“Come, see his work!”
Ida understood her, and silently followed the way she led.
It was the first time the girl had ever stood beside a bed of death, and a great awe filled her soul as she stood looking down on the beautiful, rigid face, and thin hands clasped as if in prayer. The priest had administered the last rites of the Church early in the day, and naught remained to be done but to dress the maiden for her last long sleep.
The great candles placed on either side of the bed had not yet been lighted; nevertheless, the room was not dark. A glorious summer’s moon, which filled in the windowpanes with a landscape of sky and mountain of surpassing grandeur, poured a flood of silver light on Violante’s girlish features, impressing upon them a supernatural and spiritual beauty that in life they had never known.
“How beautiful! How awful!” exclaimed Ida.
Then, moved by a sudden impulse, and heedless of Francesca’s presence, she knelt down beside the dead girl, covering her face with her hands.
It was an act of homage—of submission alike to the great law and to the greater Lawgiver.
And as she knelt thus in that dread presence, with senses sealed to all outward things, a rush of thoughts came to her.
How vain seemed life with its passions and longings! This girl was but one of thousands who, as it were, beat out their souls with their hopes and dreads. Had not she herself been doing the same thing, though in another fashion? Were not her feet bent on running much the same course? Where would it land her at last? To gratify her pride—her dignity, as she had called it—had she not in a moment of passion tossed all her solemnly-undertaken obligations to the four winds of heaven?
Now when Death came to her side—as come he must—with his weights and scales, how light and poor a thing that pride and dignity would seem! Ah, how poor and contemptible everything in life would seem, except that which, begun in Time, finds its fruition in Eternity—duty!
XXII
The news of Violante’s death met Clive and Sefton at Caréno, one of the nest of little villages they had to pass through on their way to the Sila Mountains.
From Naples they had travelled to Buffaloria direct, there they had changed trains for Cosenza, and at Cosenza they had again changed for Caréno, a tiny place that had been half-wrecked by the earthquake of 1870.
They arrived here in the middle of the night, and found the one little inn astir to meet the arrival of passengers by that train. The landlord, an energetic little man, was profuse in his recommendation of his sleeping accommodation, which he said had been expressly arranged to meet the requirements of English travellers.
Clive and Sefton had, however, taken all the sleep they intended to take as they had jolted in their train over the marshes and across the plains of tamarisk.
Supper they must have—yes, that was a necessity; and also provisions must be put together for their tramp through the Sila Mountains. Also mules and guides must be found for them; but beyond this they would not trouble the landlord of the albergo.
While the little man busied himself in carrying out their directions in these respects, the two men arranged their plans for the continuation of their journey.
Sefton, who had travelled the same road before, laid down the law on the matter.
“The sooner we start the better,” he said, “if we wish to reach Alta Lauria before nightfall. It is at least twelve hours from here on the best of mules. We have over six thousand feet to mount; the mountain paths are atrocious; we can’t do with less than two mules each.”
“And we have to think of the return journey,” said Clive. “If Ida should be well, and able to travel, the less delay in getting back the better.”
He spoke moodily. The nearer it came, the harder seemed the necessity of seeing Sefton and Ida side by side as husband and wife once more.
Sefton did not for the moment reply. When his answer came, it was a gloomy one.
“Let the return journey alone,” he said; “the getting there is all we can think of now. It will be impossible to arrange the details of our return till we know what awaits us there.”
The landlord came in to announce that he had succeeded in procuring for them two of the best guides the district could supply—Ditta and Andrea Capelli. He had sent and roused them up from their sleep, and they would be ready to start so soon as the sun rose. But the mules! There were only two in the place that a gentleman could ride, and one of these had lamed himself only yesterday, and would be fit for nothing for more than a week. He would have to send all round in search of others. Now would the gentlemen be pleased to wait and rest while he did so?
And then, to deprecate the angry impatience which he could see in the faces of his guests, the little man proceeded to retail a few scraps of gossip which he thought might be likely to interest them.
The gentlemen were going to Alta Lauria to the Palazzo, not a doubt. Now had they heard the sad news which had been told him only yesterday night, that the Marchese’s only daughter was dead? The Marchese himself had died only a year or so ago, and now his daughter was dead. Was it not sad? And the Palazzo and all the Marchese’s land would go now to a distant relative who had been born and brought up in Naples, and knew nothing of Calabria and its people.
Violante dead! Sefton’s face grew white. He rose a little unsteadily from the table and
