2
Julie was recovering from an attack which left her mentally exhausted. She lay back in the sedan, her deep-rimmed eyes like smouldering coals. She arrived at the Museum an hour before the time agreed on with Floyd, wandered through the rooms, making notes about the hanging and grouping of new pictures. There was a small canvas in a corner which she thought was somewhat crowded in. She asked about it. It had been received very recently and was not yet catalogued. “Yes, it was badly hung.”
She sank down on a divan before the picture—a Swiss landscape, with a mountain background sloping down to a grassy plateau; below, a bank of mist, through which could be distinguished an old chapel, with a broken cross on top. In a corner, hardly visible to the naked eye, she read, “Val Sinestra,” and underneath, two letters, M. S.
She bent nearer, looking eagerly into the picture. Was it her imagination! or did she really see a shadowy outline of a man with a white figure in his arms? Martin! Martin! with flaming eyes, distorted face!—desperate! mad!
“A charming picture, isn’t it? like a Corot. It’s the first of this artist, he’s not known in America.”
It was a member of the committee who spoke. Then Floyd came up and introduced his business friends. She smiled, asked them if they had seen some gems in the next room, and led them away from that picture in the corner.
On arriving home she went through the house looking for something and finally found it, hidden away on a top shelf covered with dust; it was a small glass vase with a delicate stem. The engraving was beautiful like a white mist over it. The butler washed it and held it up to the light; colors flashed through it.
“It’s Bohemian glass, Madame. It will break easily.”
“No! It’s very strong, I’ve had it a long time.”
She put it on her bed-table, with a dark red rose in it. From that time the “headaches” were less frequent, the ravings about punishment ceased. Mary said to the doctor:
“I think she’s getting over those horrible nightmares.”
“I’m glad of that,” said the doctor wearily. He himself was suffering from an attack of nerves. He was getting old, and the hives of human bees he cared for didn’t always contain honey. They stung him at his patients’ table, at births, at marriages; at deaths, less so—that was a release. He fought them with his Scotch tenacity, but they grew too much for him. Finally he got rid of them by retiring from active practice and putting the whole “bunch” without names or dates, into a book on psychical research, which became celebrated.
Julie devoted much time to her boy—took him in her car every morning to St. John’s College, called for him in the afternoon, preached religion to him at home, warned him of the great evils which arise from lack of it. She had been very negligent in her youth, and was punished for it. Religion was a great consolation.
He listened to her with deference. He was extraordinarily gifted and devoured everything he could lay his hands on in the way of serious reading. His father was proud of him, but there was a growing sense of uneasiness about his religious studies. He saw little of the boy, who spent his evenings in his own room, filled with books he had bought himself in the old book shops. Floyd couldn’t understand them. The maps which hung on the walls of his den were more intelligible.
A distant cousin of Julie’s came to America ostensibly on business. The Bank, taken over by the family, had grown enormously rich under American management. Mr. Gonzola was highly cultured—a dark, handsome man with white hands and long tapering fingers. He was delighted with the boy and his knowledge of international literature. He found him reading Renan.
“That’s forbidden, isn’t it?”
The boy answered with a gleam of humor.
“Not forbidden, but not taught. I read all they recommend in school, and all they forget, out of it.”
Then came a letter from Father Cabello to Julie. He was very glad to hear that everything continued to be so satisfactory with her. The wonderful gifts of her boy interested him; he saw in his genius the hand of God leading him into the Divine path. They must decide now about his career.
Julie handed the letter to Floyd, who read it carefully and understood its hidden significance.
“This means the priesthood.”
“Yes,” said Julie, “but don’t speak of that to Joseph.”
That evening at dinner, she said:
“Joseph, would you like to go to Rome to visit Father Cabello?”
The boy’s eyes lit up.
“Oh yes, it’s the dream of my life. And—I would like to go to Vienna, to see your people.”
Mr. Gonzola spoke quietly, his arm around the boy.
“Let me take him, Julie. I promise you there will be no influence. Our family has been split into different religious camps for generations; those who have remained true to their faith have made no effort to bring the others back. We do not proselytize. The missionary is unknown to us.”
Julie hesitated, looked at Floyd; it was a great responsibility. The boy was bending over eagerly watching his father, who decided quickly, as was his way in business. His theory was, when a man weighs the pros and cons of an enterprise, the difficulties grow so great that he generally ends in not undertaking it. He would give the boy his chance; he was old enough now to decide for himself.
“Go with Mr. Gonzola,” said Floyd.
The boy flung his arms around his father; “I will do what is right!”
“I’m sure you will, my boy,” answered Floyd. At that moment he caught sight of Julie’s face reflected in the mirror; it was lit by a quick flash of joy.