“And Mr Wilbraham, of course.”
But Mrs Brodrick was obstinately silent again.
The drag up to Assisi is long and dusty, yet with Assisi itself lying always splendidly as a goal in front, it is possible to forget both heat and dust. Olive groves straggle all about, chicory and blue thistles fringe the side of the road; a personality which the world has not yet forgotten makes itself curiously felt when you come in sight of his fields, his mountains, his wide skies, and look back at the dome of Saint Mary of the Angels bathed in soft mist. A Miss Sandiland, one of the many single women who go about the world alone, was of the party which was to spend a night at the Subisio. Hence they, at once, pursued by clamorous beggars, climbed the stony streets to the broad arcaded spaces before the great church, Lombard and Gothic, with its square and round towers and vast magnificent porch. Then from the clear sunlight they turned into darkness—but what darkness! Darkness out of which colours glow, colours laid on by Cimabue and Giotto, darkness shrouding in mystery those strange grave impassible faces looking down into a world which does not touch them. Teresa stood silent, squeezing her hands; Sylvia asked many questions, and Wilbraham answered them; a monk came forward and pointed out this, that, and the other; another monk arranged hideous imitation flowers on the central altar. Presently Wilbraham came back to where Teresa stood.
“The others are gone,” he said.
“Will you come?”
“Gone, gone where?” she said, starting and looking round, “gone away?”
“No, no,” he said indulgently, remembering that she was always scatterbrained, “oh no. But have you forgotten that there’s an upper church?”
“Yes,” returned Teresa briefly, “I had forgotten.”
“May I show you the way?”
She followed silently up the stone staircase, and when they reached the top, he did not see that she again paused and left him to join the others.