Nevertheless, she longed for some message, some word to comfort her and give her courage to face the weary months in front of her. Surely he would find some means of sending her this word! It seemed so long ago since his arms were round her and his lips lay upon hers—so long ago and yet she felt their pressure still. What had he said to her "I will marry no woman if I do not marry you." Ah, but she was sure of that—very sure. And so it was ridiculous to be afraid—cowardly to be afraid and not to trust in his word, that as soon as he could possibly do so with the certainty that his message would reach her, he would communicate with her as to what their next step should be.
XXIII
Don Agostino was sitting in his study the evening after his return to Montefiano from Rome. His housekeeper, Ernana, had waited upon him during his supper, and in the interval of carrying in the dishes from the kitchen had entertained him with all that had occurred in the paese during his absence. Not very much had occurred; but then occurrences of any import at Montefiano were apt to be few and far between. The wife of the baker who supplied the house with bread had had a baby; and Ernana, counting up upon her fingers the number of months that had elapsed since the baker's marriage, could only get as far as the little finger of one hand, and shook her head accordingly. There had been a dispute in the osteria kept by Stefano Mazza, and Stefano's son, while attempting to put an end to it, had been stabbed. But it was una cosa di niente; and it served Stefano's son right, and would teach him that no good ever came of trying to interfere in other folks' quarrels. Nothing else had happened—at any rate, nothing that had reached Ernana's ears. But it certainly was very unfortunate about the baby, and a great pity that the baker had delayed his marriage so long; though, after all, he might have delayed it altogether, which would have been worse.
Don Agostino listened in silence as he ate his frittura and salad. He rather agreed with Ernana as to the futility in this world of trying to play the part of a peacemaker, however advantageous having done so might prove to be in the world to come. As to the baby, he had heard about it before, at a very early stage of its creation; and he had nothing further to say regarding it than he had already had occasion to whisper from behind the grille of his confessional.
His supper over, and Ernana having retired into the kitchen to wash up, Don Agostino had betaken himself to his favorite arm-chair in his study, after carefully roasting the end of a Virginia cigar in the flame of a candle on his writing-table, and ascertaining that it drew satisfactorily. On that same writing-table lay the little packet containing the ring and letter which Silvio had intrusted to him, and which he had undertaken should, by one means or another, be conveyed safely into Bianca Acorari's own hands.
Don Agostino glanced at the packet more than once as he sat and smoked his cigar. A work by Professor Rossano was lying on his lap. He had taken the volume from his bookshelves in order to refresh his memory as to certain arguments propounded in it which had especially roused the indignation of the Sacred Congregation of the Index, some months after the work had appeared. As a matter of fact, however, he was thinking far more of how he should fulfil his promise to Professor Rossano's son, than of the learned senator's unorthodox propositions in print.
The more he thought over the strange combination of circumstances which had led him to interest himself in Silvio's case, the more he became convinced that he had been called upon to save the only child of the woman he had loved from unhappiness, and perhaps from worse. It was scarcely conceivable, he argued to himself, that the similarity between his own youthful love affair and that of Silvio should be a mere coincidence. Indeed, he had long ago rejected the idea as impossible, and to one of his nature, partly philosophical but also largely mystical, there was nothing incongruous or improbable in the thought that his departed love remembered his devotion to her, and was calling upon him from her place in the world beyond the veil to shield her child from evil, and bidding him labor to procure her the happiness which had been denied to her mother.
And Don Agostino did not doubt that a woman who loved Silvio Rossano, and could call him her husband, would be happy. He had never doubted it from the first day that he had talked with Silvio, when the boy had been, as it were, but a chance acquaintance. Much knowledge of human nature had made Don Agostino singularly quick at reading both countenances and character, and experience had taught him that his first impressions, especially of a man, were very seldom wrong impressions.
He had not been satisfied, however, until he had learned from Silvio's father all that the professor had to tell him concerning his son. As Don Agostino had said to Silvio, that "all" was only what he had felt convinced that he should hear. It had told him that the lad was a good son and a good brother, that he had proved himself to be worthy of trust, as well as clever and hard-working, and Don Agostino knew enough of matrimony to realize that such men, when they loved, and if they were loved, made good husbands.
He could not doubt Silvio's love for Bianca Acorari; nor had he any reason to think that Silvio was deceiving himself as to its depth and sincerity. The professor, to be sure, had declared that it was a case of love at first sight—only he had defined it more cynically, if somewhat less gracefully—and had argued that similar affections were not apt to be of very long duration. This argument, however, had not appealed to Don Agostino as being by any means conclusive. When he had first met Bianca Negroni, Bianca Acorari's mother, he had fallen in love with her there and then, and that love had dominated his whole life. It had not, it was true, been realized, but had it been realized he knew that it would have endured the test of supreme satisfaction—that test which, in love, is the severest of any. He would not have been what he was—the parroco of Montefiano! Nor was there anything unnatural or improbable in Bianca Acorari having fallen in love at first sight with Silvio. Such things might not occur with the colder natures of the north, perhaps, or they might occur but rarely. But in the south, among the Latin races, Don Agostino knew very well that such a thing was very far from being uncommon. All the same, however desirable it may be that Bianca Acorari and Silvio should find happiness in living their lives together, Don Agostino did not see how the affair could be managed. None knew better than he how hard a thing to break down, especially among the Roman "nobility," was the prejudice of caste. Money, indeed, provided there was enough of it, could always break it down; but otherwise the line between the so-called aristocracy and the bourgeoisie was irremediably fixed.