“We are still in social darkness,” Mario said, and the Cardinal detected a note of despair that was strange to him. To the leader of the New Democracy the last two days had been a season of broken illusion, humiliation, and quailing hope for the cause to which he had devoted his life. He had seen the peasantry of many provinces encouraged and uplifted by the co-operative works his party had fostered; he had endured abuse in their behalf, for his foes delighted to brand the movement a nursery of revolt against the established order. It was true that he had not rested content to develop mere industrial concord. He had striven to keep alive the ideal, the sentimental side of the cause. Those who had risen to the idea of his Democracy knew that it touched humanity at every point, that its aspiration was to imbue government with the scientific leaven of to-day as well as the Golden Rule, to the end that Italy’s many ills might be cured. But now, in the face of this outbreak of class hatred, so hostile to the spirit he had striven to awaken, he apprehended as he never had before how little was the progress made. He felt as a gardener who contemplates the weeds growing faster than he can uproot them. He must have betrayed his gloomy reflections, for the Cardinal said, as they turned into Via Senato, and the carriage stopped at Mario’s door:
“The seed has taken root, but is not growing to your wish. For this, my dear friend, do not despair. We set the twig in the earth, and heaven sends the storm to bend it to the tree’s course. We regret the storm; but better always a storm than a calm. Beware of calms in any form. They are nearly akin to death. Life is action, battle, achievement. Real success bids us shape ourselves into God’s plan as fast as it is revealed to us.”
“I thank you,” Mario said, cordially, grasping the Cardinal’s hand. “It is the true, the clear way, and it is full of hope. I thank your Eminence, too, for all the kindness shown me this day. Addio.”
“Addio, caro Forza.”
The man-servant who admitted Mario exclaimed in horror at sight of his bandaged head, and forgot for a time to hand him a letter inscribed “Urgent” that had arrived by the only post delivered in Milan that day. But he brought it in, with many excuses, at the moment that his master was about to seek the grateful repose of his own bed. It was the letter Tarsis had prepared the day before when he decided to exact payment of Forza—the writing forged in Hera’s hand, that should make simple the task of the Panther in collecting the bill:
Castel-Minore, Brianza, Tuesday.
My Beloved Mario:
I have left Antonio Tarsis and returned to my father’s house. Of your counsel I have need. Come to the old monastery to-morrow (Wednesday) night at nine. Wait for me in the cloister. Yours, though all the world oppose,
Hera.
P.S.—Destroy this letter.