‘There is no one who is likely to overhear us?’
‘None. The house is silent as the grave,’ of which it really reminded one with its funereal embellishments, its ghastly pictures of saints and martyrs—the work of old masters they said, horrible to look on—and crucifixes of every kind. In some parts of Italy this show is supposed to indicate the possession of true piety, and that, like charity, covers a multitude of sins.
‘Well, father, let me state a case in which I am interested.’
‘I am all attention.’
‘In the fair city of Florence there was a girl, fair in person, a fine figure, a sunny face, a gift of song. She was the child of pious parents in the neighbouring mountains. The father was an officer in the Pope’s army. When all Europe dashed its armies, not in vain, against the holy rock of St. Peter’s, the father died as a brave man should. The mother lived on on her small estate on the mountains. The girl loved the city, and the museums, and the gardens, and the picture galleries. She would not go back to the solitude of her country home; in fact, she ran away, and one morning she met an English milor. He was rich, he was handsome, he was well-born; he told her he loved her to distraction—she would always be happy with him. In a foolish hour the silly girl went on board milor’s yacht, that was lying in the bay—just as the yachts of milors lie there to-day.’
‘Ah! that was bad,’ said the priest.
‘Yes, it was indeed, holy father,’ continued the lady. ‘The girl remained there; she believed in the milor; she learnt his language; she amused his idle hours. He did not know his own mind; she did not know hers, and both thought they were happy.’
‘It was bad,’ said the priest. ‘Evil came of it. You need tell me no more. Evil always comes of such liaisons. Where the Church does not bless, the great enemy of souls, like a roaring lion, comes in.’
‘But there is a good deal more to be told.’
‘Proceed, madam, I am all attention.’