A Lady of Rome. F. Marion Crawford

was strongest in him was a charity that was active, unselfish, wise and just, and that was, above all, of that sort which inspires hope in those whom it helps, and helps all whom it finds in need.

      It was said in the precincts of the Vatican that Monsignor Saracinesca was likely to be made a cardinal at an early age. But the poor people in the Maremma said he was a saint who would not long be allowed to suffer earthly ills, and whose soul was probably already in paradise while his body was left to do good in this world till it should wear itself out and melt away like a shadow.

      Ippolito Saracinesca had known only one great temptation in his life. Unlike most people who accomplish much in this world, he was a good musician, and was often tempted to bestow upon a perfectly selfish pleasure some of that precious time which he truly believed had been given him only that he might use it for others. More than once he had bound himself not to touch an instrument nor go to a concert for a whole month, because he felt that the gift was absorbing him too much.

      This was the friend to whom Maria Montalto had come for advice and help, and of whom Castiglione had said that she could not have chosen a better man.

      ‘There is no one in the Chapter-House,’ he said, after the first friendly greeting. ‘Will you come in and sit down? I was trying to decide about the placing of another picture which we have discovered amongst our possessions.’

      He led the way and Maria followed, and sat down beside the table on one of the big chairs which were symmetrically ranged against the walls.

      ‘Please tell me how I can serve you,’ said Don Ippolito.

      ‘It is not easy to tell you,’ Maria answered. ‘I am in great perplexity and I need advice—the advice of a good man—of a friend—of some one who knows the world.’

      ‘Yes,’ said Monsignor Saracinesca, folding his transparent hands and looking at one of Melozzo da Forlì’s inspired angels on the opposite wall. ‘So far as you care to trust me as a friend and one who knows something of the world, I will do my best. But let us understand each other before you say anything more. This is not in any way a confession, I suppose. You wish to ask my advice in confidence. Is that it?’

      ‘Yes, yes! That is what it is!’

      ‘And you come to me as to a friend, rather than as to a priest?’

      ‘Oh, yes! Much more.’

      ‘And you trust me, merely as you would trust a friend, and without the intention of putting me under a sacred obligation of silence, by which the life and welfare of any one might hereafter be endangered. Is that what you mean?’

      ‘Yes, distinctly. But that will never happen. I mean that no one’s life could ever be in danger by your not telling. At least, I cannot see how.’

      ‘Strange things happen,’ said Don Ippolito, still looking at the angel. ‘And now that we understand each other about that, I am ready. What is the difficulty?’

      Maria rested her elbow on the corner of the big table and shaded her eyes with her hand for a moment. It was not easy to tell such a story as hers.

      ‘Do you know anything about my past life?’ she began timidly, and glancing sideways at him.

      He turned his brown eyes full to hers.

      ‘Yes,’ he said, without hesitation. ‘I do know something, and more than a little.’

      She was surprised, and looked at him with an expression of inquiry.

      ‘I have always known your husband very well,’ he said. ‘He wrote to me for advice when there was trouble between you. I was in the Maremma then.’

      ‘And it was you who advised him to leave me! Ah, I did not know!’

      Maria drew back a little proudly, expecting him to admit the imputation.

      ‘No,’ answered Don Ippolito. ‘I did not, but he thought it wiser not to take the advice I gave him.’

      Maria’s expression changed again.

      ‘Do you know who was—who—was the cause of his going away?’

      ‘Yes. I am afraid every one knows that. It was Baldassare del Castiglione, and he is in Rome again.’

      ‘Yes,’ Maria replied, repeating his words, ‘he is in Rome again.’

      He thought he had made it easy for her to say more, if she wished to tell all, but she was silent. He had heard Montalto’s story from beginning to end, and upon that he judged her, of course, as she had allowed herself to be judged by her husband, without the least suggestion of defence. After all, how could either of the two men judge her otherwise? How could she tell now what she had once called the truth? How near the truth was it? She would put her question as best she could.

      ‘My excuse is that we loved each other very, very much,’ she said in a low and timid voice. ‘It was long before I married,’ she added, a little more firmly, for she was not ashamed of that. ‘But we parted’—her voice sank to a whisper—‘we parted when it was too late. And we have never met, nor ever written one word to each other since.’

      As she pronounced the last sentence she raised her head again, for she knew what that separation had cost, in spite of all—in spite of what she had called the truth.

      ‘That was right,’ Don Ippolito said. ‘That was your duty; but it was brave of you both to do it.’ She felt encouraged.

      ‘And now he is in Rome again,’ she went on. ‘He has come on leave for a few days. He came on purpose to ask my forgiveness, after all these years, because there was something to forgive—at least—he thought there was——’

      She broke off, quite unable to go on.

      ‘You were very young,’ suggested Don Ippolito, helping her. ‘You had no experience of the world. Such a man would have a very great advantage over a very young woman who had been attached to him when a girl and was unhappily married.’

      But Maria had clasped her hands desperately tight together before her on the edge of the table, and she bent down now and pressed her forehead upon them. She spoke in broken words.

      ‘No, no! I know it now! It was not—not what I thought—oh, I can’t tell you! I can’t, I can’t!’

      She was breaking down, for she was worn-out and fearfully overwrought. Then Monsignor Saracinesca spoke quietly, but in a tone of absolute authority.

      ‘Tell me nothing more,’ he said. ‘This is not a confession, and I cannot allow you to go on. Try to get control of yourself so that you may go home quietly.’

      He rose as he spoke, but she stretched her hand out across the table to stop him.

      ‘No—please don’t go away! I have said I forgive him—if there is anything to forgive—may I say that he is to come back? May I see him sometimes? We are so sure of ourselves, he and I, after all these years——’

      Monsignor Saracinesca’s brows bent with a little severity.

      ‘Montalto is living,’ he said, ‘and he is a broken-hearted man. Since you and he parted you have borne his name as honourably as you could, you have done what was in your power to atone for your fault by not seeing your lover. I am frank, you see. Montalto knows how you have lived and is not unjust nor ungrateful. But for his mother, I think a reconciliation would be possible.’

      Maria started at the words, and turned even paler than before.

      ‘A reconciliation!’ she cried in a low and frightened voice.

      ‘Yes,’ answered Don Ippolito, who had resumed his seat. ‘He loves you still. It is my firm belief that he has never bestowed a thought on any other woman since he first wished to marry you. I know beyond all doubt that since he left you he has led a life such as few men of the world ever lead. No doubt he has his defects, as a man of