying two soft foldedhandkerchiefs one upon the other to the wound and loosely confiningthem with a silk one. While he was busy with this, he explained whathe had done. The Captain, who knew that he was badly hurt and guessedthat he might be lamed for life by unskilful treatment, was glad tohear that the famous Pieri had been called. He said that he felt nopain worth speaking of, and he questioned his man as to the latter'simpression of what had happened. Pica did not believe in anarchistsand gave it as his opinion that the ruffian was an ordinary badcharacter who was in daily expectation of being arrested for somecrime and who had fallen asleep in his cups, not knowing that he wasclose to the magazine. Being awakened suddenly, he had probablysupposed himself overtaken by justice, had fired and run away. Theexplanation was plausible, at all events. Neither Ugo nor his manbelieved that any one would really try to blow up the place, for theyregarded that as quite impossible without the collusion of some one ofthe soldiers, which was not to be thought of. 

While they were talking, Pica managed to get off the Captain's outerclothes; but as they were partly wet with rain, the bed was now damp. He therefore went and got the new camp bedstead and set it up, spreaddry blankets and sheets over it, and lifted Ugo to it without lettingthe injured foot hang down, for he was a fairly strong man and was farfrom clumsy. 

The change had just been successfully made when a motor was heardcoming up the short stretch from the high-road to the house, and Picahastened downstairs to open the door for the surgeon. To his surprise, but much to his satisfaction, the Princess Chiaromonte was the firstto get out in the rain, bareheaded, but muffled in a waterproof. Shehad no footman and no umbrella, and she made a quick dash for thedoor, followed at once by Doctor Pieri. She recognised the handsomeorderly and smiled at him as she shook the rain-drops from her hairand then gave him her cloak. 

'Is he badly hurt?' she asked quickly; but she saw from Pica's facethat it was not a matter of life and death, and she did not wait forhis answer. 'We will go upstairs at once, ' she added, leading the wayto the steps. 

On learning that Ugo was already in bed, she said she would wait inthe large sitting-room while the doctor went in to see what could bedone. If the Captain would see her, she would speak to him when Pierihad finished his work. 

Nearly three-quarters of an hour passed before he joined her. 

'It is a bad fracture, ' he said, 'and it will require an operation ifhe is not to be lamed for life. I should much prefer to perform it ina proper place. There is none better than the private hospital of theWhite Sisters and it is by far the nearest. Do you happen to know theplace?'

The Princess said that she did and that she was a patroness of theConvent. The surgeon observed that it was now past eleven, and thatthe patient could not be moved before morning. If she agreed with himand would lend her motor for the purpose, he would communicate withthe hospital and take the Captain there himself between eight and nineo'clock. For the present he needed no special nursing, and the orderlyseemed to be an unusually intelligent young fellow, who could betrusted and was sincerely attached to his master. The Princess agreedto everything, and asked whether the Captain wished to see her. 

He did, and when she stood beside him he pressed her hand gratefullyand thanked her with real feeling for her great kindness. Sheanswered, before Pica, that she would always do anything in her powerfor any one of his name, and she explained that she would be at thehospital on the following morning to see that he had a good privateroom and received special care. He thanked her again and bade hergood-night. Two or three minutes later he heard the motor puffing andwheezing, and Pica came back after shutting the door. Ugo now sent himover to the guard-room with a message to the lieutenant on duty, requesting him to write a brief official account of the occurrence andto send it by hand to headquarters the next morning. It was necessarythat another officer should take Ugo's place in command of the fortwhile he was in hospital. 

Pica came back again in a few moments. Then Ugo insisted on havingwriting-materials, and sat up, propped with cushions, while he wrote ashort note to the Minister of War, explaining what had happened, andthat he would not leave his home on the morrow till his brother hadarrived, but that some further arrangement must be made if Giovanniwas to lodge in the house, which would probably be wanted for theofficer who was to take his own place. Pica was to be at theMinister's own residence at seven o'clock with this note and was towait for an answer. The Minister was known to be a very early riserand would have plenty of time to arrange matters as he thought best. 

Ugo was now in a good deal of pain, and it seemed very long before thepanes of his window turned from black to grey as the dawnfore-lightened. He made Pica get him coffee, and soon after sunrise theorderly brought one of the men from the guard-house to remain withincall in case the Captain needed anything. Pica took his bicycle and wentoff to the city with the note for the Minister. 

As Ugo had anticipated, Giovanni arrived in a station cab while theorderly was still absent, and was admitted by the soldier, on hisrepresenting that he was a relation of the Captain's and had come a longdistance to see him. The man briefly explained that Ugo was in bed, having been wounded in the foot during the night, but was in no danger. A moment later the brothers were together. 

Ugo saw a man standing beside his bed and holding out his hand whom hewould certainly not have recognised if he had met him in the street. Hisskin was almost as dark as an Arab's, and he wore a brown beard whichhad reddened in streaks under the African sun. He was as lean as ahalf-starved greyhound, but did not look ill, and his eyes were fieryand deeper set than formerly. His head had been shaved when he had worna turban, but the hair was now more than half an inch long, and was asthick as a beaver's fur. He was dressed in a suit of thin grey clotheswhich he had picked up in Massowah, and which did not fit him, and hiscanvas shoes were in a bad way. When he spoke, it was with a slightaccent, unlike any that Ugo had heard, and he occasionally hesitated asif trying to find a word. 

After the first greetings, he sat down and told the main facts of hisstory. When he paused the two looked at each other and after a whilethey laughed. 

'The disguise is complete, ' Ugo said. 'But are you going to call on theMinister in those clothes? If you are seen near the magazine in thatcondition you will be warned off and I shall have to explain who youare. '

'I suppose I could get into a uniform of yours, since I have grownthin, ' Giovanni answered. 'We are the same height, I remember, and as Iam in the artillery no one can find fault with me for wearing theuniform of another regiment than my own, in an emergency. It will bebetter than presenting myself before the Minister in these rags! Isuppose you have got your captaincy by this time?'

'Six months ago!'

They talked on, and Ugo explained that he was to be taken to thehospital of the White Sisters soon after eight o'clock. 

'I shall go with you, ' Giovanni answered, 'and see you installed in yourroom. The Minister does not want me till twelve o'clock. '

They agreed to tell Pica, when he returned, that Giovanni was anartillery officer and a relative who had just arrived from a longjourney without any luggage. As the orderly had known that the Captainexpected a visitor before long, he would not be surprised, and therelationship would account for Giovanni's name. 

The latter selected an undress uniform from his brother's well-stockedwardrobe and proceeded to scrub and dress in the adjoiningdressing-room, talking to Ugo through the open door and asking himquestions about old friends and comrades. Ugo told him of the PrincessChiaromonte's visit and of her kindness in coming with Doctor Pieri onthe previous evening. Giovanni appeared at the door, half dressed. 

'Did you tell her that I am alive?' he asked. 

'No. The Ministry has made an official secret of it, so I have told noone. '

'And you say that she will be at the hospital this morning! We shallmeet, then. I wonder whether she will know me. '

'It is impossible, I should say, ' Ugo answered, looking at his brother'slean face and heavy beard. 'I hardly recognise you even now!'

Giovanni finished dressing and came out at last, looking very smart inUgo's clothes. He had asked no questions about Angela, for he felttolerably sure that Ugo had never known her, and it was his intention togo directly from the hospital to Madame Bernard's lodgings, where hehoped to find them both as he had left them. He could not bring himselfto make vague and roundabout inquiries just then, and he was still lessinclined to confide his love story to this brother whom he hardly feltthat he knew. So he kept his own counsel and waited, as he had learnedto do in five years of slavery. 

The Minister sent back a line by Pica to say that Giovanni was to cometo him at noon, and would then receive his instructions as to a changeof lodging, if any should seem advisable. There was a word of sympathyalso for Ugo. 

In less than an hour more, Giovanni had helped Pica to carry Ugo down tothe Princess's motor, which had appeared punctually, bringing DoctorPieri, and the wounded man was comfortably placed in the limousine withthe surgeon beside him and Giovanni sitting opposite. Ugo introduced hisbrother as a relation who had arrived very opportunely that morning. 

The motor buzzed away from the door, and reached the Convent of SantaGiovanna d'Aza in a few minutes. The sky had cleared after the rain andthe April sun was shining gloriously. 

CHAPTER XII

Sister Giovanna was the supervising nurse for the week, and in thenatural course of her duty it was she who went to the telephone whenDoctor Pieri called up the hospital at seven o'clock. In a few wordshe explained the case as far as was necessary, and begged the Sisterto have a good room ready for the patient; he believed that Number Twowas vacant. 

It was, and the wounded man could have it. The Doctor said he wouldbring him in a motor towards nine o'clock. 

'The patient's name, if you please, ' said Sister Giovanna in abusinesslike tone. 

'Captain Severi. I do not know his first name. What is the matter, Sister?'

The nun had uttered a low exclamation of surprise, which Pieri hadheard distinctly. 

'Nothing, ' she answered, controlling her voice. 'Is he a son of thelate general of that name?'

'I do not know, Sister. He is a friend of the Princess Chiaromonte. Isit all right? I am busy. '

'Yes, ' answered the nun's voice. 'It is all right. '

She hung up the receiver and went to give the necessary orders, ratherwhiter about the lips than usual. The fact that the injured officerwas a friend of her aunt's seemed to make it certain that he was oneof the brothers of whom Giovanni had often spoken, and the merethought that she was to see him in an hour or two was disturbing. Fora moment she was strongly impelled to beg the Mother Superior thatsome one else might take her place during the morning; but in thefirst place it seemed cowardly to leave her post; and secondly, inorder to explain her position, she would have been obliged to tell theMother Superior her whole story, which she had never done. MonsignorSaracinesca knew it, and Madame Bernard, but no one else whom she eversaw nowadays. 

Then came the comforting inward suggestion that Giovanni would havewished her to do all she could for his brother, and this at once madea great difference. She went to see that the room was in perfectorder, though she was quite sure that it was, and she sent for theorderlies on duty and told them to be especially careful in moving apatient who would soon be brought, and to get ready a certain newchair which was especially constructed for carrying persons who hadreceived injuries of the feet only, and who did not require to betransported on the ordinary stretcher, which always gives a patientthe idea that his case is a serious one. 

She also went out to the lodge, to warn the portress that CaptainSeveri was expected, and must not be kept waiting even a few secondslonger than was necessary. The excellent Anna looked up with somesurprise, for she had never kept any one waiting without good cause, since she had been in charge of the gate, but she bent her headobediently and said nothing. It seems to be a general rule withreligious houses that no one is ever to wait in the street foradmittance; the barrier, which is often impassable, is the door thatleads inward from the vestibule. 

When everything was prepared for Ugo's reception, Sister Giovanna wentback to the duties which kept her constantly occupied in the morninghours and often throughout the day. She was personally responsible tothe house-surgeon for the carrying out of all directions given thenurses, as he was, in grave cases, to the operating surgeon orvisiting physician. It was her business to inspect everythingconnected with the hospital, from the laundry, the sterilisingapparatus, and the kitchen, to the dispensary, where she was expectedto know from day to day what supplies were on hand and what wasneeded. She was ultimately answerable for the smallest irregularity oraccident, and had to report everything to the Mother Superior everyevening after Vespers and before supper. During her week, every one inthe establishment came to her for all matters that concerned thehospital and the nurses on duty by day or night; but she had nothingto do with those who were sent out to private cases. They reportedthemselves and gave an account of their work to the Mother Superior, whenever they returned to the Convent. 

The supervising nurse for the week did not sleep in her cell, but laydown on a pallet bed behind a curtain, in her office on the firstfloor, close to the dispensary, where she could be called at amoment's notice, though it rarely happened that she was disturbedbetween ten o'clock at night and five in the morning. 

The Mother Superior had introduced the system soon after she had takencharge of the Convent hospital, of which the management now differedfrom that of most similar institutions in this respect, for the mostcompetent Sisters took turns in the arduous task of supervision, fromweek to week. At other times they went to private cases when required, or acted as ordinary nurses. Any one who has any knowledge ofhospitals managed by religious orders is aware that no two of themwork by precisely the same rules, and that the rules themselves arelargely the result of the Mother Superior's own experience, modifiedby the personal theories and practice of the operating surgeon and theprincipal visiting physician. The scale of everything relating to theadministration is, of course, very small compared with that of anypublic hospital, and all responsibility therefore weighs more directlyon the doctors and nurses in charge at any given moment than on aboard of management; in other words, on the right individuals ratherthan on a body. 

Princess Chiaromonte rose early and drove to the Convent in a cab, intending to come home in the motor which was to bring Ugo and thedoctor. She rang, was admitted, and asked for the supervising nurse. The portress, who knew her by sight, at once led her to the large hallalready mentioned, and rang the bell which gave warning that some onewas waiting who had business in the hospital. She drew one of thechairs forward for the Princess and went back to the lodge. A momentlater a novice opened the door that led to the wards, and the visitorrepeated her request, without mentioning her name. 

The novice bowed and disappeared, and several minutes passed beforeSister Giovanna came. She had last seen her aunt ill in bed andflushed with fever, but the Princess had changed too little in fiveyears not to be instantly recognised by any one who had known her sorecently. 

Both women made a movement of surprise, and the nun stood still aninstant, still holding the handle of the door. Of the two, however, she was the first to regain her composure. Her aunt rose with alacrityindeed, and held out her hand, but she coloured a little and laughedwith perceptible awkwardness. She had long wished to see her niece, but the meeting had come too unexpectedly to be pleasant. 

'I hope you have felt no ill effects from your illness?' SisterGiovanna spoke calmly, in a tone of civil inquiry. 

'Oh, none at all!' answered the Princess. 'Thanks to your wonderfulnursing, ' she added, with rather too much eagerness. 'I had hoped totell you before now how grateful I am; but though I have been heremore than once, you were never here when I came. '

Sister Giovanna bent her head slightly. 

'There is really nothing to thank me for, ' she said. 'The novice saidyou wished to see me; can I be of any service to you?'

The elder woman inwardly resented the tone of superior calm. She wasnow convinced that Sister Giovanna was no other than her niece Angela, though she had not yet given any direct sign of recognition. She wasnot quite sure of being able to meet the young eyes steadily, and whenshe answered she fixed her own on the line where the veil was drawntightly across the nun's forehead. In this way she could not fail tosee any quick change in the other's features. 

'It is about Captain Severi, ' she said very distinctly, 'Ugo, as wecall him--the brother of that poor Giovanni who was murdered by savagesin Africa. '

She saw what she had hoped to see and felt that she had already gotthe upper hand, for the nun's face turned the colour of smoulderingwood ashes when they are a greyish white, though the faint, hot glowstill rises in them with every passing breath of air and then fadesfitfully away. 

'Captain Severi's room is ready, ' said Sister Giovanna steadily. 

'Yes, of course!' The Princess nodded as she spoke. 'It is not that, Sister. He is a great friend of mine and I was quite devoted to hisunfortunate brother, so I have come to beg that he may have the verybest care while he is here. '

'You need not have any anxiety. '

Sister Giovanna sat bolt upright in her straight chair, with her handsfolded on her knees. The Princess rested one elbow on the table, in aneasy attitude, and glanced at her once or twice during the silencethat followed. Each was wondering whether the other was going to admitthat she recognised her, and each was weighing the relative advantagesof remaining on the present footing, which was one of uncertainty forSister Giovanna and of armed quiescence on the Princess's part. 

'Thank you, ' said the latter, after a long time, with a bright smile, as if she had quite understood the nun's answer. 'It will be such acomfort to know that he is being well cared for, poor fellow. Ibelieve he will be here in a few minutes. '

'We are expecting him, ' answered the nun, not stirring. 

Another long silence followed, and she sat so perfectly still that thePrincess began to fidget, looked at the tall old clock in the cornerand then compared her pretty watch with it, laid her olive-greenparasol across the table, but took it off again almost immediately anddropped the tip to the floor. The Sister's impassive stillness seemedmeant for a reproach and made her nervous. The certainty that themotionless woman opposite her was Angela, calmly declining to knowher, was very disagreeable. She tried the excuse of pretending in herthoughts that there was still a reasonable doubt about it, but shecould no longer succeed; yet to address her niece by her baptismalname would be to acknowledge herself finally beaten in the contest ofcoolness, after having at first succeeded in making her adversarychange colour. 

The ticking of the clock was so distinct that it made an echo in thehigh hall; the morning sun streamed across the pavement, from thecloistered garden the chirping of a few sparrows and the sharpertwitter of the house-swallow that had already nested under the eavessounded very clearly through the closed glass door. 

The Princess could not bear the silence any longer, and she looked atSister Giovanna with a rather pinched smile. 

'My dear Angela, ' she said, 'there is really no reason why we shouldkeep up this absurd little comedy any longer, is there?'

The nun did not betray the least surprise at the sudden question. 

'If you have no reason for it, I have none, ' she answered, but hergaze was so steady that the Princess looked away. 'I prefer to becalled Sister Giovanna, however, ' she added, after an instant's pause. 

The Princess, though not always courageous, was naturally overbearingand rather quarrelsome, and her temper rose viciously as soon as therestraint which an artificial situation had imposed was removed. 

'I really think you should not have kept me in doubt so long, ' shesaid. 'After playing nurse to me in my own house, you can hardly havetaken me for another person. But as for you, your dress has changedyou so completely, and you look so much older than any one would havethought possible, that you need not be surprised if I was not quitesure it was really you!'

Her niece listened unmoved. A trained nurse, even if she be a nun, maylearn a good deal about human nature in five years, and SisterGiovanna was naturally quick to perceive and slow to forget. Sheunderstood now, much better than the Princess supposed. 

'I am not at all surprised, ' she said, almost smiling, 'and it cannotpossibly matter. '

The older woman began to think that her recollections of what shethought she had said in her delirium were nothing more than the recordof a dream, but the fear of having betrayed herself still haunted her, although four months had passed, and the present opportunity ofsetting her mind at rest might not return. Rather than let it slipaway she would be bold, if not brave. 

'And besides, ' she said, as if finishing her last speech, 'I believe Iwas more or less delirious during most of the time that you were withme. Was I not?'

Sister Giovanna was sorely tempted to speak out. But though it wouldbe so easy to humiliate the woman who had injured her, it looked toomuch like vengeance; and she remembered how she had told the sickwoman that she forgave, with all her heart, meaning what she said, butit had been hard to keep the passion-flower of forgiveness from fadingas soon as it had opened. 

'You were rather quiet on the whole, ' she answered with truth, and socalmly that the Princess was relieved. 'I wish all my patients were assubmissive. '

'Really? How delightful! No one ever said I was a submissive person, Iam sure!'

'You were very much so. And now, since your friend has not come yet, and you will wish to wait for him, I must ask you to let me leave you, for I am on duty and must not stay here too long. Should you like tosee the Mother Superior?'

Sister Giovanna rose as she spoke, for though she was sure of herselfafter making the first effort, she did not mean to tell an untruth ifher aunt asked a still more direct question; she was well aware, too, that she had turned very pale at the first mention of Giovanni, andshe did not intend to expose herself to any further surprises whichher enemy might be planning. 

The Princess was disappointed now, and was not satisfied with havingso greatly diminished her own anxiety. She felt that she had come intocontact with a force which she could not hope to overcome, because itdid not proceed only from Angela's own strength of character, but wasbacked by a power that was real though it was invisible. It is hard toexpress what I mean, but those will understand who have personallyfound themselves opposed by a member of any regular order whom theywish to influence. It has been well said that there is no suchobstacle in life as the inert resistance of a thoroughly lazy man; butin certain circumstances that is far inferior to the silent oppositionof a conscientious person belonging to a large body which declines, ongrounds of belief rather than of logic, to enter into any argument. That was what Princess Chiaromonte felt. 

She rose from her chair a moment after her niece had stood up. 

'Thank you, ' she said. 'I will wait here, if I may. '

'You are welcome. '

Sister Giovanna made a slight inclination of the head and left thehall at once. When she was gone her aunt did not resume her seat, butwalked slowly up and down, and twice, as she reached the door that ledto the wards, she stood still for a second and smiled. It was all verywell to be as strong as Angela, she reflected, and to have a greatreligious order behind one, supported by the whole body of the RomanCatholic and Apostolic Church; and it was a fine thing to have so muchcharacter, and such a beautiful, grave face, and solemn, saintly eyes;but it showed weakness to turn as white as a sheet at the mention of aman's name, though he might be dead, and in a few minutes it would bea satisfaction to note the signs of inward distress when the gravesupervising nurse came face to face with the brother of the man shehad loved. 

That was what the Princess was thinking of when she heard the distantgate-bell tinkling, and stopped once more in her walk, preparingherself to receive Ugo Severi with an expression of cordiality andaffectionate concern. 

The portress opened the door into the hall and a confused sound ofvoices came from the passage. The Princess started slightly and thensmiled, reflecting that she had never noticed the resemblance betweenUgo's tone and poor Giovanni's. 

Doctor Pieri entered first, tall, grave, fair-bearded, and he waslooking back to be sure that the orderlies were careful. They followedhim closely, bringing Captain Ugo in a chair in which he sat uprightwith his injured foot lying on a raised rest before him and a rug fromthe motor car over his knees. He wore a covert coat and a grey felthat. 

The Princess went forward with a bright smile, looking into his face. 

'I have seen the head nurse, ' she said, 'and you are to have the bestroom in the hospital, and all sorts of extra care. '

Ugo said something as the orderlies set down the chair, but almost atthe same moment the Princess heard another voice. It was hard andcold, and did not match the words it spoke. 

'You have been extremely kind, ' said Giovanni Severi. 

She had fairly good nerves, and had been in a very small measureprepared for the surprise by having heard him talking in the passage, though in a very different tone; but she started and gasped audibly asshe looked up and met his resentful eyes. 

'Giovanni!' she cried in amazement. 'Is it you? Are you alive?'

But she had no doubt about it, in spite of the heavy beard that hidthe lower part of his face. 

'Oh, yes, ' he answered rather coldly. 'Quite alive, thank you. '

She held out her hand now, but it was shaking when he took it. DoctorPieri looked on in some surprise, but said nothing. One of theorderlies rang the bell that summoned the supervising nurse. 

'Where have you been all these years?' asked the Princess. 'Why haveyou never written to your friends?'

'That is a long story, ' Giovanni answered, in the same tone as before. 'If you happen to be on friendly terms with the Ministry, you will bedoing the Government a service by not speaking of my return till it ismade public. '

'How mysterious!' The Princess was recovering from her surprise. 

Ugo looked from one to the other, watching their faces. It was quiteclear that his brother disliked the middle-aged woman of the worldnow, whatever their relations had been in the past, and from herbehaviour when she had recognised him it looked as if the two musthave once been very intimate. 

'What are we waiting for?' asked the Captain cheerfully, in order tobreak off the conversation. 

'The supervising nurse, ' answered Pieri. 'She will be here directly. '

'A nun, I suppose, ' observed Giovanni carelessly. 'Old and hideoustoo, no doubt. Poor Ugo!'

'Not so much to be pitied as you think, ' said the Princess. 'She isstill young, and must have been very pretty! She is worth looking at, I assure you. '

Her own astonishment and recent emotion were already forgotten in thepleasure of looking forward to the recognition which must take placewithin a few moments. She had hated her niece long and unrelentingly, and she had never forgiven Giovanni for what she called in her hearthis betrayal; but the reckoning was to be settled in full at last, andshe knew that if Sister Giovanna could choose, she would rather pay itwith her flesh and blood than meet what was before her now. 

Giovanni was looking towards the door when the nun opened it, and thestrong morning light fell full on her face as she came forward. Naturally enough, her eyes were at first turned downwards towardsUgo's face, for she had already seen the Princess and Pieri was afamiliar figure. She was aware that a bearded officer was standing onthe other side of the chair, but she did not look at him. 

Giovanni's expression changed quickly; at first he saw only a stronglikeness to Angela, a striking resemblance that made him wonderwhether the nun could possibly be an elder sister of hers, of whom hehad never heard; but by quick degrees he became sure that it washerself. She spoke to the wounded man. 

'Shall we go up to your room at once?' she asked in her soft voice, bending over him. 

Before Ugo could answer, a name he did not know rang out, in a tone hehad never heard. He did not recognise his brother's voice, it was sofull of passion and joy, mingled with amazement, yet trembling withanxiety. 

'Angela!'

Sister Giovanna straightened herself with a spring and stoodtransfixed, facing Giovanni. The chair was between them. In aninstant, that was an age to both, sharp lines furrowed her brow, hercheeks grew hollow, and her pale, parted lips were distorted withpain. Her face was like the Virgin Mother's, at the foot of the Cross. 

It was only for a moment; she threw up her arms, stiff and straight, as a man who is shot through the heart. One loud cry then, and shefell backwards. 

Pieri was in time and caught her before her head struck the pavement;but though he was strong and she was slightly made, the impetus of herfall dragged him down upon one knee. Giovanni could not reach her atonce, for the hospital chair with the bars by which it was carried wasbetween them and the foremost of the orderlies stood exactly in hisway. He almost knocked the man over as he dashed forwards. 

The Princess was already bending over the unconscious Sister, withevery appearance of profound sympathy; she was trying to loosen thewimple and gorget that confined the nun's cheeks and throat tooclosely, but the fastenings were unfamiliar and she could not findthem. Giovanni, pale and determined, pushed her aside as he stooped tolift the woman he loved. Pieri helped him, and the Princess rose andstepped back to look on, now that she had shown her willingness to beof use. Ugo gazed at the scene with wide, astonished eyes, turninghalf round in his chair and grasping its arms to hold himself in theposition. 

'Open the glass door!' said the Doctor to the nearest orderly. 

They carried Sister Giovanna into the cloistered garden, towards thestone seat by the well, where the three old nuns used to sit in theafternoon. Before they reached the place, she opened her eyes and metGiovanni's, already haggard with fear for her, but brightening wildlyas her consciousness returned; for he had believed that she had fallendead before him. 

Even through the closed glass doors the Mother Superior had heard hercry and known her voice, for the window had been open to the Aprilsunshine. The Mother could be swift when there was need, and she wasdownstairs and at the well almost as soon as the two men could getthere, walking slowly with their burden. Exerting a strength thatamazed them, she took the young nun into her arms and sat down withher, and laid the drooping head tenderly to her heart. Her own facewas as still and white as marble, but neither Giovanni nor Pieri sawher eyes. 

'You may go, ' she said. 'I will take care of her. '

In the presence of the strange officer she would not ask the Doctorwhat had happened. 

'She fainted suddenly, ' he said. 

'Yes. I understand. Leave her to me. '

Pieri saw that Giovanni could not move of his own free will; so hepassed his arm through the young man's and whispered in his ear whilehe drew him away. 

'You must obey for the present, ' he said. 'She is in no danger. '

For he had understood the truth at once, as was easy enough; andGiovanni went with him, looking back again and again and unable tospeak, not yet knowing all. 

When the Princess had seen the Mother Superior crossing the garden, she had drawn back within the door, and the Doctor shut it whenGiovanni had come in. The woman of the world had believed that shecould still face the man after what she had done, and perhaps findwords that would hurt him; but when she saw his eyes, she wasfrightened, for she had known him well. When he went straight towardsher she made one step backwards, in bodily fear of him; but he spokequietly and not rudely. 

'It was your duty to warn us both, ' he said. 

That was all, but he stood looking at her, and her fright grew; formen who live long in the wilderness gather a strength that may inspireterror when they come back to the world. The Princess turned from himwithout answering, and left the hall. 

One of the orderlies had called another nurse from within, and Ugo wastaken to his room, still surprised, but already understanding, asPieri did. The latter soon took his leave, the nurse followed him forinstructions, and the brothers were alone together. 

'When I left her, ' Giovanni said, 'we were engaged to be married. Iwrote to her just before I sailed, but she has not received the letteryet. '

'What shall you do?' asked Ugo, watching him with sympathy. 

'Do? Marry her, of course! Do you suppose I have changed my mind?'

'But she is evidently a nun, ' objected Ugo. 'She must have takenirrevocable vows. These nurses are not like Sisters of Charity, Ibelieve, who make their promise for a year only and then are freeduring one night, to decide whether they will renew it. '

Giovanni Severi laughed, but not lightly, nor carelessly, norscornfully. It was the short, energetic laughter of a determined manwho does not believe anything impossible. 

CHAPTER XIII

After a long time, Sister Giovanna lifted her head very slowly, satup, and passed her hand over her eyes, while the Mother Superior stillkept one arm round her, thinking that she might faint again at anymoment. But she did not. 

'Thank you, ' she said, with difficulty. 'You are very good to me, Mother. I think I can walk now. '

'Not yet. '

The elder woman's hand was on her wrist, keeping her in her seat. 

'I must go back to my work, ' she said, but not much above a whisper. 

'Not yet. When you are better, you must come to my room for a littlewhile and rest there. '

Sister Giovanna looked old then, for her face was grey and the deeplines of suffering were like furrows of age; she seemed much olderthan Mother Veronica, who was over forty. A minute or two passed andshe made another effort, and this time the Mother helped her. She wasweak but not exactly unsteady; her feet were like leaden weights thatshe had to lift at every step. 

When they were alone in the small room and the door was shut, theMother Superior closed the window, too; for the cloister was veryresonant and voices carried far. She made Sister Giovanna sit in theold horse-hair easy-chair, leaning her head against the round blackand white worsted cushion that was hung across the back by a cottoncord. She herself sat in the chair she used at her writing-table. 

She did not know what had happened in the hall, but what she saw toldher that the Sister's fainting fit had not been due only to a passingphysical weakness. She herself seemed to be suffering when she spoke, and not one of all the many Sisters and novices who had come to her indistress, at one time or another, had ever seen her so much touched bypity, so humane, forbearing, and kind. 

'If you would like me to understand what has happened, my dear child, you can trust me, ' she said. 'If you would rather keep your secret, tell me if I can help you. '

Sister Giovanna looked at her gratefully and tried to speak, but itwas hard; not that she was choking, or near to shedding tears, but herlips felt stiff and cold, like a dying man's, and would not formwords. But presently they came at intervals, one by one, though notdistinctly, and so low that it was not easy to hear them. 

Yet Mother Veronica understood. Giovanni Severi, the man Angela hadloved, the man who had been called dead for five years--he had comeback from death--she had seen him with his brother--he had known her. 

She was not going to faint again, but she sank forward, bending almostdouble, her hands on the arms of the chair, her young head bowed withwoe. There was something awful in her suffering, now that she wassilent. 

The Mother Superior only said three words, but her voice broke as shepronounced the last. 

'My poor child----'

Her lips were livid, but she ruled the rising storm and sat quitestill, her fingers twisted together and straining on her knee. IfSister Giovanna had looked up, she would have wondered how meresympathy could be so deep and stirring. But she could not; her ownstruggle was too desperate. Minutes passed before she spoke again, andthen there was a change in her, for her voice was much more steady. 

'It was so easy to be good when he was dead. '

She had been happy an hour ago, yesterday, last week, working andwaiting for the blessed end, believing that he had died to serve hiscountry and that God would let him meet her in heaven. Why had he comeback now, too late for earth, but a lifetime too soon for heaven? Ithad been so easy to be strong and brave and faithful for his sake, when he was dead. It was little enough that she had said, but eachword had meant a page of her life. Mother Veronica heard, and sheunderstood. 

'Pray, ' she said, after a long time; and her voice came as from veryfar away, for she too had told her story in that one syllable. 

Human nature turned upon her, rebellious, with a rending cry. 

'I cannot! He is alive! He is here! Don't you understand? How can Ipray? For what? That he may die again? God of mercy! And if not that, can I pray to be free? Free? Free from what? Free to do what? To die?Not even that! Others will be taken, but I shall live--thirty, forty, fifty years, knowing that he is alive--knowing that I may see him anyday!'

The elder woman's white fingers twined round each other moredesperately, for Sister Giovanna's face was turned full to her now, and their eyes were meeting; the young nun's were fierce with pain, but the Mother's were strangely lustreless and dull. 

'No, ' she said, mechanically answering the last words, 'you must notsee him. '

'Not see him once?'

Sister Giovanna leaned far forwards, grasping the arms of theeasy-chair, and her voice came thick and hoarse. Did the woman with themarble face think that she, too, was made of stone? Not see the man shehad loved, who had been suddenly, violently dead, who was alive again, and had come back to her? The Mother could not be in earnest! If shewas, why did she not answer now? Why was she sitting there, with thatstrange look, silently wringing her hands?

Even in her cruel distress Sister Giovanna felt a sort of wonder. Perhaps the Mother had not meant what she said, and would not speaklest she should contradict herself. The mere thought was a hope;whether for good or evil the tortured girl knew not, but it loosed hertongue. 

'He will come to me!' she cried. 'He will, I tell you! You do not knowhim! Did you hear his voice as I did when he called me? Did you seehis face? Could walls or bars keep such a man from the woman he loves?I must face him myself, and to face him I must kill something inme--cut it out, tear it up from its roots--I am only a woman after all!A nun can be a woman still, a weak woman, who has loved a man very, very dearly----'

'Oh, Angela, hush! For the love of Heaven, my child, my child!'

To Sister Giovanna's unspeakable amazement, the unbending nature wasbreaking down, the marble saint, with the still white face, who hadbidden her pray, and never see Giovanni again. She felt herself liftedfrom her seat and clasped in a despairing embrace; she felt the smallnervous frame shaking in the storm of an emotion she could notunderstand, though she knew it was as great as her own and as terribleto bear, and that the heart that beat against hers was breaking, too. 

Neither shed a tear; tears would have been heavenly refreshment, butthey would not come. Another moment and Angela felt herself sinkingback into her chair, and when she opened her eyes the Mother Superiorwas at the table, half seated, half lying across it, on the heaps ofpapers and account-books, and her outstretching hands clasped the footof the old crucifix beside the leaden inkstand. 

'Miserere mei, Domine!'

The voice of her prayer broke the stillness like a silver bell. Thenshe began to recite the greatest of the penitential psalms. 

'Out of the depths have I cried unto Thee, O Lord: Lord, hear myvoice. '

And by long habit, yet with some dim hope of peace, Sister Giovannaresponded:

'Let Thine ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications. '

They said it to the end, verse answering verse, and the prayer of theKing-Poet stilled the throbbing of hurts too deep to heal. 

Two hours after she had fainted in the hall, Sister Giovanna was doingher work in the hospital again as usual. A wonderful amount ofphysical resistance can be got out of moral conviction, and there isno such merciful shelter for mental distress as a uniform, from thefull dress of a field-marshal to a Sister of Charity's cornet. 

Of the persons who had been witnesses of the scene, the Doctor and UgoSeveri could be trusted, and Princess Chiaromonte was too much afraid ofGiovanni to brew gossip about his love-affair. There remained the twoorderlies, who could not be prevented from telling the story to theirwives and friends if they liked; but they were trusty, middle-aged menof good character; they shared the affectionate admiration for SisterGiovanna which almost every one in the Convent hospital felt for her, and they would be the very last to say a word to her discredit. Thesecircumstances account well enough for the fact that the story did notget into the newspapers at the time. 

Sister Giovanna went back to her work, but she did not go near UgoSeveri, and she gave strict orders that his brother, if he came to seehim again during the day, was to be accompanied to the door of theroom by an orderly. As Ugo had swallowed nothing but a cup of blackcoffee before coming to the hospital, and was therefore in a conditionto take ether, Pieri had given notice that he would operate on theinjured foot at two o'clock. There would be no need for the presenceof the supervising nurse, who would have no difficulty in keeping outof Giovanni's way for the present, as he would certainly not beallowed to roam the hospital in search of her. 

She meant to meet him once and alone, no matter how she might behindered, and nothing that the Mother Superior or MonsignorSaracinesca could say should make it impossible. She knew that hewould try every means of seeing her, and when he succeeded in makingan opportunity which she could accept, she would take it, come whatmight; till then, she must wait, and while she was waiting she wouldfind the strength she needed. 

That was her plan, and it was simple enough. She might be mistakenabout many questions, but nothing could make that seem wrong which herconscience told her was right. And it was right to see him once; shewas sure of it. The rest was confused and uncertain and she took nothought what she should say; she only knew she must make himunderstand, though it would be hard, and when that was done, she wouldnot see him again while she lived. 

She meant to make that final parting a certainty by going to Rangoonwith the next mission; nothing should change her determination now. 

Her feet were heavy that day, and her voice was dull and muffled whenshe gave her orders; but she made no mistakes. Many a man has foughtmore stubbornly and bravely after a wound and a fall than at theoutset, and few men could tell themselves that they were braver thanSister Giovanna was when she recovered control of her actions afterthe first stunning shock. 

She stayed in her office as much of the time as possible. In duecourse the assistant head-nurse came to report that Pieri had finishedhis work and that Captain Ugo had recovered well from the ether; hisbrother was with him and would stay till eight o'clock, the hour atwhich all visitors were required to leave the hospital except in casesof extreme danger. Sister Giovanna nodded and wrote a few lines in theday-book. 

It was then half-past three. Clearly Giovanni's plan was to spend asmany hours as possible under the roof, in the hope of seeing her; forthough the operation had been a long one, requiring the skill of agreat surgeon to perform it well, Ugo was in no danger from it, and itmight be supposed that a man who had just come back from such anexperience as Giovanni had lived through would wish to see a few oldfriends on the first day of his return, or would be obliged, at thevery least, to attend to some necessary business. Sister Giovanna didnot know that his return was being purposely kept a secret from thepublic press, and that he was far safer from reporters while he stayedin the Convent hospital than he could be in his lodging. 

At five o'clock the door of her office opened, and to her surprise shesaw Monsignor Saracinesca standing before her, hat in hand. She couldnot remember that she had ever seen him there before, but it was anoffice, after all, and there was no reason why he should not come toit if he had business with her. She rose to receive him. He shut thedoor, which was the only one, bowed gravely, and took one of the twospare rush-bottomed chairs and seated himself, before he spoke. 

'The Mother Superior sent for me, ' he said, 'and I have been with heran hour. She has asked me to come to you. Are you at leisure?'

'Unless I am called. I am on duty. '

He noticed the muffled tone and the slowness of her speech. She satfacing him, on the other side of the plain table, her open report-bookbefore her. 

'You will not blame the Mother Superior for sending me, Sister. She isin the deepest distress for you. You must have seen that, when youspoke with her this morning. '

'She was more than kind. '

Monsignor Saracinesca sighed, but the nun did not notice it. Now thatshe knew why he had come, she needed all her strength and courageagain. 

He went on quietly with his short explanation. Mother Veronica hadtold him of what had happened in the hall; he had known the rest longago from Sister Giovanna herself. That was the substance, and hewasted no words. Then he paused, and she knew what was coming next, for he would speak of a possible meeting; but how he would regard thatshe could not guess, and she waited steadily for the blow if it was tobe one. 

'The Mother Superior thinks that you should not see him, ' he said. 

'I know. She told me so. '

'I do not agree with her, ' said Monsignor Saracinesca slowly. 

The nun turned her face from the afternoon light, but said nothing;with the greatest sacrifice of her life before her she should not feeljoy rising like the dawn in her eyes, at the mere thought of seeingthe man whose love she must renounce. 

'We are human, ' said the churchman, 'and our victories must be human, to be worth anything. It was in His humanity that Christ suffered andovercame. It is not victory to slink from the fight and shut oneselfup in a fortress that is guarded by others. Men and women must be goodmen and women in this world if they hope to be saints hereafter, andthere is no such thing as inactive goodness. '

Sister Giovanna looked at him again, but still she did not speak. 

'Though I am a priest, ' continued Monsignor Saracinesca, 'I am a manof the world in the sense of having belonged to it, and I now liveless apart from it than I could wish, though it is not such athoroughly bad place as those say who do not know it. I do not feelthat I got rid of all obligations to those who still belong to it whenI was ordained, and I do not think that when you took the veil in aworking order, you dropped all obligation to the persons with whom youhad lived till then. In doing so, you might be depriving some one elseof a right. '

Sister Giovanna listened to this exposition in silence and tried tofollow it. 

'In my opinion, ' the prelate went on, 'Giovanni Severi has a justclaim to see you. I speak under authority and I may be wrong, but itcan only be a matter of judgment and of opinion, and since your MotherSuperior has asked for mine, I give it as well as I can. You are not acloistered nun, Sister. There is no reason why you should not receivea friend whom you have believed to be dead for years and who hasunexpectedly come back to life. '

'Back to the life I left for his sake!'

Again she looked away from the light, but her face could not turnwhiter than it was. 

'It was terribly sudden, ' said Monsignor Saracinesca, after a moment'spause. 'You will no doubt wait a few days before seeing him, till youfeel quite able to face what must be a very painful interview. '

'I am not afraid of it now. I was weak when we recognised each other. I cannot quite remember--I heard him call me and I saw his eyes----'

'And you must have fainted. You were carried out to the well at once. '

'Who carried me?' asked the nun quickly. 

'Doctor Pieri and Giovanni Severi. '

She made a slight movement. 

'He carried me!'

She spoke almost unconsciously, and a very faint glow rose through herpaleness, as when white glass is warmed an instant in the mouth of thefurnace and then drawn back and quickly cooled again. 

'Shall I talk with him before you meet?' asked the churchmanpresently. 

Sister Giovanna did not answer at once; she seemed to be thinking. 

'You know better than any one what my life has been, ' she said atlast. 'It was to you that I went for advice five years ago, and againbefore I took the veil. If you had thought it even distantly possiblethat he might be alive, you would not have let me take final vows. '

'Heaven forbid!' answered Monsignor Saracinesca very earnestly. 

'Though I believed him dead, you knew that I loved him with all myheart. '

'Yes. As dearly as when you had last seen him alive. '

'I love him still. Is that wrong?'

'No. '

He said the word without hesitation, in all sincerity and trueconviction, but the nun had expected another answer; a quick movementof the head showed that she was surprised. 

'Are you sure?' she asked in a low and wondering tone. 

'Yes, because I am sure that your love for him is as innocent as itever was. The religious life is not meant to kill human affection. Saint Benedict loved his sister Scholastica devotedly; Saint Franciswas probably more sincerely attached to Saint Clare than to any livingperson. '

'I only know that I love him as dearly as ever, ' said Sister Giovanna. 

The churchman looked at her keenly for a moment, and she did not avoidhis eyes. 

'Would you break your vows for him?' he asked, with sudden directness. 

The nun started as if he had struck her and half rose from her chair. 

'Break my vows?' she cried, her eyes blazing with indignation. 

But Monsignor Saracinesca only nodded and laid his thin hand flat onthe table, towards her. She sank to her seat again. 

'Then I know that, although you may love him more than any one in theworld, you do not love him better than the work you have promised todo. '

'Heaven forbid!'

He had used the very same expression a few moments earlier, but with adifferent tone; for him it had been an asseveration of good faith, butwith her it was more like a prayer. She had resented his question asif it had been an insult, but when he showed how much he trusted her, she began to distrust herself. She would die the martyr's death ratherthan break her vows in deed, but she was too diffident of her ownwomanhood not to fear a fall from the dignity of heartfelt resignationto the inward ignominy of an earthly regret. Besides, 'the work shehad promised to do' had been promised for his sake, not for its own;not for any gain to her soul, but in the earnest hope that it mightprofit his, by God's mercy. Since he was not dead, but alive, thechief purpose of it died with his return to life. She did not love thework she had promised to do more than she loved him; that was nottrue, and never had been. All had been for him--her vow, her work, andher prayers. Heaven forbid, indeed, that she should now set him beforethem; yet it was hard not to do so and there was only one possibleway; in a changed sense they must be given for him still, and for hissalvation, else she could not give at all. 

Monsignor Saracinesca had watched her progress from her noviciate toher present position of responsibility, and had often spoken of herwith the Mother Superior. He would not have advised every nun to dowhat he thought best in her case. There was not another in thecommunity, except the Mother herself, whom he would have trusted sofully. But, being what she was, his honourable sense of justice to aman who had suffered much and must suffer more impelled him to act ashe did. As he himself said, it was a matter of opinion and judgment, and his own approved the course. Those may blame him who thinkotherwise, but no one can find fault with Sister Giovanna forfollowing his advice; she had a right to believe that it was the best, and as for herself, she had never hesitated. The mere suggestion thatshe should not see Giovanni at least once and alone looked to heroutrageous and contrary to all sense, as perhaps it was. 

Monsignor Saracinesca would see him first and arrange the meeting. Hethought it should take place in the cloistered garden. 

'Why not here, in my office?' asked the nun. 

But the churchman objected. If the two were to talk together, out ofhearing, they must not be out of sight. Never, under anycircumstances, should any one be able to say that there had been anysecrecy about their interview. He himself would bring Giovanni to theplace and the Mother Superior would accompany the nun. He and theMother would withdraw into the hall and wait until Sister Giovannadismissed Severi. The Mother would then join her, and MonsignorSaracinesca would go away with Giovanni. 

In order to forestall evil speaking more effectually, the two shouldmeet on the afternoon of the day on which the nun's week of duty assupervising nurse came to an end. On that evening she would go away tonurse a private case, and before that patient was recovered, UgoSeveri would certainly be well enough to go home, and Giovanni's dailyvisits to the hospital would have ceased. It would thus be easy toprove that after their only interview, in what might be called apublic place, they had not been within the same walls at the sametime. 

No one who has watched the politics of the so-called 'socialist' partyin Rome during the past twenty years will wonder at these precautionsnor even call them exaggerated. To all intents and purposes the'Vatican question' has ceased to exist; the Italian Government mayfairly be said to be at peace with the Church; the old bitterness maysurvive amongst certain prejudiced people, chiefly in small towns, butthe spirit of this time is a spirit of good-will and mutualforbearance, and the forces that were once so fiercely opposedactually work together for the common good in many more cases than theworld knows of. The first article of the Italian Constitution statesthat the religion of the Kingdom is that of the Roman Catholic Church;it is, and it will continue to be, and no attempt will ever be made onthe part of the Monarchy to change or to cancel that opening clause. The danger to which the Church is exposed lies in another quarter, andthreatens not only the Church, but Christianity in all its forms; notonly Christianity, but the Monarchy; and not the Monarchy only, butall constitutional and civilised government. It is anarchy; and thoughit boasts itself to be socialism, true socialists disclaim it and itsdoings and all its opinions. If it can be so far honoured as to becounted as a party, it is the party that murdered King Humbert, thatassassinated the Empress of Austria, and that would sooner or laterkill the Pope, if he left the safe refuge which some persons stillinsist on calling his prison. 

It is the party that continually spies upon all religious andcharitable institutions in Rome, and does not hesitate to inventstories of crime outright when it fails to detect one of those littleflaws which its press magnifies to stains of abomination. 

Monsignor Saracinesca understood these things better than the othersconcerned, and at least as well as any one in Rome. As for Giovanni, he had known him a little in former days and took him to be a man ofhonour, who would submit to any conditions necessary for protectingthe nun from calumny. But he could hardly believe that the youngofficer's feelings had undergone no change in five years, for hejudged men as most men judge each other. It was one thing to fall inlove with a charming young girl in her first season; it was quiteanother to love her faithfully for five years, without ever seeing heror hearing from her, and to feel no disappointment on finding her asmuch changed as Angela was now, pale, sorrow-worn, and of noparticular age. The true bloom of youth is something real, but itrarely lasts more than two years; it is as subtle and indescribable asthe bloom of growing roses, which is gone within an hour after theyare cut, though their beauty may be preserved for many days. There wasthe nun's habit, too, and the veil and wimple, proclaiming another anda greater change from which there was no return. 

Ippolito Saracinesca had never been in love, even in his early youth; itwas no wonder that he was mistaken in such a man as Giovanni Severi. Theonly danger he reckoned with lay in Sister Giovanna's own heart, and hefelt that he could count on her courage, her self-respect, and most ofall on her profoundly religious nature. No danger is ever overcomewithout danger, said Mimos. In the case of such a woman it was better, for her sake, to accept such risk as there might be in a singleinterview which must be decisive and final, than to let her live onhaunted by disturbing memories and harassed by regret. 

CHAPTER XIV

It was raining when Giovanni and Monsignor Saracinesca rang at thedoor of the Convent. The Mother Superior had ordered two rush-bottomedchairs to be brought out of the hall and placed under the shelter ofthe cloister just on one side of the glass door; for Sister Giovannawas to receive a visit, as she explained, from an officer who hadknown her father and had business with her. Such things had happenedbefore in the community, and the lay sister was not surprised. Shecarried the chairs out and set them in what she considered a properposition, about two yards apart and both facing the garden. The rainfell softly and steadily, the sky was of an even dove-grey, and thesmell of the damp earth and the early spring flowers filled thecloister. 

Giovanni was a soldier and would impose his military punctuality uponthe prelate, who, like most churchmen, had a clearer idea of eternitythan of definite time. As the Convent clock was striking, therefore, the Mother Superior and Sister Giovanna came down the narrow stairs, for they had been together a quarter of an hour, though they hadscarcely exchanged half-a-dozen words. They walked slowly round underthe vaulted cloister, the Mother on the right, the nun on the left, according to the rigid custom, and they had just turned the lastcorner and were in sight of the two chairs when the glass door opened. 

Monsignor Saracinesca's voice was heard. 

'Remember what I have said. I trust you, and you know that thecloister is open to every one. '

'Yes, ' Giovanni answered, as both appeared on the threshold. 

They saw the two nuns already near and made a few steps to meet them. Monsignor Saracinesca greeted the Mother, who bent her head as sheanswered him; Giovanni stood still, his eyes fixed on Angela's face. But she looked steadily down at the flagstones, and her hands werehidden under the broad scapular of white cloth that hung straight downfrom under her gorget to her feet. 

There are no awkward silences when churchmen or nuns meet, still lessif the meeting takes place by appointment, for each knows exactly whathe or she is expected to say and says it, deliberately and withouthesitation. In less than a minute after they had met, the Mother andMonsignor Saracinesca entered the hall together and closed the glassdoor after them. The soldier and the nun were face to face at last. 

As soon as Giovanni heard the door shut he made one step forward andstretched out both his hands, thinking to take hers. She made nomovement, but raised her eyes, and when he saw them, they were stilland dull. Then she slowly held out her right hand, and it was cold andinert when he took it. She drew back at once and sat down, and he tookthe other chair, bringing it a little nearer, and turning it so thathe could see her. He was cruelly disappointed, but he was the first tospeak. 

'I thought you were glad to know that I am alive, ' he said coldly, 'but I see that you were only frightened, the other day. I am sorry tohave startled you. '

She steadied herself before answering. 

'Yes, I was startled. Your letter did not reach me till afterwards. '

The garden was whirling before her as if she were being put underether, and the little twisted columns that upheld the arches of thecloister chased each other furiously, till she thought she was goingto fall from her chair. She could not hear what he said next, for asurging roar filled her ears as when the surf breaks at an angle on along beach and sounds one deep, uninterrupted note. He was explainingwhy the mail steamer had not reached Italy several days before him, but she did not understand; she only knew when he ceased speaking. 

'It is the inevitable--always the inevitable, ' she said, making adesperate effort and yet not saying anything she wished to say. 

But her tone told him how deeply she was moved, and his fiery energybroke out. 

'Nothing is inevitable!' he cried. 'There is nothing that cannot beundone, if I can live to undo it!'

That was not what she expected, if she expected anything, but itbrought back her controlling self that had been dazed and wanderingand had left her almost helpless. She started and turned her face fullto his, but drawing back in her chair. 

'What do you mean?' she asked. 

'Angela!'

The appeal of love was in his voice, as he bent far forward, but sheraised her hand in warning. 

'No, "Sister Giovanna, " please, ' she said, checking him, thoughgently. 

He felt the slight rebuke, and remembered that the place was public tothe community. 

'It was not by chance that you took my name with the veil, ' he said, almost in a whisper. 'Did you love me then?'

'I believed that you had been dead two years, ' answered the nunslowly. 

'But did you love me still, when I was dead?'

'Yes. '

She did not lower her voice, for she was not ashamed, but she lookeddown. He forgot her rebuke, and called her by her old name again, thathad meant life and hope and everything to him through years ofcaptivity. 

'Angela!' He did not heed her gesture now, nor the quick word shespoke. 'Yes, I will call you Angela--you love me now----'

She checked him again, with more energy. 

'Hush! If you cannot be reasonable, I shall go away!'

'Reasonable!'

There was contempt in his tone, but he sat upright again and said nomore. 

'Listen to me, ' said Sister Giovanna, finding some strength in thesmall advantage she had just gained. 'I have not let you come here inorder to torment you or cheat you, and I mean to tell you the truth. You have a right to know it, and I still have the right to tell it, because there is nothing in it of which I am ashamed. Will you hear mequietly, whatever I say?'

'Yes, I will. But I cannot promise not to answer, when you have done. '

'There is no answer to what I am going to say. It is to be final. '

'We shall see, ' said Giovanni gravely, though with no conviction. 

But the nun was satisfied, for he was clearly willing to listen. Themeeting had disturbed her peace even more than she had expected, butshe had done her best during several days to prepare herself for it, and had found strength to decide what she must say, and to repeat itover and over again till she knew it by heart. 

'You were reported to be dead, ' she began--'killed with the rest ofthem. You had your share in the great military funeral, and I, and allthe world, believed that you were buried with your comrades. Your nameis engraved with theirs upon their tomb, in the roll of honour, asthat of a man who perished in his country's service. I went there withMadame Bernard before I began my noviciate, and I went again, for thelast time, before I took the veil. I had loved you living and I lovedyou dead. '

Giovanni moved as if he were going to speak, but she would not lethim. 

'No, hear me!' she cried anxiously. 'I offered God my life and mystrength for your sake, and if I have done any good here in fiveyears, as novice and nun, it has been in the hope that it might beaccepted for you, if your soul needed it. Though you may not believein such things, do you at least understand me?'

'Indeed I do, and I am grateful--most grateful. '

She was a little disappointed by his tone, for he spoke with anevident effort. 

'It was gladly given, ' she said. 'But now you have come back tolife----'

She hesitated. With all her courage and strength, she could not quitecontrol her memory, and the words she had prepared so carefully weresuddenly confused. Giovanni completed the sentence for her in his ownway. 

'I have come to life to find you dead for me, as I have been dead foryou. Is that what you were going to say?'

She was still hesitating. 

'Was it that?' he insisted. 

'No, ' she answered, at last. 'Not dead for you--alive for you. '

He would have caught at a straw, and the joy came into his face as hequickly held out his hand to her; but she would not take it: hers wereboth hidden under her white cloth scapular and she shrank from him. The light went out of his eyes. 

'I might have known!' he said, deeply disappointed. 'You do not meanit. I suppose you will explain that you are alive to pray for me!'

'You promised to listen quietly, whatever I might say. '

'Yes. ' He controlled himself. 'I will, ' he added, after a moment. 'Goon. '

'I am not changed, ' said Sister Giovanna, 'but my life is. That iswhat I meant by the inevitable. No person can undo what I havedone'--Giovanni moved impatiently--'no power can loose me from my vows. '

In spite of himself, the man's temper broke out. 

'You are mad, ' he answered roughly, 'or else you do not know that youcan be free. '

'Hush!' cried the nun, trying once more to check him. 'Yourpromise--remember it!'

'I break it! I will not listen meekly to such folly! Before you tookthe vow, you had given me your word, as I gave you mine, that we wouldbe man and wife, and since I am not dead, no promise or oath madeafter that is binding! I know that you love me still, as you did then, and if you will not try to free yourself, then by all you believe, andby all I honour, I will set you free!'

It was a challenge if it was not a threat, and Sister Giovannadefended herself as she could. But she was painfully conscious thatsomething in her responded with a thrill to the cry of the pursuer. Nevertheless, she answered with a firm refusal. 

'You cannot make me do what I will not, ' she said. 

'I can and I will!' he retorted vehemently. 'It is monstrous that youshould be bound by a promise made in ignorance, under a wretchedmistake, on a false report that I was dead!'

'We were not even formally betrothed----'

'We loved each other, ' interrupted Giovanni, 'and we had told eachother so. That is enough. We belong to each other just as truly as ifwe were man and wife----'

'Even if we were, ' said the nun, interrupting him in her turn, 'if Ihad taken my vows in the belief that my husband had been dead foryears, I would not ask to be released!'

He stared at her, his temper suddenly chilled in amazement. 

'But if it were a mistake, ' he objected, 'if the Pope offered you adispensation, would you refuse it?'

Sister Giovanna was prepared, for she had thought of that. 

'If you had given a man your word of honour to pay a debt you owedhim, would you break your promise if you suddenly found that you coulduse the money in another way, which would give you the keenestpleasure?'

'That is quite different! How can you ask such an absurd question?'

'It is not absurd, and the case is not so different as you think. Ihave given my word to God in heaven, and I must pay my debt. '

Giovanni was indignant again, and rebelled. 

'You used to tell me that your God was just!'

'And I have heard you say that your only god was honour!' retorted thenun. 

'Yes!' he answered hotly. 'It is! Honour teaches that the first promisegiven must be fulfilled before all others!'

'I have been taught that vows made to God must not be broken. '

She rose, as if the speech were final. Though they had been talking onlya few minutes, she already felt that she could not bear much more. 

'Surely you are not going already!' he cried, starting to his feet. 

Sister Giovanna turned so that she was face to face with him. 

'What is there left to say?' she asked, with a great effort. 

'Everything! I told you that I would answer when you had finished, andnow that you have nothing left to say, you must hear me! You said youwould----'

'I said that there could be no answer. ' Nevertheless she waited, motionless. 

'But there is! The answer is that I will free you from the slavery towhich you have sold your soul! The answer is, I love you, and it isyourself I love, the woman you are now, not the memory of your shadowfrom long ago, but you, you, your very self!'

Half out of his mind, he tried to seize her by the arm, to draw her tohim; but he only caught her sleeve, and dropped it as she sprang backwith a lightness and maiden grace that almost drove him mad. She drewherself up, offended and hurt. 

'Remember what I am, and where you are!'

Giovanni's manner changed so suddenly that she would have beensuspicious, if she had not been too much disturbed to reason. Shefancied that she still controlled him. 

'You are right, ' he said; 'I beg your pardon. Only tell me when I maysee you again. '

'Not for a long time--not till you can give me your word that you willcontrol yourself. Till then, we must say good-bye. '

He was so quiet, all at once, that it was easier to say the word thanshe had expected. 

'No, ' he answered, 'not good-bye, for even if you will not see me, Ishall be near you. '

'Near? Where?'

'I am living in my brother's rooms at the Magazine. I am in charge tillhe gets well. I asked permission to take his place on the day I arrived, from the Minister himself. '

'You have taken his place!' She could not keep her anxiety out of hervoice. 

'Yes, and I hope to get a shot at the fellow who wounded Ugo. But thepost suits me, for the upper part of this house is in sight of mywindows. If you look out towards the river, you can see where I live. '

He spoke so gently that she lingered instead of leaving him at once, asshe had meant to do. 

'And besides, ' he went on, in the same tone, 'I shall come here everyday until my brother can go home. I may meet you at any moment, in goingto his room. You will not refuse to speak to me, will you?'

He smiled. He seemed quite changed within a few moments. But she shookher head. 

'You will not see me here again, ' she answered, 'for my week's turn assupervising nurse will be over this evening and I am going to a privatecase. '

'To-night?' Giovanni asked, with a little surprise. 

'Yes, to-night. '

'Do you mean to say that you do not even have a day's rest after beingon duty a whole week? What a life! But they must give you a few hours, surely! What time do you go off duty, and at what time do you go to yournew patient? I suppose they send for you?'

'Yes, at about eight o'clock. That is the usual time, but I never knowlong beforehand. Arrangements of that sort are all made by the MotherSuperior. '

It did not seem unnatural that he should ask questions about heroccupation, now that he was calmer, nor could she think it wrong toanswer them. Any one might have listened to what they were saying. 

'I daresay you do not even know where you are going this evening?'Giovanni said. 

She thought that he was talking only to keep her with him a littlelonger. Overstrained as she had been, it was a relief to exchange a fewwords quietly before parting from him. 

'It is true, ' she answered, after a moment's thought. 'I daresay theMother Superior mentioned the name of the family, but if she did I haveforgotten it. I shall get my instructions before I leave the house, asusual. I only know that it is a new case. '

'Yes, ' Giovanni said, as if it did not interest him further. 'All thesame, it is a shame that you should be made to work so hard! Before Igo, tell me that you have forgiven me for losing my head just now. Ithink you have, but I want to hear you say so. Will you?'

It seemed little enough to forgive. Sister Giovanna felt so muchrelieved by his change of manner that she was even able to smilefaintly. If he would always be as gentle, she could perhaps ask leave tosee him again in six months. Now that the storm was over, it was a pureand innocent happiness to be with him. 

'You will not do it again, ' she said simply. 'Of course I forgive you. '

'Thank you. It is all I can expect, since you have told me that I wasasking the impossible. You see Madame Bernard sometimes, do you not?'

'Yes. Almost every week. '

'She will give me news of you. I suppose I must not send you a messageby her. That would be against the rules!'

'The message might be!' Sister Giovanna actually smiled again. 'But ifit is not, there is no reason why she should not bring me a greetingfrom you. '

'But not a letter?'

'No. I would not take it from her. It would have to be given to theMother Superior. If she were willing to receive it at all, it would beher duty to read it, and she would judge whether it should be given tome or not. '

'Is that the rule?' Giovanni asked, more indifferently than she hadexpected. 

'Yes. It is the rule in our order. If it were not, who could prevent anyone from writing to a nun?'

'I was not finding fault with it. I must not keep you standing here anylonger. If you will not sit down and talk a little more, I had better begoing. '

'Yes. You have been here long enough, I think. '

He did not press her. He was so submissive that if he had beggedpermission to stay a few minutes more she would have consented, and shewished he would, when she saw him holding out his hand to say good-bye;but she was too well pleased at having dominated his wild temper to makea suggestion which might betray weakness in herself. 

She took his hand and was a little surprised to find it as cold as hershad been when he came; but his face was not pale--she forgot that fiveyears of Africa had bronzed it too much for paleness--and he was veryquiet and collected. She went to the door of the hall with him andopened it before he could do so for himself. 

They parted almost like mere acquaintances, he bowing on the step, shebending her head. The Mother Superior and Monsignor Saracinesca had beensitting by the table, talking, but both had risen and come forward assoon as the pair appeared outside the glass door. It all passed off verysatisfactorily, and the Mother Superior gave a little sigh of reliefwhen the churchman and the soldier went away together, leaving her andSister Giovanna standing in the hall. She felt that MonsignorSaracinesca had been right, after all, in approving the meeting, andthat she had been mistaken in thinking that it must endanger the nun'speace. 

She said nothing, but she was quietly pleased, and a rare, sweet smilesoftened her marble features. She asked no questions about what hadpassed, being quite sure that all was well, and that if there had everbeen anything to fear, it was gone. 

The prelate and Giovanni walked along the quiet street in silence forsome distance; then Severi stopped suddenly, as many Italians do whenthey are going to say something important. 

'You will help me, I am sure, ' he said, speaking impetuously from thefirst. 'Though I never knew you well in old times, I always felt thatyou were friendly. You will not allow her to ruin both our lives, willyou?'

'What sort of help do you want from me?' asked the tall churchman, bending his eyes to the energetic young face. 

'The simplest thing in the world!' Giovanni answered. 'We were engagedto be married when I left with that ill-fated expedition. She thought medead. She must be released from her vows at once! That is all. '

'It is out of the question, ' answered Monsignor Saracinesca, withsupernal calm. 

'Out of the question?' Giovanni frowned angrily. 'Do you mean that itcannot be done? But it is only common justice! She is as much my wife asif you had married us and I had left her at the altar to go to Africa!You cannot be in earnest!'

'I am. In the first place, there is no ground for granting adispensation. '

'No ground?' cried Severi indignantly. 'We loved each other, we meant tomarry! Is that no reason?'

'No. You were not even formally betrothed, either before your parishpriest or the mayor. Without a solemn promise in the proper form andbefore witnesses, there is no binding engagement to marry. That is notonly canonical law, but Italian common law, too. '

'We had told each other, ' Giovanni objected. 'That was enough. '

'You are wrong, ' answered Monsignor Saracinesca gently. 'The Church willdo nothing that the law would not do, and the law would not releaseSister Giovanna, or any one else, from a legal obligation taken underthe same circumstances as the religious one she has assumed. '

'What do you mean?'

'This. If, instead of becoming a nun, Angela had married another manafter you were lost, Italian law would not annul the marriage in orderthat she might become your wife. '

'Of course not!'

'Then why should the Church annul an obligation which is quite as solemnas marriage?'

Giovanni thought he had caught the churchman in a fallacy. 

'I beg your pardon, ' he replied. 'I was taught as a boy that marriage isa sacrament, but I never heard that taking the veil was one!'

'Quite right, in principle. In reality, it is considered, for women, theequivalent of ordination, and therefore as being of the nature of asacrament. '

'I am not a theologian, to discuss equivalents, ' retorted Giovanniroughly. 

'Very true, but a man who knows nothing of mathematics may safely acceptthe statement of a mathematician about a simple problem. That is not thepoint, however. If you remember, I said that "under the samecircumstances" the Church would not do what the law would not. TheChurch considers a nun's final vows to be as binding under itsregulations as the law considers that any civil contract is. The"circumstances" are therefore exactly similar. '

Giovanni was no match for his cool antagonist in an argument. He cut thediscussion short by a direct question. 

'Is it in the Pope's power to release Sister Giovanna from her vows, ornot?'

'Yes. It is--in principle. '

'Then put your principles into practice and make him do it!' cried thesoldier rudely. 

Monsignor Saracinesca was unmoved by this attack, which he answered withcalm dignity. 

'My dear Captain, ' he said, 'in the first place, no one can "make" thePope do things. That is not a respectful way of speaking. '

Giovanni was naturally courteous and he felt that he had gone too far. 

'I beg your pardon, ' he answered. 'I mean no disrespect to the Pope, though I tell you frankly that I do not believe in much, and not at allin his authority. What I ask is common justice and your help as afriend. I ask you to go to him and lay the case before him fairly, asbefore a just man, which I heartily believe him to be. You will see thathe will do what you admit is in his power and give Sister Giovanna herdispensation. '

'If you and she had been married before your disappearance, ' argued thechurchman, 'His Holiness would assuredly not refuse. If you had beensolemnly betrothed before your parish priest as well as legally promisedin marriage at the Capitol, he might make an exception, though a civilbetrothal is valid only for six months, under Italian law. But there wasno marriage and no such engagement. '

Giovanni found himself led into argument again. 

'We had intended to bind ourselves formally, ' he objected. 'I have heardit said by priests that everything depends on the intention and thatwithout it the most solemn sacrament is an empty show! Will you doubtour intention if I give you my word that it was mine, and if SisterGiovanna assures you that it was hers?'

'Certainly not! The Pope would not doubt you either, I am sure. '

'Then, in the name of all that is just and right, what is the obstacle?If you admit that the intention is the one important point, and that itexisted, what ground have you left?'

'That is begging the question, Captain. It is true that without theintention a sacrament is an empty show, but the intention without thesacrament is of no more value than intention without performance wouldbe in law. Less, perhaps. There is another point, however, which youhave quite overlooked. If a request for a dispensation were even to beconsidered, it ought to come from Sister Giovanna herself. '

'And you will never allow her to ask for her freedom!' cried Giovanniangrily. 'That settles it, I suppose! Oh, the tyranny of the Church!'

Monsignor Saracinesca's calm was not in the least disturbed by thisoutbreak, and he answered with unruffled dignity. 

'That is easily said, Captain. You have just been speaking with SisterGiovanna and I daresay you talked of this. What was her answer?'

'She is under the influence of her surroundings, of course! What could Iexpect?'

But the churchman had a right to a more direct reply. 

'Did she refuse to listen to your suggestion that she should leave herorder?' he asked. 

Giovanni did not like to admit the fact, and paused a moment beforeanswering; but he was too truthful to quibble. 

'Yes, she did. '

'What reason did she give for refusing?'

'None!'

'Did she merely say, "No, I will not"?'

'You are cross-examining me!' Giovanni fancied that he had a right to beoffended. 

'No, ' protested Monsignor Saracinesca, 'or at least not with theintention of catching you in your own words. You made an unfairassertion; I have a right to ask a fair question. If I were not apriest, but simply Ippolito Saracinesca, and if you accused me or myfamily of unjust dealings, you would be glad to give me an opportunityof defending my position, as man to man. But because I am a priest youdeny me that right. Are you just?'

'I did not accuse you personally, ' argued the younger man. 'I meant thatthe Church would never allow Sister Giovanna to ask for her freedom. '

'The greater includes the less, ' replied the other. 'The Church is myfamily, it includes myself, and I claim the right to defend it againstan unjust accusation. Sister Giovanna is as free to ask for adispensation as you were to resign from the army when you were orderedto join an expedition in which you nearly lost your life. '

'You say so!' Severi was incredulous. 

'It is the truth. Sister Giovanna has devoted herself to a cause inwhich she too may risk her life. '

'The risk a nurse runs nowadays is not great!'

'You are mistaken. If she carries out her intention, she will be exposedto a great danger. '

'What intention?' asked Giovanni, instantly filled with anxiety. 

'She has asked permission to join the other Sisters of the order who aregoing out to Rangoon to nurse the lepers there. '

'Lepers!' Severi's features were convulsed with horror. 'She, nurselepers! It is not possible! It is certain death. '

'No, it is not certain death, by any means, but you will admit therisk. '

Giovanni was beside himself in an instant. 

'She shall not go!' he cried furiously. 'You shall not make her killherself, make her commit suicide, for your glorification--that what youcall your Church may add another martyr to its death-roll! You shallnot, I say! Do you hear me?' He grasped the prelate's arm roughly. 'Ifyou must have martyrs, go yourselves! Risk your own lives for your ownglory, instead of sacrificing women on your altars--women who shouldlive to be wives and mothers, an honour to mankind!'

'You are utterly unjust----'

'No, I am human, and I will not tolerate your human sacrifice! I am aman, and I will not let the woman I love be sent to a horrible death, todelight your Moloch of a God!'

'Captain Severi, you are raving. '

Giovanni's fiery rage leapt from invective to sarcasm. 

'Raving! That is your answer, that is the sum of your churchman'sargument! A man who will not let you make a martyr of the woman headores is raving! Do you find that in Saint Thomas Aquinas, or in SaintAugustine, or in Saint Jerome?' He dropped his voice and suddenly spokewith cold deliberation. 'She shall not go. I swear that I will make itimpossible. '

Monsignor Saracinesca shook his head. 

'If that is an oath, ' he said, 'it is a foolish one. If it is a threat, it is unworthy of you. '

'Take it how you will. It is my last word. '

'May you never regret it, ' answered the prelate, lifting histhree-cornered hat; for Giovanni was saluting, with the evidentintention of leaving him at once. 

So they parted. 

CHAPTER XV

A carriage came early for Sister Giovanna that evening, and thefootman sent in a message by the portress. The patient was worse, hesaid, and the doctor hoped that the nurse would come as soon as sheconveniently could. She came down in less than five minutes, in herwide black cloak, carrying her little black bag in her hand. It wasraining heavily and she drew the hood up over her head before she leftthe threshold, though the servant was holding up a large umbrella. 

The portress had asked the usual questions of him as soon as hepresented himself, but Sister Giovanna repeated them. Was the carriagefrom the Villino Barini? It was. To take the nurse who was wanted forBaroness Barini? Yes; the Signora Baronessa was worse, and that waswhy the carriage had come half-an-hour earlier. The door of thebrougham was shut with a sharp snap, the footman sprang to the boxwith more than an average flunkey's agility, and the nun was drivenrapidly away. Knowing that the house she was going to was one of thoselittle modern villas on the slope of the Janiculum which have noarched entrance and often have no particular shelter at the frontdoor, she did not take the trouble to push her hood back, as she wouldneed it again so soon. 

In about ten minutes the carriage stopped, the footman jumped downwith his open umbrella in his hand, and let her into the house. Beforeshe could ask whether she had better leave her cloak in the hall, theman was leading the way upstairs; it was rather dark, but she feltthat the carpet under her feet was thick and soft. She followedlightly, and a moment later she was admitted to a well-lighted roomthat looked like a man's library; the footman disappeared and shut thedoor, and the latch made a noise as if the key were being turned; asshe supposed such a thing to be out of the question, however, she wasashamed to go and try the lock. 

She thought she was in the study of the master of the house and thatsome one would come for her at once, and she stood still in the middleof the room; setting down her bag on a chair, she pushed the hood backfrom her head carefully, as nuns do, in order not to discompose therather complicated arrangement of the veil and head-band. 

She had scarcely done this when, as she expected, a door at the end ofthe room was opened. But it was not a stranger that entered; to herunspeakable amazement, it was Giovanni Severi. In a flash sheunderstood that by some trick she had been brought to his brother'sdwelling. She was alone with him and the door was locked on theoutside. 

She laid one hand on the back of the nearest chair, to steady herself, wondering whether she were not really lying ill in her bed anddreaming in the delirium of a fever. But it was no dream; he wasstanding before her, looking into her face, and his own was stern anddark as an Arab's. When he spoke at last, his voice was low anddetermined. 

'Yes. You are in my house. '

Her tongue was loosed, with a cry of indignation. 

'If you are not a madman, let me go!'

'I am not mad. '

His eyes terrified her, and she backed away from him towards thelocked door. She almost shrieked for fear. 

'If you have a spark of human feeling, let me out!'

'I am human, ' he answered grimly, but he did not move to follow her. 

'By whatever you hold sacred, let me go!' She was wrenching at thelock in despair with both hands, but sideways, while she kept her eyeson his. 

'I hold you sacred--nothing else. '

'Sacred!' Her anger began to outbrave her terror now. 'Sacred, and youhave trapped me by a vile trick!'

'Yes, ' he answered, 'I admit that. '

He had not moved again and there was a window near her. She sprang toit and thrust the curtains aside, hoping to open the frame before hecould stop her. But though she moved the fastenings easily, she coulddo no more, with all her strength, and Giovanni still stoodmotionless, watching her. 

'You cannot open that window, ' he said quietly. 'If you scream, no onewill hear you. Do you think I would have brought you to a place whereyou could get help merely by crying out for it? The risk was toogreat. I have made sure of being alone with you as long as I choose. '

The nun drew herself up against the red curtains. 

'I did not know that you were a coward, ' she said. 

'I am what you have made me, brave, cowardly, desperate--anything youchoose to call it! But such as I am, you must hear me to the end thistime, for you have no choice. '

Sister Giovanna understood that there was no escape and she stoodquite still; but he saw that her lips moved a little. 

'God is not here, ' he said, in a hard voice, for he knew that she waspraying. 

'God is here, ' she answered, crossing her hands on her breast. 

He came a step nearer and leaned on the back of a chair; he wasevidently controlling himself, for his movements were studiedlydeliberate, though his voice was beginning to shake ominously. 

'If God is with you, Angela, then He shall hear that I love you andthat you are mine, not His! He shall listen while I tell you that Iwill not give you up to be murdered by priests for His glory! Do whatHe will, He shall not have you. I defy Him!'

The nun shrank against the curtain, not from the man, but at thewords. 

'At least, do not blaspheme!'

'I must, if it is blasphemy to love you. '

'Yours is not love. Would to heaven it were, as I thought it was to-day. Love is gentle, generous, tender----'

'Then be all three to me; for you love me, in spite of everything!'

'You have taught me to forget that I ever did, ' she answered. 

'Learn to remember that you did, to realise that you do, and forgetonly that I have used a trick to bring you here--a harmless trick, onecarriage for another, my brother's orderly for a servant. I found outfrom Madame Bernard where you were going and I sent for you before thehour. You are as safe here as if you were praying in your chapel; in afew minutes the carriage will take you back, you will say you got intothe wrong one by mistake, which is quite true, and the right one willtake you where you are to go; you will be scarcely half-an-hour lateand no one will ever know anything more about it. '

Sister Giovanna had listened patiently to his explanation, andbelieved what he said. He had always been impulsive to rashness, butnow that her first surprise had subsided she was less afraid. He hadevidently yielded to a strong temptation with the idea of forcing herto listen to him, and in reality, if she had understood herself, shewas not able to believe that he would hurt her or bring any disgraceupon her. 

'If you are in earnest, ' she said, when he had finished, 'then let mego at once. '

'Presently, ' he answered. 'This afternoon you made me promise to hearquietly what you had to say, and I did my best. I could not help yourbeing frightened just now, I suppose--after all, I have carried you offfrom the door of your Convent, and I meant you to understand that youwere helpless, and must listen. I ought to have put it differently, but I am not clever at such things. All I ask is that you will hearme. After all, that is what you asked of me to-day. '

He had begun to walk up and down before her, while he was speaking;but he did not come near her, for the chair stood between her and theline along which he was pacing backwards and forwards. Something inhis way of speaking reassured her, as he jerked out the ratherdisconnected sentences. Women often make the mistake of thinking thatwhen we men begin to stumble away from the straight chalk-line of thatlogic in which we are supposed by them to take such pride, our purposeis wavering, whereas the opposite is often the case. Men capable ofsudden, direct, and strong action are often poor talkers, particularlywhen they are just going to spring or strike. A little hesitation ismore often the sign of a near outbreak than of any inward weakening. But Sister Giovanna was deceived. 

'I shall be forced to listen, if you insist, ' she said, moving half astep forward from the curtain, 'but how can I trust you, while I amyour prisoner?'

'You can trust me, if you will be generous, ' Giovanni answered. 

'I do not know what you mean by the word, ' replied the nun cautiously. 'If I am not generous, as you mean it, what then?'

Severi stopped in his walk; his face began to darken again, and hisvoice was rough and hard. 

'What then? Why then, remember what I am and where you are!'

Sister Giovanna drew back again. 

'I would rather trust in God than trust you when you speak in thattone, ' she said. 

He had used the very words she had spoken in the cloister when he hadtried to take her by the arm, but they had a very different meaningnow; his dangerous temper was rising again and he was threatening her. Yet her answer produced an effect she was far from expecting. Heturned to the writing-table near him, opened one of the drawers andtook out an army revolver. Sister Giovanna watched him. If he was onlygoing to kill her she was not afraid. 

'I will force you to trust me, ' he said, quickly examining the chargeas he came towards her. 

'By threatening me with that thing?' she asked with contempt. 'You aremistaken!'

He was close to her, but he offered her the butt-end of the weapon. 

'No, ' he said, 'I am not mistaken. It is I who fear death, as long asyou are alive, and here it is, in your hand. ' But she would not takethe revolver from him. 'You will not take it? Well, there it is. ' Helaid it on the chair, which he placed beside her. 'If I come too nearyou, or try to touch even your sleeve, you can use it. The law willacquit you, and even praise you for defending yourself in need. '

'There must be no need, ' she answered, looking at him fixedly. 'Sayquickly what you have to say. '

'Will you not sit down, then?'

'No, thank you. I would rather not. '

It would have seemed like consenting to be where she was; and besides, the revolver lay on the nearest available chair and she would nottouch it, much less hold it in her hand, if she sat down to listen. Giovanni leaned back against the heavy table at some distance fromher, resting his hands on the edge, on each side of him. 

'After I left you to-day, ' he began, 'I had a long talk with MonsignorSaracinesca in the street. I asked him questions about obtaining adispensation for you. He made it look impossible, of course--that wasto be expected! But I got one point from him, which is important. Hemade it quite clear to me that the request to be released from yourvows must come from you, if it is to be considered at all. Youunderstand that, do you not?'

'Is it possible that you yourself do not yet understand?' SisterGiovanna asked, as quietly as she could. 'Did I not tell you to-daythat no power could loose me from my vows?'

'You were mistaken. There is a power that can, and that rests with thePope, and he shall exercise it. '

'I will not ask for a dispensation. I have told you that it is animpossibility----'

'There is no such thing as impossibility for men and women who love, 'Giovanni answered. 'Have you forgotten the last words you said to mebefore I sailed for Africa?' He spoke gently now, and Sister Giovannaturned her face from him. 'You said, "I will wait for you for ever. "Do you remember?'

'Yes. I remember. '

'Did you "wait for ever, " Angela?'

She looked at him again, and then came forward a little, drawn by animpulse she could not resist. 

'Did I love another man, that you reproach me?' she asked. 'Such as mylife has been, have I lived it as a woman lives who has forgotten? Iknow I have not. Yes, Giovanni, I have waited, but as one waits whohopes to meet in heaven the dear one who is dead on earth. Do youstill find fault with me? Would you rather have had me go back to theworld and to society after mourning you as long as a girl of nineteencould mourn for a man to whom she had not been openly engaged? Was Iwrong? If you had really been dead and could have seen me, would youhave wished that I were living differently?'

For a moment he was moved and held out one hand towards her, hopingthat she would come nearer. 

'No, ' he answered--'no, dear----'

'But that was the only question, ' she said earnestly, 'and you haveanswered it!'

She would not take his hand and Giovanni dropped his own with agesture of disappointment. 

'No, ' he replied, in a colder tone, 'it is not the question, for youhave not told me all the truth. If I had not been gone five years, ifI had come back the day before you took the last vows, would you havetaken them?'

'No, indeed!'

'If I had come the very next day after, would you not have done yourbest to be set free?'

There was an instant's pause before she spoke; then the answer came, clear and distinct. 

'No. '

Severi turned from her with an impatient movement of his compact head, and tapped the carpeted floor with his heel. His answer broke from hislips harshly. 

'You never loved me!'

She would have done wisely if she had been silent then; but she couldnot, for his words denied the truth that had ruled her life. 

'Better than I knew, ' she said. 'Better than I knew, even then. '

'Even then?' The words had hope in them. 'And now?' He was suddenlybreathless. 

'Yes, even now!' The tide of truth lifted her from her feet and swepther onward, helpless. 'Giovanni! Giovanni! Do you think it costs menothing to keep my word with God?'

But he had been disappointed too often now, and he could not believeat once. 

'It costs you less than it would to keep your faith with me, ' heanswered. 

'It is not true! Indeed, it is not true!'

'Then let the truth win, dear! All the rest is fable!'

He was at her side now. She had tried to resist, but not long, and herhand was in his, though her face was turned away. 

'No--no----' she faltered, but he would not let her speak. 

'All a fable of sorrow and a dream of parting, sweetheart! And now wehave waked to meet again, your hand in my hand, my heart to yourheart--your lips to mine----'

She almost shrieked aloud in terror then and threw herself backbodily, as from the edge of a precipice. She might have fallen if hehad not still held her hand, and as she recovered herself she tried towithdraw it. In her distress, words came that she regrettedafterwards. 

'Do you think that only you are human, of us two?' she cried, inpassionate protest against passion itself, against him, against life, but still twisting her wrist in his grip and trying to wrench it away. 'For the love of heaven, Giovanni----'

'No--for love of me----'

She broke from him, for when he felt that he was hurting her hisfingers relaxed. But she could not stay her own words. 

'Yes, I love you, ' she cried almost fiercely, as she steppedbackwards. 'Right or wrong, I cannot unmake myself, and as for lyingto you, I will not! God is my witness that I mean to love you livingas I have loved you dead, without one thought of earth or one regretfor what might have been! But, oh, may God forgive me, too, if I wishthat we were side by side in one grave, at peace for ever!'

'Dead? Why? With life before us----'

'No!' She interrupted him with rising energy. 'No, Giovanni, no! I wasweak for a moment, but I am strong again. I can wait for you, and youwill find strength to wait for me. You are so brave, Giovanni, you canbe so generous, when you will! You will wait, too!'

'For what?'

'For the end that will be the beginning, for God's great To-morrow, when you will come to be with me for ever and ever, beyond the world, and all parting and all pain!'

There was a deep appeal to higher things in her words and in hervoice, too, but it did not touch him; he only knew that at the verymoment when she had seemed to be near yielding, the terribleconviction of her soul had come once more between him and her. 

'There is no beyond, ' he answered, chilled and sullen again. 'You livein a lying legend; your life is a fable and your sacrifice is acrime. '

The cruel words struck her tormented heart, as icy hailstones bruisethe half-clad body of a starving child, out in the storm. 

'You hurt me very much, ' she said in a low voice. 

'Forgive me!' he cried quickly. 'I did not mean to. I forget that youbelieve your dreams, for I cannot live in visions as you do. I onlysee a blind force, striking in the dark, a great injustice done to usboth--a wrong I will undo, come what may!'

'You know my answer to that. You can undo nothing. '

'I am not answered yet. You say you love me--prove it!'

'Only my life can, ' said the nun; 'only our two lives can prove ourlove, for we can live for each other still, perhaps we shall beallowed to die for each other, and in each other we shall findstrength to resist----'

'Not to resist love itself, Angela. '

'No, not to resist all that is good and true in love. '

'I cannot see what you see, ' he answered. 'Nothing human is beyond mycomprehension, good or bad, but you cannot make a monk of me, stillless a saint--a Saint Louis of Gonzaga, who was too modest to look hisown mother in the face!'

He laughed roughly, but checked himself at once, fearing to hurt heragain. 

She turned to him with a look of gentle authority. 

'In spite of what you have done to-night, ' she said, 'you are such amanly man, that you can be the man you will. Listen! If another womantried to get your love, could you resist her? Would you, for love ofme?'

'She would have small chance, you know that well enough. '

'There is another woman in me, Giovanni. Resist her!'

'I do not understand. '

'You must try! There is another woman in me, or what is left of her, and she is quite different from my real self. Resist her for my sake, as I am fighting her with all my strength. It was she who tempted youto bring me here by a trick you are ashamed of already; it was shethat made me weak, just now; but she is not the woman you love, she isnot Angela, she is not worthy of you; and as for me, I hate her, withall my soul!'

Severi had said truly that he could not understand, and instead ofresponding to her appeal, he turned impatient again. 

'You choose your words well enough, ' he answered, 'but women's finespeeches persuade women, not men. No man was ever really moved tochange his mind by a woman's eloquence, though we will risk our livesfor a look of yours, for a touch--for a kiss!'

Sister Giovanna sighed and turned from him. The razor-edge ofextremest peril was passed, for the words that left him cold andunbelieving had brought back conviction to her soul. She could livefor him, pray for him, die for him, but she would not sin for him norlift a hand to loose the vows that bound her to the religious life. Yet she did not see that she was slowly driving him to a state oftemper in which he might break all barriers. Very good women rarelyunderstand men well until it is too late, because men very rarely makeany appeal to what is good in woman, whereas they lie in wait for allher weaknesses. It is almost a proverbial truth that men of the mostlawless nature, if not actually of the worst character, are oftenloved by saintly women, perhaps because the true saint sees some goodin every one and believes that those who have least of it are the oneswho need help most. Sister Giovanna was not a saint yet, but she waswinning her way as she gained ground in the struggle that had beenforced upon her that night, so cruelly against her will, and havinggot the better of a temptation, her charity made her think thatGiovanni Severi was farther from it than he was. Outward danger wasnear at hand, just when inward peril was passed. 

As if he were weary of the contest of words, he left the writing-table, sat down in a big chair farther away, and stared at the pattern in thecarpet. 

'You are forcing me to extremities, ' he said, after a long pause, andrather slowly. 'Unless you consent to appeal to the Pope for yourfreedom, I will not let you leave this house. You are in my powerhere, and here you shall stay. '

She was more surprised and offended than indignant at what she tookfor an empty threat, and she was not at all frightened. Women neverare, when one expects them to be. She drew her long cloak round herwith simple dignity, crossed the room without haste, and stoppedbefore the locked door, turning her head to speak to him. 

'It is time for me to go, ' she said gravely. 'Open the door at once, please. '

She could not believe that he would refuse to obey her, but he did notmove; he did not even look up, as he answered:

'If I keep you a prisoner, there will be a search for you. You maystay here a day, a week, or a month, but in the end you will be foundhere, in my rooms. '

'And set free, ' the nun answered, from the door, with some contempt. 

'Not as you think. You will be expelled from your order for scandalousbehaviour in having spent a night, or a week, or a month in anofficer's lodging. What will you do then?'

'If such a thing were possible, I would tell the truth and I should bebelieved. ' But her anger was already awake. 

'The thing is very possible, ' Giovanni answered, 'and no one willbelieve you. It will be out of the question for you to go back to yourConvent, even for an hour. Even if the Mother Superior were willing, it could not be done. In the Middle Ages, you would have been sent toa prison for penitents for the rest of your life; nowadays you willsimply be turned out of your order with public disgrace, the paperswill be full of your story, your aunt will make Rome ring with it----'

'What do you mean by all this?' cried the Sister, breaking out atlast. 'Are you trying to frighten me?'

'No. I wish you to know that I will let nothing stand between you andme--nothing, absolutely nothing. ' He repeated the word with coldenergy. 'When it is known that you have been here for twenty-fourhours, you will be forced to marry me. Nothing else can save you frominfamy. Even Madame Bernard will not dare to give you shelter, for shewill lose every pupil she has if it is found out that she isharbouring a nun who has broken her vows, a vulgar bad character whohas been caught in an officer's lodgings! That is what they will callyou!'

At first she had not believed that he was in earnest, but she couldnot long mistake the tone of a man determined to risk much more thanlife and limb for his desperate purpose. Her just anger leaped up likea flame. 

'Are you an utter scoundrel, after all? Have you no honour left? Isthere nothing in you to which a woman can appeal? You talk of beinghuman! You prate of your man's nature! And in the same breath youthreaten an innocent girl with public infamy, if she will not disgraceherself of her own free will! Is that your love? Did I give you minefor that? Shame on you! And shame on me for being so deceived!'

Her voice rang like steel and the thrusts of her deadly reproachpierced deep. He was on his feet, in the impulse of self-defence, before she had half done, trying to silence her--he was at her side, calling her by her name, but she would not hear him. 

'No, I believed in you!' she went on. 'I trusted you! I loved you--butI have loved a villain and believed a liar, and I am a prisoner undera coward's roof!' Beseeching, he tried to lay his hand upon hersleeve; she mistook his meaning. 'Take care!' she cried, and suddenlythe revolver was in her hand. 'Take care, I say! A nun is only a womanafter all!'

He threw himself in front of her in an instant, his arms wide out, andas the muzzle came close against his chest, he gave the familiar wordof command in a loud, clear tone:

'Fire!'

Their eyes met, and they were both mad. 

'If you despise me for loving you beyond honour and disgrace, thenfire, for I would rather die by your hand than live without you! I amready! Pull the trigger! Let the end be here, this instant!'

He believed that she would do it, and for one awful moment she hadfelt that she was going to kill him. Then she lowered the weapon andlaid it on the chair beside her with slow deliberation, though herhands shook so much that she almost dropped it. As if no longer seeinghim, she turned to the door, folded her hands on the panel, and leanedher forehead against them. 

He heard her voice, low and trembling:

'Forgive us our sins, as we forgive them that trespass against us!'

His own hand was on the revolver to do what she had refused to do. Aswhen the cyclone whirls on itself, just beyond the still storm-centre, and strikes all aback the vessel it has driven before it for hours, sothe man's passion had turned to destroy him. But the holy words stayedhis hand. 

'Angela! Forgive me!' he cried in agony. 

The nun heard him, raised her head and turned; his suffering wasvisible and appalling to see. But she found speech to soothe it. 

'You did not know what you were saying. '

'I know what I said. '

He could hardly speak. 

'You did not mean to say it, when you brought me here. ' She wasprompting him gently. 

'No. ' He almost whispered the one word, and then he regretted it. 'Ihardly know what I meant to say, ' he went on more firmly, 'but I knowwhat I meant to accomplish. That is the truth, such as it is. I sawthis afternoon that I should never persuade you to ask for yourfreedom unless I could talk to you alone where you must hear me; thechance came unexpectedly and I took it, for it would never have comeagain. I had no other place, I had not thought of what I should say, but I was ready to risk everything, all for all--as I have done----'

'You have, indeed, ' the nun said slowly, while he hesitated. 

'And I have failed. Forgive me if you can. It was for love of you andfor your sake. '

'For my sake, you should be true and brave and kind, ' answered theSister. 'But you ask forgiveness, and I forgive you, and I will try toforget, too. If I cannot do that, I can at least believe that you weremad, for no man in his senses would think of doing what youthreatened! If you wish to live so that I may tell God in my prayersthat I would have been your wife if I could, and that I hope to meetyou in heaven--then, for my sake, be a man, and not a weakling willingto stoop to the most contemptible villainy to cheat a woman. Yourbrother was nearly killed in doing his duty here and you have takenhis place. Make it your true calling, as I have made it mine to nursethe sick. At any moment, either of us may be called to face danger, till we die; we can feel that we are living the same life, for thesame hope. Is that nothing?'

'The same life? A nun and a soldier?'

'Why not, if we risk it that others may be safe?'

'And in the same hope? Ah no, Angela! That is where it all breaksdown!'

'No. You will live to believe it is there that all begins. Now let mego. '

Severi shook his head sadly; she was so unapproachably good, hethought--what chance had a mere man like himself of reallyunderstanding her splendid, saintly delusion?

Pica had turned the key on the outside and had taken it out, obeyinghis orders; but Giovanni had another like it in his pocket and nowunlocked and opened the door. The nun went out, drawing her black hoodquite over her head so that it concealed her face, and Giovannifollowed her downstairs and held an umbrella over her while she gotinto the carriage, for it was still raining. 

'Good-night, ' he said, as Pica shut the door. 

He did not hear her answer and the brougham drove away. When he couldno longer see the lights, he went upstairs again, and after he hadshut the door he stood a long time just where she had stood last. Therevolver was still on the chair under the bright electric light. Hefancied that the peculiar faint odour of her heavy cloth cloak, justdamped by the few drops of rain that had reached it, still hung in theair. With the slightest effort of memory, her voice came back to hisears, now gentle, now gravely reproachful, but at last ringing likesteel on steel in her generous anger. She had been present, in thatroom, in his power, during more than twenty minutes, and now she wasgone and would never come again. 

He had done the most rash, inconsequent, and uselessly bad deed thathad ever suggested itself to his imagination, and now that all wasover he wondered how he could have been at once so foolish, so brutal, and so daring. Perhaps five years of slavery in Africa had unsettledhis mind; he had heard of several similar cases and his own might beanother; he had read of officers who had lost all sense ofresponsibility after months of fighting in the tropics, perhaps fromhaving borne responsibility too long and unshared, who had come back, after doing brave and honourable work, to find themselves morallycrippled for civilised life, and no longer able to distinguish rightfrom wrong or truth from falsehood. 

It had all happened quickly but illogically, as events follow eachother in dreams, from the moment when he had gone to the Conventhospital with Monsignor Saracinesca till the brougham drove away inthe dark, taking Angela back. He understood for the first time how menwhom every one supposed to be of average uprightness could commitatrocious crimes; he shuddered to think what must have happened if amere chance had not changed his mood, making him ask Angela'sforgiveness and prompting him to let her go. She had touched him, thatwas all. If her voice had sounded only a little differently at thegreat moment, if her eyes had not looked at him with just thatexpression, if her attitude had been a shade less resolute, what mightnot have happened? For the conviction that he could force her to behis wife if he chose to keep her a prisoner had taken possession ofhim suddenly, when all his arguments had failed. It had come withirresistible strength: the simplicity of the plan had been axiomatic, its immediate execution had been in his power, and while she waswithin the circle of his senses, his passion had been elemental andoverwhelming. He tried to excuse himself with that; men in such caseshad done worse things by far, and at least Angela had been safe fromviolence. 

But his own words accused him; he had threatened her, he had talked ofbringing infamy and public disgrace on the woman he loved, in order toforce her to marry him; he had thought only of that end and not at allof the vile means; it all took shape now, and looked ugly enough. Hefelt the blood surging to his sunburnt forehead for shame, perhaps forthe first time in his life, and the sensation was painfullyhumiliating. 

It made a deep impression on him when he realised it. Often enough hehad said that honour was his god, and he had taken pleasure in provingthat he who makes the rule of honour the law of his life must ofnecessity be a good man, incapable of any falsehood or meanness orcruelty, and therefore truthful, generous, and kind; in other words, such an one must really be all that a good Christian aims at being. The religion of honour, Giovanni used to say, was of a higher naturethan Christianity, since Christians might sin, repent, and be forgivenagain and again, to the biblical seventy times seven times; but a manwho did one dishonourable deed in his whole life ceased to be a man ofhonour for ever. Having that certainty before his eyes, how could heever be in danger of a fall?

But now he was ashamed, for he had fallen; he had forsaken his deityand his faith; the infamy he had threatened to bring on Angela hadcome back upon him and branded him. It was not because he had broughther to his lodging to talk with him alone, for he saw nothingdishonourable in that, since he felt sure that no harm could come toher in consequence. The dishonour lay in having thought of the restafterwards, and in having been on the point of carrying out histhreat. If he had kept her a prisoner only a few hours, the wholetrain of results would most probably have followed; if he had not lether go till the next day, they would have been inevitable andirretrievable. Nothing could have saved Sister Giovanna then. 

As he saw the truth more and more clearly, shame turned into somethingmore like horror, and as different from mere humiliation as remorse isfrom repentance. Thinking over what he had done, he attempted to puthimself in Angela's place, and to see, or guess, how he would behaveif some stronger being tried to force him to choose between publicignominy and breaking a solemn oath. Moreover, he endeavoured toimagine what the nun, as distinguished from the mere woman, must havefelt when she found herself trapped in a man's rooms and locked in. Even his unbelief instinctively placed Sister Giovanna higher in thescale of goodness than Angela Chiaromonte; he was an unbeliever, butnot a scoffer, for somehow the rule of honour influenced him there, too. Nuns could really be saints, and were often holy women, and thefact that they were mistaken, in his opinion, only made theirsacrifice more complete, since they were to receive no reward wherethey hoped for an eternal one; and he no longer doubted that SisterGiovanna was as truly good in every sense as any of them. What mustshe not have felt, less than an hour ago, when he had entered theroom, telling her roughly that she was in his power, beyond all reachof help? Yet he had cherished the illusion that he was an honourableman, who would never take cruel advantage of any woman, still less ofan innocent girl, far less, still, of a nursing nun, whose dress alonewould have protected her from insult amongst any men but criminals. 

In his self-contempt he hung his head as he sat alone by the table, half-fancying that if he raised his eyes he would see his own imageaccusing him. Sister Giovanna herself would have been surprised if shecould have known how complete her victory had been. His god hadforsaken him in his great need, and though he could not believe inhers, he was asking himself what inward strength that must be whichcould make a woman in extremest danger so gentle and yet so strong, soquick to righteous anger and yet so ready to forgive what he couldnever pardon in himself. 

CHAPTER XVI

Sister Giovanna's nerves were good. The modern trained nurse is amachine, and a wonderfully good one on the whole; when she isexceptionally endowed for her work she is quite beyond praise. Peoplewho still fancy that Rome is a medięval town, several centuries behindother great capitals in the application of useful discoveries andscientific systems, would be surprised if they knew the truth andcould see what is done there, and not as an exception, but as thegeneral rule. The common English and American belief, that Roman nunsnurse the sick chiefly by prayer and the precepts of the school ofSalerno, is old-fashioned nonsense; the Pope's own authority requiresthat they should attend an extremely modern training-school where theyreceive a long course of instruction, probably as good as any in theworld, from eminent surgeons and physicians. 

One of the first results of proper training in anything is anincreased steadiness of the nerves, which quite naturally brings withit the ability to bear a long strain better than ordinary persons can, and a certain habitual coolness that is like an armour againstsurprises of all kinds. One reason why Anglo-Saxons are generallycooler than people of other nations is that they are usually in betterphysical condition than other men. 

A digression is always a liberty which the story-teller takes with hisreaders, and those of us have the fewest readers who make the mostdigressions; hence the little old-fashioned civility of apologisingfor them. The one I have just made seemed necessary to explain whySister Giovanna was able to go to her patient directly from Severi'srooms, and to take up her work with as much quiet efficiency as ifnothing unusual had happened. 

She had found the portress in considerable perturbation, for the rightcarriage had just arrived, a quarter of an hour late instead ofhalf-an-hour too soon. Sister Giovanna said that there had been amistake, that she had been taken to the wrong house, that the firstcarriage should not have come to the hospital of the White Nuns at all, and that she had been kept waiting some time before being brought back. All this was strictly true, and without further words she drove away tothe Villino Barini, the brougham Severi had hired having alreadydisappeared. As he had foreseen, it was impossible that any one shouldsuspect what had happened, for the nun was above suspicion, and when hiscarriage had once left the Convent door no one could ever trace the shamcoachman and footman in order to question them. In that direction, therefore, there was nothing to fear. The authority of an Italianofficer over his orderly is great, and his power of making theconscript's life singularly easy or perfectly unbearable is greater. Even Sister Giovanna knew that, and she felt no anxiety about thefuture. 

Her mind was the more free to serve her conscience in examining herown conduct. It was not her right to analyse Giovanni's, however; hehad made the circumstances in which she had been placed against herwill, and the only question was, whether she had done right in aposition she could neither have foreseen, so as to avoid it, nor haveescaped from when once caught in it. 

Examinations of conscience are tedious to every one except the subjectof them, who generally finds them disagreeable, and sometimespositively painful. Sister Giovanna was honest with herself and wasbroad-minded enough to be fair; her memory had always been very good, she could recall nearly every word of the long interview, and sheaccused herself of having been weak twice, namely, when she hadadmitted that she was tempted, and when she had raised the revolverand Giovanni had thrown himself against it. The danger had been greatat that moment, she knew, for she had felt that her mind was losingits balance. But she had not wished to kill him, even for a moment, though a terrifying conviction that her finger was going to pull thetrigger in spite of her had taken away her breath. Looking back, shethought it must have been the sensation some people have at the edgeof a precipice, when they feel an insane impulse to jump off, withouthaving the slightest wish to destroy themselves. If a man affected inthis way should lose his head and leap to destruction, his act wouldassuredly not be suicide. The nun knew it very well, and she wasequally sure that if she had been startled into pulling the trigger, and had killed the man she had loved so well, it would not have beenhomicide, whatever the law might have called it. But the consequenceswould have been frightful, and the danger had been real. She could bethankful for her good nerves, since nothing had happened, that wasall. Where she had done wrong had been in taking up the weapon, greatas the provocation to self-defence had been. 

Morally speaking, and apart from the possible fatal result, her mainfault lay in having confessed to Giovanni that she was really temptedto ask release from her vows. Now that he was not near, no suchtemptation assailed her, but there had been a time when to resist ithad seemed the greatest sacrifice that any human being could make. Shecould only draw one conclusion from this fact, but it was a grave one:in spite of her past life, her vows and her heartfelt faith, she wasnot free from material and earthly passion. Innocence is one thing, ignorance is another, and a trained nurse of twenty-five cannot andshould not be as ignorant as a child, whether she be a nun or a laywoman. Sister Giovanna knew what she had felt: it had been the thrillof an awakened sense, not the vibration of a heartfelt sympathy; itbelonged neither to the immortal spirit nor to the kingdom of themind, but to the dying body. Temptation is not sin, but it is wrong toexpose oneself to it willingly, except for a purpose so high as tojustify the risk. Sister Giovanna quietly resolved that she wouldnever see Severi again, and she judged that the surest way of abidingby her resolution was to join the mission to the Far East and leaveItaly for ever. Having already thought of taking the step merely inorder to get away from the possibility of hating a person who hadwronged her and robbed her, it seemed indeed her duty to take it nowfor this much stronger reason. Since she could still be weak, herfirst and greatest duty was to put herself beyond the reach ofweakening influences. Giovanni would not leave Rome while she stayedthere, that was certain; there was no alternative but to go awayherself, for a man capable of such a daring and lawless deed ascarrying her off from the door of the Convent, under the very eyes ofthe portress, might do anything. Indeed, he might even follow her toRangoon; but she must risk that, or bury herself in a cloister, whichshe would not do if she could help it. 

While she was nursing the new case to which she had been called, herresolution became irrevocable. When the patient finally recovered shereturned to the Convent, and it was not till she had been doingordinary work in the hospital during several days that she asked tosee the Mother Superior alone. Captain Ugo Severi had gone to thebaths of Montecatini to complete his cure, nothing more had been heardof Giovanni, and the Mother was inclined to believe that his meetingwith Sister Giovanna had been final, and that he would make no furtherattempt to see her. But the nun herself thought otherwise. 

She sat where she always did when she came to the Mother Superior'sroom, on a straight-backed chair between the corner of the table andthe wall, and she told her story without once faltering or hesitating, though without once looking up, from the moment when she had got intothe wrong carriage till she had at last reached the Villino Barini insafety. Though it was late in the afternoon and the light was failing, the Mother shaded her eyes with one hand while she listened. 

There was neither rule nor tradition under which Sister Giovanna couldhave felt it her duty to tell her superior what had happened, and shehad necessarily been the only judge of what her confessor should knowof the matter. Even now, if she had burst into floods of tears orshown any other signs of being on the verge of a nervous crisis, theelder woman would probably have stopped her and told her not to makeconfidences that concerned another person until she was calmer. Butshe evidently had full control of her words and outward bearing, andthe Mother listened in silence. Then the young nun expounded theconclusion to which she believed herself forced: she must leave acountry in which Giovanni might at any moment make another meetinginevitable, and the safest refuge was the Rangoon Leper Asylum. Sheformally asked permission to be allowed to join the mission. 

The Mother Superior's nervous little hand contracted spasmodicallyupon her eyes, and then joined its fellow on her knee. She sat quitestill for a few seconds, looking towards the window; the evening glowwas beginning to fill the garden and the cloisters with purple andgold, and a faint reflection came up to her suffering face. 

'It kills me to let you go, ' she said at last, just above a whisper. 

The words and the tone took Sister Giovanna by surprise, though shehad lately understood that the Mother Superior's affection for her wasmuch stronger than she would formerly have believed possible; it wassomething more than the sincere friendship which a middle-aged womanmight feel for one much younger, and it was certainly not founded onthe fact that the latter was an exceptionally gifted nurse, whosepresence and activity were of the highest importance to the hospital. Neither friendship nor admiration for a fellow-worker could explain anemotion of such tragic depth and strength that it seemed almost toohuman in a woman otherwise quite above and beyond ordinary humanity. Sister Giovanna could find nothing to say, and waited in silence. 

'I did not know that one could feel such pain, ' said Mother Veronica, looking steadily out of the window; but her voice was little more thana breath. 

The Sister could not understand, but in the midst of her own greattrouble, the sight of a suffering as great as her own, and borne onaccount of her, moved her deeply. 

All at once the Mother Superior swayed to one side on her chair, as ifshe were fainting, and she might have fallen if the nun had not dartedforward to hold her upright; but at the touch, she straightenedherself with an effort and gently pushed the young Sister away fromher. 

'If it is for me that you are in such pain, Mother, ' said SisterGiovanna gently, 'I cannot thank you enough for being so sorry! But Ido not deserve that you should care so much--indeed, I do not!'

'If I could give my life for yours, it would still be too little!'

'You are giving your life for many, ' Sister Giovanna answered gently. 'That is better. '

'No. It is not better, but it is the best I can do. You do notunderstand. '

'How can I? But I am grateful----'

'You owe me nothing, ' the Mother Superior answered with sudden energy, 'but I owe you everything. You have given me the happiest hours of mylife. But it was too much. God sent you to me, and God is taking youaway from me--God's will be done!'

Sister Giovanna felt that she was near something very strange andgreat which she might not be able to comprehend if it were shownclearly, and which almost frightened her by its mysterious veiledpresence. The evening light penetrated Mother Veronica's translucidfeatures, as if they were carved out of alabaster, and the hues thatlingered in them might have been reflected from heaven; her upturnedeyes, that sometimes looked so small and piercing, were wide andsorrowful now. The young Sister saw, but guessed nothing of the truth. 

'The happiest hours in your life!' She repeated the words with wonder. 

'Yes, ' said the elder woman slowly, 'the happiest by far! Since youhave been here, you have never given me one bad moment, by word ordeed, excepting by the pain you yourself have had to bear. If you goaway, and if I should not live long, remember what I have told you, for if you have some affection for me, it will comfort you to thinkthat you have made me very, very happy for five long years. '

'I am glad, though I have done nothing but my duty, and barely that. Icannot see how I deserve such praise, but if I have satisfied you, Iam most glad. You have been a mother to me. '

Slowly the transfigured face turned to her at last, full of radiance. 

'Do you mean it just as you say it, my dear?'

'Indeed, indeed, I do!' Sister Giovanna answered, wondering more andmore, but in true earnest. 

The dark eyes gazed on her steadily for a long time, with anexpression she had never seen in human eyes before. Then the truthcame, soft and low. 

'I am your mother. '

'You are a mother to us all, ' the young Sister answered. 

'I am your mother, dear, your own mother that bore you--you, my onlychild. Do you understand?'

Sister Giovanna's eyes opened wide in amazement, but there was aforelightening of joy in her face. 

'You?' she cried. 'But I knew my mother--my father----'

'No. She whom you called your mother was my elder sister. I ran awaywith the man I loved, because he was a Protestant and poor, and myparents would not allow the marriage. We were married in his Church, but my family would have nothing more to do with me. I was an outcastfor them, disgraced, never to be mentioned. Your own father died oftyphoid fever a few days before you were born. I was ill a long time, ill and poor, almost starving. I wrote to my sister, imploring help. She and her husband bargained with me. They agreed to make a longjourney and bring you back as their child. They promised that youshould be splendidly provided for; you would be an heiress, all thatmy brother-in-law could legally dispose of should go to you; but I wasto disappear for ever and never let the truth be known. What could Ido? You were two months old and I was penniless. I let them take you, and I became a nursing sister. It was like tearing off a limb, but Ilet you go to the glorious future that was before you. At least, youwould have all the world held, to make up for my love, and I knew theywould be kind to you. They were ashamed of me, that was all. They saidthat I was not married! You know how rigid they were, with theirtraditions and prejudices! That is my story. I have kept my word, andtheir secret, until to-day. '

Sister Giovanna listened with wide eyes and parted lips, for the worldshe had lived in during more than five-and-twenty years was wrenchedfrom its path and sent whirling into space at a tangent she could notfollow; there was nothing firm under her feet, she had nothingsubstantial left, not even the name she had once called her own. Ithad all been unreal. The dead Knight of Malta lying in state in thegreat palace had not been her father; the delicate woman with theascetic face, who had died when she had been a little child, had notbeen her mother; they had never registered her birth at theMunicipality because she had not been their child and had not evenbeen born in Rome; they had not taken the proper legal steps to adopther and make her their heir, because they had been ashamed of her ownmother. And her own mother was before her, Mother Veronica, theSuperior of the Convent in which she had taken refuge because they hadleft her a destitute, nameless, penniless waif, after promising tomake her their daughter in the eyes of the law. She knew that withouta certificate of birth a girl could not easily be legally married inItaly; if the Prince had lived and she had been about to marry, whatwould he have done about that? But he was gone, and she would not askherself such a question, for the answer seemed to be that he wouldhave done something dishonest rather than admit the truth. A deepresentment sprang up in her against the dead man and woman who had nothonourably kept their solemn promise to her mother, and her aunt'slawless act and hatred of her sank into insignificance beside theirsin of omission. If the Princess's confession during her illness hadnot been altogether the invention of a fevered brain, and if there hadreally been a will, it had been worthless, and its destruction had notrobbed Angela of a farthing. She and her mother had been cheated andtheir lives made desolate by those other two; she must not think ofit, lest she should hate the dead, as she had dreaded to hate theliving. 

All this had flashed upon her mind in one of those quick visions ofthe truth by which we sometimes become aware of many closely connectedfacts simultaneously, without taking account of each. After the MotherSuperior had ceased speaking the silence lasted only a few seconds, but it seemed long to her now that she had told her secret and waswaiting to be answered. Would her daughter forgive her? The youngnun's face expressed nothing she felt at that moment; for the staringeyes and parted lips remained mechanically fixed in a look of blindsurprise long after her thoughts were on the wing; and her thoughtsflew far, but their wide-circling flight brought them back, likeswallows, as swiftly as they had flown away. 

Then her heart spoke, and in another moment she was at her mother'sknee, like a child, with a little natural cry that had never passedher lips before. For a breathing-space both guessed what heaven mighthold of rest, refreshment, and peace, and the march of tragic fate wasstayed while mother and daughter communed together, and dreamed ofnever parting on earth but to meet in heaven, of keeping their sweetsecret from all the world as something sacred for themselves, ofworking side by side, in one life, one love, one faith, one hope, offacing all earthly trouble together, and of fighting every battle ofthe spirit hand in hand. 

Two could bear what one could not. Sister Giovanna felt that freshstrength was given her, and the long-tried elder woman was consciousthat her will to do good was renewed and doubled and trebled, so thatit could accomplish twice and three times as much as before. Herdaughter would not leave her now, to be a martyr in the East, as theonly escape from herself and from the man who loved her too daringly. Why should she go? If she still felt that she must leave Rome for atime, she could go to one of the order's houses far away, but not tothe East, the deadly East! Heaven did not love useless suffering; theChurch condemned all self-sacrifice that was not meet, right, andreasonable. In due time she would come back, when all danger was over, when Giovanni had lived through the first days of surprise, disappointment, and passion. 

The sunset glow had faded and twilight was coming on when the two wentdown the steps and crossed the cloistered garden to the chapel, for itwas the hour for Vespers. They walked as usual, with an even, noiseless tread, the young nun on the left of her superior and keepingstep with her, but not quite close to her, for that would not havebeen respectful; yet each felt as if the other's hand were in hers andtheir hearts were beating gently with the same loving thought. Peacehad come upon them and they felt that it would be lasting. 

At the chapel door they separated; the Mother Superior passed to herhigh-backed, carved seat at the end, the three aged nuns who hadsurvived from other times sat next to her in the order of their years, and Sister Giovanna took her appointed place much farther down. Anumber of seats were empty, belonging to those nurses who wereattending private cases. 

Cloistered nuns spend many hours of the day and night in chapel, butthe working orders use short offices and have much latitude as to thehours at which their services are held. Except on Sundays and at dailymass, no priest officiates; the Mother Superior or Mother Prioressleads with her side of the choir, the Sub-Prioress, or the Mistress ofthe Novices, or whoever is second in authority, responds with theother nuns. The Office of Saint Dominic for Vespers practicallyconsists of one short Psalm, a very diminutive Lesson, one Hymn, andthe beautiful Canticle 'My soul doth magnify the Lord'; then follows alittle prayer and the short responsory, and all is over. The wholeservice does not last ten minutes. 

The women's voices answered each other peacefully, and then rosetogether in the quaint old melody of the hymn, the sweet notes of theyounger ones carried high on the stronger tones of the elder Sisters, while the three old nuns droned on in a sort of patient, nasal, half-mannish counter-tenor, scarcely pronouncing the words they sang, but making an accompaniment that was not wholly unpleasing. 

Two versicles of responsory next, and then the Mother Superior began tointone the Magnificat, and Sister Giovanna took up the grand plain-chantwith the others. In spite of her deep trouble, the words had never meantto her what they meant now, and she felt her world lifted up from earthto the gates of Peace. 

But she was not to reach the end of the wonderful song that day. 

'And His mercy is on them that fear Him, from generation togeneration, ' the nuns sang. 

With a crash, as if a thunderbolt had fallen at their feet in thechoir, the Great Unforeseen once more flashed from its hiding-placeand hurled itself into their midst. 

The chapel rocked to and fro twice with a horrible noise of loosenedmasonry grinding on itself, and the panes of the high windows fell inthree separate showers and were smashed to thousands of splinters onthe stone floor, the lights went out, the sacred ornaments on thealtar toppled and fell upon each other, the twilight that glimmeredthrough the broken windows alone overcame the darkness in the wreckedchurch. The destruction was sudden, violent, and quick. In less thanfifteen seconds after the shock, perfect stillness reigned again. 

The Sisters, in their first terror, caught at each otherinstinctively, or grasped the woodwork with convulsed hands. One ortwo novices had screamed outright, but the most of them uttered anejaculatory prayer, more than half unconscious. The Mother Superiorwas standing upright and motionless in her place. 

'Is any one hurt?' she asked steadily, and looking round thesemicircle in the gloom. 

No answer came to her question. 

'If any one of you was struck by anything, ' she said again, 'let herspeak. '

No one had been hurt, for the small choir was under the apse of thechapel and there were no windows there. 

'Let us go to the hospital at once, ' she said. 'The patients will needus. '

Her calm imposed itself upon the young novices and one or two of themore nervous Sisters; the others were brave women and had only beenbadly startled and shaken, for which no one could blame them. Theyfiled out, two and two, by the side door of the choir, Mother Veronicacoming last. From the cloister they could see that the big glass doorof the reception-hall was smashed, and that the windows overhead onthat side were also broken. Singularly enough, not one of those on theother side was injured. 

All had felt the certainty that a dynamite bomb had been explodedsomewhere in the building with the intention of blowing up thehospital. As they fell out of their ranks and scattered in twos andthrees, hastening to the different parts of the establishment whereeach did her accustomed work, Sister Giovanna naturally found herselfbeside the Mother Superior. As one of the supervising nurses, she was, of course, needed in the hospital itself with her superior. 

'What do you think it was, Mother?' she asked in a low tone. 

'Nothing but dynamite could have done such damage----'

She was still speaking, when a lay sister rushed out of the door theywere about to enter, with a broom in her hand, which she had evidentlyforgotten to put down. 

'The powder magazine at Monteverde!' she cried excitedly. 'I saw itfrom the window! It was like fireworks! It has blown up with everybodyin it, I am sure!'

CHAPTER XVII

The lay sister was right. The great powder magazine at Monteverde hadbeen blown up, but by what hands no one has ever surely known. Thedestruction was sudden, complete, tremendous, for a large quantity ofdynamite had been stored in the deep vaults. Today, a great hollow inthe side of the hill and near the road marks the spot where thebuildings stood. Many stories have been told of the catastrophe; manytales have been repeated about suspicious characters who had been seenin the neighbourhood before the fatal event, and for some of thesethere is fairly good authority. 

All those who were in the city when the explosion took place, and Imyself was in Rome at the time, will remember how every one was atfirst convinced that his own house had been struck by lightning orsuddenly shaken to its foundations. Every one will remember, too, thelong and ringing shower of broken glass that followed instantly uponthe terrific report. Every window looking westward was broken at once, except some few on the lower stories of houses protected by buildingsopposite. 

Giovanni Severi was in the main building over the vaults a short timebefore the catastrophe, having just finished a special inspectionwhich had occupied most of the afternoon. He was moving to leave theplace when an unfamiliar sound caught his ears, a noise muffled yetsharp, like that of the discharge of musketry heard through a thickwall. The junior officers and the corporal who were with him heard it, too, but did not understand its meaning. Giovanni, however, instantlyremembered the story told by one of the survivors from a terribleexplosion of ammunition near Naples many years previously. Thatmuffled sound of quick firing came from metallic cartridges explodingwithin the cases that held them; each case would burst and set fire toothers beside it; like the spark that runs along a fuse, the train ofboxes would blow up in quick succession till the large stores ofgunpowder were fired and then a mass of dynamite beyond. There weredivisions in the vaults, there were doors, there were walls, butGiovanni well knew that no such barriers would avail for more than afew minutes. 

Without raising his voice, he led his companions to the open door, speaking as he went. 

'The magazine will blow up in two or three minutes at the outside, ' hesaid. 'Send the men running in all directions, and go yourselves, towarn the people in the cottages near by to get out of doors at once. It will be like an earthquake; every house within five hundred yardswill be shaken down. Now run! Run for your lives and to save the livesof others! Call out the men as you pass the gates. '

The three darted away across the open space that lay between thecentral building and the guard-house. Giovanni ran, too, but not awayfrom the danger. There were sentries stationed at intervals all roundthe outer wall, as round the walls of a prison, and they would havelittle chance of life if they remained at their posts. Giovanni ranlike a deer, but even so he lost many seconds in giving his orders toeach sentinel, to run straight for the open fields to the nearestcottages and to give warning. The astonished sentinels obeyedinstantly, and Giovanni ran on. He reached the very last just toolate; at that moment the thunder of the explosion rent the air. Hefelt the earth rock and was thrown violently to the ground; thensomething struck his right arm and shoulder, pinning him down; heclosed his eyes and was beyond hearing or feeling. 

Within three-quarters of an hour the road to Monteverde was throngedwith vehicles of all sorts and with crowds of people on foot. Thenature of the disaster had been understood at once by the soldiery, and the explanation had spread among the people, rousing that strangemixture of curiosity and horror that draws the common throng to thescene of every accident or crime. But amongst the very first the Kingwas on the spot with half-a-dozen superior officers, and in thebriefest possible time the search for dead and wounded began. Thestory of Giovanni's splendid presence of mind and heroic courage ranfrom mouth to mouth. The junior officers and the men whom he had sentin all directions came in and reported themselves to the officer whohad taken charge of everything for the time being. Only one man wasmissing--only one man and Giovanni himself. A few casualties amongstthe peasants were reported, but not a life had been lost and hardly abone was broken. Yet Giovanni was missing. 

With the confidence of men who understood that the magazine must havebeen so entirely destroyed at once as to annihilate all further dangerin an instant, the searchers went up to the ruin of the outer wall andpeered into the great dusty pit out of which the foundations of themagazine had been hurled hundreds of feet into the air. Something ofthe outline of the enclosure could still be traced, and the sentinelswhom Giovanni had warned from their post had already told their story. They found, too, that the missing man himself had been one of thesentries, and the inference was clear: their commanding officer hadbeen killed before he had reached the last post. 

For a long time they searched in vain. Great masses of masonry hadshot through the outer wall and had rolled on or been stopped by theinequalities of the ground. Most of the wall itself was fallen and itsdirection could only be traced by a heap of ruins. Twilight had turnedto darkness, and the search grew more and more difficult as a finerain began to fall. Below, the multitude was already ebbing back toRome; it was dark, it was wet, hardly any one had been hurt, and therewas nothing to see: the best thing to be done was to go home. 

It was late when a squad of four artillerymen heard a low moan thatcame from under a heap of stones close by them. In an instant theywere at work with the pickaxes and spades they had borrowed from thepeasants' houses, foreseeing what their work would be. From time totime they paused a moment and listened. Before long they recognisedtheir comrade's voice. 

'Easy, brothers! Don't crack my skull with your pickaxes, for Heaven'ssake!'

'Is the Captain there?' asked one of the men. 

'Dead, ' answered the prisoner. 'He was warning me when we were knockeddown together. Make haste, but for goodness' sake be careful!'

They were trained men and they did their work quickly and well. Whathad happened was this. The heavy and irregular mass of masonry thathad pinned Giovanni to the ground by his arm had helped to make a sortof shelter, across which a piece of the outer wall had fallen withoutbreaking, followed by a mass of rubbish. By what seemed almost amiracle to the soldiers, their companion was entirely unhurt, and nopart of the officer's body had been touched except the arm that laycrushed beneath the stones. 

They cleared away the rubbish and looked at him as he lay on his backpale and motionless under the light of their lanterns. They knew whathe had done now; they understood that of them all he was the hero. Oneof the men took off his cap reverently, and immediately the othersfollowed his example, and so they all stood for a few moments lookingat him in silence and in deference to his brave deeds. Then they setto work in silence to move the heavy block of broken masonry that hadfelled him, and their comrade helped them too, though he was stiff andbruised and dazed from the terrific shock. As the mass yielded at lastbefore their strength and rolled away, one of the men uttered a cry. 

'He is alive!' he exclaimed. 'He moved his head!'

Before he had finished speaking the man was on his knees besideGiovanni, tearing open his tunic and his shirt to listen for thebeating of his heart. It was faint but audible. Giovanni Severi wasnot dead yet, and a few moments later his artillerymen were carryinghim down the hill towards the road, his injured arm swinging like arag at his side. 

They did not wait for orders; there were a number of carriages stillin the road and the men had no idea where their superiors might be. Their first thought was to get Giovanni conveyed to a hospital as soonas possible. 

'We must take him to the White Sisters, ' said the eldest of them. 'That is where his brother was so long. '

The others assented readily enough; and finding an empty cab in theroad, they lifted the wounded officer into it and pulled up the hoodagainst the rain, whilst two of them crept in under it, telling thecabman where to go. 

In less than a quarter of an hour the cab stopped before the hospitalof the White Sisters, and when the portress opened the door, the twoartillerymen explained what had happened and begged that their officermight be taken in at once; and, moreover, that the portress wouldkindly get some money with which to pay the cabman, as they could onlyraise seven sous between them. 

The Mother Superior had supposed that there would be many wounded, andhad directed that the orderlies should be ready at the door withstretchers, although the Convent hospital did not receive accidentcases or casualties except in circumstances of extreme emergency. Thehospital of the Consolazione, close to the Roman Forum, was the properplace for these, but it was very much farther, and the White Sisterswere so well known in all Trastevere that they were sometimes calledupon, even in the middle of the night, to take in a wounded man whocould not have lived to reach the great hospital beyond the Tiber. 

Under the brilliant electric light in the main hall, the MotherSuperior recognised Giovanni's unconscious face; his crushed arm, hanging down like a doll's, and his torn and soiled uniform, told therest. He was taken at once to the room his brother had occupied solong. The Mother Superior herself helped the surgeon and anotherSister to do all that could be done then. Sister Giovanna knew nothingof his coming, for she was in the wards, where there was much to bedone. The patients who had fever had been severely affected by theterrible explosion, and most of them were more or less delirious andhad to be quieted. In the windows that look westward every pane ofglass was broken, though the outer shutters had been closed at sunset, a few minutes before the catastrophe. There were heaps of broken glassto be cleared away, and the patients whose beds were now exposed todraughts were moved. Sister Giovanna, who was not the supervisingnurse for the week, worked quietly and efficiently with the others, carrying out all directions as they were given; but her heart misgaveher, and when one of the nuns came in and said in a low voice that anofficer from Monteverde had been brought in with his arm badlycrushed, she steadied herself a moment by the foot of an ironbedstead. In the shaded light of the ward no one noticed her agonisedface. 

Presently she was able to ask where the officer was, and the Sisterwho had brought the news announced that he was in Number Two. It wasGiovanni now, and not his brother, the unhappy woman was sure of that, and every instinct in her nature bade her go to him at once. But theunconscious volition of those long trained to duty is stronger thanalmost any impulse except that of downright fear, and Sister Giovannastayed where she was, for there was still much to be done. 

About half-an-hour later the Mother Superior entered the ward andfound her and led her quietly out. When they were alone together, theelder woman told her the truth. 

'Giovanni Severi has been brought here from Monteverde, ' she said. 'His right arm is so badly crushed that unless it is amputated he willcertainly die. '

Sister Giovanna did not start, for she had guessed that he hadreceived some terrible injury. She answered quietly enough, by aquestion. 

'Is he conscious?' she asked. 'I believe that, by the law, his consentmust be obtained before the operation. '

'He came to himself, but the doctor thought it best to give him ahypodermic of morphia and he is asleep. '

'Did he speak, while he was conscious?'

The Mother Superior knew what was passing in her daughter's mind, andlooked quietly into the expectant eyes. 

'He did not pronounce your name, but he said that he would rather dieoutright than lose his right arm. In any case, it would not bepossible to amputate it during the night. He had probably dined beforethe accident, and it will not be safe to put him under ether beforeto-morrow morning. '

Sister Giovanna did not speak for a few moments, though the MotherSuperior was almost quite sure what her next words would be, and thatthe young nun was mentally weighing her own strength of character withthe circumstances that might arise. 

'May I take care of him to-night?' she asked at last rather suddenly, like a person who has decided to run a grave risk. 

'Can you be sure of yourself?' asked the elder woman, trying to putthe question in the authoritative tone which she would have used withany other Sister in the community. 

But it was of no use; when she thought of all it meant, and of whatthe delicate girl was to her, all the coldness went out of her voiceand the deepest motherly sympathy took its place. The answer cameafter a short pause in which the question was finally decided. 

'Yes. I can be sure of myself now. '

'Then come with me, ' answered the Mother Superior. 

They followed the passage to the lift, were taken up to the thirdfloor, and a few moments later were standing before the closed door ofNumber Two. The Mother Superior paused with her hand on the door knob. She looked silently at her young companion, as if repeating thequestion she had already asked; and Sister Giovanna understood andslowly bent her head. 

'I can bear anything now, ' she said. 

She opened the door, and the two entered the quiet room, where one ofthe Sisters sat reading her breviary by the shaded light in thecorner. The wounded man lay fast asleep under the influence of themorphia, and the white coverlet was drawn up to his chin. He was notvery pale, Sister Giovanna thought; but she could not see well, because there was a green shade over the small electric lamp in thecorner of the room. 

'Sister Giovanna will take your place for to-night, ' said the MotherSuperior to the nun, who had risen respectfully, and who left the roomat once. 

The mother and daughter turned to the bedside and stood looking downat the sleeping man's face. Instinctively their hands touched and thenheld each other. Experience told them both that in all probabilityGiovanni would sleep till morning under the drug, and would wake in adreamy state in which he might not recognise his nurse at once; butsooner or later the recognition must take place, words must be spoken, and a question must be asked. Would he or would he not consent to theoperation which alone could save his life? So far as the two womenknew and understood the law, everything depended on that. If hedeliberately refused, it would be because he chose not to live withoutAngela, not because he feared to go through life a cripple. They wereboth sure of that, and they were sure also that if any one couldpersuade him to choose life where the choice lay in his own hands, itwould be Sister Giovanna herself. The operation was not one whichshould be attended with great danger; yet so far as the law providedit was of such gravity as to require the patient's own consent. 

Neither of the two nuns spoke again till the Mother Superior was atthe door to go out. 

'If you want me, ring for the lay sister on duty and send for me, ' shesaid. 'I will come at once. '

She did not remember that she had ever before said as much to a nursewhose night was beginning. 

'Thank you, ' answered Sister Giovanna; 'I think he will sleep tillmorning. '

The door closed and she made two steps forward till she stood at thefoot of the bed. For a few moments she gazed intently at the face sheknew so well, but then her glance turned quickly toward the cornerwhere the other nurse had sat beside the shaded lamp. That should beher place, too, but she could not bear to be so far from him. Noiselessly she brought a chair to the bedside and sat down so thatshe could look at his face. Since she had been in the room she hadfelt something new and unexpected--the deep, womanly joy of being aloneto take care of the beloved one in the hour of his greatest need. Shewould not have thought it possible that a ray of light could penetrateher darkness, or that in her deep distress anything approaching in themost distant degree to a sensation of peace and happiness could comenear her. Yet it was there and she knew it, and her heart rested. Itwas an illusion, no doubt, a false dawn such as men see in thetropics, only to be followed by a darker night; but while it lasted itwas the dawn for all that. It was a faint, sweet breath of happiness, and every instinct of her heart told her that it was innocent. Shewould have, been contented to watch over him thus, in his sleep, forever, seeing that he too was momentarily beyond suffering. 

It seemed, indeed, as if it might be long before any change came; hisbreathing was a little heavy, but was regular as that of a sleepinganimal; his colour was even and not very pale; his eyes were quiteshut and the eyelids did not quiver nor twitch. The tremendous drughad brought perfect calm and rest after a shock that would havetemporarily shattered the nerves of the strongest man. Then, too, there was nothing to be seen and there was nothing in the room tosuggest the terrible injury that was hidden under the whitecoverlet--nothing but the lingering odour of iodoform, to which the nunwas so well used that she never noticed it. 

Hour after hour she sat motionless on the chair, her eyes scarcelyever turning from his face. He was so quiet that there was absolutelynothing to be done; to smooth his pillow or to pass a gentle hand overhis forehead would have been to risk disturbing his perfect quiet, andshe felt not the slightest desire to do either. For a blessed spaceshe was able to put away the thought of the question which would beasked when he wakened, and which he only could answer. It was not anight of weary waiting nor of anxious watching; while its lengthlasted, he was hers to watch, hers alone to take care of, and that wasso like happiness that the hours ran on too swiftly and she wasstartled when she heard the clock of the San Michele hospice strikethree; she remembered that it had struck nine a few minutes after shehad sat down beside him. 

Her anxiety awoke again now, and that delicious state of peace inwhich she had passed the night began to seem like a past dream. In alittle more than an hour the dawn would begin to steal through theouter blinds--the dawn she had watched for and longed for a thousandtimes in five years of nursing. It would be unwelcome now; it wouldmean the day, and the day could only mean for her the inevitablequestion. 

She sat down again to watch him, for she had risen nervously in thefirst moment of returning distress; and she felt the cold of the earlymorning stealing upon her as she became gradually sure that hisbreathing was softer, and that from time to time a very slightquivering of the closed lids proclaimed the gradual return ofconsciousness. He would not wake in pain, or at least not in any acutesuffering; she knew that by experience, for in such cases the nervesnear the injured part generally remained paralysed for a long time. But he would wake sleepily at first, wondering where he was, glancingvaguely from one wall to another, from the foot of the bed or thewindow to her own face, without recognising it or understandinganything. That first stage might last a few minutes, or half-an-hour;he might even fall asleep again and not wake till much later. Butsooner or later recognition would come, and with it a shock to him, asudden tension of the mind and nerves, under which he might attempt tomove suddenly in his bed, and that might be harmful, though she couldnot tell how. She wondered whether it would not be her duty to leavehim before that moment. It was true that he would recognise the roomin which he had so often spent long hours with his brother; he wouldknow, as soon as he was conscious, that he was in the Convent hospitaland under the same roof with her; then he would ask for her. Perhapsthe surgeon would think it better that he should see her, but shewould not be left alone with him; possibly she might be asked by theMother Superior or by Monsignor Saracinesca, if he chanced to comethat morning, to use her influence with Giovanni in order that hemight submit to what alone could save him from death. It was going tobe one of the hardest days in all her life--would God not stay the dawnone hour?

It was stealing through the shutters now, grey and soft, and thewounded man's sleep was unmistakably lighter. Sister Giovanna drewback noiselessly from the bedside and carried her chair to the cornerwhere the little table stood, and sat down to wait again. It might bebad for him to wake and see some one quite near him, looking into hisface. 

At that moment the door opened quietly and the Mother Superior stoodon the threshold, looking preternaturally white, even for her. SisterGiovanna rose at once and went to meet her. They exchanged a few wordsin a scarcely audible whisper. The Mother had come in person to takethe nun's place for a while, judging that it would not be well ifGiovanni wakened and found himself alone with her. 

The Sister went to her cell, where she had not been since theexplosion on the previous evening. The brick floor was strewn withbroken glass and was damp with the fine rain, driven through thelattice by the southwest wind during the night. Even the rush-bottomedchair was all wet, and the edge of the white counterpane on the littlebed. It was all very desolate. 

CHAPTER XVIII

Giovanni opened his eyes at last, looked at the ceiling for a fewmoments, and then closed them again. Plain white ceilings are verymuch alike, and for all he could see as he looked up he was at home inhis own bed, at dawn, and there was plenty of time for another nap. Hefelt unaccountably heavy, too, though not exactly sleepy, and it wouldbe pleasant to feel himself going off into unconsciousness again for awhile, knowing that there was no hurry. 

But his eyes had not been shut long before he became aware that he wasin a strange place. He could not sleep again because an unfamiliarodour of iodoform irritated his nostrils; he missed something, too, either some noise outside to which he was used or some step near him. In the little house at Monteverde he could always hear his orderlycleaning the stable early in the morning; he grew suddenly uneasy andtried to turn in his bed, and instead of the noise of broom and bucketand sousing, he heard the indescribably soft sound of felt shoes ontiles as the Mother Superior came to his side. 

Then, in a flash, he remembered everything, up to the time when he hadbeen hurt, and after the moment when he had at first come to himselfin the room where he now was. His eyes opened again, and he saw andrecognised the Mother Superior, whom he had often seen and spoken withduring his brother's stay in the hospital. Suddenly he was quitehimself, for his hurt was altogether local and he had lost littleblood; he only felt half paralysed on that side. 

'Were there many killed?' he asked quietly. 

'We do not know, ' the Mother answered. 'When it is a little later Iwill telephone for news. It is barely five o'clock yet. '

'Thank you, Mother. ' He shut his eyes again and said no more. 

The Mother Superior opened the window and let in the fresh morningair, full of the glow of the rising sun, for the room looked to theeastward, across the broad bend of the Tiber and towards the Palatine. She turned out the electric light in the corner, then went to thewindow again and refreshed herself by drawing long breaths at regularintervals, as she had been taught to do when she was a beginner atnursing. Presently the injured man called her and she went to thebedside again. 

'It would be very kind of you to take down a few words which I shouldlike to dictate, ' he said. 'No, ' he continued quickly, as he saw agrave look in the nun's face, 'it is not my will! It will be a shortreport of what happened before the explosion. They will want it atheadquarters and my head is quite clear now. Will you write for me, Mother?'

'Of course. '

There is always a pencil with a memorandum-pad in every private roomof a hospital, for the use of the nurse and the doctor. The MotherSuperior took both from the table and sat down close to the bed, andGiovanni dictated what he had to say in a clear and businesslike waythat surprised her, great as her experience had been. When he hadfinished, he asked her to read it over to him, and pointed out onesmall correction to be made. 

'I think I can sign it with my left hand, if you will hold it up forme, ' he said. 

His fingers traced his name with the pencil, though very unsteadily, and he begged her to send it to headquarters at once. There was alwayssome one on duty there, he explained, if it was only the subalterncommanding the guard. She need not be afraid of leaving him alone fora few moments, he added, for he was in no pain and did not feel at allfaint. Besides, she would now send him another nurse--he had notthanked her for taking care of him herself during the night--he hopedshe would forgive his omission--he was still----

And thereupon, while in the very act of speaking, he fell asleepagain, exhausted by the effort he had made, and still under theinfluence of the strong drug. The Mother understood, glanced at himand slipped away, closing the door very softly. She knew that stage ofawakening from the influence of opium, with its alternating 'zones' ofsleep and waking. 

It was half-past five now, and a spring morning, and all was astirdownstairs; lay sisters were gathering the broken glass into baskets, the portress was clearing away the wreck of broken panes from theouter hall, and the nun who had charge of the chapel was preparing thealtar for matins. No one was surprised to see the Mother Superior inthe cloister so early, for she was often the first to rise and almostalways the last to go to rest; the novices said that the little whitevolcano never slept at all, but was only 'quiescent' during a part ofthe night. 

She found one of the orderlies scrubbing the outer doorstep, anddespatched him at once with Giovanni's report, which she had put intoan envelope and directed. He was to bring back an answer if there wasany; and when he was gone, as he had not finished his job, she tookthe scrubbing broom in her small hands and finished it herself, withmore energy, perhaps, than had been expended upon the stones for sometime. Before she had quite done, the portress caught sight of her andwas filled with horror. 

'For the love of heaven!' she cried, trying to take the broom herself. 

The nun would not let it go, however, and pushed her aside gently, with a smile. 

'If any one should see your Reverence!' protested the portress. 

'My dear Anna, ' answered the Mother Superior, giving the finishingstrokes, 'they would see an old woman washing a doorstep, and no harmwould be done. '

But the example remained impressed on the good lay sister's mind forever, and to her last days she will never tire of telling the noviceshow the Mother Superior washed the doorstep of the hospital herself onthe morning after the explosion at Monteverde. 

The delivery of the report produced a more immediate result thaneither Giovanni or the Mother had expected. The accident had happenednear sunset, and the story of Giovanni's heroic behaviour had beenrepeated everywhere before midnight. The men who had found him had, ofcourse, reported the fact after the first confusion was over, but itwas some time before the news got up to any superior officer, thoughthe King's aide-de-camp had left instructions that any informationabout Giovanni was to be telephoned to the Quirinal at once. When ithad been understood at last that he was in the private hospital of theWhite Sisters, badly injured but alive, it was too late to think ofsending an officer to make inquiries in person. On the other hand, sixo'clock in the morning is not too early for most modern sovereigns, general officers, and members of the really hard-working professions, among which literature is sometimes included. In half-an-hourGiovanni's little report had been read, copied, telephoned, andtelegraphed, and in less than half-an-hour more a magnificentpersonage in the uniform of a colonel of cavalry on the General Staff, accompanied by a less gorgeous but extremely smart subaltern, stoppedat the door of the Convent hospital in a Court carriage. He came toask after Captain Severi on behalf of the Sovereign, and to ascertainwhether he could perhaps be seen during the morning. He was told thatthis must depend on the surgeon's decision; he expressed his thanks tothe portress with extreme civility and drove away again. Before longother officers came to make similar inquiries, in various uniforms andin slightly varying degrees of smartness, from the representative ofthe War Office and the Commander-in-Chief's aide-de-camp tounpretending subalterns in undress uniform, who were on more or lessfriendly terms with Giovanni and were suddenly very proud of it, sincehe had become a hero. 

Then came the reporters and besieged the door for news--an untidy lotof men at that hour, unshaven, hastily dressed, and very sorry forthemselves because they had been beaten up by their respective papersso early in the morning. They were also extremely disappointed becausethe portress had no story to tell and would not hear of letting themin; and they variously described her afterwards as Cerberus, Argus, and the Angel of the Flaming Sword, which things agree not welltogether. The portress had a busy morning, even after Doctor Pieri hadcome and had written out a bulletin which she could show to all comersas an official statement of the injured man's condition. 

The great surgeon and the Mother Superior sat on opposite sides of hisbed, and now that the sun had risen high the blinds were half drawntogether and hooked in the old-fashioned Roman way, to keep out someof the light, while the glass was left open. A broad stripe ofsunshine fell across the counterpane below Giovanni's knees, and asharp twittering and a rushing of wings broke the stillness every fewseconds, as the circling swallows flew past the half-open window. 

'So you refuse to undergo the operation?' Pieri said, after a longpause. 'Is that your last word? Shall I go away and leave you to die?'

'How long will that take?' asked Giovanni calmly. 

'Probably from four to ten days, according to circumstances, ' repliedthe surgeon. 

'Say a week, more or less. Will it hurt much?'

'Not unless you have lockjaw, which is possible. If you do, you willsuffer. '

'Horribly, ' said the Mother Superior, unconsciously covering her eyeswith one hand for a moment; she had seen men die of tetanus. 

'You will give me anęsthetics, ' Giovanni answered philosophically. 'Besides, I would rather bear pain for a day or two than go throughlife a cripple with an empty sleeve!'

'It is deliberate suicide, ' said the Mother Superior sadly. 

'I incline to think so, too, ' echoed the surgeon, 'though I believethe priests do not exactly consider it so. '

Though he was half paralysed by his injury, Giovanni Severi smiledgrimly. 

'It would be very amusing if I died with the priests on my side afterall, ' he said, 'and against our good Mother Superior, too! You don'tknow how kind she is, Doctor; she has sat up all night with meherself!'

Pieri was surprised, and looked quietly at the nun, who immediatelyrose and went to the window, pretending to arrange the blinds better. But there are moments when the truth seems to reveal itself directlyto more than one person at the same time. The surgeon, whoseintuitions were almost feminine in their swift directness, guessed atonce why the Mother did not answer: not only she had not sat up withGiovanni herself, but she had allowed Sister Giovanna to do so, and asthe patient had not wakened and recognised his nurse, it was notdesirable that he should now know the truth. As for Giovanni himself, the certainty that came over him was more like 'thought-reading, ' forneither he himself nor any one else could have explained the steps ofreasoning by which he reached his conclusion. It was probably a mereguess, which happened to be right, and was founded on a little anxiousshrinking of the Mother Superior's head and shoulders when she crossedthe room and went to the window, as if she had something to hide. Giovanni saw it, and then his eyes met Pieri's for a moment, and eachwas sure that the other knew. 

'I need not ask you, ' Giovanni said, 'whether you are absolutely surethat I must die if you do not take off my arm at the shoulder?'

'Humanly speaking, ' replied the other gravely, 'I am quite sure thatgangrene will set in before to-morrow morning, and that is certaindeath in your case. '

'Why do you say, in my case?'

'Because, ' Pieri answered with a little impatience, 'if it began inyour foot, for instance, or in your hand, it would take some littletime to reach the vital parts, and the arm or leg could still beamputated; but in your case it will set in so near the heart that nooperation will be of any use after it begins. Do you understand?'

'Perfectly. I shall take less time to die, for the same reason. '

Severi was very quiet about it; but the Mother Superior turned on himsuddenly from the window, her small face very white. 

'It is suicide, ' she said--'deliberate, intentional suicide, and noright-thinking man, priest or layman, would call it by any other name, let Doctor Pieri say what he will! You are in full possession of yoursenses, and even of your health and strength, at this moment, and youare assured that you run no risk if you submit to the doctors, but thatif you will not you must die! You are choosing death where you canchoose life, and that is suicide if anything is! Doctor Pieri knows wellenough what a good priest would say, and so do I, who have been a nursefor a quarter of a century! If the injury were internal, and if therewere a real risk to your life in operating, you would have the right, the moral right, to choose between the danger of dying under ether andthe comparative certainty of dying of the injury. But this is a specificcase. You are young, strong, absolutely healthy, and the chance of yourdying from the anęsthetic is not one in thousands, whereas, if nothingis done, death is certain. I ask you, before God and man and on yourhonour, whether you do not know that you are committing suicide--nothingless than cowardly, dastardly self-murder!'

'If I am, it is my affair, ' answered Giovanni coldly; 'but you neednot leave out the rest. You believe that if I choose to die I shall gostraight to everlasting punishment. I believe that if there is aGod--and I do not deny that there may be--I shall not be damned becauseI would rather not live at all than go on living as half a man. Andnow, if you will let me have a cup of coffee and a roll, I shall bevery grateful, for I have had nothing to eat since yesterday at oneo'clock!'

He probably knew well enough what such a request meant just then--theputting off of a possible operation for hours, owing to theimpossibility of giving ether to a man who has lately eaten anything. The Mother Superior and the surgeon looked at each other ratherblankly. 

'Shall I die any sooner if I am starved?' asked Giovanni almostroughly. 

Pieri began to explain the danger, but Severi at once grew moreimpatient. 

'I know all that, ' he said, 'and I have told you my decision. I refuseto undergo an operation. If you choose to make me suffer fromstarvation I suppose it is in your power, though I am not sure. Ifancy I can still stand and walk, and even my one hand may be of someuse! If you do not give me something to eat, I shall get out of bedand fight my way to the larder!'

He smiled as he uttered the threat, as if he were not jesting abouthis own death. Pieri did not like it, and turned to the door. 

'Since you talk of fighting, ' he said, 'I would give you ether byforce, if I could, and let the law do what it would after I had savedyour life in spite of you! If you chose to blow your brains outafterwards, that would not concern me!'

Thereupon he disappeared, shutting the door more sharply than doctorsusually do when they leave a sick-room. The Mother Superior went tothe bedside and leaned over Giovanni, looking into his eyes with anexpression of profoundest entreaty. 

'I implore you to change your mind, ' she said in a low and beseechingvoice, 'for the sake of the mother who bore you----'

'She is dead, ' Giovanni answered quietly. 

'For the sake of them that live and love you, them----'

'There is only one, Mother, and you know it; but for that only one'slove I would live, not merely with one arm, but if every bone in mybody were broken and twisted out of shape beyond remedy. Mother, goand tell her so, and bring me her answer--will you?'

The nun straightened herself, and her face showed what she suffered;but Giovanni did not understand. 

'You are afraid, ' he said, with rising contempt in his tone. 'You areafraid to take my message. It would move her! It might tempt her fromthe right way! It might put it into her head to beg for a dispensationafter all, and the sin would be on your soul! I understand--I did notreally mean that you should ask her. You let her watch here last nightwhen you knew I could not waken, but you were careful that she shouldbe gone before I opened my eyes. You see, I have guessed the truth! Ionly wonder why you let her stay at all!'

He moved his head impatiently on the pillow. The Mother Superior haddrawn herself up rather proudly, folding her hands under her scapularand looking down at him coldly, her face like a marble mask again. 

'You are quite mistaken, ' she said. 'I will deliver your message andSister Giovanna shall give you her answer herself. '

She went towards the door, gliding across the floor noiselessly in herfelt shoes; but just before she went out she turned to Giovanni again, and suddenly her eyes were blazing like live coals. 

'And if you have the heart to kill yourself when you have talked withher, ' she said, 'you are a coward, who never deserved to live and becalled a man!'

She was gone before Giovanni could have answered, and the man who hadrisked life and limb to save others twelve hours earlier smiledfaintly at the good Mother's womanly wrath and feminine invective. 

He lay still on his back, staring at the ceiling, and he began towonder what day of the week it would be when he would not be able tosee it any more, and whether the end would come at night, or when thesunlight was streaming in, or on a rainy afternoon. He did not believethat Angela would be with him in a few minutes, and if she came--shewould say----

The strength of the morphia was not yet quite spent, and he fellasleep in the middle of his train of thought, as had happened while hewas speaking to the Mother in the early morning. 

When he awoke the broad stripe of sunshine no longer fell across thecounterpane, but lay on the gleaming tiles beyond the foot of the bed;and it fell, too, on Sister Giovanna's white frock and veil, for shewas standing there motionless, waiting for him to waken. His head feltqueer for a moment, and he wondered whether she would be standing onthe same spot, with the same look, when he would be dying, a few dayshence. There were deep purplish-brown rings under her eyes, whichseemed to have sunk deeper in their sockets; there was no colour inher lips, or scarcely more than a shade; her young cheeks had grownsuddenly hollow. For the Mother--her mother--had told her everything, and it was almost more than she could bear. 

He looked at her two or three times, fixing his eyes on the ceiling inthe intervals, to make sure that it was she and that he was awake; forthere was something in his head that disturbed him now, a sort ofbeating on one side of the brain, with a dull feeling at the back, as ifthere were a quantity of warm lead there that kept his skull on thepillow. It was the beginning of fever, but he did not know it; it wasthe forewarner of the death he was choosing. The experienced nurse sawit in his face. 

'Giovanni, do you know me?' she asked softly, coming a step nearer. Instantly, he had all his faculties again. 

'Yes; come to me, ' he answered. 

She came nearer and stood beside him. 

'Sit down, ' he said. 'This is the side--the side of my good arm. Sitdown and let me take your hand, dear. '

She wondered at his quiet tone and gentle manner. They almost frightenedher, for she remembered taking care of impatient, short-tempered peoplewho had suddenly softened like this just at the end. But there was noreason in the world why he should die now, and she dismissed the thoughtas she took the hand he put out and held it. It was icy cold, as strongmen's hands generally are when a fever is just beginning. She tried towarm it between hers, covering it up between her palms as much as shecould; but she herself was not warm either, for she had been in hercell, where there was no sun in the morning, and the air was chilly anddamp, because it had rained in all night. 

Giovanni spoke again before she could find words. 

'My life is in your hands, with my hand, Angela, ' he said. 'Do whatyou will with it. '

He felt that she shook from head to foot, like a young tree that isrudely struck. He went on, as if he had prepared his words, though hehad not even thought of them. 

'With your love and your companionship, I shall not miss a limb, Ishall not regret my profession, I shall be perfectly happy. Alone, Iwill not be forced artificially to live out my life a wretchedcripple. '

It was brutal, and perhaps he knew it; but he was desperate and fatehad given him a weapon to move any woman. In plain truth, it was ascruel as if he had put a pistol to his head and threatened to pull thetrigger if she would not marry him. He had not done that yet, evenwhen she had been in his room at Monteverde and the loaded revolverhad been between them. 

Sister Giovanna kept his hand bravely in hers and sat still, though itwas hard. The question which must be answered, and which she alonecould answer, had been asked with frightful directness, and though shehad known only too well that it was coming, its tremendous importparalysed her and she could not speak. 

It was plainly this: Should she kill him, of her own free will, forthe sake of the solemn vow she had taken? Or should she save his lifeby breaking, even under permission, what she looked on as anabsolutely inviolable promise?

What made her position most terrible was the absolute certainty of thefatal result, and its close imminence. In his condition, to put offthe operation for another day, in order to consider her answer, wouldbe to condemn him to death according to all probability of humanscience, since a few hours longer than that would put probability outof the question and make it a positive certainty. She could not speak;her tongue would not move when she tried to form words and her breathmade no sound in her throat. 

For some time Giovanni said nothing more, and lay quite still. When hespoke again, his voice was gentle. 

'Dear, since it must be, I should like it to come like this, if youwill--with my hand between yours. '

It was too much, and she cried aloud and bowed herself. But the mortalpain freed her tongue, and a moment later she broke out in a ferventappeal. 

'Live, Giovanni, live--for Christ's good sake who died for you--for mysake, too--for your own! Live the life that is still before you, andyou can make it great! If you love me, make it a noble life for that, if for nothing else! Do you know, all Rome is ringing with the storyof what you did last night--the King, the Court, the Ministers aresending for news of you every half-hour--the world is calling you ahero--will you let them think that you are afraid of an operation, orwill you let my enemy tell the world that you have let yourself diefor my sake? That is what it comes to, one or the other of thosethings!'

Severi smiled faintly and shook his head without lifting it from thepillow. 

'No man will call me coward, ' he answered; 'and no one would believePrincess Chiaromonte--not if she took oath on her death-bed!'

'Will nothing move you?' cried the unhappy woman, in utter despair. 'Nothing that I can say? Not the thought of what life will mean to mewhen you are gone? Not my solemn assurance that I can donothing--nothing----'

'You can!' Giovanni cried, with sudden and angry energy. 'You arewilling to let me die rather than risk the salvation of your own soul. That is the naked truth of all this. '

Her hands left his as if they had lost their strength, and she rose atthe same instant and tottered backwards against the near wall, speechless and transfixed with horror at the mere thought that what hesaid might be true. 

But Giovanni's eyes did not follow her; the door had opened quietly, and Monsignor Saracinesca was there and had heard the last words. 

The prelate's face expressed neither displeasure nor reproach; it wasonly very thoughtful. 

Giovanni was in no humour to receive a visit from a priest just then, even though the latter was an old acquaintance and had once been afriend. Moreover, the last time they had been together, they hadparted on anything but good terms. Giovanni spoke first. 

'Have you come, like the others, to accuse me of committing suicide?'he asked. 

The answer was unexpected and uncompromising. 

'No. '

Sister Giovanna, still half-stunned and steadying herself against thewall, turned wondering eyes to the speaker. The angry look in Severi'sface changed to one of inquiry. He strongly suspected that thechurchman had come to 'convert' him, as the phrase goes, and he wascurious to see what line of argument a man of such intelligence andintegrity would take. 

'No, ' repeated Monsignor Saracinesca, 'I have come for quite anotherpurpose, which I hope to accomplish if you will listen to reason. '

The nun stood erect now, though still leaning back against the wall, and she had hidden her hands under her scapular. 

'I do not think I am unreasonable, ' Giovanni answered quietly. 'Myposition is this----'

'Do not tire yourself by going over it all, ' the prelate answered. 'Iunderstand your position perfectly, for I have been with the MotherSuperior nearly half-an-hour. I am going to take something uponmyself, as a man, which some of my profession may condemn. I am goingto do it because I believe it is the right course, and I trust thatGod will forgive me if it is not. '

There was a tremor in the good man's voice, and he ceased speaking, asif to repeat inwardly the solemn words he had just spoken. 

'What are you going to do?' asked Giovanni Severi. 

On the question, the nun came forward and rested one hand on the chairin which she had sat, leaning towards the prelate at the same time, with parted lips and eyes full of a strange anticipation. 

'You know, I daresay, that I am Secretary to the Cardinal Vicar, andthat such cases as yours are to a great extent within my province?'

Giovanni did not know this, but nodded; the nun, who knew it, bent herhead, wondering more and more what was coming, and not daring toguess. Neither spoke. 

'I am going to lay the whole matter before the Cardinal Vicar atonce, ' Monsignor Saracinesca continued calmly. 'I can be with him intwenty minutes, and I am going to tell him the plain truth. I do notthink that any nun was ever more true to her vows than Sister Giovannahas been since your return. But there is a limit beyond which fidelityto an obligation may bring ruin and even death on some one whom thepromise did not at first concern. When the limit is reached, it is theplain duty of those who have received that promise to relieve themaker of it from its observance, even though not asked to do so. Thatis what I am going to say to the Cardinal Vicar in half-an-hour. Areyou satisfied?'

Sister Giovanna sank sideways upon the chair, with her arm resting onthe back of it, and she hid her face in her sleeve. 

'Will the Cardinal listen to you?' asked Giovanni, his voice unsteadywith emotion. 

'What I recommend is usually done, ' answered the prelate, without ashade of arrogance, but with the quiet certainty of a man in power. 'What I ask of you is, to submit at once to the operation that alonecan save you, on the strength of my assurance that I am going to do myutmost to obtain what you desire. '

'It is hard to believe!' Giovanni exclaimed, almost to himself. 

The nun moved her head silently from side to side without lifting herface from her arm. 

'You can believe me, ' Monsignor Saracinesca answered. 'I give you mysolemn promise before God, and my word of honour before men, that Iwill do the utmost in my power to succeed. Do you believe me?'

Giovanni held out his sound hand. The churchman came nearer and tookit. 

'Will you risk the operation on that?' he asked. 

The light of a profound gratitude illuminated the young soldier'stired face, and his fingers pressed Monsignor Saracinesca'sspasmodically; but his voice was quiet when he spoke. 

'Sister Giovanna----'

'Yes?'

The nun looked up suddenly and drew a sharp breath, for her joy wasalmost agonising. 

'Will you kindly go and tell Doctor Pieri that I am ready?'

The nun rose with a spring and was at the door in an instant, and inher heart rang such a chorus of glory and rejoicing as not even theangels have heard since the Morning Stars sang together. 

 * * * * *

Of her, I think the most rigid cannot say that she had not endured tothe end, for her vow's sake. Whether the churchman was too human inhis sympathies or not may be an open question; if he was, he had thecourage to make himself alone responsible, for, as he had foretold, what he recommended was done; if he was wrong, he has at least theconsolation of having brought unspeakable happiness to three humanbeings. For the mother, whose heart had so nearly broken for herchild, had her share of joy, too, and it was no small one. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

POPULAR COPYRIGHT BOOKSAT MODERATE PRICES

Ask your dealer for a complete list of A. L. Burt Company's PopularCopyright Fiction. 

Abner Daniel. By Will N. Harben. Adventures of A Modest Man. By Robert W. Chambers. Adventures of Gerard. By A. Conan Doyle. Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. By A. Conan Doyle. Ailsa Page. By Robert W. Chambers. Alternative, The. By George Barr McCutcheon. Ancient Law, The. By Ellen Glasgow. Angel of Forgiveness, The. By Rosa N. Carey. Angel of Pain, The. By E. F. Benson. Annals of Ann, The. By Kate Trumble Sharber. Anna the Adventuress. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Ann Boyd. By Will N. Harben. As the Sparks Fly Upward. By Cyrus Townsend Brady. At the Age of Eve. By Kate Trimble Sharber. At the Mercy of Tiberius. By Augusta Evans Wilson. At the Moorings. By Rosa N. Carey. Awakening of Helen Richie, The. By Margaret Deland. Barrier, The. By Rex Beach. Bar-20. By Clarence E. Mulford. Bar-20 Days. By Clarence E. Mulford. Battle Ground, The. By Ellen Glasgow. Beau Brocade. By Baroness Orczy. Beechy. By Bettina von Hutten. Bella Donna. By Robert Hichens. Beloved Vagabond, The. By William J. Locke. Ben Blair. By Will Lillibridge. Best Man, The. By Harold MacGrath. Beth Norvell. By Randall Parrish. Betrayal, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Better Man, The. By Cyrus Townsend Brady. Beulah. (Illustrated Edition. ) By Augusta J. Evans. Bill Toppers, The. By Andre Castaigne. Blaze Derringer. By Eugene P. Lyle, Jr. Bob Hampton of Placer. By Randall Parrish. Bob, Son of Battle. By Alfred Ollivant. Brass Bowl, The. By Louis Joseph Vance. Bronze Bell, The. By Louis Joseph Vance. Butterfly Man, The. By George Barr McCutcheon. By Right of Purchase. By Harold Bindloss. Cab No. 44. By R. F. Foster. Calling of Dan Matthews, The. By Harold Bell Wright. Call of the Blood, The. By Robert Hichens. Cape Cod Stories. By Joseph C. Lincoln. Cap'n Eri. By Joseph C. Lincoln. Captain Warren's Wards. By Joseph C. Lincoln. Caravaners, The. By the author of "Elizabeth and Her German Garden. "Cardigan. By Robert W. Chambers. Carlton Case, The. By Ellery H. Clark. Car of Destiny, The. By C. N. And A. M. Williamson. Carpet From Bagdad, The. By Harold MacGrath. Cash Intrigue, The. By George Randolph Chester. Casting Away of Mrs. Lecks and Mrs. Aleshine. Frank S. Stockton. Castle by the Sea, The. By H. B. Marriot Watson. Challoners, The. By E. F. Benson. Chaperon, The. By C. N. And A. M. Williamson. City of Six, The. By C. L. Canfield. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

POPULAR COPYRIGHT BOOKSAT MODERATE PRICES

Ask your dealer for a complete list of A. L. Burt Company's PopularCopyright Fiction. 

Circle, The. By Katherine Cecil Thurston (author of "The Masquerader, ""The Gambler. ")Colonial Free Lance, A. By Chauncey C. Hotchkiss. Conquest of Canaan, The. By Booth Tarkington. Conspirators, The. By Robert W. Chambers. Cynthia of the Minute. By Louis Joseph Vance. Dan Merrithew. By Lawrence Perry. Day of the Dog, The. By George Barr McCutcheon. Depot Master, The. By Joseph C. Lincoln. Derelicts. By William J. Locke. Diamond Master, The. By Jacques Futrelle. Diamonds Cut Paste. By Agnes and Egerton Castle. Divine Fire, The. By May Sinclair. Dixie Hart. By Will N. Harben. Dr. David. By Marjorie Benton Cooke. Early Bird, The. By George Randolph Chester. Eleventh Hour, The. By David Potter. Elizabeth in Rugen. (By the author of "Elizabeth and Her GermanGarden. ")Elusive Isabel. By Jacques Futrelle. Elusive Pimpernel, The. By Baroness Orczy. Enchanted Hat, The. By Harold MacGrath. Excuse Me. By Rupert Hughes. 54-40 or Fight. By Emerson Hough. Fighting Chance, The. By Robert W. Chambers. Flamsted Quarries. By Mary E. Waller. Flying Mercury, The. By Eleanor M. Ingram. For a Maiden Brave. By Chauncey C. Hotchkiss. Four Million, The. By O. Henry. Four Pool's Mystery, The. By Jean Webster. Fruitful Vine, The. By Robert Hichens. Ganton & Co. By Arthur J. Eddy. Gentleman of France, A. By Stanley Weyman. Gentleman, The. By Alfred Ollivant. Get-Rick-Quick-Wallingford. By George Randolph Chester. Gilbert Neal. By Will N. Harben. Girl and the Bill, The. By Bannister Merwin. Girl from His Town, The. By Marie Van Vorst. Girl Who Won, The. By Beth Ellis. Glory of Clementina, The. By William J. Locke. Glory of the Conquered, The. By Susan Glaspell. God's Good Man. By Marie Corelli. Going Some. By Rex Beach. Golden Web, The. By Anthony Partridge. Green Patch, The. By Bettina von Hutten. Happy Island (sequel to "Uncle William"). By Jennette Lee. Hearts and the Highway. By Cyrus Townsend Brady. Held for Orders. By Frank H. Spearman. Hidden Water. By Dane Coolidge. Highway of Fate, The. By Rosa N. Carey. Homesteaders, The. By Kate and Virgil D. Boyles. Honor of the Big Snows, The. By James Oliver Curwood. Hopalong Cassidy. By Clarence E. Mulford. Household of Peter, The. By Rosa N. Carey. House of Mystery, The. By Will Irwin. House of the Lost Court, The. By C. N. Williamson. House of the Whispering Pines, The. By Anna Katherine Green. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

POPULAR COPYRIGHT BOOKSAT MODERATE PRICES

Ask your dealer for a complete list of A. L. Burt Company's PopularCopyright Fiction. 

Max. By Katherine Cecil Thurston. Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. By A. Conan Doyle. Millionaire Baby, The. By Anna Katharine Green. Missioner, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Miss Selina Lue. By Maria Thompson Daviess. Mistress of Brae Farm, The. By Rosa N. Carey. Money Moon, The. By Jeffery Farnol. Motor Maid, The. By C. N. And A. M. Williamson. Much Ado About Peter. By Jean Webster. Mr. Pratt. By Joseph C. Lincoln. My Brother's Keeper. By Charles Tenny Jackson. My Friend the Chauffeur. By C. N. And A. M. Williamson. My Lady Caprice (author of the "Broad Highway"). Jeffery Farnel. My Lady of Doubt. By Randall Parrish. My Lady of the North. By Randall Parrish. My Lady of the South. By Randall Parrish. Mystery Tales. By Edgar Allen Poe. Nancy Stair. By Elinor Macartney Lane. Ne'er-Do-Well, The. By Rex Beach. No Friend Like a Sister. By Rosa N. Carey. Officer 666. By Barton W. Currie and Augustin McHugh. One Braver Thing. By Richard Dehan. Order No. 11. By Caroline Abbot Stanley. Orphan, The. By Clarence E. Mulford. Out of the Primitive. By Robert Ames Bennett. Pam. By Bettina von Hutten. Pam Decides. By Bettina von Hutten. Pardners. By Rex Beach. Partners of the Tide. By Joseph C. Lincoln. Passage Perilous, The. By Rosa N. Carey. Passers By. By Anthony Partridge. Paternoster Ruby, The. By Charles Edmonds Walk. Patience of John Moreland, The. By Mary Dillon. Paul Anthony, Christian. By Hiram W. Hays. Phillip Steele. By James Oliver Curwood. Phra the Phoenician. By Edwin Lester Arnold. Plunderer, The. By Roy Norton. Pole Baker. By Will N. Harben. Politician, The. By Edith Huntington Mason. Polly of the Circus. By Margaret Mayo. Pool of Flame, The. By Louis Joseph Vance. Poppy. By Cynthia Stockley. Power and the Glory, The. By Grace McGowan Cooke. Price of the Prairie, The. By Margaret Hill McCarter. Prince of Sinners, A. By E. Phillis Oppenheim. Prince or Chauffeur. By Lawrence Perry. Princess Dehra, The. By John Reed Scott. Princess Passes, The. By C. N. And A. M. Williamson. Princess Virginia, The. By C. N. And A. M. Williamson. Prisoners of Chance. By Randall Parrish. Prodigal Son, The. By Hall Caine. Purple Parasol, The. By George Barr McCutcheon.