"I am going to be lectured I suppose," she said laughingly. "I have not seen the worthy Domenico since my engagement to Aubrey was announced!"

Angela looked at her intently.

"Are you at all prepared for what he will say?"

"Not in the least. What CAN he say?"

"Much that may vex you," said Angela. "Considering Aubrey Leigh's theories, he may perhaps reproach you for your intended marriage--or he may bring you information of the Pope's objection."

"Well! What of that?" demanded Sylvie.

"But you are a devout Catholic--"

"And you? With a great Cardinal for your uncle you paint 'The Coming of Christ'! Ah!--I have seen that picture, Angela!"

"But I am different,--I am a worker, and I fear nothing," said Angela, her eyes beginning to shine with the latent force in her that was gradually resuming its dominion over her soul--"I thought long and deeply before I put my thought into shape--"

"And _I_ thought long and deeply before I decided to be the companion of Aubrey's life and work!" said Sylvie resolutely. "And neither the Pope or a whole college of Cardinals will change my love or prevent my marriage. A riverderci!"

"A riverderci!" echoed Angela, raising herself a little to receive the kiss her friend tenderly pressed on her cheeks. "I shall be anxious to know the result of your interview!"

"I will come round early to-morrow and tell you all," promised Sylvie, "for I mean to find out, if I can, what happened at the Vatican when Cardinal Bonpre last went there with Manuel."

"My uncle is most anxious to leave Rome," said Angela musingly.

"I know. And if there is any plot against him he MUST leave Rome--he SHALL leave it! And we will help him!"

With that she went her way, and an hour or so later stood, a perfect picture of grace and beauty, in the grand old rooms of the Casa D'Angeli, waiting to receive Gherardi. She had taken more than the usual pains with her toilette this afternoon, and had chosen to wear a "creation" of wonderful old lace, with knots of primrose and violet velvet caught here and there among its folds. It suited her small lissom figure to perfection, and her only ornaments were a cl.u.s.ter of fresh violets, and one ring sparkling on her left hand,--a star of rose brilliants and rubies, the sign of her betrothal.

Punctual to the hour appointed, Gherardi arrived, and was at once shown into her presence. There was a touch of aggressiveness and irony in his manner as he entered with his usual slow and dignified step, and though he endeavoured to preserve that suavity and cold calmness for which he was usually admired and feared by women, his glance was impatient, and an occasional biting of his lips showed suppressed irritation. The first formal greetings over, he said--

"I have wished for some time to call upon you, Contessa, but the pressure of affairs at the Vatican--"

He stopped abruptly, looking at her. How provokingly pretty she was!--and how easily indifferent she seemed to the authoritative air he had chosen to a.s.sume.

"I should, I know, long ere this have offered you my felicitations on your approaching marriage--"

Sylvie smiled bewitchingly, and gave him a graceful curtsey.

"Will you not sit down, Monsignor?" she then said. "We can talk more at our ease, do you not think?"

She seated herself, with very much the air of a queen taking possession of a rightful throne, and Gherardi was vexedly aware that he had not by any means the full possession of his ordinary dignity or self-control.

He took a chair opposite to her and sat for a moment perplexed as to his next move. Sylvie did not help him at all. Ruffling the violets among the lace at her neck, she looked at him attentively from under her long golden-brown lashes, but maintained a perfect silence.

"The news has been received by the Holy Father with great pleasure," he said at last. "His special benediction will grace your wedding-day."

Sylvie bent her head.

"The Holy Father is most gracious!" she replied quietly. "And he is also more liberal than I imagined, if he is willing to bestow his special benediction on my marriage with one who is considered a heretic by the Church."

He flashed a keen glance at her,--then forced a smile. "Mr. Leigh's heresy is of the past," he said--"We welcome him--with you--as one of us!"

Sylvie was silent. He waited, inwardly cursing her tranquillity. Then, as she still did not speak, he went on in smooth accents-- "The Church pardons all who truly repent. She welcomes all who come to her in confidence, no matter how tardy or hesitating their approach. We shall receive the husband of our daughter Sylvie Hermenstein, with such joy as the prodigal son was in old time received--and of his past mistakes and follies there shall be neither word nor memory!"

Then Sylvie looked up and fixed her deep blue eyes steadily upon him.

"Caro Monsignor!" she said very sweetly. "Why talk all this nonsense to me? Do you not realise that as the betrothed wife of Aubrey Leigh I am past the Church counsel or command?"

Gherardi still smiled.

"Past Church counsel or command?" he murmured with an indulgent air, as though he were talking to a very small child. "Pardon me if I am at a loss to understand--"

"Oh, you understand very well!" said Sylvie. "You know perfectly--or you should--that a wife's duty is to obey her husband,--and that in future HIS Church,--not yours,--must be hers also."

"Surely you speak in riddles?" said Gherardi, preserving his suave equanimity. "Mr. Leigh is (or was) a would-be ardent reformer, but he has no real Church."

"Then I have none!" replied Sylvie.

There was a moment's silence. A black rage began to kindle in Gherardi's soul,--rage all the more intense because so closely suppressed.

"I am still at a loss to follow you, Contessa," he said coldly. "Surely you do not mean to imply that your marriage will sever you from the Church of your fathers?"

"Monsignor, marriage for me means an oath before G.o.d to take my husband for better or for worse, and to be true to him under all trial and circ.u.mstances," said Sylvie. "And I a.s.suredly mean to keep that oath!

Whatever his form of faith, I intend to follow it,--as I intend to obey his commands, whatever they may be, or wherever they may lead. For this, to me, is the only true love,--this to me, is the only possible 'holy' estate of matrimony. And for the Church--a Church which does not hesitate to excommunicate a dying man, and persecute a good one,--I will leave the possibility of its wrath, together with all other consequences of my act--to G.o.d!"

For one moment Gherardi felt that he could have sprung upon her and throttled her. The next, he had mastered himself sufficiently to speak,--this woman, so slight, so beautiful, so insolent should not baffle him, he resolved!--and bending his dark brows menacingly, he addressed her in his harshest and most peremptory manner.

"You talk of G.o.d," he said, "as a child talks of the sun and moon, with as little meaning, and less comprehension! What impertinence it is for a woman like yourself,--vain, weak and worldly,--to a.s.sert your own will--your own thought and opinion--in the face of the Most High! What!

YOU will desert the Church? YOU whose ancestors have for ages been devout servants of the faith? YOU, the last descendant of the Counts Hermenstein, a n.o.ble and loyal family, will degrade your birth by taking up with the rags and tags of humanity--the scarecrows of life?

And by your sheer stupidity and obstinacy, you will allow your husband's soul to be dragged to perdition with your own! You call it love--to keep him an infidel? You call it marriage--to be united to him without the blessings of Holy Church? Where is your reason?--Where is your judgment?--Where your faith?"

"Not in my bank, Monsignor!" replied Sylvie coldly. "Though that is the place where you would naturally expect to find these virtues manifested, and the potency of their working substantially proved!

Pardon!--I have no wish to offend--but your manner to ME is offensive, and unless you are disposed to discuss this matter temperately, I must close our interview!"

Gherardi flushed a dark red, then grew pale. After all, the Countess Hermenstein was in her own house,--she had the right to command his exit if she chose. Small and slight as she was, she had a dignity and power as great as his own, and if anything was to be gained from her it was necessary to temporize. Among many other qualifications for the part he had to play in life, he was an admirable actor, and would have made his fortune on the legitimate stage,--and this "quick change"

ability served him in good stead now. He rose from his chair as though moved by uncontrollable agitation, and walked to the window, then turned again and came slowly and with bent head towards her.

"Forgive me!" he said simply. "I was wrong!"

Sylvie, easily moved to kindness, was touched by this apparent humility on the part of a man so renowned for unflinching hauteur, and she at once gave him her hand.

"I shall forget your words!" she said gently. "So there is nothing to pardon."

"Thank you for your generosity," he said, still standing before her and preserving his grave and quiet demeanour. "In my zeal for Holy Church, my tongue frequently outruns my prudence. I confess you have hurt me,--cruelly! You are a mere child to me--young, beautiful, beloved,--and I am growing old; I have sacrificed all the joys of life for the better serving of the faith--but I have kept a few fair dreams--and one of the fairest was my belief in YOU!"

Sylvie looked at him searchingly, but his eyes did not flinch in meeting hers.

"I am sorry you are disappointed, Monsignor," she began, when he raised his hand deprecatingly.