Part 8 (1/2)

”Sister Maria Addolorata will speak with you,” said the portress's voice, as he approached his face to the little grating.

He felt an odd little thrill of pleasant surprise. But so far as seeing anything was concerned, he was disappointed. Instead of one veiled nun, there were now two veiled nuns.

”Madam,” he began, ”my friend Doctor Tommaso Taddei has met with an accident which prevents him from leaving his bed.” And he went on to repeat all that he had told the portress, with such further explanations as he deemed necessary and persuasive.

While he spoke, Maria Addolorata drew back a little into the deeper shadow away from the loophole. Her veil hung over her eyes, and the folds were drawn across her mouth, but she gradually raised her head, throwing it back until she could see Dalrymple's face from beneath the edge of the black material. In so doing she unconsciously uncovered her mouth. The Scotchman saw a good part of her features, and gazed intently at what he saw, rightly judging that as the sun was behind him, she could hardly be sure whether he were looking at her or not.

As for her, she was doubtless inspired by a natural curiosity, but at the same time she understood the gravity of the case and wished to form an opinion as to the advisability of admitting the stranger. A glance told her that Dalrymple was a gentleman, and she was rea.s.sured by the gravity of his voice and by the fact that he was evidently acquainted with the abbess's condition, and must, therefore, be a friend of Sor Tommaso. When he had finished speaking, she immediately looked down again, and seemed to be hesitating.

”Open the door, Sister Filomena,” she said at last.

The portress shook her head almost imperceptibly as she obeyed, but she said nothing. The whole affair was in her eyes exceedingly irregular.

Maria Addolorata should have retired to the little room adjoining the convent parlour, and separated from it by a double grating, and Dalrymple should have been admitted to the parlour itself, and they should have said what they had to say to one another through the bars, in the presence of the portress. But Maria Addolorata was the abbess's niece. The abbess was too ill to give orders--too ill even to speak, it was rumoured. In a few days Maria Addolorata might be 'Her most Reverend Excellency.' Meanwhile she was mistress of the situation, and it was safer to obey her. Moreover, the portress was only a lay sister, an old and ignorant creature, accustomed to do what she was told to do by the ladies of the convent.

Dalrymple took off his hat and stooped low to enter through the small side-door. As soon as he had pa.s.sed the threshold, he stood up to his height and then made a low bow to Maria Addolorata, whose veil now quite covered her eyes and prevented her from seeing him,--a fact which he realized immediately.

”Give warning to the sisters, Sister Filomena,” said Maria Addolorata to the portress, who nodded respectfully and walked away into the gloom under the arches, leaving the nun and Dalrymple together by the door.

”It is necessary to give warning,” she explained, ”lest you should meet any of the sisters unveiled in the corridors, and they should be scandalized.”

Dalrymple again bowed gravely and stood still, his eyes fixed upon Maria Addolorata's veiled head, but wandering now and then to her heavy but beautifully shaped white hands, which she held carelessly clasped before her and holding the end of the great rosary of brown beads which hung from her side. He thought he had never seen such hands before. They were high-bred, and yet at the same time there was a strongly material attraction about them.

He did not know what to say, and as nothing seemed to be expected of him, he kept silence for some time. At last Maria Addolorata, as though impatient at the long absence of the portress, tapped the pavement softly with her sandal slipper, and turned her head in the direction of the arches as though to listen for approaching footsteps.

”I hope that the abbess is no worse than when Doctor Taddei saw her last night,” observed Dalrymple.

”Her most reverend excellency,” answered Maria Addolorata, with a little emphasis, as though to teach him the proper mode of addressing the abbess, ”is suffering. She has had a bad night.”

”I shall hope to be allowed to give some advice to her most reverend excellency,” said Dalrymple, to show that he had understood the hint.

”She will not allow you to see her. But you shall come with me to the antechamber, and I will speak with her and tell you what she says.”

”I shall be greatly obliged, and will do my best to give good advice without seeing the patient.”

Another pause followed, during which neither moved. Then Maria Addolorata spoke again, further rea.s.sured, perhaps, by Dalrymple's quiet and professional tone. She had too lately left the world to have lost the habit of making conversation to break an awkward silence. Years of seclusion, too, instead of making her shy and silent, had given her something of the ease and coolness of a married woman. This was natural enough, considering that she was born of worldly people and had acquired the manners of the world in her own home, in childhood.

”You are an Englishman, I presume, Signor Doctor?” she observed, in a tone of interrogation.

”A Scotchman, Madam,” answered Dalrymple, correcting her and drawing himself up a little. ”My name is Angus Dalrymple.”

”It is the same--an Englishman or a Scotchman,” said the nun.

”Pardon me, Madam, we consider that there is a great difference. The Scotch are chiefly Celts. Englishmen are Anglo-Saxons.”

”But you are all Protestants. It is therefore the same for us.”

Dalrymple feared a discussion of the question of religion. He did not answer the nun's last remark, but bowed politely. She, of course, could not see the inclination he made.

”You say nothing,” she said presently. ”Are you a Protestant?”

”Yes, Madam.”