"I'll send it round, together with some old prints of this island and modern photographs. You will then see what I mean. The prints are not exactly true to nature; these people did not want to be true to nature.

And yet they convey a better impression of the place than the modern pictures. Perhaps there are two truths: the truth of fact and that of suggestion. Perrelli is very suggestive; romance grafted upon erudition, and blossoming out of it! So imaginative! He has a dissertation on the fishes of Nepenthe--it reads like a poem and is yet full of practical gastronomic hints. Can you picture Virgil collaborating with Apicius?"

The bishop said:

"Horace might have got on better with that old BON-VIVANT."

"Horace could never have had a hand in this chapter. He lacks the idealistic tinge. He could never have written about red mullets as Perrelli writes when he compares their skin to the fiery waves of Phelgethon, to the mantle of rosy-fingered dawn, to the blush of a maiden surprised in her bath, and then goes on to tell you how to cook the b east in thirty different ways and how to spit out the bones in the most noiseless, genteel fashion. That is Perrelli--so original, so leisurely. Always himself! He smiled as he wrote; there is not a shadow of doubt about it. In another section, on the fountains of the island, he deliberately indulges in the humour of some old mediaeval schoolman.

Then there is a chapter on the ecclesiastical conditions of the place under Florizel the Fat--it is full of veiled attacks on the religious orders of his own day; I suspect it got him into trouble, that chapter.

I am sorry to say there is a good deal of loose talk scattered about his pages. I fear he was not altogether a pure-minded man. But I cannot bring myself to despise him. What do you think? Certain problems are always cropping up, aren't they?"

Mr. Eames suddenly looked quite troubled.

"They are," replied the bishop, who was not in a mood to discuss ethics just then. "What are you going to do about it?" he added.

"About what?"

"This poetic omission on the part of Perrelli to mention the sirocco?"

"It has given me a deal of extra work, I can a.s.sure you. I have had to go into the whole question. I have tabulated no less than fifty-seven varieties of sirocco. Sailors' words, most of them; together with a handful of antiquated terms. Fifty-seven varieties. Twenty-three thousand words, up to the present, dealing the with south wind."

"That is a fair-sized foot-note," laughed the bishop. "A good slice of a book, I should call it."

"My foot-notes are to be printed in small type. In fact, I am thinking of casting the whole of this sirocco--material into an appendix. Too much, you think? Surely the number of words is not disproportionate to the subject? The south wind is a good slice of Nepenthe, is it not?...

Look! That cloud has made up its mind to come our way after all.

There will be another shower of ashes. Sirocco, you observe...."

The terrace, meanwhile, had become crowded. Already the evening sun was slightly obscured behind a brown haze. Ashes were traveling fast. They began to fall, softly.

What was to be done? Everybody, mindful of the previous experience, was in favour of a second procession to take place immediately. The PARROCO held the same opinion. For form's sake, however, he dispatched a confidential messenger to learn the views of Mr. Parker, who was sitting dejectedly in his study with the incomplete Financial Report still staring him in the face. The Commissioner pulled himself together with praiseworthy alacrity and gave his whole mind to the question.

No. On due consideration, he was opposed to the idea of a procession.

Having enjoyed, in various continents and various capacities, some experience of backing the same horse twice over, Mr. Parker was not in favour of demanding a second largesse from the Saint. It might spoil everything, he said. Let them wait till next morning. If there was a deep fall like last time, the experiment might be worth trying. But not just yet! While admitting that something ought to be done, it struck him as a hazardous proceeding to play fast and loose, in this fashion, with the reputation of a Saint.

His Reverence, duly impressed, waited for half an hour. It was then seen that the Nicaraguan Representative had once more given the soundest of advice. The downpour of ashes ceased abruptly, at the moment when the sun sank into the sea. No mischief was done.

Late at night another phenomenon became visible. The volcano was observed to be in violent eruption. It blazed forth like a gigantic torch held into the heavens. Streams of lava poured down the mountain flanks, reddening sky and sea.

Nepenthe was consoled by the spectacle. The demon had at last found an outlet--a method of relief. There would be no more showers of ashes. The fact that villages were being overwhelmed under a deluge of flame, vineyards scorched and hundreds of innocent folks, their retreat cut off by fiery torrents, were even then being roasted to death, was no concern to the islanders. It only proved what every one knew: that the jurisdiction of their Patron Saint did not extend to the mainland.

Each of those villages had its own Saint, whose business it was to forestall accidents of this kind. If they failed in their duty through incapacity or mulishness, nothing was easier than to get rid of them; there were others to choose from--dozens of others, waiting for the job!

Thinking thus, the islanders gave vent to an immense sigh if relief.

They wished long life to their Patron Saint, with whose services they had reason to be satisfied. Their own crops and lives were safe from harm, thanks to the martyr Dodeka.n.u.s. He loved his people, and they loved him. He was a protector worthy of the name--not like those low-bred b.a.s.t.a.r.ds across the water.

CHAPTER x.x.xII

Mr. Heard had just finished his early Italian luncheon. Sitting at his coffee and smoking a cigarette, in a mood of considerable contentment, he gazed over the mirror-like surface of the sea towards the volcano, whose pyrotechnical display on the previous evening had kept him awake to a late hour. Yet another glistering day! Each one warmer than the last, and never a change in the wind! Presently he would retire for an hour or two into his cool and darkened bed-room.

One little thing troubled his mind. There had been no reply to the note--a kind of note of enquiry--which he had left at the villa Mon Repos on the preceding day. Though he knew little of his cousin, he could not help feeling anxious. She was all by herself in that lonely little place, suffering--perhaps, and too proud or too shy to complain. Mr.

Eames' description of her had made him uneasy. Why should she look as if she had seen a ghost? What could that signify? The bibliographer was a level-headed person, by no means given to flights of imagination.

Imperceptibly, he felt, there had been established an under-current of sympathy between himself and this solitary woman, whom everybody seemed to like. She was different from the ordinary type; the kind of woman whom a man could not help respecting. She contrasted favourably with some of his recent female acquaintances who, however charming or witty, dissatisfied him in this or that particular. His cousin's devotion to child and husband appealed to his heart. She seemed to be perfect of her kind.

Africa had boiled most of the starch out of Mr. Heard. But his acquaintance with some of the saddest and wildest aspects of womanhood only deepened his conviction of the sanct.i.ty of the s.e.x. Some called him old-fashioned or quixotic, because he was not altogether in sympathy with modern feministic movements; they called him an idealist, because he had preserved his belief in the sacred mission of women upon earth--his childlike faith in the purity of their souls. They were a humanizing influence, the guardian angels of mankind, the inspirers, the mothers, the protectors of innocence. It pleased him to think that woman had softened harsh dealings between man and man; that every mitigation of savagery, every incitement to worthy or heroic actions, was due to her gentle words, her encouraging example. From the very dawn of history woman had opposed herself to deeds of violence. What was it Count Caloveglia had said? "Temperance. All the rest is embroidery." How well the old man could put things! Temperance....

His cousin, from what he could guess of her character, agreed with that description. Mr. Heard would have maintained against the whole world that a woman, a true woman like this, could do no wrong.

And now he gathered that she was in trouble of some kind. Then why not allow him to help? He had asked for an early reply to his note. Well, perhaps it would arrive by the evening post.

Slightly vexed none the less, he laid down the stump of his cigarette, preparatory to retiring for the hot hours of the day. One owes something to oneself, N'EST-CE PAS? At that moment there was a knock at his door.

Denis entered. His face, shaded under a broad-brimmed hat, was ruddy with the heat. He wore light flannels, and was carrying his jacket on his arm. There was a large parcel in his hand. He looked the picture of health.

Mr. Heard, on rising, gave him a critical glance. He remembered his trip in the boat, and the suicide's rock--that black, ominous cliff; he remembered the thoughts which had pa.s.sed through his mind at the time.

Was this the kind of boy to kill himself? Surely not. Keith must have been mistaken. And Count Caloveglia--was he mistaken too? Evidently.

There was nothing tragic about Denis. He was br.i.m.m.i.n.g over with life.

His troubles, whatever they were, must have been forgotten.

"I've been lunching with Keith," he began. "He made me tell him a fairy-tale."

"Sit down and have some coffee! You came away very early."

"He told me he wanted to go to sleep after luncheon. And one or two other nice things."

Ah, thought Mr. Heard, Keith was acting up to what he had said in the boat; he was being good to the boy; that was right of him.

"I'm sure," he said, "that Keith has been speaking kindly to you."

"Kindly? It's like talking to an earthquake. He told me to dominate my reflexes. He called me a perambulating echo. He said I was a human amoeba--"

"Amoeba. What's that?"

"A sort of animal that floats about trying to attach itself to something which it can't find."

"I think I see what he means. Anything else?"

"He said I was a chameleon."

"A chameleon!"

"A chameleon that needed the influence of a good woman. Then he gave me this box of Cuban chocolates, to keep me from crying, I suppose. Have one! They're not nearly as nasty as they look."