The Cardinal's snuff-box
the kitchen, where she had left a fire burning, and filled a bottle with
hot water.
“Put this at your feet,” he said, returning to Marietta.
“Oh, I cannot allow the Signorino to wait on me like this,” the old
woman mustered voice to murmur.
“The Signorino likes it--it affords him healthful exercise,” Peter
assured her.
Dr. Carretaji came about noon, a fat middleaged man, with a fringe of
black hair round an ivory-yellow scalp, a massive watch-chain (adorned
by the inevitable pointed bit of coral), and podgy, hairy hands. But he
seemed kind and honest, and he seemed to know his business.
“She has a catarrh of the larynx, with, I am afraid, a beginning of
bronchitis,” was his verdict.
“Is there any danger?” Peter asked.
“Not the slightest. She must remain in bed, and take frequent
nourishment. Hot milk, and now and then beef-tea. I will send some
medicine. But the great things are nourishment and warmth. I will call
again to-morrow.”
Gigi's wife came. She was a tall, stalwart, blackbrowed, red-cheeked
young woman, and her name (Gigi's eyes flashed proudly, as he announced
it) her name was Carolina Maddalena.
Peter had to be in and out of Marietta's room all day, to see that
she took her beef-tea and milk and medicine regularly. She dozed a good
deal. When she was awake, she said her rosary.
But next day she was manifestly worse.
“Yes--bronchitis, as I feared,” said the doctor. “Danger? No--none, if
properly looked after. Add a little brandy to her milk, and see that she
has at least a small cupful every half-hour. I think it would be easier
for you if you had a nurse. Someone should be with her at night. There
is a Convent of Mercy at Venzona. If you like, I will telephone for a
sister.”
“Thank you very much. I hope you will,” said Peter.
And that afternoon Sister Scholastica arrived, and established herself
in the sick-room. Sister Scholastica was young, pale, serene, competent.
But sometimes she had to send for Peter.
“She refuses to take her milk. Possibly she will take it from you,” the
sister said.
Then Peter would assume a half-bluff (perhaps half-wheedling?) tone of
mastery.
“Come, Marietta! You must take your milk. The Signorino wishes it. You
must not disobey the Signorino.”
And Marietta, with a groan, would rouse herself, and take it, Peter
holding the cup to her lips.
On the third day, in the morning, Sister Scholastica said, “She imagines
that she is worse. I do not think so myself. But she keeps repeating
that she is going to die. She wishes to see a priest. I think it would
make her feel easier. Can you send for the Parrocco? Please let him know
that it is not an occasion for the Sacraments. But it would do her good
if he would come and talk with her.”
And the doctor, who arrived just then, having visited Marietta,
confirmed the sister's opinion.
“She is no worse--she is, if anything, rather better. Her malady is
taking its natural course. But people of her class always fancy they are
going to die, if they are ill enough to stay in bed. It is the panic of
ignorance. Yes, I think it would do her good to see a priest. But there
is not the slightest occasion for the Sacraments.”
So Peter sent Gigi to the village for the Parrocco. And Gigi came back
with the intelligence that the Parrocco was away, making a retreat, and
would not return till Saturday. To-day was Wednesday.
“What shall we do now?” Peter asked of Sister Scholastica.
“There is Monsignor Langshawe, at Castel Ventirose,” said the sister.
“Could I ask him to come?” Peter doubted.
“Certainly,” said the sister. “In a case of illness, the nearest priest
will always gladly come.”
So Peter despatched Gigi with a note to Monsignor Langshawe.
And presently up drove a brougham, with Gigi on the box beside the
coachman. And from the brougham descended, not Monsignor Langshawe, but
Cardinal Udeschini, followed by Emilia Manfredi.
The Cardinal gave Peter his hand, with a smile so sweet, so benign, so
sunny-bright--it was like music, Peter thought; it was like a silent
anthem.
“Monsignor Langshawe has gone to Scotland, for his holiday. I have come
in his place. Your man told me of your need,” the Cardinal explained.
“I don't know how to thank your Eminence,” Peter murmured, and conducted
him to Marietta's room.
Sister Scholastica genuflected, and kissed the Cardinal's ring, and
received his Benediction. Then she and Peter withdrew, and went into the
garden.
The sister joined Emilia, and they walked backwards and forwards
together, talking. Peter sat on his rustic bench, smoked cigarettes, and
waited.
Nearly an hour passed.
At length the Cardinal came out.
Peter rose, and went forward to meet him.
The Cardinal was smiling; but about his eyes there was a suggestive
redness.
“Mr. Marchdale,” he said, “your housekeeper is in great distress of
conscience touching one or two offences she feels she has been guilty
of towards you. They seem to me, in frankness, somewhat trifling. But
I cannot persuade her to accept my view. She will not be happy till she
has asked and received your pardon for them.”
“Offences towards me?” Peter wondered. “Unless excess of patience with
a very trying employer constitutes an offence, she has been guilty of
none.”
“Never mind,” said the Cardinal. “Her conscience accuses her--she must
satisfy it. Will you come?”
The Cardinal sat down at the head of Marietta's bed, and took her hand.
“Now, dear,” he said, with the gentleness, the tenderness, of one
speaking to a beloved child, “here is Mr. Marchdale. Tell him what you
have on your mind. He is ready to hear and to forgive you.”
Marietta fixed her eyes anxiously on Peter's face.
“First,” she whispered, “I wish to beg the Signorino to pardon all this
trouble I am making for him. I am the Signorino's servant; but instead
of serving, I make trouble for him.”
She paused. The Cardinal smiled at Peter.
Peter answered, “Marietta, if you talk like that, you will make the
Signorino cry. You are the best servant that ever lived. You are putting
me to no trouble at all. You are giving me a chance--which I should be
glad of, except that it involves your suffering--to show my affection
for you, and my gratitude.”
“There, dear,” said the Cardinal to her, “you see the Signorino makes
nothing of that. Now the next thing. Go on.”
“I have to ask the Signorino's forgiveness for my impertinence,”
whispered Marietta.
“Impertinence--?” faltered Peter. “You have never been impertinent.”
“Scusi, Signorino,” she went on, in her whisper. “I have sometimes
contradicted the Signorino. I contradicted the Signorino when he told
me that St. Anthony of Padua was born in Lisbon. It is impertinent of
a servant to contradict her master. And now his most high Eminence says
the Signorino was right. I beg the Signorino to forgive me.”
Again the Cardinal smiled at Peter.
“You dear old woman,” Peter half laughed, half sobbed, “how can you ask
me to forgive a mere difference of opinion? You--you dear old thing.”
The Cardinal smiled, and patted Marietta's hand.
“The Signorino is too good,” Marietta sighed.
“Go on, dear,” said the Cardinal.
“I have been guilty of the deadly sin of evil speaking. I have spoken
evil of the Signorino,” she went on. “I said--I said to people--that the
Signorino was simple--that he was simple and natural. I thought so
then. Now I know it is not so. I know it is only that the Signorino is
English.”
Once more the Cardinal smiled at Peter.
Again Peter half laughed, half sobbed.
“Marietta! Of course I am simple and natural. At least, I try to be.
Come! Look up. Smile. Promise you will not worry about these things any
more.”
She looked up, she smiled faintly.
“The Signorino is too good,” she whispered.
After a little interval of silence, “Now, dear,” said the Cardinal, “the
last thing of all.”
Marietta gave a groan, turning her head from side to side on her pillow.
“You need not be afraid,” said the Cardinal. “Mr. Marchdale will
certainly forgive you.”
“Oh-h-h,” groaned Marietta. She stared at the ceiling for an instant.
The Cardinal patted her hand. “Courage, courage,” he said.
“Oh--Signorino mio,” she groaned again, “this you never can forgive me.
It is about the little pig, the porcellino. The Signorino remembers the
little pig, which he called Francesco?”
“Yes,” answered Peter.
“The Signorino told me to take the little pig away, to find a home for
him. And I told the Signorino that I would take him to my nephew, who is
a farmer, towards Fogliamo. The Signorino remembers?”
“Yes,” answered Peter. “Yes, you dear old thing. I remember.”
Marietta drew a deep breath, summoned her utmost fortitude.
“Well, I did not take him to my nephew. The--the Signorino ate him.”
Peter could hardly keep from laughing. He could only utter a kind of
half-choked “Oh?”
“Yes,” whispered Marietta. “He was bought with the Signorino's money.
I did not like to see the Signorino's money wasted. So I deceived the
Signorino. You ate him as a chicken-pasty.”
This time Peter did laugh, I am afraid. Even the Cardinal--well, his
smile was perilously near a titter. He took a big pinch of snuff.
“I killed Francesco, and I deceived the Signorino. I am very sorry,”
Marietta said.
Peter knelt down at her bedside.
“Marietta! Your conscience is too sensitive. As for killing
Francesco--we are all mortal, he could not have lived forever. And as
for deceiving the Signorino, you did it for his own good. I remember
that chicken-pasty. It was the best chicken-pasty I have ever tasted.
You must not worry any more about the little pig.”
Marietta turned her face towards him, and smiled.
“The Signorino forgives his servant?” she whispered.
Peter could not help it. He bent forward, and kissed her brown old
cheek.
“She will be easier now,” said the Cardinal. “I will stay with her a
little longer.”
Peter went out. The scene had been childish--do you say?--ridiculous,
almost farcical indeed? And yet, somehow, it seemed to Peter that his
heart was full of unshed tears. At the same time, as he thought of the
Cardinal, as he saw his face, his smile, as he heard the intonations of
his voice, the words he had spoken, as he thought of the way he had held
Marietta's hand and patted it--at the same time a kind of strange
joy seemed to fill his heart, a strange feeling of exaltation, of
enthusiasm.
“What a heavenly old man,” he said.
In the garden Sister Scholastica and Emilia were still walking together.
They halted, when Peter came out; and Emilia said, “With your consent,
Signore, Sister Scholastica has accepted me as her lieutenant. I will
come every morning, and sit with Marietta during the day. That will
relieve the sister, who has to be up with her at night.”
And every morning after that, Emilia came, walking through the park,
and crossing the river by the ladder-bridge, which Peter left now
permanently in its position. And once or twice a week, in the afternoon,
the Cardinal would drive up in the brougham, and, having paid a little
visit to Marietta, would drive Emilia home.
In the sick-room Emilia would read to Marietta, or say the rosary for
her.
Marietta mended steadily day by day. At the end of a fortnight she was
able to leave her bed for an hour or two in the afternoon, and sit in
the sun in the garden. Then Sister Scholastica went back to her convent
at Venzona. At the end of the third week Marietta could be up all day.
But Gigi's stalwart Carolina Maddalena continued to rule as vicereine in
the kitchen. And Emilia continued to come every morning.
“Why does the Duchessa never come?” Peter wondered. “It would be decent
of her to come and see the poor old woman.”