"Well?"

Again they looked at each other.

"That is certainly bad," said Macomer, thoughtfully. "What are we to do?

Speak to her about it? You can say that you found Elettra's door open, at this hour."

"It would do no good," answered Matilde. "We could not prevent her from having her maid there, if she wishes it."

"After all," observed Macomer, absently, "it is only a woman."

"Only a woman?" Matilde's lip curled. "I am only a woman."

Macomer nodded slowly, as though realizing what that meant, but he said nothing in answer. With his hands under the table he slipped low down in his chair, his head bent forward upon his breast, in deep thought.

"Can you not suggest anything?" asked Matilde, at last, gazing at him somewhat scornfully. "After all, this is your fault. You have dragged me into this ruin with you."

"I know, I know," he repeated in a low voice. "But we cannot do it now--with that woman there."

"No. It is impossible now." Matilde's tones sank to a whisper.

She looked down at her strong hands that had grown thinner during the past days, but were strong still. Gregorio waited a few moments and then roused himself and bent over his papers again.

"You cannot see any way out of it, can you?" asked his wife at last. "Is there no possibility of keeping afloat until things go better?"

"No," answered Macomer, not looking up. "There is nothing to go better.

You know it all. There is only that one way. Failing that, I must go mad. One can recover from madness, you know."

"Yes," said Matilde, thoughtfully. "But it is a very difficult thing to do well. They have expert doctors, who know the real thing from the imitation."

Gregorio looked up suddenly.

"She could not go mad, could she?" he asked, a quiver of cunning intelligence making his stony mask quiver. "Are there not things--is there not something--you know--something that produces that? What is all this talk, nowadays, about hypnotic suggestion?"

"Fairy tales!" exclaimed Matilde, incredulously. "The other is sure.

This is no time for experiments. There are thirteen days left in this year. If we are to do it at all, we must do it quickly."

"I do not like the idea of the pillow," said Macomer, speaking very low again.

Matilde's shoulders moved uneasily, as though she were chilly, but her face did not change.

"It is of no use to talk of such things," she answered. "Besides," she added, "you are dull. Only remember that you have just thirteen days more, after to-day."

"Remember!" his voice told all his terror of the limit.

Then Matilde did not speak again. She rested her elbows on the table, and her chin upon her hands, staring at him as though she did not see him, evidently in deep thought. He bent over his papers, but was aware that her eyes were on him. He glanced up nervously.

"Please do not look at me in that way. You make me nervous," he said.

With a scornful half-laugh she rose from her seat.

"Good night," she said indifferently, and in her soft felt slippers she noiselessly went away.

She had not come in the expectation of help from her husband in anything that was to be done. But besides the bond of fear by which they were drawn together, there was the feeling that his presence, especially in that room, brought before her vividly the necessity for action.

Under such pressure, an idea might come to her which would be worth having. It had come to-night, but it was of a nature which made it wiser not to tell Gregorio about it. Such things, being complicated and delicate, and difficult of execution, were best kept to herself, at least until her plans were matured and ready. But this time, she believed that she had at last what she wanted. The scheme flashed upon her all at once, complete and feasible, and perfectly safe, but she resolved to think it over for twenty-four hours before finally deciding to adopt it.

And while such things were being said and done in the lonely night, and deeply pondered through the long, silent days, Veronica came and went peacefully, with sad but not unhappy eyes, her thoughts fixed upon the new path by which her single sorrow was to lead her up to the eternity of all celestial joys.

In those days she determined to lead a holy life, in the memory of the dead betrothed, and perhaps in the thought that by the outpouring of much good around her, she might yet obtain mercy for the soul of one self-slain. She meant not to cut herself off from all mankind, devoting her maidenhood to heaven and her body to the servitude of slow suffering, whereby some say that the spirit may be saved most certainly--in the hard rule of daily dying, and daily rising again one day nearer to death. That was not what she meant to do; that depth of G.o.dly dreaming was too cold and still a depth for her. There must be motion and life in her means of grace, since she had the power to make others move and live. Marriage, wifehood, motherhood, should not be for her, she said; but there was all the rest. There were the many hundreds--the thousands, indeed, had she known it--of men and women and poor children, toiling against the impossible with hands that had long learned to labour in vain, save for the bare bread of life. To them all, in many quarters of the land, she would be a mother, to help them, to feed them, and to heal them; to work for them and their welfare, as they had worked and toiled for the greatness of her dim, great ancestors, repaying to humanity, in one lifetime, what humanity had been forced to give them through many generations.

She would lead a holy life, for she would pray continually, when there was nothing else that she could do. When she could not be thinking out some good thing for her people, she would meditate upon higher things for the good of her own soul. But first and foremost should be the doing, the helping, the giving of life to the far spent, and of hope to the helpless.

There in that room, where she dwelt continually in those days, she made no vow, she registered no resolution, she imposed no one self upon another self within her to thrust out evil and implant good. She had no need of that. It was all as simply natural as the growth of a flower, effortless, rising heavenward by its own instinct life.

In one thing only she made a determination of her will. She decided that with the new year she would at last take over her fortune and estates into her own management. Until she did that, she could not know what she had, nor where she should begin her good work. That was absolutely necessary, and of course, thought she, it presented no difficulty at all. Possibly her own indolence about it, and her distaste for going into the question of money and accounts, was a fault with which she should have reproached herself, because she might have begun to do good sooner, had she chosen. But she did not think of that. She would begin with the new year.

As though a good destiny had antic.i.p.ated her desire, the first call for her help came suddenly, on the day after the last recorded conversation between Gregorio and Matilde.

It was still early in the morning when Elettra brought her a letter, bearing the postmark of the city, and addressed in one of those small, clear handwritings which seem naturally to belong to scholars and students. It was from Don Teodoro, and Veronica read it while she drank her tea and Elettra was making a fire in the next room.

The old priest did not refer to the strange story he had told her ten days earlier. But he recalled her question concerning the people at Muro and their condition. They were indeed desperately poor, he said, and the winter was a hard one in the mountains. There were many sick, and there was no hospital,--not so much as a room in which a dying beggar might lie out of the cold. It was a very pitiful tale, told carefully and accurately. And at the end the good man humbly begged that the most Excellent Princess would deign to allow his stipend to be paid in advance, in order that he might do something to help his poor.

Veronica read the letter twice, and judged it. Then she determined to do something at once, for she knew that the man had written the truth. She should have liked to send for him, and talk with him of what should be done; but she could not forget the things he had said about Bosio, and for that reason she did not wish to see him again--at least, not yet.

His mind was unbalanced about that matter; but charity was a different thing.

His address in Naples was in the letter. She wrote a note in answer, begging him to tell her how much money he should need to hire a vacant house, since there was no time to build one, and to fit it decently with what he thought necessary, in order that it might serve as a refuge and hospital for the very poor. She sent Elettra with the letter.

It was raining again, and by good fortune Don Teodoro was at home, though it was still before noon. While the maid waited, he wrote his answer. His thanks were heartfelt on behalf of his parish, but shortly expressed. He said that in order to do what Veronica proposed so generously, at least two thousand francs would be necessary. He briefly explained why the charity would need what he looked upon as a large sum, and he begged pardon for being so frank.

Again Veronica read the letter carefully over, and she put it into the desk. Half an hour later she went to luncheon. The meal was as silent and gloomy as usual, and scarcely half a dozen words were said.

Afterwards the three came back to the yellow drawing-room for their coffee. When the servant was gone, Veronica, stirring the sugar in her cup, turned to her uncle.

"Will you please give me three thousand francs, Uncle Gregorio?" she asked quietly. "I want it this afternoon, if you please."

Gregorio Macomer grew slowly white to the tips of his ears. Matilde sipped her coffee, and turned her back to the light.

"Three thousand francs!" repeated Macomer, slowly recovering a little self-control. "My dear child! What can you want of so much money?".

"Is it so very much?" asked Veronica, innocently surprised. "You have told me that I have more than eight hundred thousand a year. It is for charity. The people at Muro have no hospital. I shall be glad if you will give it to me before four o'clock; I wish to send it at once."

Macomer had barely a thousand francs in the house, and he knew that there was not a man of business in Naples who would have lent him half the little sum for which Veronica was asking.

"I shall certainly not give you money for any such absurd purpose," said Gregorio, with sudden, a.s.sumed sternness.

Veronica raised her eyes in quiet astonishment, offended, but not disconcerted.

"Really, Uncle Gregorio," she said, "as I am of age and mistress of whatever is mine, I think I have a right to my little charities.

Besides, you know, it is not giving, since you are no longer my guardian in reality. It is merely a case of sending to the bank for the money, if you have not got it in the house. I should like it before four o'clock, if you please, Uncle Gregorio."

In his terror the man lost his temper.