“How much ought one to give them?” Peter asked.
“Of course, there is the fear that they might be robbed,” she reflected. “If one should give them a note of any value, they would have to change it; and they would probably be robbed. What to do?”
“I will speak to the boy,” said Peter. “Would you like to go to Turin by train?” he asked.
The boy and girl looked at each other. “Yes, Excellency,” said the boy.
“But if I give you money for your fare, will you know how to take care of it--how to prevent people from robbing you?”
“Oh, yes, Excellency.”
“You could take the train this evening, at Venzona, about two kilometres from here, in the direction you are walking. In an hour or two you would arrive at Milan; there you would change into the train for Turin. You would be at Turin to-morrow morning.”
“Yes, Excellency.”
“But if I give you money, you will not let people rob you? If I give you a hundred lire?”
The boy drew back, stared, as if frightened.
“A hundred lire--?” he said.
“Yes,” said Peter.
The boy looked at his sister.
“Pardon, Nobility,” he said. “With your condescension, does it cost a hundred lire to go to Turin by train?”
“Oh, no. I think it costs eight or ten.”
Again the boy looked at his sister.
“Pardon, Nobility. With your Excellency's permission, we should not desire a hundred lire then,” he said.
Peter and the Duchessa were not altogether to be blamed, I hope, if they exchanged the merest hint of a smile.
“Well, if I should give you fifty?” Peter asked.
“Fifty lire, Excellency?”
Peter nodded.
Still again the boy sought counsel of his sister, with his eyes.
“Yes, Excellency,” he said.
“You are sure you will be able to take care of it--you will not let people rob you,” the Duchessa put in, anxious. “They will wish to rob you. If you go to sleep in the train, they will try to pick your pocket.”
“I will hide it, noble lady. No one shall rob me. If I go to sleep in the train, I will sit on it, and my sister will watch. If she goes to sleep, I will watch,” the boy promised confidently.
“You must give it to him in the smallest change you can possibly scrape together,” she advised Peter.
And with one-lira, two-lira, ten-lira notes, and with a little silver and copper, he made up the amount.
“A thousand thanks, Excellency,” said the boy, with a bow that was magnificent; and he proceeded to distribute the money between various obscure pockets.
“A thousand thanks, Excellency,” said the girl, with a courtesy.
“Addio, a buon' viaggio,” said Peter.
“Addio, Eccellenze,” said the boy.
“Addio, Eccellenze,” said the girl.
But the Duchessa impulsively stooped down, and kissed the girl on her poor little wrinkled brow. And when she stood up, Peter saw that her eyes were wet.
The children moved off. They moved off, whispering together, and gesticulating, after the manner of their race: discussing something. Presently they stopped; and the boy came running back, while his sister waited.
He doffed his hat, and said, “A thousand pardons, Excellency-”
“Yes? What is it?” Peter asked.
“With your Excellency's favour--is it obligatory that we should take the train?”
“Obligatory?” puzzled Peter. “How do you mean?”
“If it is not obligatory, we would prefer, with the permission of your Excellency, to save the money.”
“But--but then you will have to walk!” cried Peter.
“But if it is not obligatory to take the train, we would pray your Excellency's permission to save the money. We should like to save the money, to give it to the father. The father is very poor. Fifty lire is so much.”
This time it was Peter who looked for counsel to the Duchessa.
Her eyes, still bright with tears, responded, “Let them do as they will.”
“No, it is not obligatory--it is only recommended,” he said to the boy, with a smile that he could n't help. “Do as you will. But if I were you, I should spare my poor little feet.”
“Mille grazie, Eccellenze,” the boy said, with a final sweep of his tattered hat. He ran back to his sister; and next moment they were walking resolutely on, westward, “into the great red light.”
The Duchessa and Peter were silent for a while, looking after them.
They dwindled to dots in the distance, and then, where the road turned, disappeared.
At last the Duchessa spoke--but almost as if speaking to herself.
“There, Felix Wildmay, you writer of tales, is a subject made to your hand,” she said.
We may guess whether Peter was startled. Was it possible that she had found him out? A sound, confused, embarrassed, something composite, between an oh and ayes, seemed to expire in his throat.
But the Duchessa did n't appear to heed it.
“Don't you think it would be a touching episode for your friend to write a story round?” she asked.
We may guess whether he was relieved.
“Oh--oh, yes,” he agreed, with the precipitancy of a man who, in his relief, would agree to anything.
“Have you ever seen such courage?” she went on. “The wonderful babies! Fancy fifteen days, fifteen days and nights, alone, unprotected, on the highway, those poor little atoms! Down in their hearts they are really filled with terror. Who would n't be, with such a journey before him? But how finely they concealed it, mastered it! Oh, I hope they won't be robbed. God help them--God help them!”
“God help them, indeed,” said Peter.
“And the little girl, with her medal of the Immaculate Conception. The father, after all, can hardly be the brute one might suspect, since he has given them a religious education. Oh, I am sure, I am sure, it was the Blessed Virgin herself who sent us across their path, in answer to that poor little creature's prayers.”
“Yes,” said Peter, ambiguously perhaps. But he liked the way in which she united him to herself in the pronoun.
“Which, of course,” she added, smiling gravely into his eyes, “seems the height of absurdity to you?”
“Why should it seem the height of absurdity to me?” he asked.
“You are a Protestant, I suppose?”
“I suppose so. But what of that? At all events, I believe there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in the usual philosophies. And I see no reason why it should not have been the Blessed Virgin who sent us across their path.”
“What would your Protestant pastors and masters do, if they heard you? Isn't that what they call Popish superstition?”
“I daresay. But I'm not sure that there's any such thing as superstition. Superstition, in its essence, is merely a recognition of the truth that in a universe of mysteries and contradictions, like ours, nothing conceivable or inconceivable is impossible.”
“Oh, no, no,” she objected. “Superstition is the belief in something that is ugly and bad and unmeaning. That is the difference between superstition and religion. Religion is the belief in something that is beautiful and good and significant--something that throws light into the dark places of life--that helps us to see and to live.”
“Yes,” said Peter, “I admit the distinction.” After a little suspension, “I thought,” he questioned, “that all Catholics were required to go to Mass on Sunday?”
“Of course--so they are,” said she.
“But--but you--” he began.
“I hear Mass not on Sunday only--I hear it every morning of my life.”
“Oh? Indeed? I beg your pardon,” he stumbled. “I--one--one never sees you at the village church.”
“No. We have a chapel and a chaplain at the castle.”
She mounted her bicycle.
“Good-bye,” she said, and lightly rode away.
“So-ho! Her bigotry is not such a negligible quantity, after all,” Peter concluded.
“But what,” he demanded of Marietta, as she ministered to his wants at dinner, “what does one barrier more or less matter, when people are already divided by a gulf that never can be traversed? You see that river?” He pointed through his open window to the Aco. “It is a symbol. She stands on one side of it, I stand on the other, and we exchange little jokes. But the river is always there, flowing between us, separating us. She is the daughter of a lord, and the widow of a duke, and the fairest of her sex, and a millionaire, and a Roman Catholic. What am I? Oh, I don't deny I 'm clever. But for the rest? ... My dear Marietta, I am simply, in one word, the victim of a misplaced attachment.”
“Non capisco Francese,” said Marietta.
XIV
And after that, for I forget how many days, Peter and the Duchessa did not meet; and so he sank low and lower in his mind.
Nothing that can befall us, optimists aver, is without its value; and this, I have heard, is especially true if we happen to be literary men. All is grist that comes to a writer's mill.
By his present experience, accordingly, Peter learned--and in the regretful prose of some future masterpiece will perhaps be enabled to remember--how exceeding great is the impatience of the lovesick, with what febrile vehemence the smitten heart can burn, and to what improbable lengths hours and minutes can on occasions stretch themselves.
He tried many methods of distraction.
There was always the panorama of his valley--the dark-blue lake, pale Monte Sfiorito, the frowning Gnisi, the smiling uplands westward. There were always the sky, the clouds, the clear sunshine, the crisp-etched shadows; and in the afternoon there was always the wondrous opalescent haze of August, filling every distance. There was always his garden--there were the great trees, with the light sifting through high spaces of feathery green; there were the flowers, the birds, the bees, the butterflies, with their colour, and their fragrance, and their music; there was his tinkling fountain, in its nimbus of prismatic spray; there was the swift, symbolic Aco. And then, at a half-hour's walk, there was the pretty pink-stuccoed village, with its hill-top church, its odd little shrines, its grim-grotesque ossuary, its faded frescoed house-fronts, its busy, vociferous, out-of-door Italian life:--the cobbler tapping in his stall; women gossiping at their toilets; children sprawling in the dirt, chasing each other, shouting; men drinking, playing mora, quarrelling, laughing, singing, twanging mandolines, at the tables under the withered bush of the wine-shop; and two or three more pensive citizens swinging their legs from the parapet of the bridge, and angling for fish that never bit, in the impetuous stream below.