Part 25 (1/2)
”Ah, 'Giorno, Herr!” said the gentleman, looking up from his book; ”what is that?”
He came towards us as he spoke, and opening the topmost volume of the pile which the old man had deposited on the table, examined the t.i.tle-page.
”Sancta Maria! ” cried he, his whole manner changing in a moment from easy indifference to earnest interest: ”what, you will part with this after all? Why, it is the same book I offered you two hundred pistoles for at Rome! You wouldn't sell it then at any price, you said!”
”No, Signor, but I will now.”
Ah, it was a generous martyrdom, but the pangs of it were very grievous; what wonder that the martyr sighed a little!
”The same price, then, Herr? Don't let us bargain about it. The Eminenza is liberal in these things, you know; and you're poor, my friend, I know.”
He nodded at the old German with a sort of familiar patronage, as though he would have said, ”Don't be modest, I'll stand by you!”
But the Herr seemed to notice neither words nor manner, though I thought the heart beneath the shabby coat recoiled at that instant somewhat unusually.
”The same price, if you please, Signor.”
The Cardinal's agent, for such I guessed this tender-hearted individual before us to be, flashed a keen sudden glance of mingled scrutiny and surprise at the calm dignified face of the philosopher, whistled pleasantly a short aria of two notes, apparently with some design of a.s.sisting his mental digestion to victory over a tough morsel; and then turning to an iron-bound cashbox at his elbow, unlocked it, and produced therefrom the stipulated sum, which he counted out with much celerity, and forthwith handed to the old German. With tremulous fingers the Herr gathered up the money, as though it had been the price of a friend's betrayal, and drooped his n.o.ble head upon his breast, like a war-horse smitten to the heart in the pa.s.sionate front of battle.
What he had done was registered in Heaven.
”Addio, Herr.”
”Guten-tag, Signor.”
Herr Ritter did not go back to his lodgings then. He went past the low house with its green verandah, blistering under the fierce noon-sun, and across the pastures to the cottage of 'Lora Delcor.
She was sitting at the open door, her thin transparent palms pressed tightly together, as though she were praying, and her great fringed eyelids dark and heavy with their burden of pain. Ah! 'Lora! 'Lora!
”blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted!” Not in the world that men have made, daughter of earth, ah, not in that; but in the world that G.o.d shall make hereafter!
”Herr Ritter! you have been? O tell me what she said! 'Tista is not here, he is gone into the woods to gather herbs.”
”Have you told 'Tista anything?”
”About this? Nothing. I thought I would wait until I knew--”
She had risen from her seat to greet him, with painful agitation; and now she staggered, and I think would have fallen, but that the old man timely caught and held her in his gentle grasp.
”Be comforted, dear 'Lora,” he whispered; ” bring you good news.”
She dropped into her wooden chair and covered her face with her bloodless hands, weeping and sobbing for joy, as only women can who have suffered much and long and alone.
Herr Ritter stood by, watching her kindly, and stroking his white flowing beard in silence, until she had wept her fill; and her dark blissful eyes, dreamy with the mist of fallen tears, were lifted again to his face, like caverned pools in summer refreshed with a happy rain.
”What did she say? she sent me a note? a message?”
Herr Ritter poured his pistoles into her lap.
”I bring you these,” said he, simply.
”Jesu-Maria! She sent me all this! how good! how generous! but ought I to take it, Herr?”