The study was empty when De Sanctis was ushered into it and he sat down to wait for his patron. In ten minutes or so the latter returned. "I have beento the Professor's room," the Cardinal explained when the first greetings were over. "I wished to see for myself how he was going on and to ascertain whether he would be equal to a little conversation to-day."
"I trust he is quite convalescent, Eminenza?" De Sanctis replied. "I am deeply sorry to learn of his accident. I had no idea—"
But the Cardinal held up his hand for silence, and the lawyer got his lecture in stern, unsparing words, to which he listened with becoming humility and an appearance of such true contrition that the prelate softened, relented, and finally took him back into grace.
Something had wrought a change in De Sanctis's mood. To his own surprise he found himself inclined to admit that his desertion of the absent-minded Professor the day before was rather a shabby action. In consequence he was regretfully but logically obliged to lay aside his intention of discrediting the other man in the Cardinal's estimation. His natural curiosity, however, was by no means subdued, and he longed to know why Goffi had remained an hour shut up with the prelate in his study, and what, besides a mere polite acknowledgment of the artist's timely help, could have furnished the matter of the interview. The Cardinal himself led the conversation in the desired direction.
"Signor Goffi has just left me," he said, "and he told me that he called upon you the other day, Guglielmo. Since he spoke frankly about the object of his visit, I hope you will not consider me indiscreet if I ask you to do the same. He related a rather strangestory. Should you feel justified in telling me what you know about it?"
"I think so, Eminenza," De Sanctis replied, "the Signorina Brockmann is the person chiefly concerned, and she seems to be in need of help and advice, which have failed her where she had a right to expect them. I am betraying no confidence in telling your Eminence that she has only this moment, and in this house, learned of her inheritance. For some unexplained reason Professor Bianchi has abstained from informing her of it."
"Why did you not tell her yourself, at the time?" the Cardinal inquired.
"The Professor was unwilling that I should speak to her on the subject," said the lawyer. "He described her as rather a hysterical girl. He feared the sudden excitement might be too much for her nerves, and preferred to communicate the good news gently and in private."
The Cardinal was silent for a moment. Then he asked, "Are you sure that she was not told anything? What led you to speak to her about it now?"
Then De Sanctis told him of his own slowly-awakened suspicions, of Rinaldo's appeal and evident ignorance of the facts, which Giannella would certainly have confided to him had she been in possession of them, and finally he described Mariuccia's recent attack on him and Giannella's intense emotion when she learned what had first brought him to Professor Bianchi's house. All showed conclusively that Bianchi had kept the matter to himself, together with the cashfor which the girl had signed a receipt in the lawyer's presence.
When he had ended, the Cardinal asked one question more. "Is it true that Bianchi is trying to marry the girl?"
"So Mariuccia and Goffi affirm," replied the other. And for the life of him he could not help adding, "He appears very anxious to do so at once. This is August—and she will be of age on the eighth of September."
"Her money would become her husband's in any case, would it not?" the Cardinal inquired.
"It could be secured to her in the marriage contract if her friends so wished," was the reply. "The usual proceeding is to set apart a certain portion of the dowry for the wife's own use, while the remainder comes under the jurisdiction of the husband, to be applied to family expenses in common."
"I know," said the Cardinal. "But if no agreement to this effect were made before marriage, all monies she then possessed, knowingly or unknowingly, would pass unconditionally to her husband?" The tone implied a desire to have the statement contradicted.
"They would pass unconditionally to her husband," De Sanctis repeated. Then he began to study the pattern of the carpet, for the Cardinal was leaning his head on his hand and evidently thinking deeply. At last he looked up, saying, "In speaking to the girl did you comment on the Professor's silence?"
"I touched on it, Eminenza, but she appeared to take no notice, and nothing more was said on that subject."
"That is well," said the Cardinal; "and now, my son, since we are on the question of marriages, what do you think of that young Goffi? He struck me as an amiable, honest fellow. Would he make a good husband for this poor child? Do you know anything about him?"
"I too was pleased with him, Eminenza," replied De Sanctis heartily, "and I took the trouble to make inquiries. He has an excellent record, and a small property of his own. Giannella could not do better than marry him."
"And Giannella herself—is she all he thinks her?" The Cardinal put the question with a doubtful smile. "These little females are sadly deceptive sometimes, Guglielmo mio." The speaker sighed over the general shortcomings of Eve's degenerate daughters.
But the lawyer replied with an earnestness which was most unusual for him, "I believe she is really as good as she is pretty, Eminenza, and one cannot say more than that. Only her scruples have caused her and Goffi some unhappiness. The eccelentissima Principessa, who knew nothing of the other suitor, having told her that she ought to marry Bianchi, she imagined it might be criminal to disobey. She has a good heart. Just now, when she learned from me that she possessed this little fortune, what do you suppose was her first thought? To reward that crossold woman for taking care of her. She nearly went mad with joy when she found she could do that. Oh, she will make a good wife, that girl."
"I am rejoiced to hear it," said the Cardinal; "as I have told you before, Guglielmo, you should find such another for yourself. To live alone is not good for a young man in the world. It either exposes him to temptation—or else it hardens his heart. I have sometimes feared, my son, that it might be having the latter effect upon you. I should rejoice to know that you were happily married."
"Eminenza," replied De Sanctis, smiling, "I perceive that matchmaking runs in your illustrious family. I will remember your warning, and try to find time to fall in love. Meanwhile, in order to avoid any hardening of heart, shall I do what I can to arrange the affairs of these devoted young people? Signor Bianchi being unable at this moment to offer obstruction—"
"Gently, gently," the Cardinal interrupted. "We must not overlook him altogether, that would be discourteous. And he should have an opportunity of explaining himself. Perhaps he was only planning a pleasant surprise for his young friend on her birthday?"
"Or on the day she was to become his wife?" suggested De Sanctis sarcastically. "Oh, Eminenza, the casuistries of your charity are as unscrupulous as any of those we poor disciples of the law are accused of."
The Cardinal smiled half apologetically as he replied, "Charity is rather an abnormal creature, mydear Guglielmo. She often has to close her eyes to find her way. When she opens them again she generally beholds that which she desired to see. So for the present we will stand aside and keep silence as to our opinion of our neighbor's conduct—and Charity perhaps will whisper something in his ear. Then when she beckons to us to approach and reckon with him we may find—that we were mistaken all along, that his intentions were neither dishonest nor unkind, but only a little unwise. That will give us all great pleasure, will it not?"
"I am conquered," declared De Sanctis. "Anything that gives you pleasure, Eminenza, will certainly do so to me. You are the best argument for Christianity that I ever met. Let me know, I pray, when the marriage contract is required. It will be interesting to draw it up—and to make the kind, candid Professor Bianchi witness it."
"Go away. You are incorrigible," laughed the Cardinal. And the lawyer bowed himself out.
Rinaldo learned from the servant in the hall that the women had left the palazzo in haste, saying something about going to San Severino. So he hurried thither by the tortuous side ways whence the water was already draining rapidly. Meanwhile Mariuccia was standing in the archway leading to the chapel of the Bona Mors, in excited colloquy with Fra Tommaso. When the old sacristan understood the facts his face beamed with satisfaction. Mariuccia's was not less radiant, though it showed that she was still deeply impressed by the recent revelations. To her the whole thing was a two-fold wonder—her Giannella's good fortune, and a visible answer to her many prayers; also the vindication of her sorely-tried belief in the rich relations "over there" whom she had materialized for Giannella so many years ago out of her own sense of the fitness of things. "Oh, Fra Tommaso mio," she cried, "how I thank you for your good prayers. Surely you have obtained this great happiness for me that Giannella does not go to her husband's people like a beggar! My brother's daughters, even, brought enough to be well received by their mothers-in-law—to be able to hold up their heads on Sundays with the rest, and she, poor little thing, she was to be married 'cola camicia,' without a sheet or a towel, or a pair of earrings! No, theMadonna knew that it would break my heart. She has spared me this shame. Giannella can show cupboards full of linen when the rich mamma from Orbetello comes to poke her nose about in the young people's house; she can make presents to the sisters of her husband, we can send the confetti in beautiful gilt boxes! Quick, give me two of your biggest candles. I have the money here for them—and light them for me on the altar of the Addolorata."
Fra Tommaso spread out his hands in deprecation. "Never mind about paying for these candles, commara. I will gladly make you a present of them, for I rejoice in your felicity. Did I not always tell you that all would happen as you wished? The Biondina has grown up an angel—the relations were there all the time, they have proved rich, and have died in good dispositions, for all of which virtues may God reward them and rest their souls. And here is the good, handsome young man whom you had figured to yourself for Giannella's husband! Signorino, my most respectful felicitations and good wishes to you and the young lady." This last to Rinaldo, who at that moment arrived upon the scene. He had caught a few words of the rhapsody, but they conveyed little to him. Old people like Fra Tommaso could not speak without certain extravagances of voice and gesture; they only meant that he was feeling well and that his heart was even fuller than usual of sympathy with his kind. Mariuccia had apparently announced the intended marriage, and the good wishes of course referred to that. "I thank you, Fra Tommaso," heanswered, smiling at the sacristan's enthusiasm. "I am very much to be congratulated, and I am flattered to know that you think my betrothed is in the same good case. I hope you will soon ring the bells for a fine wedding Mass. But," he turned to Mariuccia, "where is Giannella? And why did you two run away so suddenly? I was just coming to see you safely home."
"Go and ask Giannella," Mariuccia replied triumphantly. "Let her tell you what sent us here in such a hurry. We did not get so very wet either." She turned up her foot to take a look at the sole of her boot. "She is in the chapel inside there, the usual place."
Rinaldo found Giannella kneeling as she had knelt on that first morning, her face hidden in her hands, the white rosary slipping through her fingers. He stood beside her, and this time she raised her head and looked up into his face. Her own was very calm and radiant. She slid her hand into his and motioned to him to kneel beside her.
"God has been good to us," she whispered. "Finish the rosary with me, and then I will tell you what has happened."
An hour or two later the three were sitting at the round table in the Professor's dining-room. Mariuccia had hastily got together a simple feast, and the board was decorated by a great bunch of flowers pressed upon her by Fra Tommaso, who had snipped off many a cherished carnation and oleander blossom to send a "bel bocché" to the Biondina.
Rinaldo had been told the story and was frankly delighted. "Not for myself," he protested; "as for me, I am indifferentissimo about riches. I had satisfied myself that Giannella could never want for anything, not even for the drive on Sundays, the theater once a fortnight, and the three week's villeggiatura in September, all of which are a wife's due. All this I could have provided easily, and I give you my word as a galantuómo that neither my family nor my friends should ever have known that Giannella had no dowry. The linen we would have bought little by little, and she should have embroidered it all in her maiden name as is proper; so that when everything was ready, and we ask my good mamma and the girls to come and see us, they would have beheld that they must treat her with all respect. They are disinterested; yes, we have never disquieted ourselves about money in my family, but certain things are expected, as you know, and I should not have wished them to be wanting. Nevertheless, this good fortune will bring a great increase of happiness. Giannella can have many more pleasures, and there will never be any anxieties. I shall continue to work perseveringly—we will live in peace and much comfort; and all the money we do not spend we will put aside for the education of our sons and the doweries of our daughters. Mariuccia must live with us and grow fat—better late than never, Sora Mariuccia mia! And we shall be the happiest family in Rome!"
"And we will have the padrone—I mean the Signor Professore, to dinner every Sunday," saidGiannella, who had been listening breathlessly to Rinaldo's description of the enchanting future; "poor man, he will be so lonely without us two women."
Rinaldo made a wry face. "I think I could do without the Signor Professore," he ventured to say. "Without rancor, I must confess that the part he has played in all this is most inexplicable, if he is at all an honest man, which (Mariuccia, you must forgive me) I sadly doubt. In fact I suspect—"
But Giannella laid her fingers on his lips. "You suspect nothing, Rinaldo mio. Are you rude enough to say that I am so ugly and so stupid that he could not fall in love with me—properly in love? Can you doubt that his affection prompted him to arrange a charming little surprise for me when I should come of age? Incredulous one, that is the evident truth, and to controvert known truth is mortal sin."
"It requires a robust act of faith to accept your definition, my angel," said Rinaldo, "but I suppose I must. Behold a new dogma! Signor Carlo Bianchi is a disinterested old fellow with a singularly susceptible heart. Fiat! Rome—that is to say, Giannella has spoken. Doubt becomes transgression. I doubt no more."
"Amen," came in Mariuccia's deepest tones from across the table, where she has paused in splitting a fresh fig to listen frowningly to Rinaldo's arraignment of the padrone's conduct. Now she smiled contentedly at her two light-hearted children, finished her fig to the last drop of honey, and dipped her fingers in the glass water bowl which is never wanting onthe poorest Roman table. "Come, bambini," she said, "we will drink his health. May my poor little padroncino recover immediately and come back to his own home."
The three glasses were raised whole-heartedly; when they were set down, it was evident that Charity had once more closed her eyes to find her way.
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As the day wore to its close, the half-drowned city seemed to raise its head and, turning from the muddy deposits at its feet, to look up at the clear new blue of the sky with deep thankfulness that the long, depressing scirocco was over; that, although September was still to come, the heat of the summer was broken and the ever-desired autumn near at hand. A fresh breeze, with a touch of tramontana in it, was blowing down over Soracte and the Cimmerian hills, and fretted with crisp wavelets the stretches of yellow water which still trespassed on Ripetta and the neighboring streets. On roof-garden and window-ledge little lemon-trees and verbena bushes spread green arms to the tempered sunshine, to the cool wind; swallows sailed joyously in ever-rising circles, their white breasts flashing like silver shields as they turned to the low sun, their shrill cries filling the air with sharp, clear sound. Far away, behind Saint Peter's, the sky was streaked into long level bars of gold and rose and crysophrase, bars where feathery cloudlets caught and hung like notes of floating flame—the score of some symphony played by the seraphs very far away.
The sunset light shone softly into the windows of a bedroom in Palazzo Cestaldini, and illuminated two faces, that of a sick sinner and his friend. The Professor looked more gaunt and pale than ever sitting up against his pillows in the spotless, ascetic little room. The doctor had confided to the chaplain that the sick man appeared to have something on his mind—could the Eminenza perhaps exercise the kind condescension of paying him a visit? The Eminenza who had only been waiting for the medico's permission, glided in a few moments later, dismissed his attendant, and drew a chair to the bedside.
Bianchi, sufficiently recovered to be grateful for this honor, began to express his regret for having caused so much trouble in the illustrious household, but the Cardinal forbade him to waste his strength in unnecessary words, and in the most natural way made it appear that all the honor and all the regrets were his. The Professor was to understand that the master of the house and everyone else connected with the recent events would never cease to reproach themselves for their part in the catastrophe, and all that the Cardinal personally desired was an opportunity to make some reparation. Was there not something he could do for his good friend, some matter of business, great or small, which might suffer by delay, and which the Professor could comfort his host's heart by permitting him to attend to for him? In a life all devoted to study, little things were apt to escape one, as he knew too well by personal experience; he himself, he declared, was the most forgetful of men,and during his recent indisposition, when he was lying awake with fever, several neglected details had come back to him with painful but wholesome persistence. He said that he had thus been led to make up his mind to clear them off once for all; indeed to put all his personal affairs into such good order and safe hands, that, if a real illness came, and Heaven pleased to call him away, his poor soul should have no distractions on the journey. That was sure to be a serious expedition in any case, and one did not want to be weighed down with unportable baggage!
The suave voice ran on, with the echo of gentle laughter here and there; the wise, untroubled eyes seemed to see all the sick man's inner perturbations, and smiled their promise of comradeship and help; and, as the words ceased, the brotherly hand laid itself on the Professor's hot fingers with a strong, beneficent clasp that seemed to say, "If temptation still lingers near, we will overcome it together."
The sick man gazed at his comforter in ever-increasing wonder. Was it true, then, that very holy persons could see into the minds of others; needed no words to tell them what was passing there? Ah no, he was growing fanciful; the Cardinal was no doubt talking academically, in amiable generalities, like any polished man of the world. How could he dream of the specters of fear and remorse which had crowded round Carlo Bianchi in that horrible, submerged crypt? Before the final collapse had robbed him of consciousness, every dream of the past three months had been renounced, with vows, on condition of beingbrought out alive, had been renounced again, with frenzied persistence, when death loomed near and rescue failed. No allurement on earth should tempt him to go back on his promises, to find himself in corporal peril and mortal sin again at one and the same time. He had pondered how to begin a confidence which was necessary to the instant clearing up of his account towards Giannella, for he needed help, and there was no one, except his host, whom he could entrust with a delicate commission.
"How well your Eminence understands a scholar's mind," he said at last. "How true it is that Science, like Sara, is a jealous mistress, and will have the house to herself. Poor earthly matters are turned out, homeless Hagars and Ishmaels, to take their chance, uncared for and forgotten."
The Cardinal looked amused. It was funny to have Scripture quoted at him by a layman. The Professor continued more gravely, "Since your Eminence is so very kind, there is a small matter which occurred to me as I was lying here. But I hesitate to trouble you with such trifles."
"Nothing which can conduce to your comfort is a trifle, my dear friend," the Cardinal replied, "and it would rejoice me to have to take any trouble for you, but I fear you will not favor me so greatly. Is the matter connected with your household? Your servant and the Signorina Brockmann were here this morning, inquiring anxiously for your respected health. The doctor satisfied them on that point, but would not permit you to be disturbed."
"I am very much obliged to him," exclaimed Bianchi. "I mean, I should prefer to see them later—when this little affair is regulated. The truth is—it had passed from my mind—but there is some money," he brought out the word with a half-impenitent sigh, "and also papers, which should have been put into Giannella's hands in a week or two—when she comes of age. Perhaps, considering all things, she had better take them over—and—have the business explained to her now. It will save time—and—would it be possible for your Eminence to send a person of confidence to my apartment, with this key?" He fumbled nervously under his pillow, where Domenico had bestowed the contents of his pockets the night before, and drew out a rusty key. "The secretary by the window, in my study—second shelf on the left hand—a parcel tied up with a red string. If I could have it brought to me? But I am ashamed of giving so much trouble."
"My chaplain will fetch it himself, at once," the Cardinal assured him; "he is most careful and trustworthy. If you will kindly touch that bell at your side?"
The summons was quickly answered and Don Ignazio received his orders and departed to carry them out. "And now, amico," said the Cardinal, leaning back in his chair, and folding his fingers tip to tip while he looked into the Professor's face with a pleasant light of satisfaction on his own, "if you are not too tired to bear a little more conversation, I have a story to tell you, a love story. Figure toyourself how badly I shall tell it. But it concerns two good young people, your Giannella and a very respectable young man. And though love stories are nearly as far from your province as from mine, I think this one will interest you. Shall I go on?"
The Professor turned a shade paler and his face twitched slightly, but he begged the Eminenza to proceed.
So the Cardinal, in few and direct words, gave him the history of the little romance, described Goffi's circumstances and the disinterested affection which he appeared to entertain for the girl, ignored altogether the fact of the Professor's own intentions regarding her, and the support so cunningly obtained thereto from the Princess, and wound up by drawing an alluring picture of Giannella's old protector and friend received as the honored and beloved guest in the cheerful household, where, as age approached, he would find that atmosphere of intimacy and affection which he had never had time to create for himself. There would be young voices, fresh interests, little children to take on his knee, the home, in fact, for which the Italian has no name and has never needed one but which he understands and cherishes with reverent care. The Churchman, who had put all family joys aside to follow the strict counsels of perfection, described these things with such tenderness and charm that some secret chord in his hearer's heart was touched. Bianchi turned away his face, but put out his hand timidly in search of his friend's. The mute appeal was instantly met, and this time theProfessor's fingers clung almost convulsively to those of Paolo Cestaldini, who laid his other hand over them and sat thus for awhile, letting the little spring of long-foregone emotion have its way in silence in the other's heart.
At last Bianchi spoke, low and huskily. "Eminenza, there was a young man once, who put his youth behind him, not as you did, for the love of God, but for ambition, desire of distinction, the saving of money, for leisure to study, study, study, undisturbed by the claims of the heart, of the family. And those things which were meant to be his servants became his masters, and used his strength, his eyesight, his very life, and gave him uncertain payments, sometimes generous, sometimes cruel and bitter. But the years had passed and there was nothing else. And he cheated himself into believing that he desired nothing else. But he was always a little hungry, in his soul, for Religion, finding he did not need her, had left him to himself. Then, when he was growing old, came two temptations, a young girl in whom he began to take pleasure and comfort, and money, which had always appeared to him a very desirable thing. A little silence, a little harmless deception—and both, he thought could be his. So he snatched at them—and fell, in intention he fell, almost in deed." Here Bianchi turned his head and gazed at the Cardinal very sadly through his spectacles. "Eminenza, how can he regain his self-respect? How can he come and go in such a home as you describe, when, but for a terrible and sudden warning, he would havestolen the girl, and her fortune too, for his own solitary impoverished self? Dove mai? Poveraccio, he can never look her or her husband in the face—and they can never see him without remembering and detesting his disloyalty."
"If I knew that man of whom you speak," the Cardinal replied gravely, "I would say to him, 'Amico mio, even for sins of intention some chastisement is due, and perhaps you might put what you call the loss of self-respect against that account, though in truth the loss you deplore seems more like the loss of self-confidence. That, to poor human nature, is like cutting off the finest branch of the tree, but on the scar may be grafted two sweet and healing fruits, humanity and vigilance. But for this shock who knows but that self-confidence might have led you even more helplessly astray in time to come? Therefore, friend, you are not poorer, but richer, by the deprivation.' And as for the other point, that of how the persons concerned may regard him, I would tell that man that very happy people have no time to remember and detest. There is no room for resentment in hearts that are full of joy and affection. A kind word, a pleasant look, a little service rendered—and these good souls say to themselves, 'Behold, it was all a mistake! How stupid we were to think he wished us ill. Why, here is a good true friend—how could we ever have believed him an enemy?' And should the poor man feel the need of making some reparation, how many opportunities he will have of showing kindness, of giving wise advice, ofreconciling those small differences which must arise from time to time even in the most united families! If he ever really meditated an injury, he will convert it into a thousand benefits which the recipients will bless him for, never dreaming that he owes them anything, that he is paying them a debt. Oh, Professor mio, only a priest knows what miracles of kindness and self-sacrifice self-accusation can bring forth. Blessed are those who weep over their own faults! Their tears are turned to sunshine for others ere they fall."
The sun had long set, the swift night had darkened the room, and the Cardinal could not see his friend's face. His good-night blessing was answered in an almost inaudible whisper, but, as he passed out, something like a sob fell on his ear. The Professor's heart had come to life at last.
It was the first Sunday in October, the jewel day of the Roman year. Tiny clouds, mere flecks of transparent silver, chased each other across the pale sapphire of the sky; a delicate breeze was dancing up from the sea; the campagna looked like a mantle of gold fretted at the rim with a crest of melting amethyst, where the Albans and the Sabines, Soracte and the Cimmerian hills, lifted their strong yet tender outlines to round the horizon in. The swallows, dainty sybarites who take their pleasures seriously, were marshaling their airy forces for migration, the wise old veterans, who have made the journey for many an autumn, teaching the neophytes the secret of long flight, shepherding them into their places in the V-shaped squadrons where the strongest winged of the silver-breasted patriarchs cleaves the air like a sentient arrow head, taking advantage of every current that sets in the chosen direction, sailing gently on with it where it helps, and the flock may sweep forward without a stroke, yet rising with instant decision at the precise distance from the ground where flight would lose its impetus. Perfect mathematicians, tracing their angles on viewless maps—wary old commanders husbanding their followers' strength to the last moment, seconded by a score of experienced officers who accompany and follow theflock, herd in the would-be stragglers, scold the lazy, encourage the weak, place the youngest of all in the center of the battalion so that the encounter with a contrary breeze may be broken for them and the untried wings helped by the fanning of stronger pinions behind—who that has watched the mobilizing of the swallows' army during the three weeks of the autumn, when the Staff consults on the housetops and sends its drill sergeants out to teach the recruits their business and train them into condition for miracles of enduring flight—who that has watched this would ever dare to arrogate the splendors of intelligence to mankind alone? Were one race on this earth as dutiful to racial obligations, as perfect in obedience, in endurance, in family discipline and military instinct as the swallow—that race would rule the world.
"Rondinella, pellegrina," Giannella murmured as she watched the swallows from her workroom window on that Sunday morning, "I envy you no longer. Fra Tommaso's pigeons are happier than you. One abiding home for them, one home for me. And God grant I may never have to leave it. Si, Mariuccia, I am ready."
Yes, she was ready for her marriage. Robed in silk of the October heaven's own blue even as Rinaldo had dreamed of her, with a white veil over the golden hair that had so long been shaded by the black, a little string of pearls round her soft neck, white prayer-book and white rosary in the still whiter hands—a flush of gay carnation on the cheek, thehappiness of morning in her innocent eyes—Giannella was ready for her marriage. The dark days were over; the sentinels of sorrow and privation that had so long guarded her narrow path had shed their somber armor now, and stood revealed, bright spirits of love and trust, bidding her pass forward to the sunny glades beyond.
As Mariuccia entered, Giannella came and kissed her old friend tenderly and then stood back to admire her splendid appearance. The treasured costume had come out of the goatskin trunk at last; here was the full skirt of flowered silk, the scarlet corselet and sleeves, the gold trimmings, the lace shawl and apron—creamy with the kiss of Time. But Time seemed to have forgiven Mariuccia a score of years this morning; the erect old figure was almost supple in its buoyancy, there was color in her cheeks, a sparkle in her eyes, her head was held high, as if to show off the fine fat pearls dangling from her ears. Her bosom heaved with pride under a long heavy string of new red coral—and her shoes creaked excruciatingly as she moved, for in the triumph of her heart she had commanded that brigand of a shoemaker to put a double "scrocchio" into each solid hole. Cipicchia! If people turned their heads to look at her to-day, all the better for them!
Giannella's admiration found no time for expression, for behind Mariuccia appeared another figure, that of the Professor, solemnly resplendent in full evening dress, white tie and white gloves. He seemed happy too this October morning, and as he cameforward to present Giannella with an enormous bouquet of white camellias, his eyes shone cheerfully behind a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles given to him by Rinaldo and henceforth to be kept for great occasions. There was nothing in his look or manner to suggest regrets, and if he had had to struggle with depression and remorse, he had evidently bested his enemies and turned them into peaceful denizens of the house of his soul. The Cardinal, on the plausible pretext of Signor Bianchi's illness, had himself seen to the transfer of Giannella's property into her own keeping; and since the hour he had bidden his friend good-night in the summer dusk, no word or look of those around him had reminded the Professor of his fault. De Sanctis had been gently put aside by the prelate when he offered to draw up the marriage contract. "No, Guglielmo mio," said Carlo Bianchi's friend, "we will employ someone else. You are too intimate with all the parties. You might have a moment's distraction and neglect an important point. That would never do."
The young lawyer was nettled. "The Eminenza is afraid my sharp tongue might disturb the general harmony," he ventured to remark. "But have I not promised silence as to all inconvenient facts? Surely I might be trusted to keep my word."
"Yes," the Cardinal said, "your tongue would keep silence, I am assured. But all the good will in the world will not banish that little demon of malice and mockery from your glance and tone. So we will not expose you to temptation. When all is over, thedemon will find no fun in making trouble, and then, if you wish, you can cultivate intimacy with the Signor Professore and the Goffis. Just now, my son, it is better for you to keep away from them."
So Bianchi had enjoyed a short space of carefully-guarded convalescence for body and mind. When he was able to leave his room he had had an ecstatic hour over the Greek head, which was temporarily reposing on a velvet cushion in the Cardinal's study. It was quite as beautiful as he had thought when he found it in the wet darkness of the crypt, and he had drawn much soothing and peace of spirit from the preparation of an article on it, whichThe Archæological Reviewwould carry to lovers of art all over the world. Yet he had not forgotten Paolo Cestaldini's little sermon on reparation, and various pretty gifts from him had been sent to the appartamentino on the roof where the sposini were to begin life together.
Now he was to take the bride to the church, and it was with much stateliness that he offered her his arm and led her through the dark passage, through the green door which she had so often run to open for him, and down into the courtyard, where the carriage was waiting for them. Mariuccia, after taking one look at the fire and another at the collation on the dining-room table, hurried after them, thrusting the heavy doorkey into the long-unused pocket of the best dress. She laughed as she felt some hard objects there and discovered them to be pellicles of pitted sugar. "Confetti! They must have lain there sinceStefano's marriage, more than thirty years ago. Mamma mia, we do grow old!"
As the little party ascended the steps of the San Severino, Giannella trembling a little and looking indeed as lovely as the "youngest Madonna," Mariuccia pulled three large silver pieces from the corner of her new pocket handkerchief and presented them to the expectant beggars.
The habitués of the porch were fewer by two than in the old days; the parish epileptic had died suddenly and happily on the altar steps while attending Mass; the footless baby had grown—not up, but big, and he pattered about in great contentment on padded hands and knees; it was understood that he had pensioned off his shiftless parent and had a nice little home of his own. The blind man was truly blind now, and the privileged cripple by the door was absent on rainy days, owing to rheumatism, but on a fine Sunday morning he still raised the leather curtain with his old grace. The blessings that followed the bride and her companions were loud and long, and the many churchgoers, hurrying to Mass before rushing out to the country for the day, stood smilingly aside to let the wedding party pass in.
Just within the doorway the bridegroom was waiting with a company of his friends, all in evening dress and wearing flowers in their buttonholes. Peppino, bubbling over with whispered fun, was trying to calm Rinaldo, who, between discomfort in the unaccustomed costume, tight white gloves which would not fasten properly, and doubt as to which of hispockets contained the ring and which the gold and silver coins he must produce when the priest should bid him endow Giannella with all his worldly goods, had worked himself up to a condition allied to frenzy. The sight of Giannella restored him to some command of himself, and by the time they were kneeling together before the altar of the Addolorata he could forget earthly preoccupations, listen to the padre's exhortations on the duties of the married state, and pray with true and humble faith never to fail in love and honor to his dear beautiful bride.
They came out when it was all over with the happiest light on their faces, and though their hearts were only conscious of each other they paused to return the kind wishes of their friends. Among these was Fra Tommaso, beaming with satisfied benevolence. Rinaldo drew him aside and slipped a gold piece into his hand. "Fra Tommaso mio," he said, with some show of contrition, "I have a sad confidence to make to you, and since this is a festal day, please promise me your pardon."
"You do not look very sorry about it, signorino," replied the old man. "What are you giving me gold for. Here, take it back. You owe me nothing."
"Oh yes, I do," said Rinaldo. "I have several times occupied your loggia and paid nothing for it."
"My loggia?" exclaimed the sacristan, "how could you have done that?"
"I got there—from mine," was the reply, "and when I found that I could see from there into my fidanzata's window, well, I came again. I even spoketo her from there. Was not that a dreadful sin? But you must forgive me, and I will give you another beautiful pigeon, my Themistocles, who sometimes consented to carry a bit of a love letter. You will not give him that exercise, and he will grow fat and rejoice your heart with his funny tricks."
"Themistocles? He wear a silver collar? He carried your love letters to the Biondina? Oh, God be praised. You have lifted a weight from my soul." And Fra Tommaso clasped his hands and raised thankful eyes to heaven.
"What do you mean? Explain!" cried Rinaldo, puzzled beyond expression.
"No," said Fra Tommaso, "I shall not tell you. But you cost me my dinner one day, O assassin, and many tears. Bad boy," and he laughed happily, "I will keep the money now and spend it in Masses for the Holy Souls whom I have teased with most unnecessary prayers. There run along to your sposina, and do not send me that evil bird—he would finish in my soup."
Peppino was beckoning and Rinaldo, hurried away, leaving the problem unsolved. In five minutes he had forgotten all about it, for the Cardinal had sent the chaplain down to say that he wished to see the sposini and give them his blessing. The bridegroom's supporters paused on the threshold of the prelate's apartment, but the chaplain drove them all in and the Cardinal, after greeting Rinaldo and Giannella, had a cheery word for everyone, and especially for Peppino, whom he had not had a chance to thankfor his share in the memorable rescue, and whose bright face and roguish smile delighted his heart. For his friend Bianchi he had the warmest of welcomes, a little allusion to their common interests, a remark about their last interview, to show all concerned, in the most delicate way, that the Professor was still his honored friend.
Then he had some gifts to distribute; for "Botti's Mariuccia" a rosary blessed by the Pope and a sprig of olive from Gethsemane, gifts which he knew would be most precious to the unlearned, faithful heart, and she wept for joy on receiving them and on finding that her feudal lord remembered her name. When the chaplain began to lead the visitors away to refresh them with coffee and sweetmeats, the Cardinal called Rinaldo and Giannella to his side. Opening a drawer in the table, he took out a small case and gave it to Giannella, saying that his sister had sent it for her, with all good wishes for her happiness. Within lay a beautiful miniature of Guido Reni's Addolorata and a few words in the Princess's own handwriting, pious felicitations, through which glowed something quite warm and kindly, and the request with which Teresa Santafede's epistles always closed, "Pray for me."
Giannella was touched and delighted. Only one good friend had been silent on this happy day, dear Signora Dati "of good memery," but Giannella had sent her a little message when she said her prayers that morning. Now, now that all was duly done and ended, her thoughts found answer in Rinaldo's eyes. "Andiamoci? Shall we go together, we twowho are one, shall we go into our garden of happiness?"
Ah, there were a few things to be seen to first. Mariuccia's collation had to be enjoyed. The Professor, charmed with the new sensation of playing host to a gay young party, proposed healths; Sora Amalia, mindful of future patronage, climbed the stairs with an armful of flowers and a basket of fresh eggs, and was brought in and made to take part in the feast. Then Peppino, by some magic, produced Rinaldo's new morning suit and effected for him a grateful transformation in the Professor's bedroom. Giannella's finery was covered with a crape shawl, for it would be bad luck for a bride to change her dress before she left her old home. Then the two were seen downstairs by all the boys, and packed into the carriage waiting to take them to Albano for a week's honeymoon, which was to include the joy of a visit to Mamma Candida and the ever-dear Teresina and Annetta.
"Madonna mia," exclaimed Giannella as the carriage passed out of the portone and Rinaldo, curiously shy now, drew her hand into his, "who can support so much happiness?"
Don Onorato, who had learned trouble and wisdom in the last three years, saw them pass. The story had all been told him by the maestro di casa. "Beati loro!" he sighed, "I am glad that poor little girl has had some good luck at last. I wonder if happiness will ever climb the grand staircase?"
On the fourth landing of the third staircase thedoor was still open. Mariuccia listened till the last young footstep had died away, then she turned back into the passage and found herself face to face with the Professor. He looked at her sadly. "Well, Mariuccia," he said, "I suppose you will want to go over to the appartamentino at once, so as to have all things ready when the sposini come back? Of course, there is much to do—I quite understand, and doubtless that young woman you have engaged for me will be satisfactory. Still—if you could wait—for a day or two longer—" He looked at her wistfully.
Mariuccia laughed, but the laugh was a little shaky, "A day or two longer?" she repeated, as she untied her lace apron and began to fold it up. "Another twenty years, if God wills. Did you think I was going to leave this quiet house and that noble kitchen to have my head worried off my shoulders by two children who will laugh and chatter all day and never remember the hours of their meals till they are hungry? No, no, padroncino mio. The young woman is for them, she will laugh and chatter with them—youth with youth. There will be three babies—till the Madonna sends them a fourth. As for you and me, we stay together. Do you figure to yourself that I would trust you, and your linen, and your digestion—to a stranger? Dove mai? What an idea! Come take off those beautiful clothes that I may put them away. Your others are all ready on the bed in there. You will not want any dinner now, after all those 'gingilli' and sweet wines—but this evening youshall have—let me see—a fritto dorato—but of those! Eh, padroncino mio? It will be like old times, just you and me!"
THE END