CHAPTER XVI
"Ecco, Signorina! il Convento!"
The driver reined up his horse, pointing with his whip.
Diana and Muriel Colwood stood up eagerly in the carriage, and there atthe end of the long white road, blazing on the mountain-side, terraceupon terrace, arch upon arch, rose the majestic pile of buildings whichbears the name of St. Francis. Nothing else from this point was to beseen of Assisi. The sun, descending over the mountain of Orvieto,flooded the building itself with a level and blinding light, while uponMonte Subasio, behind, a vast thunder-cloud, towering in the southernsky, threw storm-shadows, darkly purple, across the mountain-side, andfrom their bosom the monastery, the churches, and those hugesubstructures which make the platform on which the convent stands, shoneout in startling splendor.
The travellers gazed their fill, and the carriage clattered on.
As they neared the town and began to climb the hill Diana looked roundher--at the plain through which they had come, at the mountains to theeast, at the dome of the Portiuncula. Under the rushing light and shadeof the storm-clouds, the blues of the hills, the young green of thevines, the silver of the olives, rose and faded, as it were, in waves ofcolor, impetuous and magnificent. Only the great golden building,crowned by its double church, most famous of all the shrines of Italy,glowed steadily, amid the alternating gleam and gloom--fit guardian ofthat still living and burning memory which is St. Francis.
"We shall be happy here, sha'n't we?" said Diana, stealing a hand intoher companion's. "And we needn't hurry away."
She drew a long breath. Muriel looked at her tenderly--enchantedwhenever the old enthusiasm, the old buoyancy reappeared. They had nowbeen in Italy for nearly two months. Muriel knew that for her companionthe time had passed in one long wrestle for a new moral and spiritualstanding-ground. All the glory of Italy had passed before the girl'stroubled eyes as something beautiful but incoherent, a dream landscape,on which only now and then her full consciousness laid hold. For to theintenser feeling of youth, full reality belongs only to the worldwithin; the world where the heart loves and suffers. Diana's true lifewas there; and she did not even admit the loyal and gentle woman who hadtaken a sister's place beside her to a knowledge of its ebb and flow.She bore herself cheerfully and simply; went to picture-galleries andchurches; sketched and read--making no parade either of sorrow or ofendurance. But the impression on Mrs. Colwood all the time was of adesperately struggling soul voyaging strange seas of grief alone. Shesometimes--though rarely--talked with Muriel of her mother's case; shewould sometimes bring her friend a letter of her father's, or a fragmentof journal from that full and tragic store which the solicitors had nowplaced in her hands; generally escaping afterward from all comment; onlyable to bear a look, a pressure of the hand. But, as a rule, she kepther pain out of sight. In the long dumb debate with herself she hadgrown thin and pale. There was nothing, however, to be done, nothing tobe said. The devoted friend could only watch and wait. Meanwhile, ofOliver Marsham not a word was ever spoken between them.
* * * * *
The travellers climbed the hill as the sun sank behind the mountains,made for the Subasio Hotel, found letters, and ordered rooms.
Among her letters, Diana opened one from Sir James Chide. "The Housewill be up on Thursday for the recess, and at last I have persuadedFerrier to let me carry him off. He is looking worn out, and, as I tellhim, will break down before the election unless he takes a holiday now.So he comes--protesting. We shall probably join you somewhere inUmbria--at Perugia or Assisi. If I don't find you at one or the other, Ishall write to Siena, where you said you meant to be by the first weekin June. And, by-the-way, I shouldn't wonder if Bobbie Forbes were withus. He amuses Ferrier, who is very fond of him. But, of course, youneedn't see anything of him unless you like."
The letter was passed on to Muriel, who thought she perceived that thenews it contained seemed to make Diana shrink into herself. She was muchattached to Sir James Chide, and had evidently felt pleasure in theexpectation of his coming out to join them. But Mr. Ferrier--and BobbieForbes--both of them associated with the Marshams and Tallyn? Mrs.Colwood noticed the look of effort in the girl's delicate face, andwished that Sir James had been inspired to come alone.
After unpacking, there still remained half an hour before dark. Theyhurried out for a first look at the double church.
The evening was cold and the wind chill. Spring comes tardily to thehigh mountain town, and a light powdering of snow still lay on thetopmost slope of Monte Subasio. Before going into the church they turnedup the street that leads to the Duomo and the temple of Minerva. Assisiseemed deserted--a city of ghosts. Not a soul in the street, not a lightin the windows. On either hand, houses built of a marvellous red stoneor marble, which seemed still to hold and radiate the tempestuous lightwhich had but just faded from them; the houses of a small provincialaristocracy, immemorially old like the families which still possessedthem; close-paned, rough-hewn, and poor--yet showing here and there adoorway, a balcony, a shrine, touched with divine beauty.
"Where _are_ all the people gone to?" cried Muriel, looking at thesecret rose-colored walls, now withdrawing into the dusk, and at theempty street. "Not a soul anywhere!"
Presently they came to an open doorway--above it aninscription--"Bibliotheca dei Studii Franciscani." Everything stood opento the passer-by. They went in timidly, groped their way to the marblestairs, and mounted. All void and tenantless! At the top of the stairswas a library with dim bookcases and marble floors and busts; but nocustode--no reader--not a sound!
"We seem to be all alone here--with St. Francis!" said Diana, softly, asthey descended to the street--"or is everybody at church?"
They turned their steps back to the Lower Church. As they went in,darkness--darkness sudden and profound engulfed them. They groped theirway along the outer vestibule or transept, finding themselves amid aslowly moving crowd of peasants. The crowd turned; they with it; and ablaze of light burst upon them.
Before them was the nave of the Lower Church, with its dark-storiedchapels on either hand, itself bathed in a golden twilight, with figuresof peasants and friars walking in it, vaguely transfigured. But thesanctuary beyond, the altar, the walls, and low-groined roof flamed andburned. An exposition of the Sacrament was going on. Hundreds of slendercandles arranged upon and about the altar in a blazing pyramid drew fromthe habitual darkness in which they hide themselves Giotto's thricefamous frescos; or quickened on the walls, like flowers gleaming in thedawn, the loveliness of quiet faces, angel and saint and mother, thebeauty of draped folds at their simplest and broadest, a fairy magic ofwings and trumpets, of halos and crowns.
Now the two strangers understood why they had found Assisi itselfdeserted; emptied of its folk this quiet eve. Assisi was here, in thechurch which is at once the home and daily spectacle of her people. Whystay away among the dull streets and small houses of the hill-side, whenthere were these pleasures of eye and ear, this sensuous medley of lightand color, this fellowship and society, this dramatic symbolism andmovement, waiting for them below, in the church of their fathers?
So that all were here, old and young, children and youths, fathers justhome from their work, mothers with their babies, girls with theirsweethearts. Their happy yet reverent familiarity with the old church,their gay and natural participation in the ceremony that was going on,made on Diana's alien mind the effect of a great multitude crowding tosalute their King. There, in the midst, surrounded by kneeling acolytesand bending priests, shone the Mystic Presence. Each man and woman andchild, as they passed out of the shadow into the light, bent the knee,then parted to either side, each to his own place, like courtiers wellused to the ways of a beautiful and familiar pageantry.
An old peasant in a blouse noticed the English ladies, beckoned to them,and with a kind of gracious authority led them through dark chapels,till he had placed them in the open space that spread round the flamingaltar, and found them seats on the stone ledge that gird
les the walls.An old woman saying her beads looked up smiling and made room. A baby ortwo ran out over the worn marble flags, gazed up at the gilt-and-silverangels hovering among the candles of the altar, and was there softlycaptured--wide-eyed, and laughing in a quiet ecstasy--by itswatchful mother.
Diana sat down, bewildered by the sheer beauty of a marvellous andincomparable sight. Above her head shone the Giotto frescos, theimmortal four, in which the noblest legend of Catholicism finds itsloveliest expression, as it were the script, itself imperishable, of adying language, to which mankind will soon have lost the key.
Yet only dying, perhaps, as the tongue of Cicero died--to give birth tothe new languages of Europe.
For in Diana's heart this new language of the spirit which is the childof the old was already strong, speaking through the vague feelings andemotions which held her spellbound. What matter the garment of dogma andstory?--the raiment of pleaded fact, which for the modern is no fact? InDiana, as in hundreds and thousands of her fellows, it hadbecome--unconsciously--without the torment and struggle of an oldergeneration--Poetry and Idea; and all the more invincible thereby.
Above her head, Poverty, gaunt and terrible in her white robe, her skirttorn with brambles, and her poor cheek defaced by the great iron hookwhich formerly upheld the Sanctuary lamp, married with St.Francis--Christ himself joining their hands.
So Love and Sorrow pledged each other in the gleaming color of the roof.Divine Love spoke from the altar, and in the crypt beneath their feetwhich held the tomb of the Poverello the ashes of Love slept.
The girl's desolate heart melted within her. In these weeks of groping,religion had not meant much to her. It had been like a bird-voice whichnight silences. All the energy of her life had gone into endurance. Butnow it was as though her soul plunged into the freshness of vast waters,which upheld and sustained--without effort. Amid the shadows andphantasms of the church--between the faces on the walls and the kneelingpeasants, both equally significant and alive--those ghosts of her ownheart that moved with her perpetually in the life of memory stood, orknelt, or gazed, with the rest: the piteous figure of her mother; herfather's gray hair and faltering step; Oliver's tall youth. Never wouldshe escape them any more; they were to be the comrades of her life, forNature had given her no powers of forgetting. But here, in the shrine ofSt. Francis, it was as though the worst smart of her anguish droppedfrom her. From the dark splendor, the storied beauty of the church,voices of compassion and of peace spoke to her pain; the waves offeeling bore her on, unresisting; she closed her eyes against thelights, holding back the tears. Life seemed suspended, andsuffering ceased.
* * * * *
"So we have tracked you!" whispered a voice in her ear. She looked upstartled. Three English travellers had quietly made their way to theback of the altar. Sir James Chide stood beside her; and behind him thesubstantial form of Mr. Ferrier, with the merry snub-nosed face ofBobbie Forbes smiling over the great man's shoulder.
Diana--smiling back--put a finger to her lip; the service was at itsheight, and close as they were to the altar decorum was necessary.Presently, guided by her, they moved softly on to a remoter anddarker corner.
"Couldn't we escape to the Upper Church?" asked Chide of Diana.
She nodded, and led the way. They stole in and out of the kneelinggroups of the north transept, and were soon climbing the stairway thatlinks the two churches, out of sight and hearing of the multitude below.Here there was again pale daylight. Greetings were interchanged, andboth Chide and Ferrier studied Diana's looks with a friendly anxietythey did their best to conceal. Forbes also observed Juliet Sparling'sdaughter--hotly curious--yet also hotly sympathetic. What a story,by Jove!
Their footsteps echoed in the vast emptiness of the Upper Church.Apparently they had it to themselves.
"No friars!" said Forbes, looking about him. "That's a blessing, anyway!You can't deny, Miss Mallory, that _they_'re a blot on the landscape. Orhave you been flattering them up, as all the other ladies do whocome here?"
"We have only just arrived. What's wrong with the friars?" smiled Diana.
"Well, we arrived this morning, and I've about taken theirmeasure--though Ferrier won't allow it. But I saw four of them--greatlazy, loafing fellows, Miss Mallory--much stronger than you or me--beingdragged up these abominable hills--_four of 'em_--in one _legno_--withone wretched toast-rack of a horse. And not one of them thought ofwalking. Each of them with his brown petticoats, and an umbrella as bigas himself. Ugh! I offered to push behind, and they glared at me. Whatdo you think St. Francis would have said to them? Kicked them out ofthat _legno_, pretty quick, I'll bet you!"
Diana surveyed the typical young Englishman indulging a typicallyProtestant mood.
"I thought there were only a few old men left," she said, "and that itwas all very sad and poetic?"
"That used to be so," said Ferrier, glancing round the church, so as tomake sure that Chide was safely occupied in seeing as much of the Giottofrescos on the walls as the fading light allowed. "Then the Pope won alaw-suit. The convent is now the property of the Holy See, the monasteryhas been revived, and the place seems to swarm with young monks.However, it is you ladies that ruin them. You make pretty speeches tothem, and look so charmingly devout."
"There was a fellow at San Damiano this morning," interrupted Bobbie,indignantly; "awfully good-looking--and the most affected cad I everbeheld. I'd like to have been his fag-master at Eton! I saw him makingeyes at some American girls as we came in; then he came posing andsidling up to us, and gave us a little lecture on 'Ateismo.' Ferriersaid nothing--stood there as meek as a lamb, listening to him--lookingstraight at him. I nearly died of laughing behind them."
"Come here, Bobbie, you reprobate!" cried Chide from a distance. "Holdyour tongue, and bring me the guide-book."
Bobbie strolled off, laughing.
"Is it all a sham, then," said Diana, looking round her with a smile anda sigh: "St. Francis--and the 'Fioretti'--and the 'Hymn to the Sun'? Hasit all ended in lazy monks--and hypocrisy?"
"Dante asked himself the same question eighty years after St. Francis'sdeath. Yet here is this divine church!"--Ferrier pointed to the frescoedwalls, the marvellous roof--"here is immortal art!--and here, in yourmind and in mine, after six hundred years, is a memory--anemotion--which, but for St. Francis, had never been; by which indeed wejudge his degenerate sons. Is that not achievement enough--for onechild of man?"
"Six hundred years hence what modern will be as much alive as St.Francis is now?" Diana wondered, as they strolled on.
He turned a quiet gaze upon her.
"Darwin? At least I throw it out."
"Darwin!" Her voice showed doubt--the natural demur of her youngignorance and idealism.
"Why not? What faith was to the thirteenth century knowledge is to us.St. Francis rekindled the heart of Europe, Darwin has transformed themain conception of the human mind."
In the dark she caught the cheerful patience of the small penetratingeyes as they turned upon her. And at the same time--strangely--shebecame aware of a sudden and painful impression; as though, through andbehind the patience, she perceived an immense fatigue anddiscouragement--an ebbing power of life--in the man beside her.
"Hullo!" said Bobbie Forbes, turning back toward them, "I thought therewas no one else here."
For suddenly they had become aware of a tapping sound on the marblefloor, and from the shadows of the eastern end there emerged twofigures: a woman in front, lame and walking with a stick, and a manbehind. The cold reflected light which filled the western half of thechurch shone full on both faces. Bobbie Forbes and Diana exclaimed,simultaneously. Then Diana sped along the pavement.
"Who?" said Chide, rejoining the other two.
"Frobisher--and Miss Vincent," said Forbes, studying the new-comers.
"Miss Vincent!" Chide's voice showed his astonishment. "I thought shehad been very ill."
"So she has," said Ferrier--"very ill. It is amazing to see her
here."
"And Frobisher?"
Ferrier made no reply. Chide's expression showed perplexity, perhaps ashade of coldness. In him a warm Irish heart was joined with greatstrictness, even prudishness of manners, the result of an Irish Catholiceducation of the old type. Young women, in his opinion, could hardly betoo careful, in a calumnious world. The modern flouting of olddecorums--small or great--found no supporter in the man who hadpassionately defended and absolved Juliet Sparling.
But he followed the rest to the greeting of the new-comers. Diana's handwas in Miss Vincent's, and the girl's face was full of joy; MarionVincent, deathly white, her eyes, more amazing, more alive than ever,amid the emaciation that surrounded them, greeted the party with smilingcomposure--neither embarrassed, nor apologetic--appealing to Frobishernow and then as to her travelling companion--speaking of "our week atOrvieto"--making, in fact, no secret of an arrangement which presentlyevery member of the group about her--even Sir James Chide--accepted assimply as it was offered to them.
As to Frobisher, he was rather silent, but no more embarrassed than she.It was evident that he kept an anxious watch lest her stick should slipupon the marble floor, and presently he insisted in a low voice that sheshould go home and rest.
"Come back after dinner," she said to him, in the same tone as theyemerged on the piazza. He nodded, and hurried off by himself.
"You are at the Subasio?" The speaker turned to Diana. "So am I. I don'tdine--but shall we meet afterward?"
"And Mr. Frobisher?" said Diana, timidly.
"He is staying at the Leone. But I told him to come back."
After dinner the whole party met in Diana's little sitting-room, ofwhich one window looked to the convent, while the other commanded theplain. And from the second, the tenant of the room had access to a smallterrace, public, indeed, to the rest of the hotel, but as there were noother guests the English party took possession.
Bobbie stood beside the terrace window with Diana, gossiping, whileChide and Ferrier paced the terrace with their cigars. Neither MissVincent nor Frobisher had yet appeared, and Muriel Colwood was makingtea. Bobbie was playing his usual part of the chatterbox, while at thesame time he was inwardly applying much native shrewdness and aboundless curiosity to Diana and her affairs.
Did she know--had she any idea--that in London at that moment she wasone of the main topics of conversation?--in fact, the best talked-aboutyoung woman of the day?--that if she were to spend June in town--whichof course she would not do--she would find herself a _succesfou_--people tumbling over one another to invite her, and make a show ofher? Everybody of his acquaintance was now engaged in retrying the Wingmurder, since that statement of Chide's in the _Times_. No one talked ofanything else, and the new story that was now tacked on to the old hadgiven yet another spin to the ball of gossip.
How had the story got out? Bobbie believed that it had been mainly thedoing of Lady Niton. At any rate, the world understood perfectly thatJuliet Sparling's innocent and unfortunate daughter had been harshlytreated by Lady Lucy--and deserted by Lady Lucy's son.
Queer fellow, Marsham!--rather a fool, too. Why the deuce didn't hestick to it? Lady Lucy would have come round; he would have gainedenormous _kudos_, and lost nothing. Bobbie looked admiringly at hiscompanion, vowing to himself that she was worth fighting for. But hisown heart was proof. For three months he had been engaged, _sub rosa_,to a penniless cousin. No one knew, least of all Lady Niton, who, inspite of her championship of Diana, would probably be furious when shedid know. He found himself pining to tell Diana; he would tell her assoon as ever he got an opportunity. Odd!--that the effect of having gonethrough a lot yourself should be that other people were strongly drawnto unload their troubles upon you. Bobbie felt himself a selfish beast;but all the same his "Ettie" and his debts; the pros and cons of thevarious schemes for his future, in which he had hitherto allowed LadyNiton to play so queer and tyrannical a part--all these burned on histongue till he could confide them to Diana.
Meanwhile the talk strayed to Ferrier and politics--dangerous ground!Yet some secret impulse in Diana drew her toward it, and Bobbie'scuriosity played up. Diana spoke with concern of the great man's pallorand fatigue. "Not to be wondered at," said Forbes, "considering thetight place he was in, or would soon be in." Diana asked forexplanations, acting a part a little; for since her acquaintance withOliver Marsham she had become a diligent reader of newspapers. Bobbie,divining her, gave her the latest and most authentic gossip of theclubs; as to the various incidents and gradations of the now open revoltof the Left Wing; the current estimates of Ferrier's strength in thecountry; and the prospects of the coming election.
Presently he even ventured on Marsham's name, feeling instinctively thatshe waited for it. If there was any change in the face beside him theMay darkness concealed it, and Bobbie chattered on. There was no doubtthat Marsham was in a difficulty. All his sympathies at least were withthe rebels, and their victory would be his profit.
"Yet as every one knows that Marsham is under great obligations toFerrier, for him to join the conspiracy these fellows are hatchingdoesn't look pretty."
"He won't join it!" said Diana, sharply.
"Well, a good many people think he's in it already. Oh, I dare say it'sall rot!" the speaker added, hastily; "and, besides, it's not at allcertain that Marsham himself will get in next time."
"Get in!" It was a cry of astonishment--passing on into constraint. "Ithought Mr. Marsham's seat was absolutely safe."
"Not it." Bobbie began to flounder. "The fact is it's not safe at all;it's uncommonly shaky. He'll have a squeak for it. They're not so sweeton him down there as they used to be."
Gracious!--if she were to ask why! The young man was about hastily tochange the subject when Sir James and his companion came toward them.
"Can't we tempt you out, Miss Mallory?" said Ferrier. "There is amarvellous change!" He pointed to the plain over which the night wasfalling. "When we met you in the church it was still winter, or wintryspring. Now--in two hours--the summer's come!"
And on Diana's face, as she stepped out to join him, struck a buffet ofwarm air; a heavy scent of narcissus rose from the flower-boxes on theterrace; and from a garden far below came the sharp thin prelude of anightingale.
* * * * *
For about half an hour the young girl and the veteran of politics walkedup and down--sounding each other--heart reaching out toheart--dumbly--behind the veil of words. There was a secret link betweenthem. The politician was bruised and weary--well aware that just asFortune seemed to have brought one of her topmost prizes within hisgrasp, forces and events were gathering in silence to contest it withhim. Ferrier had been twenty-seven years in the House of Commons; hischief life was there, had always been there; outside that maimed andcustomary pleasure he found, besides, a woman now white-haired. Torule--to lead that House had been the ambition of his life. He hadearned it; had scorned delights for it; and his powers were attheir ripest.
Yet the intrigue, as he knew, was already launched that might, at thelast moment, sweep him from his goal. Most of the men concerned in it heeither held for honest fanatics or despised as flatterers of themob--ignobly pliant. He could and would fight them all with good courageand fair hope of victory.
But Lucy Marsham's son!--that defection, realized or threatened, wasbeginning now to hit him hard. Amid all their disagreements of the pastyear his pride had always refused to believe that Marsham couldultimately make common cause with the party dissenters. Ferrier hadhardly been able to bring himself, indeed, to take the disagreementsseriously. There was a secret impatience, perhaps even a secretarrogance, in his feeling. A young man whom he had watched from hisbabyhood, had put into Parliament, and led and trained there!--that heshould take this hostile and harassing line, with threat of worse, was amatter too sore and intimate to be talked about. He did not mean to talkabout it. To Lady Lucy he never spoke of Oliver's opinions, except in ahalf-jesting way; to other people he did not speak of
them at all.Ferrier's affections were deep and silent. He had not found it possibleto love the mother without loving the son--had played, indeed, afather's part to him since Henry Marsham's death. He knew the brilliant,flawed, unstable, attractive fellow through and through. But hisknowledge left him still vulnerable. He thought little of Oliver'spolitical capacity; and, for all his affection, had no great admirationfor his character. Yet Oliver had power to cause him pain of a kind thatno other of his Parliamentary associates possessed.
The letters of that morning had brought him news of an important meetingin Marsham's constituency, in which his leadership had been for thefirst time openly and vehemently attacked. Marsham had not been presentat the meeting, and Lady Lucy had written, eagerly declaring that hecould not have prevented it and had no responsibility. But could thething have been done within his own borders without, at least, a tacitconnivance on his part?
The incident had awakened a peculiarly strong feeling in the elder man,because during the early days of the recess he had written a series ofletters to Marsham on the disputed matters that were dividing the party;letters intended not only to recall Marsham's own allegiance,but--through him--to reach two of the leading dissidents--Lankester andBarton--in particular, for whom he felt a strong personal respectand regard.
These letters were now a cause of anxiety to him. His procedure inwriting them had been, of course, entirely correct. It is the businessof a party leader to persuade. But he had warned Oliver from thebeginning that only portions of them could or should be used in theinformal negotiations they were meant to help. Ferrier had always beenincorrigibly frank in his talk or correspondence with Marsham, eversince the days when as an Oxford undergraduate, bent on shining at theUnion, Oliver had first shown an interest in politics, and had found inFerrier, already in the front rank, the most stimulating of teachers.These remarkable letters accordingly contained a good deal of thecaustic or humorous discussion of Parliamentary personalities, in whichFerrier--Ferrier at his ease--excelled; and many passages, besides, inconnection with the measures desired by the Left Wing of the party,steeped in the political pessimism, whimsical or serious, in whichFerrier showed perhaps his most characteristic side at moments ofleisure or intimacy; while the moods expressed in outbreaks of the kindhad little or no effect on his pugnacity as a debater or his skill as aparty strategist, in face of the enemy.
But, by George! if they were indiscreetly shown, or repeated, some ofthose things might blow up the party! Ferrier uncomfortably rememberedone or two instances during the preceding year, in which it had occurredto him--as the merest fleeting impression--that Oliver had repeated asaying or had twisted an opinion of his unfairly--puzzling instances, inwhich, had it been any one else, Ferrier would have seen the desire tosnatch a personal advantage at his, Ferrier's, expense. But howentertain such a notion in the case of Oliver! Ridiculous!
He would write no more letters, however. With the news of theDunscombe meeting the relations between himself and Oliverentered upon a new phase. Toward Lucy's son he must bearhimself--politically--henceforward, not as the intimate confiding friendor foster-father, but as the statesman with greater interests than hisown to protect. This seemed to him clear; yet the effort to adjust hismind to the new conditions gave him deep and positive pain.
But what, after all, were his grievances compared with those of thissoft-eyed girl? It pricked his conscience to remember how feebly he hadfought her battle. She must know that he had done little or nothing forher; yet there was something peculiarly gentle, one might have thoughtpitiful, in her manner toward him. His pride winced under it.
* * * * *
Sir James, too, must have his private talk with Diana--when he took herto the farther extremity of the little terrace, and told her of theresults and echoes which had followed the publication, in the _Times_,of Wing's dying statement.
Diana had given her sanction to the publication with trembling and atorn mind. Justice to her mother required it. There she had no doubt;and her will, therefore, hardened to the act, and to the publicity whichit involved. But Sir Francis Wing's son was still living, and what forher was piety must be for him stain and dishonor. She did not shrink;but the compunctions she could not show she felt; and, through Sir JamesChide, she had written a little letter which had done something tosoften the blow, as it affected a dull yet not inequitable mind.
"Does he forgive us?" she asked, in a low voice, turning her face towardthe Umbrian plain, with its twinkling lights below, its stars above.
"He knows he must have done the same in our place," said Sir James.
After a minute he looked at her closely under the electric light whichdominated the terrace.
"I am afraid you have been going through a great deal," he said, bendingover her. "Put it from you when you can. You don't know how peoplefeel for you"
She looked up with her quick smile.
"I don't always think of it--and oh! I am so thankful to _know_! I dreamof them often--my father and mother--but not unhappily. They are_mine_--much, much more than they ever were."
She clasped her hands, and he felt rather than saw the exaltation, thetender fire in her look.
All very well! But this stage would pass--must pass. She had her ownlife to live. And if one man had behaved like a selfish coward, all themore reason to invoke, to hurry on the worthy and the perfect lover.
* * * * *
Presently Marion Vincent appeared, and with her Frobisher, and anunknown man with a magnificent brow, dark eyes of a remarkable vivacity,and a Southern eloquence both of speech and gesture. He proved to be afamous Italian, a poet well known to European fame, who, having marriedan English wife, had settled himself at Assisi for the study of St.Francis and the Franciscan literature. He became at once the centre of acircle which grouped itself on the terrace, while he pointed to spotafter spot, dimly white on the shadows of the moon-lit plain, linkingeach with the Franciscan legend and the passion of Franciscan poetry.The slopes of San Damiano, the sites of Spello, Bevagna, Cannara; RivoTorto, the hovering dome of the Portiuncula, the desolate uplands thatlead to the Carceri; one after another, the scenes and images--grotesqueor lovely--simple or profound--of the vast Franciscan story rose intolife under his touch, till they generated in those listening the answerof the soul of to-day to the soul of the Poverello. Poverty, misery,and crime--still they haunt the Umbrian villages and the Assisanstreets; the shadows of them, as the north knows them, lay deep andterrible in Marion Vincent's eyes. But as the poet spoke the eternalprotest and battle-cry of Humanity swelled up against them--overflowed,engulfed them. The hearts of some of his listeners burned within them.
And finally he brought them back to the famous legend of the hiddenchurch: deep, deep in the rock--below the two churches that we seeto-day; where St. Francis waits--standing, with his arms raised toheaven, on fire with an eternal hope, an eternal ecstasy.
"Waits for what?" said Ferrier, under his breath, forgetting hisaudience a moment. "The death of Catholicism?"
Sir James Chide gave an uneasy cough. Ferrier, startled, looked round,threw his old friend a gesture of apology which Sir James mutelyaccepted. Then Sir James got up and strolled away, his hands in hispockets, toward the farther end of the terrace.
The poet meanwhile, ignorant of this little incident, and assuming thesympathy of his audience, raised his eyebrows, smiling, as he repeatedFerrier's words:
"The death of Catholicism! No, Signor!--its second birth." And with aSouthern play of hand and feature--the nobility of brow and aspectturned now on this listener, now on that--he began to describe therevival of faith in Italy.
"Ten years ago there was not faith enough in this country to make aheresy! On the one side, a moribund organization, poisoned by a deadphilosophy; on the other, negation, license, weariness--a dumb thirstfor men knew not what. And now!--if St. Francis were here--in everyolive garden--in each hill town--on the roads and the by-ways--on themountains--in th
e plains--his heart would greet the swelling of a newtide drawing inward to this land--the breath of a new spring kindlingthe buds of life. He would hear preached again, in the language of a newday, his own religion of love, humility, and poverty. The new faithsprings from the very heart of Catholicism, banned and persecuted as newfaiths have always been; but every day it lives, it spreads! Knowledgeand science walk hand in hand with it; the future is before it. Itspreads in tales and poems, like the Franciscan message; it penetratesthe priesthood; it passes like the risen body of the Lord through thewalls of seminaries and episcopal palaces; through the bulwarks thatsurround the Vatican itself. Tenderly, yet with an absolute courage, itputs aside old abuses, old ignorances!--like St. Francis, it holds outits hand to a spiritual bride--and the name of that bride is Truth! Andin his grave within the rock--on tiptoe--the Poverello listens--thePoverello smiles!"
The poet raised his hand and pointed to the convent pile, towering underthe moonlight. Diana's eyes filled with tears. Sir James had come backto the group, his face, with its dignified and strenuous lines,bent--half perplexed, half frowning--on the speaker. And the magic ofthe Umbrian night stole upon each quickened pulse.
But presently, when the group had broken up and Ferrier was once morestrolling beside Diana, he said to her:
"A fine prophecy! But I had a letter this morning from another Italianwriter. It contains the following passage: 'The soul of this nation isdead. The old enthusiasms are gone. We have the most selfish, the mostcynical _bourgeoisie_ in Europe. Happy the men of 1860! They had someillusions left--religion, monarchy, country. We too have men who _wouldgive themselves_--if they could. But to what? No one wants them anymore--_nessuno li vuole piu_!' Well, there are the two. Which willyou believe?"
"The poet!" said Diana, in a low faltering voice. But it was no cry oftriumphant faith. It was the typical cry of our generation before theclosed door that openeth not.
* * * * *
"That was good," said Marion Vincent, as the last of the partydisappeared through the terrace window, and she and Diana were leftalone--"but this is better."
She drew Diana toward her, kissed her, and smiled at her. But the smilewrung Diana's heart.
"Why have you been so ill?--and I never knew!" She wrapped a shawl roundher friend, and, holding her hands, gazed into her face.
"It was all so hurried--there was so little time to think or remember.But now there is time."
"Now you are going to rest?--and get well?"
Marion smiled again.
"I shall have holiday for a few months--then rest."
"You won't live any more in the East End? You'll come to me--in thecountry?" said Diana, eagerly.
"Perhaps! But I want to see all I can in my holiday--before I rest! Allmy life I have lived in London. There has been nothing to see--butsqualor. Do you know that I have lived next door to a fried-fish shopfor twelve years? But now--think!--I am in Italy--and we are going tothe Alps--and we shall stay on Lake Como--and--and there is no end toour plans--if only my holiday is long enough."
What a ghost face!--and what shining eyes!
"Oh, but make it long enough!" pleaded Diana, laying one of theemaciated hands against her cheek, and smitten by a vague terror.
"That does not depend on me," said Marion, slowly.
"Marion," cried Diana, "tell me what you mean!"
Marion hesitated a moment, then said, quietly:
"Promise, dear, to take it quite simply--just as I tell it. I am sohappy. There was an operation--six weeks ago. It was quite successful--Ihave no pain. The doctors give me seven or eight months. Then my enemywill come back--and my rest with him."
A cry escaped Diana as she buried her face in her friend's lap. Marionkissed and comforted her.
"If you only knew how happy I am!" she said, in a low voice. "Ever sinceI was a child I seem to have fought--fought hard for every step--everybreath. I fought for bread first--and self-respect--for myself--then forothers. One seemed to be hammering at shut gates or climbing precipiceswith loads that dragged one down. Such trouble always!" she murmured,with closed eyes--"such toil and anguish of body and brain! And now itis all over!"--she raised herself joyously--"I am already on the fartherside. I am like St. Francis--waiting. And meanwhile I have a dearfriend--who loves me. I can't let him marry me. Pain and disease andmutilation--of all those horrors, as far as I can, he shall knownothing. He shall not nurse me; he shall only love and lead me. But Ihave been thirsting for beautiful things all my life--and he is givingthem to me. I have dreamed of Italy since I was a baby, and here I am! Ihave seen Rome and Florence. We go on to Venice. And next week therewill be mountains--and snow-peaks--rivers--forests--flowers--"
Her voice sank and died away. Diana clung to her, weeping, in aspeechless grief and reverence. At the same time her own murdered lovecried out within her, and in the hot despair of youth she told herselfthat life was as much finished for her as for this tired saint--thiswoman of forty--who had borne since her babyhood the burdens ofthe poor.