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.
CHAPTER XXVI
It was the first Sunday in October, the jewel day of the Roman year. Tiny clouds, mere flecks of transparent silver, chased each other across the pale sapphire of the sky; a delicate breeze was dancing up from the sea; the campagna looked like a mantle of gold fretted at the rim with a crest of melting amethyst, where the Albans and the Sabines, Soracte and the Cimmerian hills, lifted their strong yet tender outlines to round the horizon in. The swallows, dainty sybarites who take their pleasures seriously, were marshaling their airy forces for migration, the wise old veterans, who have made the journey for many an autumn, teaching the neophytes the secret of long flight, shepherding them into their places in the V-shaped squadrons where the strongest winged of the silver-breasted patriarchs cleaves the air like a sentient arrow head, taking advantage of every current that sets in the chosen direction, sailing gently on with it where it helps, and the flock may sweep forward without a stroke, yet rising with instant decision at the precise distance from the ground where flight would lose its impetus. Perfect mathematicians, tracing their angles on viewless maps—wary old commanders husbanding their followers' strength to the last moment, seconded by a score of experienced officers who accompany and follow the flock, herd in the would-be stragglers, scold the lazy, encourage the weak, place the youngest of all in the center of the battalion so that the encounter with a contrary breeze may be broken for them and the untried wings helped by the fanning of stronger pinions behind—who that has watched the mobilizing of the swallows' army during the three weeks of the autumn, when the Staff consults on the housetops and sends its drill sergeants out to teach the recruits their business and train them into condition for miracles of enduring flight—who that has watched this would ever dare to arrogate the splendors of intelligence to mankind alone? Were one race on this earth as dutiful to racial obligations, as perfect in obedience, in endurance, in family discipline and military instinct as the swallow—that race would rule the world.