“I suppose, in short, all you really mean, Don Emidio,” resumed Mary, “is that, when it pleases God to make a saint in the full acceptation of the term, he makes use of natural conditions blended with the supernatural.”
“God always works with a method, signora—by rule and measure. We cannot solve all the divine problems; but we know that they are according to truth and justice.”
Don Emidio's last words seemed to shut us all up in silent thought. Frank went on puffing at his cigar in a way which set my wicked imagination wondering how far smoking was conducive to meditation. But then I never heard of a saint who smoked. Perhaps if any very holy man, whose canonization was in progress, had been given to smoking, the devil's advocate would lay hold of it, and try to destroy the cause. I do not think tobacco was much in vogue when the great modern saints lived. S. Philip Neri, for instance, that large-hearted, “large-sleeved”[125] saint—I wonder if, in these days, he would have smoked? But then he was a priest. That makes a great difference. I think a layman might have an occasional cigar. There is that dear old Frank lighting his second. But Don Emidio has had only two tiny cigarettes. What nonsense runs in my head! And, meanwhile, the red lights have all died away. Capri lies like a large, dense cloud on the bosom of the sea; and though all the sunlight has faded from the sky, there is a strange color of mingled purple and orange that seems to flash upon the water, and that I never saw anywhere except in the Bay of Naples. Presently we are roused from our reverie by the sound of voices; and Ida's tall figure stands by the open window looking out upon us, while Elizabeth and Helen are behind.
“How silent you all are!” exclaims Ida with a laugh. “I am afraid we shall disturb you.”
“Oh! it is only that Don Emidio has been talking to us so much about heroic sanctity that we are all in a state of depression from the consciousness that we have no hope of ever reaching it.”
“I am quite sure you never will, if you set about it in this melancholy fashion. Besides, nobody is a saint till he is dead; and who knows but what you may live to pray at my tomb yet?”
“Yours, Ida dear?” said Mary quite gravely.
“Why not? There are so many kinds of saints; and I may yet come out as quite a new variety. But that is not what I am come about. Padre Cataldo is gone to see the poor man I told Mary of this morning. He has got the fever, and, when he is delirious, he keeps calling so piteously for the padre that this is the second time to-day he has had to toil up our hill to go to him, besides all his other toils. As soon as the man is pacified, he promised to come here. He told us at dinner that to-morrow will be a free day, and that for once he could make an excursion with us, if we liked to go to Baiæ.”
It was soon all settled. I thought it strange the two gentlemen did not wish to ride, but preferred coming in the carriage with us. For my [pg 553] part, I longed to be on horseback, and, in their place, I would have ridden. Padre Cataldo looked in for a moment to learn our plans, and then Don Emidio took leave of us. He had a long way to drive home.
“Your villa is on the Vomero, is it not?” I said.