CHAPTER XXV
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, the Madonna 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," he answered, 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," said Giannella, 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 on the 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.
* * * * * * *
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 being brought 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 to yourself 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 the Professor'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 have stolen 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, of reconciling 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.