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 BOOKS BY NORMA LORIMER 
 
 THERE WAS A KINO IN EGYPT 
 
 THE GOD'S CARNIVAL 
 
 ON DESERT ALTARS 
 
 A WIFE Our OF EGYPT 
 
 WITH OTHER EYES 
 
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 IMAGES 
 
 BY 
 
 NORMA LORIMER 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 "THE GODS' CARNIVAL," "A WIFE OUT OF EGYPT," "THERE WAS A KING IN 
 EGYPT," "WITH OTHER EYES," ETC., ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 BRENTANO'S 
 
 PUBLISHERS
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY 
 
 BHENTANO'? 
 All rights reserved 
 
 Printed in the United States of America
 
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 PARTI 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 ZITA MAZZINI and her brother Salvatore lived in a two- 
 roomed house in the main street of Girgenti, the ancient 
 Acragas, the Roman Agrigentum. 
 
 A stranger would not endorse Pindar's words that Acra- 
 gas was "the fairest of mortal cities," and certainly the 
 surroundings of Zita's home were not fair; indeed, there 
 was much that was ugly quite close to her door and Sicily 
 can be ugly. But Zita herself was fair and to her Pindar's 
 words were indisputable. 
 
 It must be remembered that Girgenti was the only city 
 which Zita had ever seen, added to which she knew its other 
 face. Girgenti, like everything else in Sicily, has two 
 faces. Girgenti was her "paese," and to a Sicilian what is 
 not summed up in that sacred word? 
 
 Girgenti is set on a hill and lies between the mountains 
 and the "wine-blue" sea of Diodorus Siculus. Its ugly face 
 tells you that it is a mining city, which sulphur has made 
 prosperous. Its beautiful face soars up from mediaeval 
 walls which look over the historical plain of splendour- 
 loving Acragas. 
 
 Zita loved her home, which meant to her, as it does to all 
 Italians, the locality in which she lived. She was proud of 
 her city, which had perpetuated as a city part of the Greek 
 colony whose founders came from Gela in B. C. 592. She 
 knew it with its volta f accia under every possible condition, 
 when the spring rain brought a harvest of flowers into 
 bloom around the golden temples and asphodels make a 
 delicate carpet for unseen feet to tread. 
 
 1
 
 2 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 She also knew it when the sirocco raised pyramids of dust 
 on the white roads and upset the nerves of the people. But 
 Zita was young and strong ; the sirocco left her untouched. 
 But it affected her brother Salvatore ; while it blew he was 
 nervous and depressed. 
 
 Salvatore was employed by the Archasological authori- 
 ties as a digger and excavator. His days were spent in 
 restoring to sight the buried greatness of Girgenti. He 
 was allowed to augment his wages, which scarcely averaged 
 one franc forty per day, by digging for himself on the 
 outskirts of classic sites and in river beds. Whatever 
 he found, whole or broken, little or big, he was bound on 
 oath to show to the museum authorities; what they did 
 not wish to keep for the museums of Sicily, they returned 
 to Salvatore, who sold them to the tourists who flocked to 
 the temples each spring. 
 
 This arrangement was a very good one. It secured for 
 the authorities the services of an exceptionally intelligent 
 digger, while it gave Salvatore an independent interest in 
 his work. Of course he could not have held the post if he 
 had not been a man of established integrity. His father, 
 Orestes Mazzini, had been an authority on the ancient coins 
 of Sicily ; he had acted as a guide and interpreter to eminent 
 visitors, such as Professor Freeman and Cardinal Newman. 
 
 If the saying is true, that to love a country is to under- 
 stand it, then Orestes Mazzini understood his classic Sicily. 
 
 He had died of fever while he was still a young man, 
 leaving his wife, a delicate creature from the Island of 
 Ischia, to bring up little Zita and her boy Salvatore as best 
 she could. 
 
 And so it came to pass that Salvatore, who had at a very 
 early age developed a passion for archaeology, was employed 
 by the Government as a digger. 
 
 Each day when Zita's two-roomed house was tidied up she 
 would turn the key of the door, which opened on to the 
 street, put it in her pocket and follow her brother to the 
 site of his work. She seldom spent many hours of the day
 
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 in her cottage; she preferred being with her brother; and 
 to tell the truth, he felt happier and more at ease when she 
 was somewhere within sight and hearing. He did not do 
 as the other men did, when they left their young wives or 
 daughters lock them in their homes and take the key in 
 their pockets. Salvatore's father had never treated his 
 mother in this Eastern fashion, which has been handed down 
 from the Saracen invasion. 
 
 One spring day Zita was preparing to go to her brother ; 
 she was putting the last strip of an elaborate piece of 
 knitting, which was to form about the seventeenth part of a 
 bed quilt, into her fig-basket along with her frugal lunch. 
 Her house had been swept from corner to corner, with a 
 palm-leaf broom and dusted with a bunch of turkey 
 feathers. Her beautiful dark hair was tucked under a 
 bright orange handkerchief, for Zita never wore a hat. 
 She had never even tried one on her pretty head; she did 
 not belong to the class in Sicily to whom a hat gives a 
 social standing. In Girgenti, hats were not seemly for 
 working girls. 
 
 Kerchiefed and smiling, Zita was turning the key in her 
 front door. Late in the afternoon she would return to 
 kindle the charcoal and prepare her brother's supper. 
 
 Something made her hesitate and she re-entered the 
 cottage. A picture of the Madonna hung on the wall close 
 to the door ; on a shelf below it a lighted wick was floating 
 in a Greek saucer, which had once held votive offerings to a 
 pagan god. Such trifles of Greek handcraft were cheaper 
 for domestic purposes than anything Zita could buy in 
 Girgenti. 
 
 She stood before the picture with bowed head. For a 
 moment a look of tragedy hung on her eyelashes, but it was 
 only for a moment. When her prayer was finished she 
 picked up her long basket and left the cottage. Before the 
 door was locked the shadow of the tragedy had left her 
 lashes ; the girl was "La Gioconda" again. 
 
 Greetings were called out to her as she hurried along the
 
 4 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 street, for everyone knew where she was going to and every- 
 one loved her. Zita was "simpatica" to her finger-tips; 
 she responded to the finest vibration of her surroundings ; 
 the joys and troubles of her neighbours were her own. Be- 
 sides which she possessed all the qualities which endear a 
 girl to a people who have inherited the worship of beauty. 
 
 Look at her as she walks, her basket on her head notice 
 her little nose, straight drawn from brow to tip, yet with- 
 out hint of severity; look at the curling lips, the dented 
 chin, round with youth's softness, yet moulded by the sure 
 hand which gave Greece her glory. It is not difficult to see 
 from which of the many strains in Sicily she comes, this 
 child of the South, born in the Acragas of the ancients. It 
 is good to look at the classic perfection of a Greek statue 
 humanized by the glow of health and laughter, a living 
 Tanagra figure hurrying down to the plain of Acragas. 
 
 Soon Zita had left the sulphur city far behind ; it towered 
 above her in the distance, medisevally secure on its long 
 ridge of precipitous rocks, a Zion city, fair and sublime. 
 She was passing the Convent of St. Nicola, whose stone- 
 pine marks the road to the temples ; she was quite close to 
 the ruin of an ancient Greek house which lies on the opposite 
 side of the road, when she heard her name called softly. 
 
 "Zita, little Zita, stop a moment." 
 
 "Buon giorno, Signore." 
 
 Zita did not lift her eyes. Salvatore had told her that 
 his work that day would be at the far-off Temple of Aescu- 
 lapius; she did not wish to linger, as she had just enough 
 time to reach the fragment of the temple, which to-day is 
 incorporated in a modern farm, before lunch. Besides, the 
 voice that had called so persuasively belonged to one of the 
 "signori" under whose direction Salvatore worked. She 
 knew it instantly. 
 
 With a light movement the man who had called her 
 cleared the Greek wall and was at the girl's side. Zita's 
 heart was fluttering and beating like a little bird impris- 
 oned in a human hand. The Signore laid firm fingers on
 
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 her shoulder and turned her round until she faced the en- 
 trance to the Greek house a mere foundation of a house, 
 to ordinary eyes only a mass of beautifully cut stones. 
 
 "I have something which I want you to take to your 
 brother," the Signore said. His hands still held the girl's 
 shrinking shoulders ; her small breasts were rising and 
 falling under the white kerchief of her bodice. Tuned to 
 the beauty of Greece, he saw their form stripped of their 
 modern covering. Zita was a Greek statuette insulted by 
 clothes. His thoughts undressed her he saw her naked 
 and unspoilt ; he would have stripped her in the open sun- 
 light and set her on a Greek pedestal in the Greek house. 
 
 Zita was silent. Some strange part of her enjoyed what 
 she greatly feared, the touch of the man's hand and the 
 gentleness of his voice. She wished that she could leave him 
 and fly like one of the white falcons overhead to the safe 
 presence of her brother. Her southern blood needed no 
 provoking ; even while she longed to run away from him as 
 quickly as her young legs would carry her, she felt more 
 alive and responsive than she had ever felt in her life. 
 
 When her companion had led her a little way back from 
 the high road, further into the interior of the excavated 
 house, he said persuasively, and at the same time authorita- 
 tively, "Sit down, Zita. What makes you so afraid?" 
 His eyes laughed at her foolishness, while they caressed her 
 body. 
 
 Zita sat down, but she did not answer. He took her 
 basket from her head and placed it behind her back. He 
 had seated himself beside her on one of the low foundation 
 walls of the house. Zita, who was still silent, plucked some 
 mauve flowers from a bush of wild thyme. A bee disturbed 
 in its honey-gathering, flew up into her face; she gave a 
 little scream and her companion drove off the bee. As he 
 did so he looked into her eyes and said : 
 
 "Wise little bee, to prefer such pretty lips to wild 
 thyme ! An intelligent bee, Zita mia." 
 
 Zita blushed. Her heart was distressed. Why did her
 
 6 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 brother's employer speak to her like that? Why did his 
 eyes always say more than his words ? 
 
 "Prego, Signore, will it please you to give what you 
 wish me to take to my brother? Even now he is expecting 
 me at the farm." 
 
 "You must not go all that way alone, child." The 
 Signore knew what "the farm" meant. 
 
 "I am not afraid, Signore." 
 
 "You are not afraid of the farm dogs and of all that 
 rough walk, and yet a little honey-bee made you cry out! 
 Zita mia, you are delicious." 
 
 "Prego, Signore, I was startled." She tried to rise to 
 her feet, but the Signore put his hand on her shoulder and 
 prevented her. He did it in a commanding manner ; he was 
 her brother's employer. 
 
 "I want to talk to you, Zita. Sit still." 
 
 "Prego, Signore." 
 
 "You are a good little girl, Zita, and a very industrious 
 one. I know that inside that bundle there is some fine 
 knitting; I know that these little hands," he placed his own 
 on hers, "will be busy all day long." 
 
 "Si, Signore." Zita's beautiful profile was not turned ; 
 not once did she let her eyes meet the eyes of the Signore. 
 
 "Tell me," he said, "what is all this knitting for? Do 
 you sell it?" 
 
 "Sell it?" Zita's eyes were wide with wonder. "No, 
 Signore it is for my sposalizio." 
 
 "Then you are going to be married?" 
 
 "Spero di si, Signore" (I hope so). Zita looked pro- 
 foundly wise, but surprised at the question. 
 
 "Is the day fixed?" 
 
 "Ma, Signore. I have not met him yet." 
 
 Her companion laughed. 
 
 "Dear little Zita you are going to be married, but you 
 have not yet met your man?" 
 
 "No, Signore." Zita spoke simply; she saw no humour 
 in the situation. Of course she was going to be married;
 
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 she was healthy and young, and all the world had told her 
 she was pretty and good. 
 
 "You will marry and settle down in Girgenti?" 
 
 "Spero di si, Signore." Her eyes brightened. 
 
 "Don't you want to see the great world, Zita mia?" He 
 spoke absently. "You have seen nothing of it but that 
 ancient city up there in the clouds. There is a wonderful 
 world waiting for you, little girl." 
 
 "Prego, Signore, I have seen Porto Empedocle!" She 
 spoke proudly ; his words hurt her. 
 
 Her companion laughed tenderly. "You dear little 
 donna! Porto Empedocle! Yes, you have seen that sul- 
 phur port and Girgenti they are your world." 
 
 Zita was silent. 
 
 "Don't you want to see the big cities on the Continent?" 
 
 Sicilians always speak of Italy as the "Continent." 
 
 Zita shook her head. "Prego, Signore, I think for 
 humble people it does not do them much good to see the 
 world. When our Girgenti boys return from America, with 
 money in their pockets, Salvatore says they have lost 
 everything else; they are too rich to be polite; they are 
 vulgar." 
 
 "In vero, Zita mia, America does not improve the young 
 Sicilian. But I was thinking of your Italian cities, of 
 Rome, Naples, Florence." 
 
 Zita again shook her head and looked at her simple dress. 
 "Salvatore dreams all day and all night of seeing Rome and 
 Athens, Signore, but for me, if I see Palermo some day, I 
 shall be content." 
 
 "Who knows, Gioconda? The gods are kind to those 
 who love mirth. Put away that serious face and smile 
 again you haven't smiled since I met you. Do I deserve 
 those sad eyes?" 
 
 "Ma, Signore, but I must go to my brother. Please do 
 not detain me ; I shall cause him anxiety." 
 
 "Unkind Zita, you have all this spring day to spend 
 knitting and watching your brother at his work. I have
 
 8 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 seen you sitting under the big fig-tree, knit, knit, knitting ; 
 I have often wondered what your little head was full of! 
 Tell me, child, what do you think about while you sit so 
 patiently? Your eyes are sometimes grave and thoughtful, 
 sometimes they laugh." 
 
 Zita blushed. "Indeed I cannot tell you my thoughts 
 are too foolish for a clever Signore. They come into my 
 head and fly out again so quickly that I do not remember 
 what I have been thinking about ; they are like my dreams, 
 forgotten when I wake." 
 
 "I am sure they are pretty thoughts, for you smile so 
 gaily. The boys call you 'La Gioconda' you see, I know 
 all about you, piccola donna." 
 
 "If I smile, Signore, how can I help it? When I see 
 the little kids skipping, about the ruins, so full of fun and 
 frolic ; or when I tell myself stories about the clouds chas- 
 ing each other up in the high sky, hurrying away to the 
 land which is over the edge of the world the clouds are my 
 chariots, the people of my smiles are seated in them. It is 
 when I am thinking about these foolish ignorant things that 
 I smile, Signore. I have so little learning ; I do not know 
 enough to make me serious like Salvatore." 
 
 "Dio mio, my little Zita ! You are apologizing for your 
 smiles ! You need not be ashamed because you have not the 
 grave face of a Madonna. It is because of your gift of 
 mirth and love of life, child, that I want to sit and talk to 
 you ; you make me forget." 
 
 "Prego, Signore. . . ." Zita could say no more. 
 She could not contradict the learned Signore, but she wished 
 that he would not talk to her any more. 
 
 "You know that the ancients called your island 'the 
 laughing land' it was their name for it. But the women 
 and the men in Sicily to-day are very grave and unmirth- 
 ful." 
 
 "There is much sadness, Signore." 
 
 "Yes, Fate has treated her pitilessly ; she has had many 
 cruel conquerors." He paused. "In one of the basketfuls
 
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 of rubbish which Salvatore picks up in the ruins, you can 
 trace the hand of five civilisations, civilisations which have 
 left their scars on the people." 
 
 Zita's quick brain visualized the fragments of antiques 
 which explained his words. 
 
 "The burden of tyranny and cruelty have told on the 
 expression and character of the people ; that is why so many 
 of them are grave and suspicious. But you, Zitina, you are 
 different. You are a child of ancient Greece, a daughter of 
 'the laughing land.' When these temples were perfect, 
 when this Greek house was inhabited by the old Dorians 
 from Gela, you were a daughter of the house ; you went to 
 the temples to worship, not to watch your brother picking 
 up bits of terracotta and broken images. My little Greek 
 Zita, this is your true home, this Greek house with its 
 mosaiced floors," he pointed to the design of mosaic at their 
 feet, "and wide-columned courtyard, this is your real home, 
 not that white cottage up in Girgenti." He turned his head 
 to where the city towered up above them, sublimely still and 
 clear. 
 
 "It is beautiful to hear you talk, Signore, but much of 
 what you say I only half understand. My true home is with 
 Salvatore." 
 
 "I mean your spiritual home, Zita. For some unknown 
 reason your reincarnated natural body is now living in Gir- 
 genti ; your present-day upbringing has made you a mod- 
 est, retiring little Sicilian girl, but at heart you are a Greek 
 Hedonist." 
 
 Zita's eyes expressed her fears. 
 
 "But you are so unhappy, child. Andiamo (come 
 along)." He rose to his feet. 
 
 "Prego, Signore, I am not unhappy, mi scusi." 
 
 "Only unhappily happy is that it?" His eyes looked 
 into hers and their richer language told her his meaning. 
 She was only unhappily happy because well, because she 
 dared not be happy ! 
 
 "Si, Signore, grazie."
 
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 "You would like to allow yourself to be happy and to 
 talk to me as I want you to talk, freely and naturally ?" 
 
 Zita's eyes dwelt on his ; he was kindling the first flame of 
 passion. 
 
 "You would like to be kind to me, when all I ask can so 
 easily be given just to sit here quietly and let me enjoy 
 your smiles and unspoilt beliefs." 
 
 "Si, Signore, it is always pleasant to be kind." 
 
 "Grave little donna, come along." He lifted her as 
 lightly as if she had been a bird over the low wall which 
 surrounded the mosaiced floor and together they passed 
 through a large courtyard, where twenty-eight bases of the 
 ancient columns which had once surrounded it, when it had 
 formed a colonnade in front of the bachelor's sleeping 
 quarters, were still intact. Out of the colonnade they 
 passed into a smaller court, which in its turn took them into 
 an outer hall, which led directly on to the street. 
 
 In Greek days it must have been a very comfortable man- 
 sion; to-day it is but a herb-scented ruin, where bees and 
 blue butterflies flit about the southern vegetation, which 
 has taken a fancy to the classic stones. 
 
 As they walked towards the temples, Zita was silent and 
 her tall companion was very dignified. He did not distress 
 her by saying things which she knew he would not say if her 
 brother had been walking with them; he told her instead 
 simple legends about the temples and about almost every 
 step of the ground over which they picked their way a 
 very rough way and a very long one. The Signore had 
 the gift of tongues and a very human appreciation of his- 
 toric legends and folk-lore. 
 
 When at length they reached the farm where Salvatore 
 was working, the Signore called out, " Ecco, Salvatore ! 
 Here is Zita I detained her. I wanted her to bring this to 
 you and then I thought I would bring it myself. I want to 
 speak to you." 
 
 Salvatore thanked his employer as he took the new tool 
 which he held out to him. Then they quickly entered into
 
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 a technical discussion which excluded Zita, who only too 
 gladly took herself off to a pleasant spot and opened her 
 bundle. The fennel and the bread were laid carefully in the 
 shade; the wine for their lunch Salvatore would purchase 
 for one soldo at the farm. When the frugal lunch was laid 
 in readiness, out came her knitting. With a still fluttering 
 heart and beating pulses, she began to work at such a pace 
 that the date of her "sposalizio" might very well have been 
 settled for that day week. 
 
 Poor little heart, so brutally disturbed ! It was not the 
 first time that the Signore, who was such a good master to 
 her brother, had caused her the same unaccountable pleas- 
 ure, the same indefinite pain. A Sicilian girl is a woman in 
 her cradle. Zita knew perfectly well, although she had no 
 mother to tell her, all the unspoken things which the 
 Signore's eyes had implored. She feared him and yet if the 
 trust must be told, she enjoyed the fear. She was relieved 
 and glad to be away from him and yet her day was fuller 
 for having seen him. He always roused the same thoughts 
 in her, thoughts which sprang into being with the 
 touch of his hand and the request in his eyes. Life had 
 been very vital as they walked together under the gay 
 sunlight. 
 
 As she knitted, her eyes were not raised to her chariots 
 in the clouds ; to-day her world beyond the edge of the 
 world was a strange world, a world filled with new dangers 
 and possibilities. With bent head and industrious hands, 
 she was conscious of the fact that the eyes of the Signore 
 were even now constantly watching her. 
 
 He was in Zita's eyes elegant and very grazioso, as she 
 expressed it. But why did he care to spend his time in 
 talking to a poor girl like herself? Why did he pretend 
 that her ignorant company cheered him and did him good ? 
 She almost made up her mind to tell her brother that when 
 he was out of hearing the Signore spoke to her and made 
 pretty speeches to her. But no sooner had she determined 
 to tell him, than she deceived herself into the belief that
 
 12 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 he would only laugh at her and tell her that she was a vain 
 baby. 
 
 And so the hours wore on, but Zita's mirth did not return, 
 no,t until the Signore had left the farm and Salvatore 
 joined her for their mid-day meal. When he did so, he 
 flung himself down on the ground beside her and looked 
 straight up into the sky, his clasped hando behind his head. 
 Zita drew the blade of a peasant's knife from its wooden 
 sheath, and cut up the bulbous white root of the fennel ; 
 when it was prepared she handed a portion of it to her 
 brother with a large slice of rough bread. 
 
 Salvatore' s white teeth dug eagerly into the fresh vege- 
 table, which was deliciously cool and appetising. His 
 breakfast had consisted of a cup of black coffee. 
 
 Zita too ate her fennel with the healthy appetite of the 
 meagrely fed. 
 
 The brother and sister were devoted to each other. Zita 
 thought Salvatore a hundred times more learned than he 
 was and he was no mean scholar and the handsomest 
 man in Girgenti; Salvatore loved his little sister with a 
 father's as well as a brother's devotion. For six years he 
 had been mother, father and brother to her, for he was 
 seven years her senior. Zita was just seventeen. 
 
 Salvatore was proud of her refinement and had taken 
 great pains to carry on her education himself, after her 
 ordinary school term had come to an end. He knew that 
 she was lovely and gracious and that her movements were 
 refined and elegant. The idea that Zita's life was a dull 
 one for a beautiful girl had never dawned upon him. How 
 could she be dull when everyone who knew her called her 
 "La Gioconda?" 
 
 When Salvatore had washed down his meal with a long 
 draught of red wine, he told his sister that the next day the 
 Signore wanted him to go to Monserrato, a long hill which 
 lies between Girgenti and Porto Empedocle. Now Porto 
 Empedocle is the sea-port for Girgenti and the surround-
 
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 ing country ; you can see its harbour stretching out into the 
 African sea from almost any point in the landscape. 
 
 "You will be away all day, fratello mio?" 
 
 "Gia it will be dark before I get back." 
 
 Zita was silent ; but her brother did not notice her new 
 mood of abstraction because he himself had business on his 
 mind which kept him preoccupied. 
 
 For some days Salvatore had looked worried and been 
 unusually silent. Zita had concluded that his work was 
 more exacting and difficult than usual. 
 
 Salvatore was by nature a dignified Sicilian ; his fine cast 
 of countenance was as serious as Zita's was mirthful. If 
 he had been well off, he would probably have led the life of 
 a retired student. It was perhaps well for him that he was 
 not, for he was not very robust physically, and it is better 
 to study Greece in Sicily, under the blue of her southern 
 sky and in the sunlight of her hills, than in a museum or 
 university. He was a direct descendant of the great Maz- 
 zini whose faithfulness to an ideal has given modern Italy 
 her unity. 
 
 "You will take care of the house ?" 
 
 Zita nodded her head ; she knew what her brother meant. 
 
 "You might clean these there are one or two out of the 
 common." He handed her some ancient coins, still em- 
 bedded in soil and cement. Zita took the coins in her 
 
 hand. "And if the Signore comes to the house, tell him. 
 > 
 
 Zita's exclamation stopped him. "Ma, Salvatore!" 
 Her eyes dropped. 
 
 "It will only be to leave a packet for me he won't hurt 
 you, baby." 
 
 Zita tried to laugh, but failed because of her desire and 
 yet her reluctance to tell him about the Signore. 
 
 Little more was said. Salvatore gave himself over to a 
 sound sleep. His mid-day sleep was as necessary to him as 
 his food. A Sicilian can live on surprisingly little if he 
 gets plenty of sleep and sunshine.
 
 14 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 When they returned to the city, an evening light was 
 bestowing upon it a radiant charm, a spiritual calm graced 
 its ancient outlines. The sulphur city of discontent and 
 "mala gente" was a fair Jerusalem, golden and immortal. 
 Their walk was a long one and they had no donkeys to 
 carry them, but they were both young and Zita at least 
 was tireless. 
 
 Familiar classic sites served for milestones. Their backs 
 were to the tideless sea, which formed a background for 
 the temples, which were begun by the tyrant Thcron in the 
 days when Acragas was a city of fashion and renown. 
 Before them lay the long hill, which wound its way up to 
 the city. It was close upon sundown when they neared its 
 wall, where little farms cluster beneath its shelter, farms 
 which look curiously Eastern to northern eyes. 
 
 The brother and sister had exchanged many greetings 
 with neighbours, who passed them riding on their well-con- 
 ditioned animals, for "the orphans," as they were called, 
 were favourites both in the country and in the town. Their 
 festa table was often graced by a gift from a generous 
 farmer's wife or the prosperous proprietor of a patisseria. 
 They possessed qualities which command affection, and they 
 were orphans, which in Sicily means that they were the 
 children of every mother's heart. 
 
 They had talked little to one another. Salvatore was 
 tongue-tied because Zita had to be told something which he 
 did not know how to tell her, and Zita was so wrapped up 
 in her own thoughts that she was ignorant of how silent 
 she had been. 
 
 "I will tell her to-morrow night, when I return," Sal- 
 vatore kept saying to himself. "Nothing can be done 
 until to-morrow." He heaved a sigh, well content to post- 
 pone the unpleasant duty. 
 
 "What a deep sigh, Salvatore mio! Are you very 
 tired?" 
 
 "What did you say?" he asked anxiously. They were 
 speaking Sicilian. As a rule Salvatore made Zita speak
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 15 
 
 Italian, even when they were alone together; it was part 
 of her education. 
 
 "You give such a deep sigh, fratello mio." 
 
 "I was thinking." 
 
 Zita looked at him with concern. "Salvatore, you have 
 not been so well lately. What troubles you?" She slipped 
 her hand in his, country fashion. 
 
 "The future, little sister our future." 
 
 "After death, Salvatore?" 
 
 He laughed. "Not so serious as that, baby." 
 
 "Then why trouble? The Blessed Virgin keeps a 
 mother's eye on all orphans. It is because you are over- 
 tired you work too late; give over your night studies 
 for a little time, Salvatore." 
 
 "No, no, baby, I am not overworking. The hill is 
 steep and I was thinking while I walked." 
 
 Zita held his hand more closely. "You know, fratello 
 mio, you are my dear world. When you sigh it trembles, 
 when you look too tired or too grave it grows cold and I 
 am afraid. Often, when I have been asleep for many 
 hours, I wake and hear your pen write, write, writing, 
 and the leaves of your big museum books turn, turn, 
 turning. It is true, Salvatore." 
 
 "Some day, piccola donna, I shall not need to burn 
 the midnight oil." 
 
 "Sperro di si, fratello mio." 
 
 They were separated by a man guiding a strong ass 
 laden with two jars, which filled the panniers hanging 
 from its sides. They had come to a part of the road 
 where such a sight is very usual, for the majority of 
 householders in Girgenti have to go down the hill to 
 fetch water each night from the well. Women go to 
 it in threes and fours, carrying their water-pitchers on 
 their heads, eheap household utensils of a pure classic 
 form. 
 
 As Salvatore caught sight of the jars, he started as 
 though he had never seen a donkey carrying water before.
 
 16 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 He stopped and gazed at them as if he expected to see 
 some strange object jump out of the jars. Then pulling 
 himself together he talked cheerfully to Zita as they 
 mounted to the long street of the town. 
 
 When they got home Zita cooked their evening meal 
 of polenta and fried artichokes. After it was eaten 
 Salvatore devoted himself to his studies, while Zita darned 
 his socks. Their cottage was so small that their Mass 
 clothes had to be kept in a tin box and the antiques which 
 they had for sale in a gaily-painted wooden one, a typical 
 Sicilian chest. 
 
 Salvatore slept on a couch which he had made for him- 
 self in the room which served them for kitchen and living 
 room. 
 
 When Zita began to nod over her work, Salvatore sent 
 her to bed. Many hours after she was asleep, he could 
 still be seen in the quiet cottage, seated at the wooden 
 table, with his books in front of him and his thoughts far 
 away from his surroundings. He was a serious youth, this 
 son of modern Girgenti; it could not be said of him, as 
 the great Empedocles said of his ancestors, that the Acra- 
 gantines built their houses as if they were to live for 
 ever, but gave themselves up to pleasure and luxuries 
 as if they were to die to-morrow. 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 IN the afternoon of the following day a motor-oar stopped 
 at the Casa Salvatore. Everyone in the district and in the 
 city knew the cottage by that name. 
 
 Zita answered the loud knock at her door with throb- 
 bing pulses and nervous eyes. Cars were not common in 
 Girgenti indeed, there was only one besides that of 
 "il Signore," whose work often necessitated long excur- 
 sions across the Island. The Government supplied him
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 17 
 
 with the car and petrol. It had stopped at her door 
 before* 
 
 II Signore smiled at Zita's troubled face as he held out 
 the packet which Salvatore had mentioned. Whatever it 
 was, it was carefully done up in a tin box, which had once 
 held cigarettes. 
 
 "Put that safely away, little Zita, and then turn the 
 key in your door and come along with me." He spoke 
 authoritatively. 
 
 "Prego, Signore," Zita shrank back into the house. 
 
 "Do as you are told," he said, almost sternly. " Salva- 
 tore is expecting us. I will drive you to Empedocle, where 
 he will meet us. He is to come on there from Monser- 
 rato." 
 
 Zita still hesitated and dropped her eyes. 
 
 "Don't you want a drive on this fine day?" 
 
 Zita had never been in an automobile in her life, so of 
 course she wanted a drive. Besides, the cottage was dull 
 and until Salvatore returned she must sit in it. 
 
 "You know quite well, little Zita, that you are dying to 
 come. I won't throw you out and I have brought a coat. 
 You will require it later on." 
 
 "Oh no, Signore!" The coat alarmed Zita; it was the 
 coat of a great lady ; it was not for her. 
 
 "Then come as you are, until we are out of the town. 
 Yes, that will be best. I will call at the druggist and tell 
 him that I am taking you to your brother, who requires 
 some magnesia for his work. Signor Naldo will tell every- 
 one else." He laughed. 
 
 Zita still deliberated. It was a strange thing to do, to 
 drive in an automobile with a gentleman all alone, but what 
 could she do? Was Salvatore willing for her to do it? 
 Had he agreed? 
 
 "Come along, child get in." 
 
 Zita felt herself lifted quickly into the motor, but to her 
 relief the Signore did not get in beside her; he sat by him- 
 self in the driver's front seat. As they whirled through
 
 18 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 the town, the girl did not see a single face she knew ; being 
 siesta hour almost everyone was asleep and the houses were 
 shut. There was not even a dog in the street. The drug- 
 gist's was closed. 
 
 "There is no need to go in," the Signore said. "Tongues 
 won't wag, carissima." 
 
 "Ma, Signore, my brother's magnesia." 
 
 The signore did not answer. He only drove the car still 
 faster. Probably he had not heard her and Zita could 
 make no further protest. 
 
 As soon as they had left the city, the splendour of the 
 sunshine and the pleasure of rushing through the air in so 
 new and wonderful a manner, drove all doubts and appre- 
 hensions from her mind. She felt like a princess in a fairy 
 story. It was exciting to her young blood to rush past all 
 the places she knew so well, just as if they all lay close 
 together, while she knew that they lay miles and miles 
 apart. Her spirits rose with leaps and bounds. The 
 speed and the fresh air went to her head; the glory of 
 the day rushed through her veins like wine, it dazzled her 
 senses. The light and the speed and the beauty of the 
 laughing land were enough to intoxicate anyone. It 
 seemed to Zita that Heaven could offer her no greater 
 pleasure, and her pleasure was not spoilt by any attention 
 from the Signore, who was so engrossed in his car, that 
 he seemed to have forgotten her presence. 
 
 They passed many beautiful and ancient things, for the 
 landscape is classic, every step of it, from high Girgenti to 
 the dead city in the plain, and beyond, where the blue ocean 
 travels to the very walls of Carthage. 
 
 Soon the way became less familiar to Zita, for they were 
 nearing the port and she had only once been to Porto 
 Empedocle. Mules laden with yellow blocks of sulphur 
 made an unending procession as they wound their way 
 from the mining station to the town. 
 
 At the outskirts of the town, the Signore stopped the 
 car at the door of a very ordinary, quiet-looking house,
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 19 
 
 a little off the main thoroughfare. After a rapid glance 
 up and down the street, he jumped out of the car and 
 opened its door for Zita. Immediately all the fears which 
 had been hushed and forgotten came to life again. Where 
 was Salvatore? She looked at the Signore anxiously. 
 
 "Mio fratello?" was all she said. 
 
 He saw her anxiety. "I will go and find Salvatore. 
 Come and have something to eat first he won't be long." 
 
 "Grazie, Signore." Zita shook her head. 
 
 "What nonsense, puppidda mia! The drive has given 
 me an appetite you must be hungry too." 
 
 The Signore walked into the house. It was a small 
 osteria (inn), yet no stranger would have thought so, but 
 for the branch of dried olive leaves which it sported over 
 the front door. 
 
 A good-natured-looking, heavy-stomached man instantly 
 appeared. He greeted the Signore with a familiar and at 
 the same time respectful "Buon giorno." 
 
 The Signore spoke a few words to him, which Zita did 
 not hear, then making her go on in front of him, he hurried 
 her upstairs to a room which had evidently been set apart 
 for their use. The girl's southern intelligence took in every 
 appointment of it. The blood rushed to her cheeks, but as 
 she glanced at the table for the second time a sigh of relief 
 came from her oppressed heart. There were three wine 
 glasses, not two, standing on a brass tray, which also held 
 a bottle of Marsala. Evidently the landlord knew that 
 Salvatore was expected. A flat cake, decorated with can- 
 died fruit, and some tangerine oranges, were placed beside 
 the wine. A very tempting repast for a poor girl, who 
 seldom enjoyed the luxury of a sweetmeat. A small white 
 cloth was spread over the coloured one of tinselled tapes- 
 try; heavy curtains, draped in Spanish fashion, darkened 
 the room. 
 
 When the door was shut, the Signore threw himself 
 down on the couch which occupied a large portion of the 
 pretentiously furnished room.
 
 20 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 "Come and sit beside me, puppidda mia, and tell me if 
 you enjoyed the ride." 
 
 He put his arm round the girl's waist and drew her 
 reluctantly to him. 
 
 "No, sit down and talk to me. Don't stand looking at 
 me with solemn eyes. I won't bite, although you are a 
 tempting morsel." He had pulled off her headkerchief and 
 looked admiringly at her hair. As he repeated the words, 
 "How did you enjoy the drive?" Zita was sitting beside 
 him like a quivering bird. "Was it exciting?" 
 
 "Si, Signore, it was wonderful; it was like Heaven." 
 
 "You were not afraid?" 
 
 Her eyes scorned the idea. 
 
 He put his hand on her hair. "I should like to see all 
 this hair of yours hanging down, piccola Madonnina." 
 His eyes caressed the dark head. 
 
 Zita was tongue-tied and embarrassed. 
 
 "May I see it all down some day if I am very kind? 
 And then I will make a picture of you, my unhappy, grave 
 Madonnina." 
 
 "No, no, Signore! The girl shrank from him but he 
 held iher by her hands. 
 
 "If you look so afraid and shrink from me, Zita mia, I 
 will punish you as you deserve." He held her closer to him 
 and looked down into her distressed face. The girl had 
 never looked more beautiful. 
 
 "You see, I could kiss you as often as I chose, puppidda 
 mia, but I won't not until you allow me to, not until you 
 want me to." He covered one of the girl's breasts with his 
 right hand. It was perfectly moulded and virginally firm. 
 It was not the first time that his hands had tarnished inno- 
 cence and given birth to desires. 
 
 "I will not offer you an undesired kiss, Madonnina," he 
 said. "I will give you this instead." He drew from his 
 pocket a coral necklace ; each bead was delicately cut so as 
 to represent a ripe raspberry. He tried to fasten it round 
 her neck, but Zita's quick hands prevented him.
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 21 
 
 "Prego, Signore, I cannot wear them." Her bent head 
 prevented him slipping the beads under her chin. "Senta, 
 Signore," she said more brightly, "I wear a string of 
 coral. I do not require your gift, ma grazie." She 
 pulled out her beads, which were hidden by her dress. 
 
 "But that is only peasant's coral. This is pigeon- 
 blood, the very tone of your ripe lips." 
 
 "No, no, Signore! I do not accept presents." 
 
 "Ma, this is no present. I thought they would suit your 
 white throat and crimson lips ; wear them, Madonnina, 
 just to give me pleasure. You know I love looking at 
 pretty things and I have no sister to give them to." 
 
 The girl looked at them. She appreciated their beauty, 
 for coral has always been much prized and understood in 
 Sicily. Such blood-red coral is rare and beautiful; it is 
 imported from far seas. Besides, the workmanship of the 
 beads made it unique. 
 
 "It is very costly, Signore, and worthy of our museum." 
 
 "I paid nothing for it. I could have convicted a youth 
 of theft; he was in my power. His mother brought me 
 this, her last family relic, to buy him off." 
 
 "Povera DonnaJ" Zita's eyes looked tenderly at the 
 beautiful beads. She was not accusing the Signore, merely 
 visualising the mother's agony. 
 
 "Don't they look as if juice would burst from them if 
 you pricked them?" he said. 
 
 Zita's thoughts were still with the boy's mother. 
 "Povera donna," she said again, "povera donna." 
 
 "Perbacco, carina, but they will be happier round your 
 white throat. Pretty things do not like to be hidden away 
 in a poor woman's house, and they hate to be worn by 
 ugly people. Things have feelings, Zitina, like ourselves." 
 
 " Si, si, Signore." 
 
 The girl did not follow his meaning, but politeness to 
 her superiors made her agree with him. Politeness in a 
 Sicilian is almost as great a force as it is in a Japanese. 
 Politeness made it impossible for Zita to openly resent the
 
 22 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 Signore's terms of endearment or his everyday attentions 
 to her. In Sicily, an employer will often speak affection- 
 ately to his employees and to their children. At one 
 moment the Signore made the girl feel that she was only, 
 in his eyes, her brother's young sister, a mere child in 
 years; at another, she was the woman he desired and was 
 hunting. 
 
 Because Zita did not disagree with the Signore, he said 
 coaxingly, "Then wear them. Take off these beads and 
 put on mine. Look, yours are quite brown beside my 
 pigeon's blood." He had unfastened the beads from the 
 girl's neck ; he held up both strings in his hands. The ones 
 she had refused made her own look ugly and ill-coloured, 
 but with jealous fingers she took them quickly from his 
 hand. 
 
 "Prego, Signore, my dead mother gave them to me she 
 saved up so long for them." 
 
 Tears sprang to her eyes. What would her mother 
 think of her child if she could see her seated beside a Sig- 
 nore, whose eyes made her dawning womanhood ashamed? 
 Would her mother petition the Blessed Virgin to help her 
 helpless child? Her wet eyes were tragic. The Signore 
 wiped them with his linen handkerchief and put the re- 
 jected corals back into his pocket. After lunch the girl 
 would probably have accepted them! he had offered them 
 too soon. 
 
 When her eyes were dried and she was smilling again 
 for the Signore had treated her like a fractious baby, while 
 he wiped away her tears he bent his head and put his lips 
 close to hers. 
 
 "Now won't you give me a kiss and say I am forgiven ? 
 I never meant to hurt your feelings. Well, if you 
 are shy, let me kiss your eyes, let me teach you how to 
 kiss." 
 
 Zita was a true child of the south, eager for love and 
 affection. Her senses were battling against her fear of his 
 demands. But to allow any man to kiss her or to ever
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 23 
 
 speak of love to her before marriage was a thing unthink- 
 able, a disgrace. 
 
 She sprang from him like a young animal freed from a 
 trap. Had her swift prayer been answered? New energy 
 had come to her. 
 
 "No, Signore, mai, mai!" She struggled to her feet. 
 
 As long as his hands caressed her her energy deserted 
 her, resistance was benumbed; beyond his reach and the 
 physical influence of his passion she could act and think. 
 With flaming eyes she faced him bravely. 
 
 "Tell me, Signore, where is my brother? Where is 
 Salvatore? Why is he not here to protect me?" 
 
 The Signore shook his head ; her anger amused him. "I 
 do not know where he is." As he spoke, he sprang from 
 the couch and blocked the door; if she attempted to pass 
 him he would take her in his arms. Panting, she faced 
 him again. 
 
 "Why did you bring me here, Signore? Was it to meet 
 Salvatore, or was it for your pleasure?" 
 
 "For my pleasure and for your pleasure too, angry 
 lifctle Zita! When I have taught you how sweet love can 
 be, you will smile again and forget those fears. This is 
 to be our love-birds' nest, puppidda mia." 
 
 The girl's face became chalk-white ; she gave a low cry. 
 "Madonna mia, why did I come here? Why did I come 
 here?" 
 
 The room began to move up and down. She felt faint; 
 in another moment she would indeed be at his mercy. She 
 had to support herself by holding on to the table. 
 
 The Signore poured out a glass of Marsala and told 
 her to drink it. Zita had only drunk the cheap red wine 
 bought at the country farms, and always mixed with 
 water; no Sicilian ever drinks plain wine. She drank 
 some Marsala eagerly; she would have drunk anything 
 to steady her tottering limbs and give her power to act 
 and to think. The wine did restore her; the faintness 
 passed.
 
 "I want Salvatore." She said the words as a child 
 might have said them. "Take me to Salvatore." 
 
 "This is all nonsense," he said gently. "All women feel 
 like this until love has shown them that there is nothing 
 to fear. Dear little girl, I will be so good to you won't 
 you let me be your big and devoted lover?" - 
 
 "Non mail" she cried wildly. "You are cruel, Signore, 
 you know a good girl cannot have a lover ; you know that I 
 am virtuous." Tears poured down Zita's cheeks. 
 
 The Signore's fingers wiped them away. "You dear 
 little woman, you want me and my love; you are only 
 afraid, afraid of other people, child; you are not afraid 
 of me." 
 
 The wine was by this time surging through the girl's 
 veins; it had stopped her faintness, but it was making 
 her feel very weak, almost as helpless as when she was 
 faint. If he took her in his arms now, what could she 
 do ? Oh, Mother in Heaven ! If only it was not 
 wrong to lay her heavy head on his shoulder and go to 
 sleep ! 
 
 The Signore stood silently beside her. He knew what 
 was happening; he saw the stern expression on the young 
 face relaxing ; he saw that resistance was almost over, the 
 battle almost won. 
 
 Tenderly he kissed her wet cheek. As a lover he was 
 perfect. The girl was refined and sensitive; with her 
 passion must be devoid of grossness. Zita looked up at 
 him with heavy eyes. He was quite right for the moment 
 resistance was impossible. But it was only for a moment. 
 With one of those sudden clearings of the brain and whole 
 system, which is totally inexplicable, every trace of wine- 
 languor suddenly left Zita. Her head lost its heaviness 
 and her energies became vitalised. With extraordinary 
 clarity her wits began to work. Her prayer .had been 
 answered; she had been shown the way. 
 
 The Signore was kissing her; she must let him kiss her 
 again yes, kiss her and caress her.
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 25 
 
 She looked up at him with inviting eyes. "Salvatore 
 will come," she said, "and if he comes, he will kill us." 
 
 "No, no, gioia mia, we are safe. There is only you and 
 I, our two selves in the whole world. This little room will 
 only hold Love, our Love, all this afternoon, donna mia." 
 He kissed her soft throat as he murmured the words in her 
 ear. 
 
 "No, no," she said pleadingly, "I am afraid. See that 
 Salvatore is not near." Her eyes showed no shrinking, 
 only alarm for their safety. "He will certainly kill us, 
 Signore." 
 
 "I will go and make everything secure, mio dolce amore, 
 I will tell the padrone that I am engaged." He laughed 
 happily, as he held her closely to him. "My timid little 
 robin, soon you will laugh at all your fears. Now I will 
 go, if you will promise to be quite at rest with me and enjoy 
 all the beautiful gifts of love. Little woman, you don't 
 know what wonderful things love can do." 
 
 Zita smiled. Her brain was working furiously, but he 
 must not know; he must go and look for Salvatore; she 
 must play her part. 
 
 She watched his movements. It was obvious that he did 
 not trust her for he took the key out of the inside of the 
 door and locked it behind him from the outside. She heard 
 him run down the stairs ; in a very few minutes he would 
 return to claim his promise. 
 
 She flew to the window. She must jump out even if she 
 broke all her limbs in doing so. She opened it quietly. If 
 he was on the doorstep he would look up and see her, but 
 she would jump all the same. When the window was 
 opened to its fullest, she put out her head and shoulders. 
 
 A long cart piled high with donax reeds was drawing 
 close to the inn. She must wait until it passed her window, 
 for the reeds would reach almost to the balcony. Her 
 fears left no time for doubts. Now was her chance, the 
 Blessed Virgin had sent this means of escape. She scram- 
 bled out on to the small balcony and waited until the cart
 
 26 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 came under it, then with the lightness of youth she poised 
 herself for one moment on its railings and leaped on to the 
 load of donax reeds. 
 
 The man who was driving the cart was suddenly aroused 
 from his reverie, which he was accompanying with the 
 music of a long reed flute. What he saw was a girl, hat- 
 less and excited, suddenly drop like a bolt from the blue 
 on to his load of reeds. 
 
 "Prego, Signore, save me! Hide me under your rain- 
 sheet, cover me quickly." 
 
 The youth took the rain-sheet, which he used for his 
 horse in the evenings in bad weather, and without speak- 
 ing a word or waiting for a minute, he threw it over the 
 girl, who lay panting and speechless. When youth is in 
 distress, a Sicilian does not stop to enquire what is right 
 and what is wrong; when it pleads for help it receives it. 
 The young man had not seen how beautiful his burden was, 
 but it was young. Without more ado, they journeyed on, 
 up the narrow street and out of the town and all the while 
 Zita lay trembling and thankful, while the carter played 
 gaily on his pipe. Intrigue is instinctive to all Sicilians ; 
 while he played, he wondered what part he had filled in a 
 strange romance. 
 
 When they were beyond the outskirts of the town and 
 no-one seemed to trouble them, he stopped his playing and 
 with the familiar Italian expression, "Mi scusi," he lifted 
 the storm-sheet and peeped at the hidden girl. 
 
 "Signorina," he said, "where do you wish to go to? 
 We have now left the town." 
 
 "To Girgenti, prego, Signor, e grazie, mille grazie." 
 
 The youth laughed. "Mi displace, but I am not going 
 to Girgenti." 
 
 "How near do you go, Signor?" 
 
 "I can take you a good part of the way." 
 
 Zita's dark head was now uncovered. He saw her face 
 for the first time. A new heaven and a new earth seemed 
 suddenly opened to him. He was gazing into young eyes
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 27 
 
 which held both fear and gratitude; he was listening to 
 words spoken by lips whose perfection he had never im- 
 agined. 
 
 "Grazie, grazie, Signor," she said again. "I was in 
 great danger . . . you saved me . . ." she hesitated 
 "... Yes, I was in terrible danger. If you had not 
 been passing, I should have jumped to the ground." 
 
 "What good fortune was mine, Signorina ! Where are 
 you going to now?" The young man's eyes were devoutly 
 respectful. 
 
 "To the Casa Salvatore, my brother's house in Girgenti, 
 my home." 
 
 He had mentioned the point in the road where their ways 
 must part. "Can you walk so far alone?" 
 
 "Gia, gia." She spoke eagerly, although in truth both 
 the wine she had drunk and the strain she had endured made 
 her feel unusually tired. Her limbs and head felt heavy, 
 but if she might rest on the cart until their ways parted, 
 she could then manage the walk. 
 
 All she realised at present was the fact that 
 she was not returning home a shamed and disgraced 
 woman. She had tricked and outwitted the Signore. 
 Shame she certainly felt for her lack of frankness with 
 Salvatore. For weeks and weeks past she had known that 
 the Signore was making love to her in a thousand clever 
 and subtle ways. In Sicily it is the unspoken language 
 which feeds the heart and in which vows are exchanged. 
 The Signore had spoken these things of the heart to her 
 when he was busy with her brother, he had told them 
 while she sat all alone under the dark carob tree, indus- 
 triously knitting. Did not all this mean that she ought 
 to have told Salvatore? 
 
 Now she knew, as she lay on the donax reeds, that she 
 had been punished, that this would never have happened 
 if she had told Salvatore what she knew to be the truth, 
 that the Signore had been hunting her and desiring her, 
 ever since he had set eyes on her, that he had probably
 
 28 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 thought that her assumption of virtue was merely a part 
 of a woman's wiles. If she had been a really modest girl, 
 she would have told her brother. The Signore had trusted 
 to that. He had meant to trap her and capture her. 
 The three glasses set out on the inn table had been a blind. 
 He had never expected Salvatore; he had sent him off on 
 a long journey to keep him out of the way. The Signore 
 had taken it for granted that she really cared for him 
 and that she would willingly give herself to him if Sal- 
 vatore never knew. 
 
 The shame of the whole thing made her angrier with 
 herself than she was with the Signore. He was just like 
 all other men ; if he believed a girl was good, he would 
 behave respectfully to her ; if he thought she was light 
 and without virtue he would take from her what pleasure 
 he could. Yes, he had thought she would accept his love 
 and hide the fact from her brother, and even now, how 
 dared she tell Salvatore? For he would certainly seek his 
 revenge. Brothers have killed men for smaller insults 
 offered to their sisters. Besides, even if her brother only 
 quarrelled with him they would be homeless. 
 
 There was only one thing to do keep the shame and 
 horror of the thing to herself and never let the Signore 
 speak to her again, except in Salvatore's presence. 
 
 Her brain was clearing and her nerves were less dis- 
 turbed. She could look back on the scene with calmer 
 reasoning. She had saved herself by the miraculous inter- 
 vention of Providence, the Blessed Virgin had helped her, 
 the cart had been sent at the right moment. She would again 
 help her to reach her home before Salvatore returned. 
 
 To cleanse her memory of all that defiled it she said her 
 prayers. They restored her self-respect and calmed her 
 eyes ; she could look at clear hills without shame. 
 
 Feeling more courageous, she pushed back the heavy 
 rain-sheet and sat upright. The driver had seated himself 
 on the shaft of the waggon. She could look down at him 
 unuerceived. He was young and good-looking and well-
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 29 
 
 dressed. It was nice of him to sit on the shaft while she 
 rested above; the act showed a consideration for her dis- 
 tress. As she crept to the edge of the donax reeds so as to 
 see him better, he looked up. Their eyes met, their lips 
 smiled. They were delightfully young. 
 
 "Have you rested?" he asked respectfully. 
 
 "Si, si, Signor, and I owe you a thousand thanks. You 
 saved me ; I was in great trouble." 
 
 "So I imagined." He spoke gravely, but a smile lit up 
 his expressive Sicilian eyes. 
 
 "I was locked into a room, and I could not get out and 
 I had to be back in Girgenti by dark, before my brother 
 gets home. I have the key of the house." 
 
 "Were you naughty?" he asked. "Were you locked up 
 as a punishment?" 
 
 "No, no, Signor. I had only been unwise." Her eyes 
 were grave. 
 
 He had used the word "cattiva," which has a wider 
 meaning than naughty or wicked. His use of the word 
 implied, had she been childishly naughty? 
 
 "I only blame myself for my want of experience." Zita 
 spoke with the habitual dignity of her race. 
 
 "Sacramento! Then you were in real distress?" He 
 got up from his low seat and climbed to the top of the 
 donax reeds. "Tell me," he said sympathetically, "what 
 would you have done if my cart had not passed?" 
 
 "I should have jumped from the window into the street.'* 
 Her eyes dropped under his gaze ; she looked ashamed. 
 
 "Poverina," he said, "I understand." 
 
 "My brother must never know; he would . . ." she 
 paused. "Oh, he must never know ! You saved me, 
 Signor, so he need never know I shall reach home in 
 time." 
 
 "Grazie a Dio, I was passing!" he said. "But I'd kill 
 him and save your brother." 
 
 "No, no," she said impulsively. "Perhaps it was my 
 fault. I believed he was taking me to my brother ; he said
 
 30 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 Salvatore expected us in the port. I ought to have been 
 wiser, I ought to have known." 
 
 "You were brave, Signorina." 
 
 "I was desperate, Signor." 
 
 "Tell me his name," he said, "and I will kill him." 
 
 The girl's simplicity and purity appealed to his romantic 
 nature and fired his southern blood. He was already long- 
 ing to fight a duel for her sake. Her half-told story was 
 complete in his vision. 
 
 Zita threw back her head. "Non mai, Signor. Let me 
 forget, do not ask to know his name. All I desire is to 
 forget." 
 
 "Per certo, Signorina, you must forget. Let others 
 remember, let others teach him the lesson he deserves." 
 
 Even in Sicily a girl does not drop down on your cart 
 like a bolt from the blue every day to petition } r our help. 
 And such a girl! The first fine flame of rapture leaped 
 through his veins. 
 
 The girl was deliciously serious, and if the youth did 
 not understand her classic type as the Signore did, he know 
 that she was beautiful. He longed to meet the man who 
 had placed her in her present predicament ; his senses told 
 him that her virtue was no pose. He also knew his own race 
 and the temperament of its people ; the girl at his side was 
 not a safety-match; and now that she was in his care it 
 behooved him to keep his own senses cool and his speech 
 within reason. To play his flute would be safer than talk- 
 ing to a girl with melting eyes and a laughing mouth. 
 
 "Do you like the music of the pipe, Signorina?" he asked 
 modestly. "It is very simple but it may pass the time." 
 
 "Gia, gia, I like it very much. You were playing some- 
 thing from 'Cavalleria Rusticana' I heard it." 
 
 He took up his pipe. "I will play an older Sicilian air 
 this time." 
 
 Her eyes smiled ; she was familiar with it. She sang it 
 softly to the flute accompaniment. It was one of the 
 peasant-songs which the women sing while they beat the
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 31 
 
 wheat on the threshing floors. Zita's young voice was true 
 and clear. The pipe ceased for a moment. 
 
 "You sing, Signorina?" 
 
 "No, Signer, I wish I could." 
 
 "Then what do you call the noise you were making? I 
 call it singing." 
 
 Zita laughed and when she laughed her love of laughter 
 delighted the youth. Was ever a girl so winsome? Was 
 ever beauty so merry and yet so grave ? He played again ; 
 this time it was the "Caro nome" from "Rigoletto." 
 
 "Prego, Signorina," he said respectfully, "make that 
 noise again, and a little louder this time, if you please." 
 
 His lips were lifted from his pipe. Zita shook her head. 
 
 "Prego, Signorina," he said, "make it again." He did 
 not go on playing until she hummed the air. 
 
 All Sicilians who have any voice at all have an instinctive 
 knowledge of how to produce it; a carter of manure uses 
 his voice like an operatic singer. Zita forgot her shyness 
 and sang the song as she felt it ought to be sung. 
 
 "Grazie," the youth said, when he had finished playing 
 her accompaniment. "If you can't sing, there will be no 
 birds in paradise." 
 
 Zita took his remark for what it was worth. In Sicily it 
 is seldom spoken compliments which make a girl's heart 
 beat quicker. 
 
 She had lost herself in the enjoyment of the music. The 
 fresh air, her high seat on the reeds and the good com- 
 panionship of her unknown friend had driven away all 
 unhappincss from her mind. 
 
 When they came to the parting of their ways, she felt as 
 if she were saying good-b}^ to a friend instead of to a 
 youth whom she had never seen before. As a reward for 
 his timely services and good conduct, he was permitted to 
 put his arm tightly round her slim waist and swing her 
 down from the high pile of reeds to the long shaft of the 
 cart. 
 
 When her feet were firmly planted on the ground she
 
 32 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 thanked him again and again. Her blushes delighted him 
 more than her gracious words. 
 
 A Sicilian can fall in love with the twinkling of an eye. 
 Sardo Fontana had already given his heart to Zita for 
 ever. The thing was complete and overmastering from the 
 first moment. Zita was now his "adorata," and let no 
 northern mind imagine that such a love is a thing to be 
 laughed at or to be thought of as chaff before the wind. 
 As light comes into a room, so love comes into a Sicilian's 
 heart. 
 
 Sardo, like a young Apollo, had played many songs on 
 his pipe to imaginary girls and worshipped a hundred 
 ideals of the girl-wife who would one day be the mother of 
 his sons for that is the great ideal, the woman who is to 
 be the mother of his sons, the woman who is to give him 
 children. A childless home is no home to an Italian or 
 Sicilian. Zita was now to be that woman ; she was his ideal 
 in human form. In his mind she would be his "adorata," 
 his joy, his guardian angel, his sweet treasure but it is a 
 travesty to translate all the beautiful expressions which 
 Sardo would apply to Zita. In crude English his devout 
 passion becomes ludicrous. 
 
 They parted regretfully, Zita because she had now to 
 walk all alone and it was many miles, and Sardo because the 
 gladness of the day was in the girl's eyes and they were 
 leaving him. When would he see her again? He did not 
 allow himself to think that he would never see her again, 
 for in Sicily where there is true love, there is a way. He 
 dared not because he knew of her awful adventure suggest 
 a meeting; if he did she might imagine that he thought 
 lightly of her. The utmost he could do was to ask her, in 
 a very deferential voice, to which church she went on 
 Sundays. 
 
 Having learnt that fact there was nothing to prevent 
 him going to the same church. 
 
 He watched the girl walk swiftly away, then kissing the 
 neck of his mare because of its sex., he jumped up on to the
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 33 
 
 shaft of his cart and cried, "Amonene amonene" (Lei us 
 go together). 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 FATE or the Virgin was kind to Zita, for she arrived home 
 quite an hour before Salvatore returned from his work. 
 Her long walk had seemed unending, for very soon her 
 pleasant ride on the donax reeds had been driven from her 
 thoughts by her increasing anxiety to reach home before 
 her brother's return. Every incident of the day had danced 
 before her eyes ; each persuasive tone of the Signore's voice 
 had rung in her ears. A hundred times the ominous sound 
 of the door key turning in the lock had broken the country 
 stillness. The shame of it all and the vulgarity of the 
 episode had increased, until her nerves were at breaking 
 point when she reached her front door. 
 
 To her tired feet the road she had travelled over in so 
 short a time in the car had seemed eternal. But, thanks be 
 to God ! Salvatore had not returned ; the cottage was 
 undisturbed. 
 
 It seemed strange that things should be so normal. She 
 set about preparing the evening meal. When it was ready 
 Salvatore appeared. He did not think it necessary to ask 
 Zita if she had been out; he knew that unless it was with 
 him, she never left their home. 
 
 When the dish of gnocchi was on the table and they were 
 both seated, Salvatore said nervously, "Zita ! I have some- 
 thing to tell you, but let us finish our supper first." 
 
 Zita's heart seemed to stop beating. Her brother's face 
 was grave had he heard? Yes, surely he knew. 
 
 "Fratello mio, is it very awful?" Her words were 
 spoken with a brave effort of self-control. 
 
 "It depends upon what you consider awful."
 
 34 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 "By your voice, Salvatore, I might think one of us had 
 committed a crime." 
 
 Salvatore looked up quickly. The girl's words hit him. 
 There was silence while they ate their gnocchi with an 
 industry and quickness which would have amused a 
 foreigner. They belonged to the least greedy nation in 
 Europe ; but what few good meals Sicilians have per week, 
 they eat eagerly and with the appearance of greed. 
 Gnocchi is made of maize, appetisingly cooked with a little 
 cheese and butter. When the fact is borne in mind that a 
 full day's work was well paid if the labourer received one 
 franc forty per day, it goes without saying that a good 
 dinner consisted of one dish. 
 
 Salvatore drank some wine, probably less than a 
 farthing's worth. Zita did not take any the heady 
 Marsala had been more than enough for one day! When 
 her brother had emptied his glass, Zita said : 
 
 "Now tell me, fratello mio, your secret." 
 
 "Per certo, it is a secret, Zita, and you must keep it." 
 
 "Do I ever go to the well, Salvatore?" (The well is the 
 meeting-place of the gossips.) 
 
 "No, no !" He held out his hand, by way of apology. 
 
 "Tell me, then, what makes you so grave." 
 
 "You must know, baby, and yet I would like to spare 
 you." 
 
 "You are not going to leave me, Salvatore?" Her 
 words were a cry. 
 
 "No, baby, where I go you go. When I leave Girgenti 
 you will go with me." 
 
 "Ma, Salvatore, how can we leave Girgenti?" 
 
 "I did not say we were going to leave our home to-night. 
 If I make some money, baby, would you like to see the 
 Continent?" 
 
 "Make money?" Her eyes expressed wonder. What 
 did his words mean? Miracles do not happen to everyday 
 people, 
 
 "Yes, make money. I have been working hard for four
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 35 
 
 years. All I can make of digging will never take us out 
 of this little town; it will never pay for my fees at the 
 University; it scarcely feeds us." 
 
 It was the old dream, the old desire ! Zita thought that 
 lately he had resigned himself to his provincial occupation. 
 
 "I have found a way with the Signore's help to make 
 some money." 
 
 "Tell me what way you have found to make money?" 
 His words struck her. The Signore! 
 
 "Senta ! One month ago I found two Greek urns ; they 
 belong to the best period of Greek Art." 
 
 "Si, si !" Zita grew impatient. What had Greek vases 
 to do with his story?" 
 
 "They are worth a large sum of money." 
 
 "How much, Salvatore?" 
 
 "Some thousands of lire, if properly sold, I suppose." 
 
 Zita's eyes grew darker, her lips parted in wonder. 
 
 "The urns are mine," Salvatore said. "I found them." 
 His words were harsh. 
 
 "Yes, Salvatore, you have found many things, but " 
 
 "But nothing is mine, you are going to say, until it is 
 given to me by the museum authorities. Well, I am going 
 to keep these two Greek urns ; the Signore is going to sell 
 them for me to some wealthy American on the Continent." 
 
 Zita's eyes expressed an unspoken horror; she shrank in 
 her clothes ; her body felt small inside them. Some dread- 
 ful change had come to Salvatore. 
 
 "If I hadn't found them, no museum would be any the 
 poorer; for two thousand years they have lain just where I 
 found them. If some wealthy American buys them, their 
 beauty will be widely appreciated and they will benefit the 
 world more than if they were shut up in a museum." 
 
 "Si, si, but that does not make your action the less dis- 
 honest. You must n,ot do it, you cannot do it! You are 
 an honest man ! We are not starving, f ratello mio !" 
 
 "I want money, the urns are mine! Doesn't the land 
 belong to me and to you just as much as to the Govern-
 
 36 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 ment? We are the Government; we are taxed for every 
 mortal thing we eat and possess. The Government of the 
 country is the taxpayers. I have as much right to what I 
 find in the land as the King himself. He would agree to 
 that ; he is a reasonable man." 
 
 "Santa Madre!" Zita cried. "Have you lost your 
 senses? Is it too much book-learning?" 
 
 "Perhaps I have just come into them. I dig and dig 
 and dig, and what am I paid? One lira and a half per day. 
 These urns, if taken to the authorities, would only enrich 
 the museums, which as you know are only visited by 
 forestieri. Now I have got this chance I mean to take it. 
 Such a discovery was never dreamed of. They must have 
 been hidden for safety ; they are fine examples of the urns 
 which were bestowed upon the Olympic champions." 
 
 "How are you going to sell them ? Where are you going 
 to keep them?" Zita was trembling. The very idea that 
 her brother could contemplate dishonesty had shaken her 
 belief in human nature ; it had thrown her mind into a state 
 of chaos. 
 
 "That is what I want to tell you," he said. "They are 
 very tall and big," he indicated their height from the level 
 of the floor. "They are in perfect condition ; they are pan- 
 athenaic vases, trophies which were made for ornament, not 
 for domestic use. There is nothing like them in any of our 
 museums." 
 
 Zita was listening. Salvatore saw her anxiety, but 
 ignored it. 
 
 "I am going to bring them here after sundown in two 
 pig-skins from the well. No-one will look twice at them ; 
 they will be on a donkey's back 'like any other water-jars." 
 He paused and then said, "There will be no risk." 
 
 "And when you get them here, Salvatore?" 
 
 "I am going to dig a hole in the floor in front of the 
 stove." 
 
 "You are going to bring them to our house ! Hide your 
 stolen urns under the very hearth by which our mother sat
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 37 
 
 when she nursed us at her knees !" Zita's words rang out 
 in protest. Her sobs almost choked her words. "Oh, 
 Salvatore mio, Salvatore mio, say you do not mean it!" 
 She raised her tear-stormed eyes to his; she was at his 
 knees. "You are only frightening me! Our mother's 
 house must not become a den of thieves. Tell me quickly, 
 Salvatore say that it is not true, say that it is only a 
 joke .to frighten your foolish Zita! You would not make 
 a Mazzini a thief!" 
 
 He tried to push her away, to raise her to her feet. 
 "Little sister," he said, "you speak extravagantly. Our 
 father's name will suffer no dishonour. Out of all the 
 things that I have dug up and handed over to the museum, 
 I have only kept these two urns." 
 
 "Yes, Salvatore, your hands have been clean, your honour 
 unstained. Every man and woman respects you, every 
 citizen of Girgenti honours you. But you will be an honest 
 man no longer, the Casa Salvatore will not deserve our 
 neighbour's respect." She took his hands in hers. "While 
 they are still clean, let me kiss them, Salvatore mio, while 
 they are still worthy of our father's name. And oh, what 
 is money without self-respect? What is money compared 
 to our happiness ? And we are happy now." 
 
 "What is self-respect or anything else worth to-day, 
 without money?" he said bitterly. "And after all I only 
 want enough to give me my chance in life, enough to pay 
 for the education to which my abilities entitle me. Every 
 man has a right to that." 
 
 "Salvatore, have you then ceased to believe that the good 
 God gives us all we deserve, all that in His wisdom He 
 considers good for us? Have you forgotten our mother's 
 prayers, her teachings ?" 
 
 "Tell me, Zita, why does God consider that the Signor 
 Giacomo Amadei, who is scarcely ever sober and whose 
 daughters have run away to America because of his wicked- 
 ness and bad temper, should own the wealthiest sulphur 
 mines in Sicily? Why should he have a thousand lire for
 
 38 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 every centesimo I have ever earned? He does no work, he 
 lives on the labour of ill-fed workers." 
 
 "He has a bad heart, Salvatore mio. God has given 
 you a good one. Besides, God has given poor Signer 
 Amadei cross-eyes and a crimson nose and bent legs." 
 Zita's attempt at mirth was more tearful than her weeping. 
 
 Salvatore kissed her. "You will soon forget that the 
 urns are here, baby. Some boards and my beg-rug will 
 cover the place where they lie and when the Signore has 
 found an American millionaire we will take them away." 
 
 "Ah!" she cried. "It is the Signore's doing he has 
 persuaded you !" Zita was on her feet, her slim body was 
 trembling ; her eyes, which one moment before had been full 
 of tears, were burning like two live coals in her pale face. 
 "Yes, it is all the Signore's doing," she cried. Her voice 
 rang through the cottage. 
 
 "You are always ready to believe ill of the Signore," he 
 said. "Where should we be without him? He has been 
 generous, he has done you no harm." 
 
 "Grazie a Dio," she said gravely, "he has done me no 
 harm. But please, please do not trust him ; he is a fox ; 
 he will get you into trouble and then leave you to get out 
 of it as best you can." 
 
 "Why do you hate the Signore?" 
 
 "Because . . ." she hesitated, "I do not trust him. 
 He is a Croat." 
 
 "Foolish girl !" Salvatore laughed. 
 
 His sister's words were childish and yet they had their 
 meaning. The Signore was an Austrian subject; he had 
 served in the Austrian Army. But to Zita he was worse 
 than an Austrian, he was a Croat. In southern Italy and 
 Sicily the word "Croat" has not the same significance as 
 it has in Venice and in the Province of Venetia ; yet even in 
 Sicily, the word has an evil meaning, a nasty sound. To 
 trust a Croat was to trust a fox in sheep's clothing, a 
 servant of Austria. 
 
 "I may be foolish, Salvatore, but I wish to remain
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 39 
 
 honest. I would rather you never saw the Signore again 
 and that you lost your work than become a tool in his 
 hands, for that is what you will be ... his tool." 
 
 Salvatore's temper was rising. "Per Bacco!" he said. 
 "You shall not say that again! You forget yourself. 
 Call me any man's tool and you insult your father's son. 
 A Croat's tool ! Never !" 
 
 "Prego, fratello mio, forgive me. But it is true and you 
 will remember what Zita told you when it is too late. If 
 you dirty your hands with the Signore's work you will 
 make yourself his slave; he will drill and order you about 
 and steep you in still more dishonourable trades." 
 
 Salvatore sprang to his feet. "Go to bed!" he shouted. 
 "Go to bed ! This is my house ; to-morrow night the urns 
 are coming into it and I am going to dig their beds. 
 Begone." 
 
 The brother and sister stood glaring at each other. 
 Both of them had hot tempers and both of them were 
 utterly wretched. It was the first time since he had grown 
 to manhood that he had spoken roughly to her. 
 
 "If you want money so badly," Zita said, "I too know 
 of a way to make it. I have my body ; men call it beauti- 
 ful. Let me sell it. It would be more honourable, for at 
 least it is my own; it would not be making a thief of my 
 father's son. You know that young women can alwayi 
 make money." 
 
 Salvatore raised his hand to strike her. She dropped 
 quickly to the floor and so avoided the blow. His hand fell 
 to his side. He stood motionless, looking at the quivering 
 figure of the unhappy girl at his feet. The next moment 
 Zita crept from the room. 
 
 Far into the night she lay listening to the noise of her 
 brother's spade digging up the kitchen floor. She could 
 hear the sound of soil being thrown up, for her bedroom 
 lay just across the narrow passage which divided the two 
 rooms. 
 
 When the bed for the urns was dug and the boards,
 
 40 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 which he had stored in readiness for their coming in his 
 work-shop at the back of the cottage, were ingeniously 
 placed over the hole, and the earth which had come out of 
 it was put into two sacks, Salvatore sat down in his cus- 
 tomary place at the table and stretching his arms out, 
 buried his head on them. He was the most unhappy youth 
 in Girgenti that night. 
 
 The first half of the Signore's dirty work was accom- 
 plished ; already he felt that his honour was smirched, that 
 his hands would never again be clean. He had actually 
 raised his hand to strike Zita, the one thing on earth that 
 was dearer to him than life itself! 
 
 He loved her a thousand times more for her horror of his 
 dishonesty, for her pride in his name. He knew that she 
 was not speaking wildly when she said that in her eyes to 
 sell her body would be less dishonourable. And yet he was 
 going to do the Signore's work. He was defying his con- 
 science and hurting Zita. He was doing it because a man 
 is ruled by a thousand desires and is driven by countless 
 forces. Besides, he had gone too far to turn back ; he had 
 agreed to the Signore's plans, which had all seemed very 
 simple and far less dishonourable than when he had heard 
 them from Zita's lips. 
 
 The Signore had told him of instances where officials 
 holding important positions had mixed themselves up in the 
 illicit trade, both in Egypt and in Greece, and when the 
 traffic was discovered the scandal was hushed up ; the guilty 
 parties went unpunished. When the Signore told Salva- 
 tore these things, and how all sorts of traps had to be set 
 to catch the thieves, and stringent regulations laid down 
 which the curio-dealers were compelled to obey, it did not 
 seem to be a thing of much consequence if he took the two 
 urns which he had found. 
 
 When Zita put her view of the case bluntly before him, 
 the affair took on a different aspect. He saw himself a 
 thief and a betrayer of the generous trust which the 
 authorities had placed in him.
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 41 
 
 Pie was lying across the table, half asleep, his head still 
 buried in his arms, when Zita crept into the room. The 
 long braids of her hair hung on either side of her pale face ; 
 her neck and shoulders were bare ; the string of red coral 
 the beads which the Signore had spoken of so slightingly 
 encircled her white throat. Zita's nightgown was a crochet- 
 trimmed chemise which reached to her ankles. 
 
 Salvatore had not heard her footsteps ; her feet were 
 bare. She put one hand on his head. He was startled ; his 
 eyes questioned her. 
 
 "You want to say you are sorry, fratello mio? And I 
 cannot sleep until we are friends." She kissed his worn 
 face. "Won't you go to bed? It is almost time to get up." 
 
 Salvatore still looked at her. Her feet were powdered 
 with the soil which he had left on the cottage floor. His 
 little Gioconda was as gentle and soft-eyed as his anxious 
 mother had always been. Like a penitent Magdalen she 
 stood by his side, her liquid e} r es asking for his forgiveness. 
 
 "Carina," he said, "carina mia, go to bed. Why are 
 you not asleep ?" 
 
 "If you will go to bed, I will go to sleep, Salvatore." 
 
 Even in her brother's eyes the girl was exquisite. How 
 could his hand have been raised to strike her? The little 
 Zita, whom he had nursed and cherished and starved him- 
 self to satisfy. 
 
 "You have forgiven me, baby ? I was a savage." 
 
 Zita's smiling face was all the answer her brother needed. 
 He knew that now as always he had only to ask for her 
 forgiveness and all discord was wiped out. 
 
 She went back to bed, thankful that she had not told him 
 of her miserable adventure; he looked unhappy enough 
 without any additional anxiety. She must learn to manage 
 her own affairs.
 
 42 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 SALVATORE did not go to the farm the next day. He told 
 Zita that he meant to spend the time in cleaning and mend- 
 ing his store of Greek antiques. It was now the height of 
 the tourist season in Sicily and all that he mended and 
 cleaned he sold readily to the visitors at the temples. 
 
 One end of the table which ran along the cottage wall 
 close to the window was littered with amphorae, votive vases 
 and objects of Greek toilet tables, jewel-boxes and cosmetic 
 jars ; while in a separate heap at the other end there were 
 the heads and bodies and feet of terracotta statuettes which 
 in the sixth century B.C. had represented gods and god- 
 desses. 
 
 Salvatore was busily engaged in putting together with 
 his extraordinary delicacy of touch a toilet box made of 
 terracotta. It was covered with a fine black glaze and the 
 figures on it, of a deep red, showed that it belonged to a 
 very good period of Greek art; they were beautifully 
 formed. Unfortunately the lid was badly broken. To 
 Salvatore, however, the word "unmendable" was unknown ; 
 when he had mended it no-one would be able to tell with 
 the naked eye that it had ever been damaged. His hands 
 could mend a butterfly and put together a smashed egg 
 shell. 
 
 He was thus engaged when a knock came to the door ; it 
 was the knock of a foreigner, easily distinguishable by his 
 sensitive ears. 
 
 "Please to enter," he cried out in English. He could not 
 leave his seat at the minute without injuring his work. 
 
 With the lightness of almond blossom fluttering in a 
 spring breeze, an English girl entered his kitchen workshop. 
 
 "La Primavera," he said to himself as he looked at her. 
 The girl wore a white muslin frock and a panama hat. She
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 43 
 
 was so fresh and fair and slim that if the poet-painter 
 Botticelli had seen her as Salvatore saw her, he would 
 have painted a second "La Primavera." Her arms were 
 full of wild flowers which she had gathered near the 
 temples ; their rick yellow and purple brought a glow of 
 colour into the room. To Salvatore the girl was not real ; 
 she was a vision, a dream of mystic womanhood. She had 
 brought the fresh air of the hills and a fragrance of wild 
 flowers into his room, which until her coming had smelt of 
 hot glue. 
 
 "May I come in?" The girl spoke in nervous but cor- 
 rect Italian ; each word was pronounced prettily and care- 
 fully. 
 
 Salvatore rose from his seat the toilet-box must take 
 its chance. Zita had gone with a neighbour to the public 
 washing establishment to do her weekly washing; he must 
 play her part as hostess. 
 
 "Prego, Signorina, command me," he said. Salvatore's 
 manner was perfect. He was to the girl an artist in his 
 workshop, not a peasant. 
 
 Her eyes fell on the terracottas; she looked eagerly at 
 them. "I was told you sold small antiques." Her little 
 stock of Italian was leaving her ; she felt shy, for the youth 
 was no ordinary vendor of spurious antiques. 
 
 "Si, si, Signorina, these are for sale when they are 
 repaired." 
 
 "But I want to buy a Venus, a pure Greek one, if you 
 please." 
 
 "Mi displace (I am sorry), Signorina," Salvatore 
 shook his head; his eyes could not hold back their smiles. 
 
 "Oh, but you surely must have one! Look at all these 
 things." She now spoke slowly in English; her school- 
 book Italian was proving insufficient. 
 
 His English was better than her Italian, although gram- 
 matically she spoke fairly correctly. If she had been less 
 shy she would have spoken better. Salvatore had studied 
 English; it was necessary for the sale of antiques.
 
 44 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 "I am sorry, Signorina," he said in English, "but I have 
 no beautiful figures." 
 
 "Oh, you speak English !" she said, with a relieved smile. 
 
 "A very little, Signorina. I can understand more than 
 I can pronounce, if you will speak not so quickly." 
 
 "Well, I want a statuette of a Venus, or one of those 
 beautiful Greek dancing girls, just like the ones I have 
 seen, in the museums or like the Greek lady with the fan 
 do you know the one I mean?" 
 
 "Piano, piano, Signorina ! You speak too quickly." 
 
 The girl slowly repeated her words. 
 
 "Ma, Signorina, I have not got one. Such figures are 
 rare in Sicily. The one you mean is of the pure Tanagra 
 period ; it was probably imported from Tanagra." 
 
 "But look at all these." She picked up the head of a 
 goddess. "You have quantities of these, but they are so 
 ugly, so crude. I want a really beautiful one, please." 
 
 "Si, si, Signorina, I understand. I am very sorry." 
 
 "Have you no figures of Greek girls, nothing classic in 
 type and feeling?" 
 
 Salvatore shook his head. 
 
 "Why haven't you?" she asked. 
 
 "Because they are rare, Signorina. When we find them 
 they go to the museums. Figures with movement and 
 beauty are worth much money. There are many of these," 
 his eyes indicated a pile of broken figures. "If they were 
 not very numerous and in this condition I should not be 
 permitted to sell them." 
 
 "Why did they make them like that, so lacking in beauty, 
 when all the world loves beauty, and the Greeks could make 
 such exquisite statues?" 
 
 "Tell me, Signorina, why does God not make every 
 woman as fair as an asphodel? If you can tell me that, I 
 will tell you why they made all these unbeautiful things." 
 
 Salvatore's eyes had expressed more than his words ; they 
 quickened the blood in her veins. In this little cottage she 
 had discovered a true artist and one of the best-looking men
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 45 
 
 she had ever seen in her life. He was more classic than any 
 of the images he was mending. 
 
 "I am so disappointed," she said. "I wanted to buy a 
 really beautiful Greek figure. I was sure you would have 
 one." 
 
 Again Salvatore said, "I am sorry, Signorina, but 
 Girgenti is not Tanagra. The figures found in Girgenti 
 belong to an earlier period ; they were made before the fine 
 Tanagra artists were born. They are almost all votive 
 figures made in stereotyped moulds ; they do not represent 
 beautiful ladies, but the goddesses. They are like the 
 cheap figures of the Virgin and the saints which to-day are 
 turned out in the factories, all from the same mould. They 
 are not individual works of art." 
 
 "Oh, I understand," the girl said. "The beautiful ones 
 are the works of artists, made for their beauty ; these ugly 
 things were offerings which the poor bought for the tombs 
 and the temples." 
 
 "Si, si, Signorina, they are generally found in tombs, 
 nearly all of them are anterior to the destruction of the city 
 in B.C. 406. That is too early for the best work. If we 
 could come across some which belonged to a later period, 
 they would be more beautiful, more interesting." 
 
 "Would they?" 
 
 "Prego, Signorina, as art and the love of beauty de- 
 veloped the better figurines became more desired. The 
 artists delighted in their work; Tanagra became famous 
 for its figurines, which were so eagerly purchased that very 
 few left Tanagra; one or two have reached Sicily, but at 
 Girgenti" he threw back his head "they are so rarely 
 found that they must go to the museums. You could not 
 buy one, Signorina." 
 
 "And these?" The girl looked at a jumble of heads and 
 feet and trunks of bodies on the table. "What are these?" 
 
 "These," he said, "are all from the ashpits outside the 
 temples. They were thrown there by the priests to make 
 room for new offerings, just as dead flowers are thrown out
 
 46 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 from the altar vases in our churches. Before they threw 
 them out, they broke them, if they were not too lazy." 
 
 "Why had they to break them?" 
 
 "They had been used for sacred purposes; it was for- 
 bidden that they should be put to everyday use." 
 
 "So is that why they are all smashed?" 
 
 "The heads and the feet of the statuettes were made of 
 solid terracotta, so they are nearly always perfect ; the 
 bodies were hollow." 
 
 The girl turned over the damaged gods and examined 
 their faces critically. Salvatore watched her. She handled 
 them as he liked objects of great age and beauty to be 
 handled. 
 
 "They are all frightfully ugly," she said sadly, "ugly 
 and archaic and not human at all." 
 
 He did not like to ask her to inspect any of the small 
 jewel-cases and vases, for he thought that it would look as 
 if he wanted her to buy some of them, which was far from 
 his thoughts. All he wanted to do was to keep her in his 
 cottage as long as possible. 
 
 "I saw some terracotta figurines in the Palermo Museum 
 which looked as if they might be portraits of society 
 women, the society beauties of the day." 
 
 "I know them; they belong to the fourth century, 
 Signorina ; they are Tanagra figures of the best period." 
 
 "And you can't help me to buy one in Sicily?" 
 
 "No, Signorina. And if I found one the authorities 
 would not part with it: it would be dishonest to hold it 
 back." 
 
 Salvatore blushed ; he felt ashamed of his words. 
 
 "Then you show them all that you find everything?" 
 
 Salvatore' s eyes fell; the girl's words necessitated a lie. 
 "What they already have or don't want, I may sell. Mi 
 dispiace, Signorina, I cannot help you." 
 
 "Oh," the girl said, "how awfully honest you must be! 
 I don't believe I could be so honourable. If I found a real 
 treasure I believe I should keep it." Salvatore knew that
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 47 
 
 she was speaking rashly; her personality and frankness 
 denied her assertion. 
 
 His eyes expressed his disbelief in her capacity to 
 be dishonest. "The English are honourable," he said 
 gravely. 
 
 She laughed. "I hope we always deserve your good 
 opinion ; I feel sure I could not be as honest as you are." 
 
 For the first time in his life he could not look an honest 
 person straight in the face. He knew himself to be a thief. 
 
 "I shouldn't steal a big thing," she said whimsically. 
 "I don't want a huge cinerary urn or a statue of Jove or 
 that great figure lying down on the plain, which looks as if 
 it had grown since it fell. But if I found a little Venus or 
 a necklace of ancient stones, I believe it would stick to my 
 fingers ; I should feel that I had a right to it. We had a 
 saying as children, Finding's keepings." 
 
 "A very beautiful necklace was found last year," he said. 
 "It was extraordinarily perfect." He lifted up the terra- 
 cotta jewel-case. "It was found inside a case just like 
 this." 
 
 "Oh, how exciting! Did these little dishes really hold 
 jewels? Where is the necklace now?" 
 
 Salvatore threw back his head. 
 
 "You don't know?" 
 
 "No. It was lost ; it was a great mystery. Once more 
 it is hidden from the world." 
 
 "This is beautiful," she said. She was handling the 
 terracotta jewel-box. "The figures are full of movement 
 and life. I never thought of looking at these things." 
 
 "Si, si, this is a fine specimen and you can study and 
 learn much of ancient Greek life and fashion from these 
 domestic objects." 
 
 "But you can't mend this ?" 
 
 "Si, si, Signorina," he smiled reassuringly, "per certo." 
 
 "Then may I buy it?" The girl's eyes brightened; she 
 was delighted. The desired Venus was almost forgotten; 
 the foolishly fragile jewel-case was sufficient for the hour.
 
 48 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 "No, Signorina." Salvatore shook his head; his voice 
 was grave. 
 
 "Oh, but I do really want it. I thought you said all 
 those things were for sale." 
 
 "You shall have it, Signorina, if you will call again in 
 two days' time. It will then be ready for you." 
 
 "But you said I could not buy it, Signor Mazzini." 
 
 "Gia, gia, Signorina, I said so. It is true; you cannot 
 buy it." 
 
 She looked at him for an explanation ; already she knew 
 that what the Sicilian does not say is what he really means. 
 
 "There are some things, Signorina, which money cannot 
 buy, which can only be given. The piccola cassetta, which 
 once adorned a Greek girl's dressing-table, is already yours. 
 If I am not at home when you call, my sister will give it to 
 you." 
 
 The girl did not speak. Something told her why the 
 youth would not sell the box; he disliked the feeling of 
 taking money from her after their personal conversation. 
 It was bringing a business element into the situation, which 
 had been strangely devoid of it. She was puzzled to know 
 what to do. He was obviously very poor, but she could 
 not offer to buy any of his other curios, for she had scorned 
 them all. His old brown velvet coat was weather-stained 
 and sun-bleached ; his white shirt was made of the coarsest 
 cotton. Yet something, she did not know what, told her 
 that he was a gentleman and an extraordinarily sensitive 
 one to boot. She was in a land where poverty is dignity ; 
 in Sicily good manners and elegance of expression need no 
 teaching. 
 
 "La Primavera" was sitting near the table on one of 
 Zita's cheap chairs, recent acquisitions, with brightly dyed 
 fibre-string seats, examining the lower portion of her 
 jewel-casket. 
 
 Salvatore had returned to his mending. There was for 
 him an exquisite silence in the room. The girl's presence 
 filled it with enchantment. When she had examined the
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 49 
 
 casket, she drew her chair closer to the table and began her 
 inspection of all his small obj ects ; one by one she lifted 
 them up, asking questions from time to time, which showed 
 both intelligence and ignorance. She was enjoying herself 
 immensely; she liked fingering the antiques, with the soil 
 of Girgenti still clinging to them. 
 
 They were seated at the same table, like fellow-workers 
 or old companions, when a loud knock came to the door. 
 
 "That will be my aunt," the girl said. Her voice ex- 
 pressed anxiety; she looked at her little wrist-watch. 
 "How the time has flown!" She rose quickly from her 
 seat as her aunt bustled into the cottage. 
 
 She was a big, heavy-busted woman, with elaborately 
 dressed and expensively tinted hair and large black eyes. 
 A rich woman, obviously, and one whose beauty had not 
 withstood her natural laziness and greed. 
 
 Mrs. Bullock disliked Sicily because she never got what 
 she considered a good meal in any of the country places. 
 That poor food was sometimes well cooked she admitted, 
 for Sicilians have been famed for their cooking ever since 
 the days of Virgil ; but that she ever got both good food 
 and good cookery she denied. She was Christine Lovat's 
 aunt by marriage. 
 
 Mrs. Bullock's loud voice grated on Salvatore's ears; 
 instinctively he disliked her. 
 
 "I thought you were never coming, Christine. What 
 have you been doing?" Mrs. Bullock's presence so filled 
 the room that it used up both its air and space. Her ex- 
 pensive clothes and atmosphere of prosperity vulgarized 
 her. 
 
 "I am having my first lesson in Greek art. I hoped to 
 buy a terracotta Venus." 
 
 "Now, Christine, don't go buying any more of these 
 rubbishy things; our luggage is heavy enough already. 
 You'll never look at them when you get home." 
 
 "But I haven't bought anything." The girl's eyes 
 dropped; the jewel-case had been given to her. It was as
 
 50 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 light as air ; she would pack it herself amongst her softest 
 blouses. 
 
 "You can ask the young.man to tell me where I can buy 
 some good lace. I read in that huge book in the hotel that 
 you can get bargains in lace here. Ask him, Christine." 
 
 Salvatore being appealed to, threw back his head. 
 "No, Signorina, I do not know." His answer was final. 
 
 "Then come along, Christine, and leave all these things 
 alone." 
 
 When Christine said "good-bye" to Salvatore, her eyes 
 said, "I will call for the jewel-case; please forgive her 
 shocking manners." 
 
 Salvatore did not answer the aunt's "addio." Her com- 
 ing had spoilt his day; it had turned spring into winter. 
 
 When Christine and Mrs. Bullock were outside the cot- 
 tage a wave of heat, like the air from an oven, blew against 
 their faces. The sirocco is accountable for a very great 
 deal. In Sicily it has eaten and is still eating into the 
 golden stones of the Greek temples, just as it is eating into 
 the temperament and the health of her people. Mrs. 
 Bullock's temper was affected by it. It blew up white dust 
 and dirty pieces of paper into her face ; it obliterated every 
 trace of beauty to which the sulphur city can lay claim. 
 With her sunshade held well in front of her to screen her 
 eyes from the dust, she almost fell into the middle of a 
 flock of black and white goats. Just in time Christine 
 came to her rescue. 
 
 "You might have warned me, Christine," was all she said 
 by way of thanks. "How was I to see the wretched 
 animals ?" 
 
 "I'm sorry. I didn't notice that you couldn't see." 
 
 "Walking along with your head in the clouds as usual ! 
 For heaven's sake let's get out of this beastly town as soon 
 as ever we can ! I wouldn't have spent all those francs in 
 driving up to the city if I had known that I couldn't get 
 any lace. I do think Sicily is abominably over-rated." 
 Mrs. Bullock had made the remark a hundred times before.
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 51 
 
 "Shall we try at the barber's shop?" Christine's sense 
 of humour helped her. It sounded absurd to go to the 
 barber's shop for lace, but she was in Sicily. 
 
 "No, no, it's not worth while. If that young man with 
 the superior air and mighty fine teeth didn't know where 
 we could buy any, I suppose there isn't any to be bought. 
 He would have got his 'squeeze' from the barber." 
 
 Christine laughed; she really could not help it. The 
 very idea of her devout young scholar, her grave 
 Dante, taking a "squeeze" from the barber! It was too 
 absurd ! 
 
 "You don't imagine that youth was above a squeeze, do 
 you? Why, the whole of Sicily lives on squeezes. A cab- 
 man tells you of a good hotel ; he gets his squeeze from the 
 landlord: the landlord tells you of a good photographer; 
 he gets his squeeze from the photographer : if you ask your 
 way to a cake-shop, the man who tells you which one to go 
 to, will get his squeeze in cakes." 
 
 "Has it ever struck you, Aunt, how much squeezing 
 there would be in England if our workmen, or we ourselves, 
 were paid one and twopence for twelve hours' work? Some 
 of the people in Sicily work nineteen hours for even less. I 
 think Sicily is wonderful; its very beggars are gentlemen 
 and every young mother a grave Madonna." 
 
 "That's one way of looking at things. You shut your 
 eyes to the dust and dirt and fleas and to the idle wretches 
 who ought to be working." 
 
 "Ought to be working? That's just it! But if there 
 isn't any work to do, is it a crime to sleep in the sun?" 
 
 "Call me one of those silly jolting cabs, Christine. You 
 always see things from an exaggerated point of view. 
 Lancashire people would find something to do." 
 
 The girl beckoned to a cabman who had been following 
 them down the street. When her aunt had seated herself 
 carefully in his carriage she said, "Tell him not to go at a 
 breakneck pace; I don't intend to endure what I did last 
 night."
 
 52 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 Christine did her best to explain to the man that the lady 
 was nervous, that they wished to go slowly. 
 
 The man said, "Si, si, Signorina, I understand," and off 
 they started at a walk, which soon degenerated into a crawl. 
 Christine was in despair. 
 
 "The man's a fool," Mrs. Bullock said. "Just because 
 I didn't want to have my neck broken going down that 
 steep hill, we are to crawl through these streets !" 
 
 Christine called out, "Piu avanti." 
 
 When the man cracked his whip the horse kicked up its 
 hind legs and put its head down on the ground. Mrs. 
 Bullock clutched at Christine and screamed. Hearing her 
 cry the man gave the animal such a beating with the butt 
 end of his whip that it started off at a clattering pace 
 through the ill-paved streets. Children lying in the dust 
 were sent helter-skelter; men with portable shops had to 
 hurl them on to the sidewalk to get them out of danger; 
 the goats which had so nearly upset Mrs. Bullock a few 
 minutes before dropped their milk from their heavy udders 
 as they scattered themselves about the street ; water-sellers 
 cursed at the cabman and consigned his unborn offspring 
 to eternal damnation. 
 
 Through the street they went at an absurd rate, which 
 the horse kept up until it reached the rough road. There 
 its little spurt of temper was quickly exhausted ; it was not 
 capable of sustained effort. The driver looked round and 
 smiled triumphantly. His wild steed was conquered; the 
 lady need have no more fear. 
 
 Christine could think of nothing to say which would win 
 back her aunt's good humour. It was an ugly day, relax- 
 ing and uninspiring, just the sort of day that Christine 
 would have enjoyed spending in the Casa Salvatore, learn- 
 ing from its padrone practical lessons in classic Sicily.
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 53 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 WHEN they reached the Hotel des Temples, Mrs. Bullock's 
 face brightened; here at least was comfort and modern 
 civilisation. Here she knew that she could find people to 
 talk to, and people with whom she could play bridge on a 
 day which was intolerable for driving. 
 
 "I spoke to a very nice foreigner who is staying in the 
 hotel this morning, Christine. He is going to make a hand 
 at bridge with us to-night. He is really quite nice. There 
 he is !" 
 
 Their cab had pulled up with a jerk at the entrance to 
 the hotel. "II Signore," as Zita called him, was standing 
 on the doorstep. He hurried forward and helped Mrs. 
 Bullock to alight. He had seen her niece at table d'hote 
 the night before. He had also seen her start off alone to 
 the city directly she had finished her breakfast. Only an 
 English girl would have chosen to walk such a distance 
 on such a day. 
 
 Mrs. Bullock smiled graciously to the good-looking man 
 who was ready to pay her pretty attentions. 
 
 "This is my niece, Christine Lovat," she said. Christine 
 had sprung from the cab unaided. 
 
 "Lovat?" he said. "That is a Scots name, is it not?" 
 His attention was still given to Mrs. Bullock. 
 
 "Yes, Lovat is a Scots name, but how very clever of you 
 to know it! It is not obviously Scots like Mackinnon or 
 Macdonald. Have you ever lived in Scotland?" 
 
 "No, that is a pleasure to come," he said, "but I have 
 read your ballads, I know your history." 
 
 "I am English," Mrs. Bullock said. "I am from prosaic 
 Lancashire Manchester." She was almost sorry to have 
 to admit the fact. 
 
 "A musical people. You are fond of music ? I am sure 
 you are."
 
 54 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 "Yes, I love it." Mrs. Bullock spoke the truth. Music 
 was her humanising passion. But she did not appreciate 
 the old music of Sicily; it was too Arcadian, too elusive. 
 "Do you play the piano?" she asked eagerly. "I am long- 
 ing to hear some good music again." 
 
 "If you will allow me, I will play to you this evening. I 
 do not pretend to be a musician, but I can play a little." 
 
 So far Christine had not spoken. There was something 
 about the personality of the man which attracted her and 
 interested her even while it repelled her. He was good- 
 looking in an interesting and magnetic manner; his men- 
 tality was keenly alive. But it seemed to her that he was 
 pandering to her aunt's vanity, for what reason she could 
 not imagine. She was not the sort of woman to really 
 attract a man of his type. 
 
 After a few minutes' further conversation, Mrs. Bullock 
 said, "We must get some of this awful dust brushed off 
 before lunch, Christine, so for the present addio, Signer 
 Zarano." 
 
 Signer Zarano, or Count Andrea Zarano, as he was 
 officially styled (he preferred to drop his title in everyday 
 life ; it had its uses when social influence was necessary, but 
 in his work as an archaeologist it was a drawback) stood 
 looking at both Christine and her aunt until they had dis- 
 appeared up the stair. The elder woman was what Italian 
 men, who admire fat women, would call "superba." Signor 
 Zarano did not admire large women. The girl was en- 
 chanting. In Sicily she was as cool and refreshing to the 
 eye on a sirocco day as a meadow full of lady-smocks. 
 
 He went into the public sitting-room and sat himself 
 down at the piano. He was playing when Christine and 
 her aunt came downstairs. 
 
 Christine stopped. "Listen, Auntie! That is how he 
 plays that is being able to 'play a little.' ' 
 
 "I knew he would play well if he played at all, my dear. 
 He is the sort of man who never would do a thing at all, if 
 he did not do it well."
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 55 
 
 Christine knew that she had been correct in her judg- 
 ment; her aunt's vanity had been touched by "the 
 foreigner's" charming manners and his tactful attentions. 
 Mrs. Bullock was susceptible to flattery. Before going 
 down to lunch she had taken more than usual care to 
 powder her nose effectively, and she had also put on one of 
 her freshest and most expensive crepe-de-chine blouses. 
 
 Christine had not changed, but she had taken off her big 
 panama hat and brushed the dust out of her luxuriant hair. 
 For her age she looked very young and extremely natural. 
 
 During lunch her quick eyes took in every detail of the 
 scene outside and of the new visitors at the different tables. 
 She found amusement in watching their varying expres- 
 sions. Some of them seemed wholly intent upon the coming 
 food; was there going to be anything to eat which they 
 considered good food, or was it going to be risotto, dyed 
 yellow with saffron? Sicily was forgotten; lunch for the 
 time being usurped their intelligence. There were others, 
 in the minority certainly, who looked as if it were a terrible 
 nuisance to have to waste time on eating food at all. Any- 
 thing would do for them while Sicily was calling and their 
 days were limited. These ardent souls ate their omelettes 
 whilst they read their guide-books, with the white dust of 
 the high road still on their boots and clothes. 
 
 With a smile lighting up her very blue eyes they met the 
 intent gaze of Count Andrea Zarano. She blushed until 
 her very neck was rosy. It was absurd to behave like a 
 school-girl, for he had only looked at her, and since her 
 arrival in Italy she had very often been looked at, even as 
 the Count was looking at her now. She was not in the least 
 vain, but she was perfectly well aware that she was pretty 
 and that in Sicily her fairness attracted general attention. 
 But therexwas something about this clever foreigner's eyes 
 which disconcerted her. They seemed to establish an 
 intimacy with her. She disliked the feeling and tried to 
 shake it off. 
 
 When they had finished their lunch, she followed her
 
 56 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 aunt out into the garden, where they always drank their 
 coffee. They had just seated themselves when Count 
 Zarano appeared on the scene. 
 
 "Tell Orestes to bring three cups, Christine." The 
 diminutive Sicilian waiter who was carrying the coffee was 
 called Orestes. "Count Zarano, you will drink a cup of 
 coffee with us, won't you?" 
 
 "Thank you, Madam, this is kind of you. I will allow 
 myself a quarter of an hour of your pleasant society be- 
 fore I return to my work. No, no brandy, thank you." 
 
 " Work? Are you not a tourist, like ourselves?" 
 
 "Certainly not, Madam. I am engaged here on Govern- 
 ment archaeological work. At the present moment I am 
 supervising the excavations at the Temple of Aesculapius." 
 He shot a covert glance at Christine, who so far had 
 ignored his acceptance of her aunt's invitation. She con- 
 sidered that it was rather impertinent of the man to follow 
 them as he had done from the luncheon room. 
 
 Did he work with Salvatore Mazzini, she wondered? 
 Still, she was not to be drawn. Some feminine instinct in 
 the girl told her that while he was addressing her aunt and 
 flattering her with trivial, un-English attentions, he was 
 doing it all with one end in view ; he was thinking only of 
 herself. She could feel his thoughts physically and she 
 knew that he meant her to feel them. 
 
 When the coffee arrived, she carried off her own cup to 
 a distant part of the garden, where a seat in the wall 
 afforded a splendid view of the temples. Count Andrea 
 Zarano had to remain with her aunt, who was delighted to 
 find herself in his amusing company. Recognizing the fact 
 that it would be bad policy and worse manners to follow 
 the girl, he proceeded to put the time to its best use. To 
 win the vain aunt's good opinion meant future opportuni- 
 ties of speaking to the niece. The girl's attitude rather 
 pleased him; her youthful attempt to snub him amused 
 him ; it made the hunt more worth while. 
 
 Christine did not return to her aunt until the Count's
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 67 
 
 quarter-of-an-hour had elapsed. When she seated herself 
 beside her, Mrs. Bullock said : 
 
 "Don't you like Count Zarano? I hope he cjidn't think 
 it rude of you." 
 
 "I don't know enough about him to like or dislike him. 
 I thought he wanted to talk to you and three is always a 
 stupid number." 
 
 Mrs. Bullock gathered together the grounds of the 
 brown sugar which lay at the bottom of her cup. Candied 
 sugar for her black coffee was one of the many things 
 which she always took with her to foreign hotels. At this 
 particular moment, she felt inclined for something very 
 sweet, something crunchie, something which would help to 
 sustain the pleasant feeling which her clever companion 
 had given her. 
 
 Christine watched her eat the sugar. She knew every 
 characteristic of her temperament. She knew that she had 
 been simulating a feeling of intelligent interest in Signer 
 Zarano's archaeological work, which she would scarcely 
 have dared to express before her niece. To Christine she 
 never even pretended to be anything but bored with all the 
 ancient things in Italy and Sicily. She had come to Sicily 
 for the winter for its sunshine and because it had become 
 rather fashionable to go to Sicily. She enjoyed doing the 
 fashionable thing. 
 
 "I wonder what his nationality is ?" she said. "I'm sure 
 he's not Italian." 
 
 "Austrian, I should say," said Christine. "He is written 
 down as Count Zarano on the room-board in the hall." 
 
 "I always liked Austrians," Mrs. Bullock said. "They 
 are such gentlemen." 
 
 "So are Italians," Christine said hotly. "In Sicily the 
 very beggars look aristocrats ; Italy is the home of simple 
 dignity." 
 
 "So you say. I haven't met any of the upper classes 
 and the rest of the people seem to me to be waiters and 
 mandoline-players."
 
 58 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 "Oh, Auntie !" Christine said. Her eyes expressed what 
 she knew to be the truth that her aunt had not coined the 
 phrase herself, that Count Zarano had probably used just 
 those words. 
 
 "He does not look Sicilian, does he?" 
 
 "No, not a bit. I don't think he is one of Italy's true 
 sons." 
 
 Mrs. Bullock stretched herself. "Well, I am going to 
 have a siesta. What will you do with yourself until tea- 
 time? We might take a drive if the air gets cooler after 
 sundown." 
 
 "Oh, don't bother about me I have a thousand things I 
 want to do to 'read up' Girgenti, for one thing, and darn 
 horrible stockings for another. Even in Sicily stockings 
 won't give you any peace." She kicked off her white 
 antelope slipper. "Just look at that toe." Her big toe 
 was sticking through her white silk stocking. "I 
 do think it might behave itself in Sicily; it's always so 
 pushing." 
 
 "Alice is busy with my things all day long, washing my 
 fine bodices and brushing my dresses. The dust is awful. 
 I really couldn't let my undies go out with the hotel wash- 
 ing ; the things are beaten on the stones just as if they were 
 empty potato sacks." 
 
 Christine knew that these remarks were made to show 
 her that she need not expect Alice to do any of her mending 
 for her. 
 
 "But I'd rather come to Sicily with no maid than stay in 
 England and have one. 'There is a land of pure Delight, 
 where Gods immortal dwell.' ' She sang her favourite 
 lines gaily. She was longing for her aunt to go off to her 
 rooms and leave her to enjoy herself in her own way. 
 
 "I'm sure it isn't pure delight on a sirocco day and this 
 is only the first day of it ; Signor Zarano tells me that the 
 sirocco always lasts for three days." 
 
 "The hotel is comfy and even on sirocco days the garden 
 is a delight. And there are sure to be lots of bridge hands
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 59 
 
 amongst all these new visitors. Bridge was surely in- 
 vented for days abroad when the sirocco was blowing." 
 
 They parted at the foot of the stairs, Mrs. Bullock to 
 sleep in her bedroom until tea-time, Christine to dash off 
 breathless letters to her girl-friends in England. 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 ONE evening, while Mrs. Bullock and Count Zarano and 
 two other visitors who were staying in the Hotel des Tem- 
 ples were enjoying a game of bridge, and Christine Lovat 
 was puzzling her young brains over Sicily's long history, 
 Salvatore Mazzini was following a black donkey which 
 carried his Greek urns up the hill to the town. What he 
 had to do had been done so easily that it seemed absurd 
 that the anticipation of it had kept him awake for many 
 nights. 
 
 Zita was waiting for him, a miserable little Zita, weighefi 
 down by shame and fear. From to-night onwards, their 
 home was to be dishonoured, their hearth sacrileged. The 
 picture of the Madonna would look down upon the very 
 spot on the floor which held Salvatore's stolen treasures. 
 
 Zita's adventure with the Signore was still her own 
 secret. She had not dared to tell Salvatore, even if by 
 doing so it would have proved that she was right, that the 
 Signore was not the sort of man in whom he could put 
 implicit trust. Zita knew that her brother would cer- 
 tainly vindicate her honour; his own honour would not let 
 him rest until his vendetta was accomplished. This being 
 the case, she determined to keep the awful experience to 
 herself. It had been a bitter punishment for her folly. 
 
 As Salvatore followed his ass up the long hill his 
 thoughts were in a hopelessly chaotic state. He was forc- 
 ing himself into doing this deed which he despised himself
 
 60 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 for doing and which he knew was going to make both his 
 own and Zita's days unbearable. Why was he doing it? 
 He could not say why, only that the will of the Signore 
 was stronger than his own and that he had promised to 
 do it. He wanted money for his career very, very badly, 
 but since he had met the English girl, he knew that his 
 career could never really matter if he sold his honour. 
 La Primavera respected him and imagined that his sense 
 of honour was greater than her own ! If she knew what 
 he was doing to-night, bringing into the town, under 
 cover of the darkness, his stolen goods, what would she 
 call him? 
 
 He knew that she would dismiss him from her mind as a 
 thief and a low fellow, totally beneath her both socially 
 and morally, and that she would never gladden his house 
 again. And she was coming! Yes, she was coming to 
 claim her jewel-case. Then his thoughts veered round. 
 
 He saw himself taking his place as a distinguished 
 student in Rome at the School of Archaeology. He would 
 be able to carry out his dream, which would one day 
 make him wealthy. He would be able to lead an honour- 
 able and useful life. How could it matter if to win all 
 this he kept the two urns which he had found by mere 
 chance? He had not even been digging at the time when 
 he discovered them; they were finds quite outside his 
 government work. 
 
 The black donkey toiled on and Salvatore followed it a 
 very ordinary sight in Girgenti, a man bringing water to 
 his home after his day's work. 
 
 When at last he arrived at the Casa Salvatore, he called 
 out in a ringing voice, "Acqua, acqua!" 
 
 The cottage door was opened and Zita apeared, large- 
 eyed and solemn. If a murdered corpse had been coming 
 into her house she could not have felt more guilty, more 
 afraid. 
 
 "Senta !" Salvatore said, as he carefully lifted one of 
 the urns from the pig-skin. It was empty and very light,
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 61 
 
 yet he lifted it as if it were full of water. A neighbour 
 might have noticed his late return from the well. 
 
 As Zita took the vase in her arms a chill ran through her. 
 How she hated it ! Her very knees shook whilst she held it. 
 At Salvatore's injunction she carried the dreaded object to 
 her bed and deposited it safely on the cloth which she had 
 spread over the grand quilt. Salvatore handed her the 
 second urn in silence. In the same manner it was depos- 
 ited on her bed. 
 
 Then without a word, Salvatore shut the door of the 
 cottage and called out, 
 
 "Avanti." 
 
 The patient ass at once started off at a quick trot; re- 
 lieved of its burden, it knew it was going home. 
 
 When the door was shut Zita stood motionless. The 
 feeble light from the lamp which burnt beneath the picture 
 of the Virgin threw fitful shadows across the room. It 
 was too dark for her to see the figures and delicate tr.acery 
 on the objects which lay like two big black birds of ill-omen 
 on her bed. They were large urns with high handles, of a 
 delicate shape and workmanship. 
 
 She remained looking at them, with folded hands. Their 
 grace of form was obvious to the most ignorant eye and 
 her hands had felt the perfection of their glaze. The 
 longer she looked at them the more horrified she became. 
 They were finer than any vases in the Museum. 
 
 When Salvatore opened the door, he found his sister 
 standing motionless beside the urns. He put his arms 
 round her waist and drew her close to him. Together 
 they looked silently at the dark objects. Then impulsively 
 Zita flung her arms round his neck. 
 
 "Two corpses, Salvatore mio, the corpses of our honour! 
 I saw the Angel of Truth fly out of the door as you 
 brought these things in." 
 
 "Silenzio!" Salvatore cried, as he tried to disengage 
 himself from her clinging arms. "They are magnificent.
 
 62 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 Don t you want to examine them? Have you tost your 
 sense of beauty?" 
 
 "No, no! I have seen them. I have seen more than I 
 want to see ! They are finer than anything in the Museum. 
 It is their beauty which I don't want to see, it is their 
 beauty which is killing me!" 
 
 In silence Salvatore freed himself from her arms. He 
 must light the lamp, but before doing so he must take pre- 
 cautions, the same precautions as he had taken the night 
 before the precautions of a thief. 
 
 Zita stood spellbound while he went to the street door 
 and stuffed a piece of cotton-wool into the key-hole. Al- 
 ready he was accustomed to cunning and secrecy ! 
 
 When the key-hole was plugged up, he did the same 
 thing to the window, for where the wooden shutters met, 
 there was a space large enough for curious eyes to see 
 through. For as high as a man's head could reach from 
 the level of the street down to the sill Salvatore filled up 
 the aperture with cotton wool. When he had finished he 
 lit the lamp. 
 
 Zita buried her head in her arms. Salvatore spoke 
 sharply. 
 
 "Senta! I shall want your help." 
 
 She raised tragic eyes to his and watched him uncover 
 the hole in the floor. She was there to give hirn the 
 assistance which he required. When the bed for the urns 
 was ready, he took her hand. 
 
 "Come and look at them," he said gently. "On one 
 there is a Dionysian procession; on the other, the Birth of 
 Athene. You may never see them again." 
 
 "Please don't ask me to look at them, Salvatore." Her 
 voice was not pleading. 
 
 Salvatore turned from her impatiently and went into 
 her room. When he returned, with one of the vases in his 
 arms, she took it in hers, while he placed himself in readi- 
 ness to receive it in the hole. 
 
 If he had known Keats's immortal lines :
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 63 
 
 "What men or Gods are these? What maidens loath? 
 What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? 
 What pipes, what timbrels? What wild ecstacy?" 
 
 surely he would have repeated them as he took his precious 
 burden from Zita's arms and laid it carefully in its bed of 
 soil ? 
 
 Salvatore buried the "thing of beauty" carefully and in 
 silence, except for the noise of falling earth as it poured 
 from a sack into the hole. 
 
 The second urn was buried in the same manner. Its 
 beauty, which should have been a joy for ever, was again 
 lost to the world. And it must remain lost until some 
 wealthy American gave it to his country, which knew not 
 Greece. But even there: 
 
 "The piping figures would still play on." 
 
 Salvatore's work was done. La Gioconda had gone tear- 
 fully to bed. Half-an-hour later the cottage looked as if 
 nothing had occurred to disturb its small routine. The 
 cotton-wool had been removed from the window and from 
 the key-hole. 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 AN incident happened a few days later which influenced the 
 whole current of Christine Lovat's life. She was seated 
 near the Temple of Juno, within the Temenos, or that 
 portion of land which in classical days was cut off from 
 the public lands for the maintenance of the rulers of the 
 temples and for the sports of the gods, with her back rest- 
 ing against one of the golden-hued columns. 
 
 The sirocco had exhausted itself, and Sicily was once 
 more the Laughing Land. Her eyes were tired with the 
 flood of light and the riot of colour which everywhere
 
 64 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 surrounded her. Near by some goats were satisfying 
 themselves off a vegetation which all other milk-producing 
 animals would have scorned. Suddenly the bleating of a 
 kid caught her ears ; it was the cry of an animal in pain. 
 She rose from her seat, for the distressed bleating told 
 her that the kid was very young. After waiting for a 
 moment or two she saw it dragging itself along on three 
 shaky legs ; it must in falling from some great height have 
 had its leg crushed by a loose stone. Poor little thing! 
 Her heart ached for it. Obviously the leg had been broken. 
 While she was wondering what she could do, she saw a 
 brown Homburg hat appear above the rocky precipice on 
 the outer side of the temple. 
 
 After the hat came the shoulders and at last the person 
 of Count Zarano. From his hidden position on a ladder he 
 had heard, as Christine had done, the bleating of a suffer- 
 ing kid ; but he had not seen Christine. He picked the kid 
 up in his arms and seated himself on one of the fallen 
 drums of a column and examined the leg carefully. The 
 bleating grew less pitiful. 
 
 Christine's eyes were watching the deft fingers of the 
 surgeon. With the kid between his knees he took a hand- 
 kerchief out of his pocket and tore it into strips ; then, with 
 fingers whose nicety of touch recalled Salvatore's, he pro- 
 ceeded to bind up the broken limb. Two pieces of dry 
 olive-wood which lay close at hand made admirable splints. 
 
 When the operation was completed, the surgeon took the 
 patient in his arms and carried it off to a farm-house. He 
 had been quite unconscious of the fact that anyone, least 
 of all Christine, had seen his deed of mercy. 
 
 The girl's senses had been thrilled by the incident. Her 
 eyes had never left the Count's hands while he was per- 
 forming the delicate operation ; they still followed him as 
 he walked over the rough ground with his burden held 
 securely in his arms. 
 
 "Well," she said to herself, "that shows how little I can 
 read character. That proves I was quite wrong." She felt
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 65 
 
 so ashamed of her lack of judgment and of her instinctive 
 distrust of the man, that she longed to apologise ; an al- 
 most childish desire came to her to make some atonement 
 for her conduct. 
 
 That the deed bore fruit is one of the curious workings 
 of Providence. Why had she been permited to see that act 
 of mercy? It was a question which she was often to ask 
 herself in future years. 
 
 It was on the evening of the next day that Christine, to 
 atone for her false judgment of her aunt's chosen cavalier, 
 allowed him to take her to see the temples by moonlight. 
 Mrs. Bullock had refused to go with her; she preferred to 
 stay in the hotel and listen to Count Zarano's music rather 
 than risk a debacle to her expensively-turned-out person. 
 Christine did not understand that what is "a sweet dis- 
 order" at nineteen, at forty-five becomes a damnable give- 
 away. 
 
 "We can go into the garden when the moon rises, 
 Christine, and look at the temples from the terrace. They 
 will be quite as beautiful from the distance in the bright 
 moonlight." 
 
 Christine sighed. "I should love to see the shadows of 
 the Temple of Concordia when it is lit up by a full moon ; 
 they must look so mysterious. Please let me go alone! 
 Or may I ask Orestes if he can come? He'd like a franc 
 or two." 
 
 "You can't do that, Christine. Certainly not! Fancy 
 going with a waiter to the temples !" 
 
 "Can I come to the rescue, Madam?" 
 
 It was the Count who spoke. He had an uncanny habit 
 of appearing unexpectedly at their side. 
 
 "Will you allow me to take your niece to the temples? 
 It really is a sight she ought not to miss. Even without a 
 moon I prefer the temples at night." 
 
 Mrs. Bullock could not refuse his timely offer. In- 
 wardly, she cursed herself for her laziness. To be con- 
 ducted by the Count, who was always amusing, over the
 
 66 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 ruins by moonlight, and perhaps to hear him sing there, 
 was a very different thing from going alone with Chris- 
 tine. She could have dressed herself suitably for the 
 occasion. 
 
 "I shall be very glad if you will take her," she said with 
 a cleverly simulated grace. "These last three days of 
 sirocco have reduced me to a rag I really couldn't sum- 
 mon up enough energy to scramble over those ruins 
 again." 
 
 Christine looked delighted. "How nice of you not to 
 mind if we leave you alone!" She turned to the Count. 
 "I won't be five minutes in getting ready, if you can wait 
 for me." Her eyes thanked him. 
 
 "In the meantime I will play something to your aunt," 
 he said, as he seated himself at the piano. "What shall it 
 be?" His eyes spoke volumes; Mrs. Bullock was re- 
 warded. 
 
 Until Christine made her appearance he played to her 
 aunt and talked to her with his eyes. Indeed, he left her 
 so reluctantly that Christine came to the conclusion that 
 in that respect also she had been mistaken. He really did 
 enjoy her aunt's society and admired her. 
 
 While they walked to the temples, Christine did her very 
 best to be charming and sympathetic, while her companion 
 told her, as he had told Zita only a few days before, inter- 
 esting stories about ancient Girgenti and her temples and 
 their builders. Zita he knew had practical knowledge of a 
 great deal about the temples, which Christine had not; 
 but he also knew that Zita did not know lots of things 
 which needed no explanation for Christine. When they 
 reached the temples their conversation ceased. A scene 
 so sublime compels silence. 
 
 The moon, which had been rising higher and higher, had 
 now reached a point in the heavens from which it shone 
 right down on the Temple of Concordia. It lit up the 
 surrounding country with a pale quiet light. Never 
 before to Christine had it looked so beautiful. Under the
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 67 
 
 amazing light of a Sicilian sun, it was glorious. But to- 
 night, bathed as it was in the serene white radiance of the 
 moon, it was sacred. They were standing on holy ground. 
 
 "It would not tax the imagination very greatly, would 
 it, Miss Lovat," her companion said, "to visualise some 
 pagan pageant slowly wending its way to the temple? A 
 festival in honour of the moon ! Can you see the priest at 
 the high altar waiting to receive the votive offerings ? Can 
 you see the bearers of them walking under the majesty of 
 these columns?" 
 
 "What were their services like?" Christine asked. 
 "One reads so much about their gods and the everyday life 
 of the Greeks, but so little is ever said about their beliefs. 
 At any rate, I can't find anything." 
 
 "We don't know what they actually believed in." 
 
 "Really?" She looked surprised. 
 
 "We know how the Egyptians worshipped, and what 
 they believed in; but not the Greeks. All the same, it 
 must have been a pretty sound religion to have produced 
 these temples they did honour their gods that's one 
 thing we do know." 
 
 "Oh, I am enjoying myself!" Christine said impul- 
 sively. "I am ever so glad I came. The nights in Sicily 
 are wonderful. And it is so nice to have someone who can 
 tell me these things. The guardians of the temples are 
 useless." 
 
 "It is well to see the temples by night, for very great 
 things have happened to Girgenti by night, though it was 
 probably not on the moonlight nights. Don't you remem- 
 ber how the people fled from the Carthaginians by night, 
 just as they fled with the Carthaginians from the Romans 
 by night? And again a thousand years later they fled 
 from the Saracens by night?" 
 
 Christine shook her head. "Take it for granted that I 
 know nothing I am horribly ignorant. Sicily makes me 
 wonder what I ever did learn at school of history, any- 
 how. I want to read Sicily all day long. But how can I,
 
 68 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 and see it as well? There is so much to read; it is such 
 a long, long story." 
 
 "I can weed out the facts for you and, if you will allow 
 me, tell you about them on the actual spot where they hap- 
 pened. That always helps one to remember. Knowing 
 her history will explain her people and their characteris- 
 tics; and the types of the people need explaining. The 
 Island's various invaders and the traces of their civilisation 
 explain a great deal. You must remember that Girgenti 
 was under the Saracen yoke for nearly three hundred 
 years; the Saracens were only driven out of the Island by 
 Roger, the great Count. I say only, for 1086 is late in 
 Sicily's story. He was the father of Roger the King, 
 whose glorious Arabo-Norman buildings you probably 
 saw in Palermo. The people here are still very Saracen; 
 towns like Girgenti remained so isolated that the types 
 are pure." 
 
 "But they aren't all Saracen in type," Christine said. 
 "I paid a visit to a curio-dealer in the town; he digs for 
 the Government." 
 
 The Count smiled. "I employ Salvatore Mazzini." 
 
 "Oh! You know him, do you? Well, isn't he interest- 
 ing and classic in feature?" 
 
 "Yes, there is the purest Greek blood in the Mazzinis; 
 he has a sister who has come out even closer to the ancient 
 Greek type." 
 
 "I am going to his cottage to-morrow to get a jewel-case 
 which he is mending for me. I believe he could really 
 mend a broken butterfly; his hands are beautiful." She 
 laughed. "I wanted a figure of a dancing girl or a Venus ; 
 he said he never found any, that he had none for sale." 
 
 "If he did find one, he would not be allowed to keep it." 
 
 "That is what he said. How honest he must be! No- 
 one would be any the wiser if he kept little tiny objects, 
 would they?" 
 
 "It pays him to be honest; most individuals, like most 
 countries, are honest because it pays them to be. Sicily
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 69 
 
 has not yet discovered that honesty in commerce means 
 prosperity." 
 
 "Do you like the Sicilians?" 
 
 "Inasmuch that I cannot help liking all beautiful 
 people. Commercial Sicily is an anathema." 
 
 "I thought that youth who sells antiques was more than 
 usually refined and cultivated. He interested me; he 
 seemed an artist by nature and his work is so fascinating; 
 I could have spent hours watching him." 
 
 "He would be very flattered if he heard you say so." 
 
 "I'm sure he is not so silly as to be flattered by my 
 ignorant interest in his work." 
 
 The Count restrained himself from saying what he really 
 thought and felt; he merely said, "Salvatore Mazzini works 
 under me. I see all he finds he is quite an intelligent 
 youth." 
 
 Christine was almost certain that she could detect a 
 slight tone of dislike in her companion's voice; a sugges- 
 tion that she, like so many tourists, was open to the flat- 
 tery and good looks of Sicily's humbler classes; so she let 
 the subject drop and interested herself in her surround- 
 ings. They had arrived at the fallen Telamon, which lies 
 amidst the ruins of the Temple of Jupiter Olympus. 
 Count Zarano seated himself on the giant's chest; he 
 offered his hand to Christine to help her to mount. 
 
 "I think we deserve a long rest and a cigarette," he 
 said. "Do you realise how far you have walked, Miss 
 Lovat?" 
 
 "No, I have no idea. On such a night I could walk on 
 for ever; I'm not a bit tired." 
 
 He helped her to seat herself comfortably on the breast 
 of the Telamon. After a moment's silence he offered her 
 a cigarette. 
 
 "No, thanks," she said, "Auntie objects." 
 
 Night sounds and night scents came fitfully to them. 
 Christine knew that speech would be less intimate than the
 
 70 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 silence which surrounded them; it was a new sensation to 
 her, this sense-stirring power of a Sicilian night. She 
 tried to speak lightly as she began her camouflage of 
 words. 
 
 "Was this great monster we are sitting on some local 
 hero?" She tapped her heels against the stone. "What 
 a size he is ! About twenty feet ?" 
 
 "His original duty was to support the entablature of the 
 temple. A Telamon is a male caryatid. You have seen 
 the famous Greek Caryatides of Athens, haven't you? in 
 the British Museum." 
 
 "Yes, I suppose I have I used to be taken to the 
 Museum by my governess." 
 
 "Well, this fallen giant once supported what is called the 
 entablature of the temple that is to say, the front high 
 part of the fagade, the piece which projects over the 
 portico." 
 
 Christine smilingly thanked him. It was nice of him to 
 tell her these things in a simple way and not as if he 
 thought her horribly ignorant for not knowing them. 
 
 He told her many things, for he also knew that wisdom 
 lay in talking. The girl was adorable, but he must wait. 
 He had played the same game before ; patience was always 
 rewarded. To the girl at his side his manner was so imper- 
 sonal that there was no need for her to be distant ; neither 
 by one word nor by the slightest act had he done anything 
 to betray the trust her aunt had put in him. 
 
 To keep his tongue from mischief for the girl was 
 lovely in the moonlight he told her pretty anecdotes 
 about the poor of Girgenti and picturesque stories from 
 Sicilian literature. He reminded her that it was the Eng- 
 lish poet Gabriel Rossetti who had translated into English 
 the love-songs of Enzio, Frederick of Hohenstaufen's beau- 
 tiful son. He it was who first wove the love-songs of 
 Sicily in Italian. 
 
 Whilst the girl listened she marvelled at the man's VCF- 
 satility; his knowledge of her own country went much
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 71 
 
 deeper than her own. The man, on his part, wondered 
 why her former reserve and obvious distrust of himself had 
 suddenly broken down. He could not account for it. She 
 was no coy coquette playing a different game behind her 
 aunt's back; there must be some other reason for it. 
 Wisely, he kept his own counsel and still more wisely, as 
 the girl's defences broke down and she youthfully gave 
 herself over to the pleasure and romance of the hour and 
 the surroundings, he drew back a little. He made a deter- 
 mined effort not to become personal, to be while they were 
 alone together less intimate with her than if she had been 
 accompanied by her aunt. He gauged rightly that Chris- 
 tine was the type who liked to be a sympathetic and charm- 
 ing companion, but as yet would fear, because she did 
 not understand, any token of passion in the male whom 
 she was unconsciously attracting. 
 
 After resting on the fallen giant as long as anything 
 like wisdom would permit, they wandered on towards the 
 Temple of Aesculapius, because Christine had asked him 
 to show her the site of his present work. It was getting 
 late, so they had to walk quickly, as quickly as it was pos- 
 sible over such difficult ground. Near the farm a small 
 flock of sheep were evidently gathered together for the 
 night. The Count's quick ear caught the sound of a 
 dog's angry bark; he clutched Christine's arm and hur- 
 riedly turned her round. 
 
 "What is the matter?" she said. His grasp left her in 
 no doubt ; he was alarmed. 
 
 "Hush!" he said. "Hush! The dogs have scented 
 us ; they may come. If they do, don't be alarmed I have 
 my revolver." 
 
 "But I'm not afraid of dogs." Christine laughed 
 softly. 
 
 "Hush!" he said again, as his hand tightened on her 
 arm and he hurried her on. Unfortunately they both 
 stumbled over something, and when they recovered their 
 footing they found themselves almost on the top of some
 
 72 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 sleeping sheep, which were also guarded by a dog, a wolf 
 dog of Etna. With a low growl and menacing teeth it 
 left the sheep and sprang towards the intruders. The 
 Count put his hand in his pocket and nipped out his re- 
 volver. Christine, who had never felt the slightest fear 
 of any sort of dog, hoped that he would not shoot it. The 
 dog was only doing its duty, and probably the old saying 
 held good -dogs that bark don't bite. 
 
 As he held the revolver in his hand, the dog crept closer 
 to him, growling and showing its teeth. There was no 
 doubt about it; it meant to spring at either one or other 
 of them whenever it was near enough and got the chance. 
 
 Christine was at last terrified. The animal looked like a 
 hungry wolf. A shot rang through the air. She shut her 
 eyes. Was the dog dead? Was there no longer any dan- 
 ger to be feared from its awful eyes and threatening 
 teeth? The Count loosened his hold on her arm. He had 
 fired high to frighten the animal, which was skulking away 
 with its tail between its legs, back to the flock which had 
 been left under its protection. 
 
 "We must lose no time," he said urgently. "Walk as 
 fast as you can." 
 
 Surely there was now every opportunity for holding on 
 to the girl's arm to help her over the rugged way? But 
 the Count did not grasp his opportunity. He made Chris- 
 tine walk ahead of him, while he kept a vigilant look-out. 
 The dog might be following them, behind the huge stones 
 and rocks which covered their path ; it might attack them 
 at any moment. 
 
 Not a word was spoken until they reached an exit of 
 the grounds which surround the temples. When they were 
 far from any feeding-grounds and all danger had passed, 
 the Count said to her: 
 
 "I must indeed beg your forgiveness, Miss Lovat, though 
 I cannot forgive myself for the fright I have given you 
 and the danger to which I have exposed you. And how 
 splendidly you behaved!"
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 73 
 
 "If it had not been for your revolver, where should we 
 have been, what would have happened to me? It is I who 
 have to thank you. I am awfully grateful." 
 
 "These night dogs are just wolves," he said. "They 
 are terrible. But fortunately a revolver shot scares them; 
 one need not kill them." 
 
 "I could not help smiling when you said 'don't be 
 alarmed.' The dogs one sees in the daytime are such poor, 
 miserable things." 
 
 "When you saw that brute, you understood?" 
 
 "Rather! Wasn't it awful? I felt certain it would 
 spring at you." She shivered and instinctively drew 
 closer to him. 
 
 "They are trained to guard the flocks and farm-build- 
 ings by night. I ought to have remembered; I was to 
 blame. But as a matter of fact, I did not know that there 
 were any sheep on this land. Not many small farmers 
 in the district can afford to keep so precarious a stock as 
 sheep. Still, I ought not to have allowed you to run such 
 a risk. You were splendid, ever so plucky." 
 
 "Oh, but I wanted to go I should probably have gone 
 by myself." 
 
 "Never go so far from the city alone," he said quickly, 
 "promise you won't ! It really is not wise." 
 
 "Because of brigands, do you mean?" 
 
 "Not exactly brigands, the honest brigands" he 
 laughed at the expression "the self-respecting brigands, 
 I mean. The genuine article never attacks ladies or 
 strangers ; it is the landowners and mine-owners of Italy 
 and the wage-payers for whom they lie in wait. But the 
 country at the present moment is frightfully poor, and 
 there are such things as footpads even in your garden 
 of England." 
 
 "I once got a horrible fright in New Romney. Kent is 
 hateful in the hop-picking season." 
 
 "Well, here poverty is so great that your poorest paid 
 labourer in Wiltshire is a lord in comparison to the well-
 
 74 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 paid skilled labourer in Sicily. So it is not wise for a 
 wealthy lady to all poor Sicilians English ladies and 
 American ladies are wealthy to wander about some parts 
 of the country unprotected." 
 
 "Tell me why they are so poor. Are there no industries 
 in the Island, nothing but sulphur mines?" 
 
 He shook his head. "No, Miss Lovat, under this 
 Sicilian moon I am not going to pour into your ears 
 Sicily's tale of woe; I am not going to spoil the romanc? 
 and mystery of the night. I would rather tell you of hei 
 gods and goddesses, of the wealth and splendour of Gir^ 
 genti in the days when it carried on its trade with Carth- 
 age. In spite of its sordid appearance, Girgenti is still 
 for the South wealthy and prosperous. Sulphur has taken 
 the place of corn and wine and oil, and it is all shipped 
 from Porto Empedocle." 
 
 "Is there anything to see at Porto Empedocle?" 
 
 "No, nothing." At the moment the Count probably did 
 not even remember his visit to the Port only a few days 
 before. In his present pursuit of pleasure the tricking of 
 Zita and her flght were forgotten. 
 
 He knew that no man need hope to win Christine Lovat 
 who did not contemplate marrying her. He had trusted to 
 Zita's Southern temperament, as well as to her fear of his 
 displeasure. 
 
 When they reached the garden of the hotel the scent of 
 friesias and orange-blossom welcomed them. Christine 
 had no desire to go to bed; it seemed wicked to her in her 
 present mood to waste the glory of the stars and the moon 
 under the blankets. 
 
 As they stood together at the front door she said, "Per* 
 haps Auntie would like to come out the garden is so cool 
 and sweet-scented." 
 
 Her aunt had not gone to bed, but she preferred sitting 
 in the music-room with the window wide open. Would 
 Count Zarano play to her for half-an-hour?
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 75 
 
 Of course he would. He was always polite and tactful, 
 and never failed to do the correct thing in the most win- 
 ning manner. To do a good deed ungraciously is wasted 
 virtue. 
 
 "I will sit on the balcony outside the music-room," 
 Christine said. "While I listen I can see the moon." 
 
 As he carried her lounge chair closer to the window, he 
 said, "What shall I play to you and to the moon?" 
 
 "The Moonlight Sonata yes, play it to the moon." 
 Her eyes thanked him. 
 
 "The Moonlight Sonata, that is your choice. I think I 
 can play it to-night." 
 
 W T hile Christine listened outside the window, her aunt 
 sat beside the Count, close to the piano. 
 
 He played the sonata as only an artist can play it, and 
 he was playing it for Christine alone, while his mobile face 
 smiled and responded to Mrs. Bullock's admiring attitude. 
 His good looks increased with intimacy, and he could 
 when the opportunity demanded the effort be as simple 
 and easily pleased as an unspoilt boy. 
 
 And so it came to pass that the bread of kindness which 
 he had cast upon the waters was returned to him fourfold. 
 His act of unstudied kindness and pity for a suffering kid 
 had changed Christine's distrust of him into admiration. 
 Nothing which he could have done could have more com- 
 pletely proved to her how badly she had judged his char- 
 acter. 
 
 While he played to her she lay looking up at a southern 
 sky. The scent of Sicily's night flowers was subtly 
 wafted to her, while the occasional screech of a far off owl 
 brought to her senses the wildness of the outer Eden. 
 Roses, white stocks and friesias were near at hand; in 
 the distance there were wild hills, and beyond the Greek 
 temples the African Sea. 
 
 She clasped her hands in a silent ecstacy. The night 
 was bewildering ; the Count's music was exquisite ; she was 
 young and Sicily was persistently calling to her.
 
 76 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 The Count was in love with Christine as he had been in 
 love with many women in his life. While he was in love he 
 was capable of great things. While she was still to be 
 won, he could not imagine himself doing a selfish or igno- 
 ble deed to such a woman, a girl-woman or rather, a boy- 
 girl, whose clear eyes reflected the unsoiled mind of a child. 
 If she was not as innocent as a child it was because, prob- 
 ably, she had been instructed in certain facts of life. Her 
 own thoughts and instincts were as clear as the waters 
 which bubbled over the stones and wound their gurgling 
 way through the wooded glens and mountain passes of 
 her own country. 
 
 When they said good-night the Count kissed her aunt's 
 hand. As he did so a thrill ran through Christine's senses. 
 By some telepathic means he made her feel that the kiss was 
 hers ; she felt the softness of his lips upon her hand. 
 
 A blush dyed her face, for she was conscious of his in- 
 stinctive understanding. She had accepted his caress. 
 In the future, if she should have to reject any attempt 
 of his to make love to her, he would always know that on 
 this night at least his lips had pleased her. 
 
 Her confusion amused him and kindled his passion. He 
 read her thoughts as clearly as he had read them all the 
 evening; he knew that he had stirred new feelings in the 
 undeveloped girl and that they were bewildering her. 
 
 And certainly they were new feelings to Christine. For 
 the first time in her life her thoughts enfolded her in a 
 lover's arms, a new loneliness awoke in her and distressed 
 her. Was it really she herself, the Christine whom she 
 thought she knew so well, that had longed to be kissed by a 
 man with whom she was not in love, or certainly not con- 
 sciously in love? Yet just as he had been tender to the 
 suffering kid she would like him to be tender to her now. 
 She found herself alone in a strange world. 
 
 Zita of course could have explained everything to her, 
 for Zita was born with sex instincts. Zita knew that youth
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 7Tf 
 
 cannot trifle with Sicily's moonlight nights. In Sicily 
 youth must walk discreetly, for the gods who are in hiding 
 have not lost their cunning. Lovers may dance, but Pan 
 still pipes the tune; they must tread his measure. If 
 mortals will usurp immortal ground they must pay their 
 toll. Nemesis is ever busy. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE next day at about four o'clock in the afternoon Chris- 
 tine knocked at the door of the Casa Salvatore. A girl's, 
 not a man's, voice called out, "Prego entrare." 
 
 Christine entered blithely. Zita, who was patching the 
 pockets of her brother's sun-faded working coat, gave her 
 visitor a smiling welcome. 
 
 Zita's beauty so surprised Christine that she forgot the 
 very neat sentence of Italian which she had prepared. 
 "Buon giorno," was all she managed to say; while Zita's 
 great eyes looked at her, half in pity and half in wonder, 
 for La Primavera had been seen very frequently in the 
 society of Count Zarano. Zita had seen her with him her- 
 self, and she had been told the fact very often by other 
 people, people whom it would be impossible to imagine 
 could be interested in the stranger's affairs. The Count 
 and "la bella Bionda," as the English Signorina was called 
 by the local inhabitants, on account of her golden hair, 
 were constantly together. In Sicily everything that is 
 human is interesting to humanity; nothing is unobserved, 
 nothing is unimportant. 
 
 Zita had so far seen Christine Lovat only from a dis- 
 tance. Now that the very breath of spring was standing 
 smiling at her, she knew why Salvatore spoke of her as La 
 Primavera. But, quick to mend her manners, she offered 
 her visitor a chair. 
 
 Christine sat down, and when she had got over her sur-
 
 78 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 prise she said in perfect Italian, "I have come for the 
 little terracotta box which your brother was mending for 
 me. It was to be ready to-day." 
 
 "Si, si, Signorina." Zita jumped up on a chair. The 
 repaired articles were always kept, while they were drying, 
 in a wall-cupboard, which was too high up for Zita to 
 reach without aid. 
 
 Christine watched the girl poised on the chair. Here 
 was the living thing which she had wanted to buy in terra- 
 cotta, the most perfect woman Christine had ever seen. 
 
 Zita looked into the cupboard. The jewel-case was there 
 right enough, quite ready and waiting for Christine. She 
 was just going to lift it up when a thought came to her. 
 If she were to say that it was not there, that Salvatore 
 must have put it somewhere else, the Signorina would have 
 to come again and Salvatore would see her. 
 
 With her head thrown back over her shoulder, she said, 
 "I am so sorry, Signorina, it is not here. (May the 
 Blessed Virgin forgive my lie!) My brother must have 
 put in somewhere safe. Can you call again at half-past 
 six he will be at home then or to-morrow night? I 
 am indeed sorry." 
 
 Christine looked at her wrist-watch; it was now nearly 
 five o'clock. "When I've had a little talk with you I will 
 go and eat some cakes in the cake-shop and return at six 
 o'clock." 
 
 Zita knew no English, but she was quick and well-accus- 
 tomed to the Italian of English and other f orestieri, so she 
 helped Christine to express herself, and succeeded very 
 well. She understood almost everything she said in 
 Italian. 
 
 "Please to stay as long as you like, Signorina. It will 
 give me great pleasure if you will remain with me here 
 until my brother returns from his work." Zita spoke very 
 slowly and carefully. 
 
 "I will stay for a few minutes," Christine said, "and 
 enjoy a rest, as I am a little tired."
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 79 
 
 "Have you walked all the way from the hotel, Sig- 
 norina ?" 
 
 Christine nodded. "It is not so far." 
 
 "You are strong, Signorina." Zita smiled. "And you 
 look like a delicate flower which passes with the spring, so 
 very quickly." 
 
 Christine laughed; she understood. The girl's words 
 were simply chosen. "I am very strong," she said. "I 
 enjoy walking." 
 
 "Sicilian ladies do not walk, Signorina. In Girgenti 
 they only walk a little way along the street, to the Villa 
 Garibaldi, just enough to get a sniff of fresh air," Zita 
 smiled, "and to show their clothes." 
 
 "But you walk?" 
 
 "Gia, gia, I am strong I walk far every day." 
 
 "Where do you walk to?" 
 
 "To my brother's work. He is digging near the temple 
 of Aesculapius." In Zita's answers there were many ex- 
 pressions of respect which are quite untranslatable. 
 
 "Oh, I know," Christine said. "I went there by moon- 
 light." 
 
 "Si, si, Signorina," Zita nodded. 
 
 "You know? You have heard that I was there?" 
 
 "Si, si, with the Signore ; he conducted you. There was 
 a night-dog." 
 
 Christine smiled. "I thought no-one saw us. The 
 night-dog was horrible." 
 
 "In Sicily everything has eyes, Signorina, nothing is 
 unseen." 
 
 "But who told you?" Christine did not care in the 
 least, but it amused her, this local interest in other people's 
 concerns. 
 
 "My brother Salvatore; where he heard it I do not 
 know." Zita smiled sympathetically. "Prego, mi dis- 
 piace." 
 
 "Your brother must have seen us, I suppose. No-one 
 else could have told him, no-one knows us me."
 
 80 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 "Prego, Signorina, in Girgenti everyone knows every- 
 body and their business. If I go across the street to post a 
 letter, no-one is looking, I can see no eyes ; yet Salvatorc 
 will be told by more than one friend that I went to the 
 post. Someone will say, 'Your sister is looking remark- 
 ably well I saw her this afternoon at the post,' or they 
 will say, 'Artichokes are dear just now I saw your sister 
 buying some to-day.' Salvatore then knows that I must 
 have left the house. Salvatore is good, he does not 
 trouble; but if he were my husband there might be 
 trouble." 
 
 Christine laughed. "But may you not leave the house 
 when he is at work?" 
 
 "I have no mother, Signorina." 
 
 "You cannot go out as I do?" 
 
 "If a neighbour cannot take me with her, I must wait 
 for my brother. I prefer to wait, Signorina." 
 
 "But to-day you are not with him and it is so fine?" 
 
 "No, not to-day, Signorina." Zita felt guilty; she 
 knew why she had not left the house. For many days 
 now she had not left it. Since the urns were buried in it 
 she had stayed at home to guard their stolen treasures; 
 Casa Salvatore had become a cemetery. The girl had 
 grown to dread the long hours spent in it alone. Each 
 day when she had asked her brother if she might join 
 him at his work he had made a different excuse. 
 
 "Your brother enjoys his work, he is an artist?" 
 
 "Si, si, Signorina." Admiration shone in Zita's eyes. 
 "He is a true artist and a good brother." 
 
 "I think he has a good sister." Christine had her 
 fingers on the patch which Zita was puting on the large 
 pocket of Salvatore's coat. "You are a dear," she said, 
 "but don't you want to go out and enjoy the evening air? 
 Come," she said, "come with me and have some cakes and 
 chocolate at the pasticceria. I will wait for your brother. 
 Come along, please do I can't go alone." 
 
 "Ma, Signorina." Zita shook her head.
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 81 
 
 "Why ma? I will take no buts." Christine laughed 
 at the girl's astonished protests. "Please come, she said. 
 "I want a companion, and you can ask for the things more 
 correctly than I can. I want some strawberry tarts; we 
 do not get them in the hotel, and I saw them in the shops." 
 Zita still hesitated. The idea was astounding. 
 
 "We still have three-quarters of an hour before your 
 brother returns. Don't you like chocolate and strawberry 
 tarts?" 
 
 "But my house!" Zita blushed. "Mi scusa, Signo- 
 rina." 
 
 "No, I won't excuse you. No-one will run away with 
 the house." Christine looked round. "Will someone steal 
 your table and chairs?" 
 
 "No, no." Zita's heart was heavy with guilt, but the 
 Signorina was charming, so charming that she felt as if 
 she would like to do anything in the world to please her. 
 Her untroubled eyes were as blue and white as the old jug 
 which held their table wine; they smiled sympathetically 
 at Zita ; while the pink in her cheeks and the brightness of 
 her hair reminded Zita of the angels in old church pictures. 
 
 She was ready to go with Christine, but to make herself 
 a little more suitable to accompany the English Signorina, 
 she took her black cashmere shawl, bordered with a silk 
 fringe, from its box and put it round her slim shoulders. 
 It fell almost to the ground in long straight folds. 
 
 Christine was delighted. She remembered what the 
 Count had said about Salvatore Mazzini's sister. He had 
 said that Salvatore was Greek, but that his sister was still 
 more Greek, that she was a rebirth of Greek Sicily. In 
 her shawl she was exactly like a Tanagra figurine. 
 
 The two beautiful girls stepped out into the sunlit 
 street. Zita locked her house-door and put the big key in 
 her underskirt pocket. Christine looked athletic and north- 
 ern-bred. She was as usual dressed in pure white; a 
 panama hat almost covered the glory of her hair, and yet 
 it suited her. A hat would have been a desecration on a
 
 82 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 head like Zita's. They made a striking contrast to 
 each other, but both girls were completely indifferent at the 
 moment of their appearance. 
 
 Count Zarano, who was following them cautiously, was 
 subtly contrasting their merits. That Zita was the more 
 beautiful he had to admit, for she was well-nigh perfect; 
 but to eyes long accustomed to Sicily, Christine had quali- 
 ties which were newer and more exciting. There was about 
 her the charm of a strange woman. Her possibilities were 
 a matter of speculation, an unknown quantity. He knew 
 Zita's nature or thought he did and he could tell pretty 
 accurately what her passions would make of her eventually. 
 She was, he felt sure, not to be judged by the conventions 
 which controlled her conduct; she was temperamentally a 
 daughter of the South. 
 
 Zita's eyes were like two dark lakes ; Christine's were cool, 
 clear streams whose waters stirred no mud. It would be 
 his pleasure to see knowledge from the tree of good and 
 evil come into those innocent eyes, to watch the effect which 
 life lived fully and completely would have on a woman of 
 her type. At present compared to Zita she was almost 
 sesless. 
 
 He had loved madly many southern women; he had 
 tasted of almost every forbidden fruit and found it sweet. 
 But this boy-girl, whose very presence was as cooling and 
 invigorating as Highland air, whipped his appetite for 
 further adventures. Nothing daunted him. If to win 
 her he had to marry her, he would do it; she was the 
 woman he desired at the moment, and to his nature that 
 was all that mattered. His old desire for Zita was swept 
 aside by the ardour of his passion for Christine. Zita 
 had tricked and fooled him; she had yet to be reckoned 
 with. Her surrender was only a matter of time. 
 
 He hurried after them. Before they had reached the 
 cake-shop which lies at the end of the Rupe Atenea, he 
 had bowed to Christine as he crossed the road to join 
 them.
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 83 
 
 "Good evening, Miss Lovat," he said when he reached 
 her side. 
 
 Zita he scarcely noticed, so she walked on ahead. He 
 had not seen her since the eventful afternoon at Porto 
 Empedocle. He spoke to Christine in English, which of 
 course Zita could not understand; but her quick wit told 
 her that the Signore was inviting her to go somewhere 
 with him and she was refusing. She distinctly heard her 
 say, "No, thank you, not this evening." 
 
 A fire of intense hatred for the Signore leaped up in Zita. 
 She had not actually hated him before; she had blamed 
 herself for her stupidity. Now every vein in her body was 
 burning with hatred. He was paying the deepest respect 
 to the English girl, who was rich and a great lady, while 
 herself he almost ignored. He might never have seen her 
 before; he had dismissed her with the greeting he might 
 have given to any servant who was in attendance on her 
 mistress. Yet he had dared to say that he loved her ! She 
 knew perfectly well that his desire now was for the tall 
 English girl, and that he did not wish them to be together. 
 Zita could hate it was one of her inheritances from an 
 ancient and revengeful race. But she could love, too, and 
 she wanted to save Christine from the man who had so 
 shamed her, she wanted to warn her of the manner of man 
 he was. But how could she? The Signore was now 
 talking to Christine in the way she knew he could talk, he 
 was carrying her thoughts with his, inspiring her with his 
 interests, making things appear interesting which had only 
 been ordinary before. 
 
 He wished to make a third in the cake-shop and be 
 allowed to order the chocolate and the strawberry tarts, but 
 Christine was dismissing him. She did it because she saw 
 that if he made one of the party Zita would be left out. 
 All the Italian which Christine knew would go to pieces 
 and they would have to speak English; she could not yet 
 join in a mixed conversation. 
 
 To Christine there was something almost tragic about
 
 84 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 the black-shawled figure and the great eyes which had 
 become so gravely mysterious since the Count had ap- 
 peared. The girl's simple outing must not be spoilt. 
 
 "Andiamo," Christine said gaily to Zita. "Addio, 
 Count Zarano. We may meet to-night." 
 
 He had followed Christine for some distance, and 
 was not pleased, but he was too wise to show his annoy- 
 ance. 
 
 "There! I'm gl*d he has gone," Christine said with a 
 relieved sigh. "I want my chocolate. I will order it if 
 you will listen and tell me afterwards what I said wrong." 
 
 All conversations between Christine and Zita were of 
 course rather slow, but they were getting on splendidly. 
 It is astonishing how much can be said by signs and 
 glances. They seated themselves at a small marble-topped 
 table, and very soon a tall and ferociously-moustached 
 waiter appeared. Christine gave her order. 
 
 When the waiter had gone, Zita smiled happily at 
 Christine. "You speak Italian like a professor, Signorina, 
 and very beautifully." 
 
 Christine was pleased. She had taken great pains to 
 learn her Italian before she left London ; she spoke it very 
 much more correctly and more politely than the average 
 tourist, but with great hesitation and difficulty. 
 
 "I know so little, Signorina Mazzini, and when I say 
 something correctly I am always answered so quickly and 
 so volubly that I cannot follow ; I get lost, and depressed." 
 
 "Pregno, Signorina, that is because you speak so cor- 
 rectly; people think you know more than you do. You 
 ordered the chocolate and cakes with strawberries quite 
 correctly, just as if you could speak the language." 
 
 "Oh, but that was easy cakes and chocolate!" she 
 laughed. 
 
 "Ma, you said it grammatically. If you had pointed out 
 the cakes and then, said 'chocolate' to the waiter he would 
 have understood; but your plurals were correct, Signo- 
 rina."
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 85 
 
 
 
 "All Sicilians and Italians like to say pretty things ; they 
 like to make themselves agreeable." 
 
 "No, no, I do not like flattery. I never flatter, Sig- 
 norina." There was meaning in her voice. "I leave that 
 to . . ." She stopped. "Mi scusa, Signorina, but I 
 like people to be sincere." 
 
 "To whom do you leave flattery, who is insincere?" 
 
 "Prego, mi scusa, Signorina." Zita's confusion amused 
 Christine. 
 
 "Is it Count Zarano? Do you mean that he is insin- 
 cere?" She had felt rather than seen the girl's attitude 
 towards the Count ; it reminded her of her first impression 
 of the man. 
 
 "The Signore has no need to flatter the illustrious 
 Signorina ; what he tells her will be true." 
 
 Christine shook her head. "Who is the flatterer now?" 
 
 "I do not flatter, Signorina. My brother called you 
 'La Primavera' do you know what that means?" 
 
 Christine blushed. "Yes, Spring. He called me 
 Spring?" 
 
 "Gia, gia. He told me that you had come to our poor 
 house like Spring when it suddenly comes after a flower- 
 less winter. He called you 'La Primavera.' Mi scusa, 
 Signorina, but he spoke the truth, you are La Prima- 
 vera." The girl's eyes were beautifully sincere. 
 
 "It was very pretty of him, Signorina Mazzini." 
 
 "Prego, Signorina, my name is Zita." 
 
 "Then tell me, Signorina Zita, why do you dislike 
 Count Zarano?" 
 
 "Ma, Signorina, I did not say that. He is my brother's 
 employer." 
 
 "Your lips did not say it, Signorina Zita." Christine 
 touched her own eyes. "It is not the lips which tell im- 
 portant things; I think I am learning some things about 
 Sicily." 
 
 "The Signore is my brother's patron, Signorina; it is 
 not well for me to say that I dislike him."
 
 86 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 "I understand. All the same, you do dislike him, Zita. 
 We don't only hate with our lips and we can't help our 
 likes and dislikes." 
 
 "He is very clever, Signorina ; my brother likes him." 
 
 "But you do not share your brother's feelings?" 
 
 "Prego, mi scusa, Signorina. What I think is of no 
 importance." 
 
 Christine helped herself to another strawberry tart. 
 
 "How delicious they are!" she said. "Do you like wild 
 strawberries, Signorina Zita? I adore them." 
 
 "I like them very much and you are very kind, Sigor- 
 ina. This is a day for me to remember when life is sad." 
 
 "I am not kind at all," Christine said. "I couldn't sit 
 here all alone." Her eyes looked round the room. "Are 
 all these people from the country?" she asked. "They 
 look quite different from the people of Girgenti, so much 
 happier." 
 
 As Zita looked at the groups of people who were dis- 
 cussing with zest fruit-syrups and custard-cakes, Christine 
 saw her eyes drop suddenly and a charming expression of 
 modesty overwhelm her. A good-looking youth who was 
 seated with a buxom woman had at last managed to catch 
 Zita's eye. He was looking at her now as only a Sicilian 
 can look at his "adorata." Zita's eyes became fixed on her 
 plate. 
 
 Christine wondered what would happen ? Had they met 
 before? Would Zita ever raise her eyes? Would the 
 youth ever leave off gazing at her? 
 
 The embarrassing situation lasted for some time. 
 Christine felt certain that both the youth and Zita were 
 enjoying delicious thrills. 
 
 When Christine had eaten as many strawberry tarts as 
 she could manage and had drunk two cups of chocolate 
 Zita's appetite had suddenly left her she said, "Will 
 Signer Mazzini be back from his work yet? It is six 
 o'clock." 
 
 Time had not existed for Zita. She rose guiltily from
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 87 
 
 her chair. "Si, si, Signorina, prego mi scusa. I must 
 hasten ; I have the key." She looked anxious. "Salvatore 
 will be alarmed if he finds the house closed." 
 
 Christine rose from her chair and went to the counter. 
 "Please to be quick," she said. "I wish to pay for five 
 cakes and three cups of chocolate." 
 
 Zita stood by her side, a delicious shy little figure. The 
 youth who had been seated with his aunt had risen from 
 his chair the moment they rose and was now standing 
 beside them. With the grace of a courtier he bowed and 
 said: 
 
 "I hope the Signorina arrived safely in Girgenti the 
 other night? I have blamed myself for leaving her to go 
 so far alone." 
 
 "Grazie, Signer, I arrived quite safely. It has been 
 my wish to let you know, to thank you, but how could I? 
 You were too kind." Her lashes fluttered, her blushes 
 delighted him. 
 
 "Niente, niente," he said. "It was my good fortune 
 to be able to assist you. I went to your church last 
 Sunday." 
 
 She smiled. "I did not go, Signer ; it was not possible." 
 
 Christine had got her change. She wished that she 
 could have lingered longer, so as to give the young couple 
 their chance, but she had no reason for doing so. 
 
 "Again I thank you, Signor," Zita said demurely. 
 "My brother had not returned. I was in good time. I 
 shall always remain grateful to you." 
 
 "Addio, Signorina." The fine bow was made again as 
 Zita passed out of the shop. 
 
 To Christine such a meeting with any man would have 
 counted for very little, but she did not yet know her Sicily. 
 She did not know that it was a very daring thing for the 
 youth to do. Sicily owes many of its customs to the 
 unchanging East. Youths of the lower and middle classes 
 still adhere to the old-fashioned ways of approaching the 
 object of their adoration. A young man, if he admires
 
 88 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 a girl and wishes to marry her, approaches her in the most 
 distant and elaborate method. The girl herself is the last 
 person to whom he must pay his addresses. 
 
 Although Christine had only met Zita for the first 
 time an hour before, they had drawn near to each other. 
 Between them there was an instinctive bond of sympathy 
 and understanding. Christine felt that Zita was lonely, 
 that she lived a life apart from the ordinary girls of her 
 position. It was the consciousness of sympathy that made 
 her say, with no fear of being misunderstood : 
 
 "What good fortune that we went to that shop, Zita. 
 Were you glad to see him?" Christine spoke meaningly. 
 They were girls together, enjoying a small outing. 
 
 "Si, si, Signorina, I was very glad to be able to thank 
 him. One evening he drove me home in his cart from 
 Porto Empedocle. It was very kind of him." 
 
 "Oh, very kind I agree with you!" Christine laughed. 
 "He is very handsome and he looks prosperous." 
 
 "Gia, gia, and I think very honourable and sincere." 
 
 "I hope so." Christine could scarcely suppress her 
 laughter. "What a demure child it was ! Your men 
 have such pretty names; our English names are not so 
 romantic. What is he called?" 
 
 "I do not know his name, not at all. Prego, Signorina, 
 do not mention to my brother Salvatore that anyone spoke 
 to me." 
 
 Christine laughed gaily. She had hit upon an intrigue. 
 How much had there been behind all Zita's demure shy 
 manner, her downward glances?" 
 
 "Pie is a stranger. I shall never see him again," Zita 
 said excitedly. "Salvatore would be distressed if he knew 
 that I had permitted a stranger to drive me home. He 
 did not know that I was at the port, it was all a mistake." 
 
 Christine promised to be discreet. "But you will see 
 him again, Zita you know you will. A girl always 
 knows." 
 
 "Ah, no, no! Signorina, he is a stranger to my
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 89 
 
 brother. We shall never speak to each other again." 
 She spoke convincingly, but Christine was ignorant of the 
 fact that the youth knew her church. 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 WHEN they arrived at the Casa Salvatore Zita unlocked 
 the door and they went in. Before Christine had seated 
 herself Salvatore appeared. They were just in time. 
 
 When he saw her his delight was apparent as the 
 delight of a child, a child who suddenly finds that life 
 is as good and wonderful a thing as the best seaside- 
 advertisement. 
 
 After a conventional but gracious greeting, he said to 
 his sister, "Have you given the Signorina her jewel-box? 
 Are you satisfied with it, Signorina?" 
 
 Zita answered him in rapid and elaborate Sicilian. "I 
 told a fib I said I couldn't find it and asked her to return 
 at six o'clock; she arrived an hour ago." 
 
 "Why did you pretend?" He also spoke in dialect; his 
 eyes thanked her. 
 
 "I wanted to give you the pleasure of seeing her again." 
 
 Salvatore turned to Christine, who was laughing at 
 Zita's flow of Sicilian, of which she had not understood one 
 word. 
 
 "I am sorry, Signorina it was stupid of my sister to 
 forget. I will get it for you." 
 
 He unlocked the gay box which held all the unrepaired 
 antiques and took out of it a smaller box, then quickly 
 mounting on a chair, he opened the door of the wall- 
 cupboard. 
 
 "It is in this box, but the key is in the cupboard, 
 Signorina." 
 
 When he was too high up for Christine to see what he 
 was doing, he opened the box, which was empty, and put
 
 90 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 it on a shelf in the cupboard. The repaired jewel-case 
 was just where he had placed it when he told Zita that it 
 was ready for La Primavera. He lifted it up carefully 
 and jumped down from the chair. Christine held out her 
 hands to receive it. 
 
 After examining it for a moment she said, "Thank you. 
 I love it." Her eyes, as blue and true as a child's, ex- 
 pressed her pleasure. Salvatore's senses danced. 
 
 "Then the little box must be happy, Signorina, and I 
 am proud." 
 
 "I shall always treasure it very highly," Christine said 
 shyly. 
 
 "And I shall always be glad to know that something 
 which was once mine now belongs to you, Signorina. It is 
 an honour." 
 
 Christine wished that she knew how to speak to the 
 brother and sister in the dignified and courteous language 
 which seemed instinctive to both, but she could only blush 
 and smile, which was of course all that Salvatore wanted. 
 The right woman never does the wrong things. 
 
 "Have you found any antiques since I saw you? Have 
 you any fresh treasure in your house to show me, Signor 
 Mazzini ?" 
 
 It was now Salvatore's turn to blush, but it was his soul 
 which blushed, not his face. He had, indeed, some new 
 antiques in his house; were her white-shod feet not stand- 
 ing on their hiding-place? Suddenly he longed to tell 
 her, to stand before her as the man he felt himself to be, a 
 man whose honour had been sacrificed for gain. Yet how 
 could he tell her? It was because of her belief in him that 
 her presence was sweetening his home, which lately had 
 been almost unbearable to him. 
 
 "I have one or two small things, if you would care to 
 see them, Signorina," he said nervously. 
 
 Salvatore placed the things before her on the table ; she 
 had seated herself at it. One was a vase with a red body 
 ground, with a design in black round its neck and base;
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 91 
 
 between the two designs there were black horses of 
 extraordinarily slender anatomy, ridden by still more 
 attenuated, shield-bearing warriors ; the other was a black 
 drinking-cup, ornamented with red figures. 
 
 After examining them carefully, Christine asked Salva- 
 tore which was the older of the two. 
 
 He picked up a plain biscuit-coloured terracotta quaich, 
 which he had just placed beside the others, and said, "That 
 is the oldest of the three. Senta, Signorina, even in the 
 prehistoric civilisations dishes of some sort were used. 
 They were made by hand out of clay and dried in the sun. 
 Gradually the people began to decorate them with roughly 
 scratched designs ; later on they discovered that oven-heat 
 would make them more durable. *Ovens are very ancient 
 things, Signorina. Then the next development in the art 
 was glaze. The red terracotta was glazed and the primi- 
 tive scratchings gave place to more ornate patterns ; later 
 on figures and festival scenes appeared, which were all 
 done in black glaze. Lastly came the idea of drawing the 
 designs in outline on the vase before it was glazed and 
 fired and then filling the background in with the black 
 glaze, reversing the order of things. At the best period 
 the glaze became smooth and fine, the figures became 
 human and graceful. At that period the artists took a 
 delight in their work and abandoned the archaic types and 
 conventions." He paused. "But can you understand me, 
 Signorina ?" 
 
 Christine had followed him quite easily. He had spoken 
 in English. 
 
 "Your English is so good," she said, "I understood 
 everything you said. I am very interested do please tell 
 me more." 
 
 "I am very glad," he said gravely. "I have been study- 
 ing my English." 
 
 Christine looked at the black designs on the vase she 
 held in her hand. "I don't see how they managed to keep 
 the lines so clear and delicate the legs of those horses
 
 92 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 look at them! They are just as if they had been put on 
 with an etching pen; and yet you say that the glaze was 
 put on and these fines lines were left; they are the body 
 colour of the vase." 
 
 "Si, si, Signorina, the horses and the conventional de- 
 sign are the natural body colour of the vase." 
 
 "What steady hands they had ! I suppose they weren't 
 stencilled?" Christine illustrated what she meant. 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "To keep the glaze from running must have been a 
 terrible business !" Christine looked dubious. 
 
 "Certamente, Signorina." 
 
 "What a fascinating study the glazing, I mean." 
 She smoothed the surface of the vase with her finger tips. 
 
 "That is my special study, Signorina the glaze of our 
 old Caltagirone ware." 
 
 "Oh, do tell me about it ! Are you trying to . . ." 
 
 He interrupted her. "Ah, Signorina," he said, "there 
 is little to tell, but I do not think enough is made to-day 
 of Sicily's and Italy's natural materials for pottery and 
 fine glazes. It was the potters' clay of Ischia that served 
 the famous potters of Cumae. For many centuries Italy 
 was celebrated for her glazed potteries. 
 
 "I want to go to Ischia," Christine said enthusiasti- 
 cally. "It looks so beautiful, lying like a fairy fortress 
 in the blue sea. I saw it from Capri. I must go." 
 
 "When I was little I lived there with my grandmother. 
 It is a beautiful Island." 
 
 While they were talking Zita was knitting and smiling 
 to herself. Salvatore was happy, happier than he had 
 been since the two urns had been brought into their home, 
 and it was she who had given him this pleasure! By tell- 
 ing a little lie, she had made Salvatore young again. 
 Well, his happiness was worth a Mass. 
 
 As she took covert glances at Christine, she kept won- 
 dering to herself if La Primavera was really in love with 
 the Signore, if she was going to marry him, and if she
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 93 
 
 did, would he make her happy? She was so beautiful and 
 gracious; surely no man could be unkind to her? Surely 
 he would never tire of her fairness? To Zita it was 
 wonderful. 
 
 She watched Salvatore. If only he had been born in 
 better circumstances, what a fine lover he would have made 
 for the Signorina! Seated at the table together they were 
 well mated. Christine's pink skin and glittering hair 
 were a fine foil for her companion's dark eyes and hair 
 and classic features. 
 
 If love levels all things as we arc assured that it 
 does in Sicily Cupid's task is not a very difficult one. 
 
 A wonderful hour fled, fled so quickly that when Chris- 
 tine heard the cathedral clock strike seven she rose and 
 hastily collected her things. She did not wish to go ; her 
 companion was interesting and charming, and he was in 
 the middle of telling her how all vases as well as statuary 
 figures probably had their origin in the human form. 
 Primitive art took its inspiration direct from Nature. But 
 she would only get back in time for dinner if she left at 
 once. 
 
 As she put on her gloves Salvatore said, "Prego, 
 Signorina, I can show you in the Girgenti Museum a 
 primitive vase which obviously represents the trunk of the 
 human body ; on it are painted the legs, arms and head of 
 the human being." 
 
 "I should like to see the museum," she said. "Could 
 you spare time to go with me? But it closes at four o'clock 
 you couldn't get back in time." She looked sorry. 
 
 "There is Sunday, Signorina. I could show you many 
 things which you may have overlooked or not under- 
 stood." 
 
 They had stepped out into the street together; their 
 faces were eager. 
 
 "If I can leave my aunt, I will come on Sunday. She 
 dislikes museums; she only likes long drives." 
 
 "I shall be at your service, Signorina; if you cannot
 
 94 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 come I will go on with my work. It will be something to 
 hope for." 
 
 They were standing in the street. Christine had begun 
 her good-byes, which always take some time in Sicily. 
 
 "Prego, Signorina, the schoolboys may annoy you 
 they are very rough and troublesome in Girgenti. May I 
 accompany you?" 
 
 Christine smiled. "I should like it," she said, "but 
 what about your sister and your evening meal?" 
 
 Zita smiled encouragingly. "I will prepare Salvatore's 
 supper and have it ready for him when he returns. Addio, 
 Signorina, addio." 
 
 When they were alone they returned to the subject 
 which had been interrupted by the striking of the clock, 
 the inspiration of primitive art. Near the Villa Garibaldi 
 Salvatore picked a leaf off a tree ; neatly holding its sides 
 and stem together with his thumb and first finger, he made 
 it into a drinking-cup. 
 
 "Senta, Signorina, you will see many such dishes of sun- 
 baked clay in the Museum, just like a leaf folded together 
 at the sides and end. The point goes into the mouth 
 so," he opened his mouth to receive the pointed end of the 
 leaf. "Many times I have used a leaf for a cup ; it is very 
 pleasant. If you fold up the other end of it, you sec, you 
 can make it into a saucer, which will hold oil and a wick ; 
 such saucers served for lamps and for incense." 
 
 "You have one before the picture of the Virgin?" 
 
 "Si, si. Probably it was in use five or six hundred years 
 before the Blessed Virgin was born ; it may have served the 
 same purpose in one of the temples down there." 
 
 They were standing still. The leaf was in Christine's 
 hands. Their eyes were interested only in each other when 
 they were startled by the sudden and very near presence of 
 a man. It was Count Zarano. 
 
 "I am going to the hotel, Miss Lovat. I can escort you 
 home." He turned to Salvatore. "You can go back, 
 Salvatore."
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 95 
 
 Salvatore's anger was roused; his pride was wounded. 
 Why did the Signore speak to him just as he might have 
 spoken to some paid city guide. Why had he turned up 
 at that particular moment, when all the world was heaven 
 and heaven envious? 
 
 With his coming had come also the memory of his own 
 dishonesty. He visualized the urns with a horrible clear- 
 ness lying under the hearthstone. His pale face flushed. 
 He could say nothing; he recognized instantly that what 
 Zita had said was true. From the night he committed the 
 theft and for ever more he would be in the Count's power. 
 
 Christine turned to Salvatore; her eyes showed her 
 regret. "Addio, Signor Mazzini," she said. "It was 
 more than kind of you to come so far with me after your 
 hard day's work, but as Count Zarano is going to the 
 Hotel, you must save yourself the journey. Grazie ed 
 addio." She smiled regretfully. 
 
 "Addio, Signorina." Salvatore's anger was impotent; 
 he was tongue-tied and wretched. 
 
 "Addio until Sunday," Christine said again. "That is 
 to say, if I can manage it." 
 
 Salvatore returned her sympathetic smile. 
 
 "What is to happen on Sunday?" the Count asked as 
 they hurried down the hill. There was a new air of pro- 
 prietorship in his manner which amazed Christine a little, 
 even while it subtly pleased her. It made her feel "comfy" 
 and inexplicably feminine; she was being appropriated in 
 an almost "engaged" fashion. She wanted to laugh; it 
 was so funny ; the way her companion managed to express 
 in no words at all that it was his right to protect and 
 guard her. It was, she had to admit, extremely clever, if 
 a little annoying. 
 
 Instead of laughing, she said, "I am going to the 
 Museum on Sunday with Salvatore Mazzini. He is 
 awfully interesting, isn't he?" 
 
 The Count looked at her suspiciously. His eyes became 
 cruel. Christine did not see them, more is the pity !
 
 96 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 "I hope the youth hasn't been thrusting himself on you. 
 If he is forward just let me know." 
 
 "Forward? Of course he wasn't! And as for thrust- 
 ing himself on me I went to see him at his house. I 
 enjoyed going." 
 
 "Please don't be angry with me, Miss Lovat. I know 
 these Sicilians ; I don't want you to be annoyed. When 
 they lose their heads over a beautiful Englishwoman, they 
 forget their position. Remember, this is the truth." 
 
 "Please don't say such things ! You have spoilt every- 
 thing. The man is so dignified, so polite." Christine 
 looked distressed. "Besides, it is silly to speak of me like 
 that. I am not beautiful, and you must think me an idiot 
 if I believed you." 
 
 She spoke hotly; there was genuine annoyance in her 
 voice. 
 
 The Count stopped. Christine's path was blocked by 
 his sudden movement. 
 
 He stood directly in front of her and looking straight 
 into her eyes, he said, "Miss Lovat, how could any youth 
 who is human keep his head cool, his senses calm? Salva- 
 tore has eyes for human beauty, even if he lives in a cot- 
 tage. I know what I am talking about; I know what I 
 myself feel when I look into those blue eyes. If he does 
 astonish you some day, he is not to blame." 
 
 "Don't be ridiculous! You are talking absolute non- 
 sense!" Christine's heart was behaving abominably, but 
 she spoke calmly. The man seemed in deadly earnest. 
 
 "It is not nonsense," he said, "it is only too true. That 
 dear little nose of yours is not classic, but it is adorable; 
 that wayward mouth is not Greek, but it is maddening. 
 If you were more correctly beautiful you would not be 
 Christine, you would not be the girl whose every fault is 
 a charm. It is quite true that there is nothing classic 
 about you, except your coloring, which to satisfy their 
 caprice, the fairies stole at your birth from the asphodels." 
 He gazed into the girl's astonished eyes. "That is not
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 97 
 
 half the truth, not half of the song that is in my heart all 
 day long." 
 
 Christine was trembling; her senses were bewildered. 
 He had taken her completely by surprise. The moment 
 before he had looked so unloverlike that her own foolish 
 envy of the kiss he had bestowed upon her aunt's hand 
 had flashed across her memory as an absurd piece of senti- 
 mentality. It was the fault of the Moonlight Sonata. 
 
 She made no attempt to answer him. Her girlish be- 
 wilderment delighted him; he had certainly touched her 
 emotions, if her passions were still dormant. 
 
 "In Scotland it may take you months to learn what in 
 Sicily we often learn in a few hours. Look at the vegeta- 
 tion; it will tell you the character of the people. Things 
 grow up in a night ; flowers bud and blossom and die long 
 before they have made up their minds to awake from their 
 winter of discontent in Scotland." His voice became 
 calmer. "As your friend I am warning you. Salvatore 
 Mazzini is just a nice young fellow, but in Sicily a beggar 
 may look like a King! Human nature is the same in all 
 classes; but remember that the men of his class have not 
 the same command of their emotions." 
 
 "Thank you," Christine said. "I will remember." Her 
 voice was troubled. The world seemed changed. 
 
 No more was said. The time was not yet ripe. 
 
 They walked on in silence. A high-wheeled cart, laden 
 with purple cauliflowers, opportunely separated them for 
 a minute or two. When they came together again the 
 Count apologised. 
 
 "Forgive me, Miss Lovat, if I let my unruly member 
 say things that I have struggled not to say. I will not 
 allow it to repeat the indiscretion." 
 
 Christine smiled. "Of course I will forgive you, if you 
 will not be so . . ." she paused. 
 
 "Yes, I promise, I will not be so . . ." He laughed 
 happily. "Not yet," he said to himself, "not yet." 
 
 As he clasped the hand she held out as a token of friend-
 
 98 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 ship, he said, "I wonder what Sicily will teach you, Miss 
 Lovat? I often wonder if you will carry back those same 
 eyes to England. You, who are so eager to learn Sicily's 
 past, to study her dead peoples, to link together her tat- 
 tered story how much will you understand of the 
 humanity of her living? Will you ignore it altogether? 
 Will you be content to remain in ignorance of the char- 
 acteristics and passions of the people around you?" 
 
 "How can I study them," she asked laughingly, "if you 
 say that I must not know them, if I may not enjoy the 
 society of an intelligent and cultivated young man like 
 Mazzini?" 
 
 "Is it quite wise to begin with a man of that class?" 
 
 "That class !" she said scornfully. "He is of no class ! 
 I hate the word 'class.' God just sends men like Salvatore 
 Mazzini into the world in any class. He distributes the 
 spirit of genius with an exquisite disregard for what you 
 call class. Christ himself belonged to the class in which 
 Salvatore Mazzini's material body moves." When Chris- 
 tine stopped speaking she became embarrassed. She had 
 seldom expressed her feelings as strongly to the Count; 
 she stood too greatly in awe of his learning. 
 
 "As you will, Miss Lovat, only don't spoil my intelli- 
 gent workman." 
 
 "Of course I won't." 
 
 "Then you will not go to the Museum on Sunday? You 
 will take my advice?" 
 
 "I will go to the Museum if my aunt can spare me." 
 She paused for a moment and then said, "How beautiful 
 his sister is! I don't think I ever saw a more beautiful 
 girl. Did you?" 
 
 The Count's red-brown eyes never flickered as they 
 looked into Christine's. She was watching him closely. 
 
 "Zita is almost perfect," he said. "It is a pity that 
 these Sicilian girls fade and grow old so soon. She is at 
 her best now. How old do you suppose she is, Miss 
 Lovat?"
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 99 
 
 "Nineteen or twenty. She is so dignified and wise that 
 she might be older, but I know they develop very early." 
 
 "She is just seventeen. If she marries soon and has a 
 hard life, she will look old and wretched by the time she is 
 twenty-four. In the working classes women are old at 
 thirty. In Scotland they are not old at twice that age." 
 
 "How dreadful! Can't we save her?" 
 
 "I should like to," he said sympathetically. "She is 
 worthy of better things." He spoke sincerely ; but Chris- 
 tine did not realise what his idea of saving the girl meant. 
 
 "Surely if she has been educated she can work? She 
 need not become a poor man's slave?" 
 
 The Count shook his head. "Sicilian girls do not work 
 in the way you mean, Miss Lovat. The humblest of them 
 is guarded and chaperoned and sheltered until some man 
 comes along and asks for her hand in marriage. The girl 
 is given in marriage, and she must give her husband many 
 children, even if he has nothing to feed them on. And so 
 they become old and their beauty is forgotten." 
 
 "Oh, but that little Greek girl must not live like that !" 
 
 "She probably will. She has no dowry, and she really 
 belongs to the working classes, whatever her Greek an- 
 cestors may have been." He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "I can't bear to think of it," Christine said sadly. 
 
 "There is so much one cannot bear to think of in 
 Sicily." 
 
 Christine looked at him. "Is my Laughing Land really 
 a land of tragedy, a garden of tears ?" 
 
 "There are the sulphur mines," he said, "and the gen- 
 eral condition of the poorest classes won't bear looking 
 into." 
 
 "And yet they are never filthy or degraded, like the 
 poor in Glasgow and London." 
 
 "They are Nature's gentlefolk; even in their direst 
 poverty they are self-respecting." 
 
 Before Christine's eyes new worlds and new ideas of life 
 seemed to be quickly and sadly unfolding themselves.
 
 100 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 There were so many aged poor people in Sicily that she 
 had imagined that the people lived to a great age, that 
 their outdoor life kept them strong and healthy. It was 
 a shock to discover that these very aged people were 
 scarcely older than her aunt, that the middle-aged ones 
 were practically young women. She turned to the Count 
 impulsively : 
 
 "Could I see over a sulphur mine?" 
 
 "Yes, if you would really care to see one, and if your 
 aunt will allow you to make the excursion. It will be in- 
 teresting, but not lovely, remember." 
 
 "I think I could get Miss Hudson to come with us." 
 
 "Ah, now you can't trust me! You won't go alone 
 because I behaved like a foolish boy a minute ago." 
 
 "I never thought of that, I really didn't. But I don't 
 believe Auntie would approve of a whole-day excursion 
 together it's different." 
 
 "Then ask Miss Hudson to come," he said. "It is not 
 a beautiful sight ; it is Sicily at its ugliest, but it is Sicily 
 as truly as all this is Sicily." He pointed to the almond 
 blossom on the hills. 
 
 "I ought to see her ugly side too, for I do want to under- 
 stand Sicily." 
 
 "I wonder if you ever will?" he said. "Or if you will 
 always look at it through rose-tinted glasses?" 
 
 "Am I so dense?" she said. 
 
 "Now it is you who are insincere," he spoke quickly. 
 "You know I don't mean that. What I wonder is if you 
 with your northern instincts and traditions and training, 
 will ever really understand this complex and secretive 
 people. I doubt it. Have you felt sufficiently? Do you 
 know how true a thing it is that nothing ever dies ? That 
 nothing is without an influence? Sicily is all the things 
 she ever has been rolled into one. In these peoples of 
 apparently simple emotions, there are the racial instincts 
 and characteristics of a long list of widely different in- 
 vaders. Some of them were cruel usurpers, with amazing
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 101 
 
 blood in their veins." He sighed. "Nature and man seem 
 to have been allied against Sicily, for it has been tortured 
 by its conquerers and has had to contend with Nature 'red 
 in tooth and claw.' ' : 
 
 "My Laughing Land, my poor, proud Sicily." 
 
 "Yes," he said, "you are right poor, proud Sicily." 
 
 "They have good reason to be proud," Christine said. 
 "If I had to be reborn and I couldn't be Scots, I would be 
 an Italian, which means Sicily too, of course." 
 
 "You aren't like most Scots women, who naturally dis- 
 trust all foreigners, and who think the British Isles sum 
 up the Holy Trinity of the world !" 
 
 Christine laughed. "I think my aunt did until she met 
 you." 
 
 "Then you think I have found favour in her eyes?" 
 He looked radiant. "I certainly did not in yours, when 
 she introduced us, did I?" 
 
 "A good bridge hand can do a great deal." Christine 
 ignored the latter part of his remark. "With bridge and 
 music many rivers can be crossed." She hummed the air 
 of the old song, "I built a bridge of Fancy." "My aunt 
 seems to have forgotten that you are a 'foreigner,' that 
 you were born east of the Rhine." 
 
 "Now you are laughing at me, Miss Lovat ! But I am 
 sincerely glad your aunt enjoys my music as much as I 
 en j oy her society, for it gives me genuine pleasure to amuse 
 a woman of her age, '1'age dangereuese.' Middle-age is so 
 little tolerated in the South, whereas old age is often ten- 
 derly guarded. A woman when she is no longer young, 
 when she has lost her beaute-de-diable, has a poor time in 
 the South that is to say, if she has no children, or the 
 social position and wealth which will assure her a certain 
 kind of attention." 
 
 As Christine listened to him she said to herself, "This 
 is the man who healed the suffering kid, this is the real 
 man." 
 
 "Your aunt," he said, "has been very kind to me. For
 
 102 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 that I shall always be delighted to please her, whenever it 
 lies in my power." 
 
 Christine's blushes told him that his words had been 
 understood. 
 
 When they reached the hotel Mrs. Bullock greeted them 
 in a harsh and acid voice. She was elaborately dressed and 
 ready for dinner. 
 
 "What ages you have been, Christine !" 
 
 "Yes, I know, I have been perfect ages, Auntie! Do 
 forgive me." 
 
 "I overtook your niece, Mrs. Bullock, and accompanied 
 her. I know you agree with me that it is not wise for her 
 to go about so much alone." 
 
 "I have told Christine I feel certain she will be gar- 
 rotted one day ! I don't know how she dares to go so far 
 from the hotel ; I wouldn't 1" 
 
 "If I was born without grace, Auntie, I was also born 
 without fear. I just never think of these things." 
 
 "Then go and get ready for dinner and do put on some- 
 thing 'dressy' for a change I'm tired of seeing you in 
 shirt blouses." 
 
 "I'll do my best, but all my 'gay rags' are so abominably 
 crushed that I can't wear them." 
 
 As Christine flew upstairs, two steps at a time, her slim 
 feet scarcely seemed to touch the steps. She had already 
 taken off her hat; she waved it over the banisters to her 
 aunt, who was watching her. 
 
 "Such a torn-boy!" Mrs. Bullock said to the Count. 
 "She ought really to have been a boy. I'm sure I don't 
 know what sort of wife she will make!" 
 
 "She is a great treat in this country," he said. "I enjoy 
 studying her type ; it is so thoroughly British half boy, 
 half girl." 
 
 "There is very little to study so far, I fear. She throws 
 all her interests and energies into things which can't do her 
 any good or be of any use to her in the future. She is 
 ignorant of all the things a woman ought to know ; she is a
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 103 
 
 hopeless housekeeper, absolutely hopeless." Mrs. Bullock's 
 voice was tragic. 
 
 "But, my dear lady, you wouldn't have her different? 
 Her innocence is her charm. Sicilian girls have a woman's 
 knowledge in their cradles, it is born in them; they are 
 never boyish. Whereas in your niece there is . . ." He 
 shrugged his shoulders expressively. "There is the 
 promise of ..." He did not finish his sentence ; it 
 was wiser to change it. "She is still enjoying her girl- 
 hood, her womanliness will come in good time." 
 
 "I could do with a little more womanliness now ! Really, 
 she provokes me sometimes." 
 
 "I know what you mean," he said sympathetically. "Of 
 course you naturally miss the exchange of thought with an 
 awakened soul, a matured mind. How a woman like you 
 must miss her husband!" He hazarded the remark. He 
 knew that Mrs. Bullock had not been a widow long, but of 
 her married life he was ignorant. 
 
 "You are right," she said, "nothing can take the place 
 of a devoted husband." She did not tell him that the 
 husband's devotion and their happiness had not been the 
 result of her own unselfish nature. Christine's uncle had 
 married the spoilt heiress of a wealthy Manchester manu- 
 facturer. 
 
 "Dear lady," he said, "I felt sure I was right." He 
 put his hand lightly on hers. "Your niece could not pos- 
 sibly understand or fill the gap ; the world is still her play- 
 ground. Sorrow has not touched her, her womanhood has 
 not suffered." 
 
 Mrs. Bullock's fine eyes softened; she felt profoundly 
 sentimental. This man made her wish more than she had 
 ever wished before, that she was fifteen years younger. 
 The man beside her knew this, as he knew all the weak- 
 nesses and virtues of woman. And he was sorry for her. 
 He knew that to this spoilt woman, who had once been 
 attractive to men, it must be damnable to see Christine 
 usurping the stolen glances and accepting with such simple
 
 104 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 dignity the open admiration of all the men in the hotel. 
 Her golden youth, her superb vitality, and her boyish air 
 of activity, never passed unnoticed. The man whose pulses 
 were not quickened by the coming of Christine could not be 
 called a man. 
 
 When Christine appeared, just in time for table-d'hote, 
 she looked perhaps too feminine to please her aunt. 
 
 "Shall I do, Auntie?" she said laughingly. "I had to 
 put on my best gown." 
 
 "You look more suitably dressed for dinner, anyhow," 
 her aunt said good-naturedly. Mrs. Bullock was all smiles 
 and good humour. The girl's lateness was forgotten, and 
 she certainly was proud as well as envious of her looks. 
 
 The Count found a seat at their table, as he had done at 
 many meals during the last few days, and during the course 
 of the conversation he cleverly introduced the subject of 
 how far it is safe to trust to first impressions as regards 
 character. 
 
 "Can you trust to yours, Mrs. Bullock?" he asked. He 
 only wished to hear Christine's opinion, which he hoped 
 would follow her aunt's. 
 
 "I can generally rely upon my first impressions," Mrs. 
 Bullock said. "I scarcely ever like a person whom I have 
 not liked from the very first. I am seldom wrong." 
 
 "Oh, Auntie," Christine said laughingly, "what about 
 servants? What jewels they have all been at first!" 
 
 "Don't be stupid, Christine. Servants aren't people 
 well, of course . . . you know what I mean. One never 
 thinks about them like that, as people one likes." 
 
 "Can you trust to your first impressions, Miss Lovat?" 
 
 Christine raised laughing eyes to meet his. "I am not 
 going to trust to mine any more," she said, "if that is what 
 you want to know." Her apology was abject. 
 
 His eyes adored her. She had confessed herself mis- 
 taken. 
 
 "Christine is seldom right," Mrs. Bullock said. "I don't 
 think she would be wise to trust to her first impressions;
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 105 
 
 they are generally unjust and sometimes romantically 
 absurd." 
 
 "I should like to know if my first impressions about that 
 beautiful young wife of the old American are right," Chris- 
 tine said. "Isn't she beautifully pale and sad? And I 
 think she is bored to tears and sick of life generally." 
 
 The Count looked at the woman. "If she married him 
 for his wealth I think she ought to play the game better, 
 don't you, Mrs. Bullock? But then she is too lifeless for 
 my taste I'm afraid she doesn't rouse my sympathy." 
 
 "It is certainly very bad form to let all the world see how 
 bored you are with your husband," Christine said. "And 
 how dared she bring that old bridegroom to Sicily, of all 
 places? She can't know anything about the gods and their 
 love of jokes and sense of humour! I can see Pan jeering 
 at them and planning his freakish tricks ! But I don't 
 suppose she knows the gods' games are our tragedies." 
 
 The Count's eyes met the girl's when she had finished 
 speaking. "Fools step in where angels fear to tread," he 
 said, "and there are no fools like old fools. You are too 
 young to have lost your commonsense." 
 
 Later in the evening, when her aunt had secured two 
 good bridge-players, Christine fled to her room. She was 
 longing to be alone with herself, that new and bewildering 
 self which was causing her so many surprises. 
 
 She tried to read, but did not succeed. Her thoughts 
 allowed of no concentration. Only twice they wandered to 
 the brother and sister in their little home up in the city. 
 Salvatore she visualised mending his images, while Zita 
 stitched or knitted by his side. 
 
 When she thought of Salvatore a sense of rest came to 
 her, her excited senses were lulled. It was a feeling of 
 spiritual sympathy and understanding, a feeling of which 
 she was scarcely conscious. Her visualising of his quiet 
 home and its innate refinement stilled the quickly-moving 
 blood in her veins. To think of the Casa Salvatore was 
 like laying her hot head on a cool linen pillow.
 
 106 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 UP in the high city Zita and her brother had spent a 
 strange evening. Salvatore had returned to his cottage 
 with a white face ; his slight body was trembling with rage. 
 He flung himself down on his own seat beside the table. It 
 was obvious to Zita that his happiness of an hour ago had 
 fled completely. 
 
 "What has happened? Have you left the Signorina? 
 You did not conduct her to the hotel ?" 
 
 "I have been insulted," he said, "sent home like a dog. 
 Corpo di Bacco ! It is the first time I have borne such an 
 indignity !" 
 
 "Sacra Virgine ! And who has done it? Not La Prima- 
 vera? You . . . you . . . oh, Salvatore! You 
 did not, you never could have . . ." 
 
 "No, no," he said quickly, "grazie a Dio! she is an 
 angel, she would not hurt an animal." 
 
 "Salvatore !" Zita's amazed eyes stared at him. "Then 
 it was . . ." she paused, "it was the Signore?" 
 
 "Gia, gia, it was my accomplice in dishonesty. He told 
 me to go home ; he took my place beside the Signorina. I 
 was not worthy to walk with her." 
 
 "Salvatore mio ! Salvatore mio !" 
 
 "Yes, it has begun," he said harshly. "He would not 
 have spoken to me like that two months ago. He must 
 have known that the Signorina had given me permission to 
 accompany her to her hotel. I am no low fellow or dog 
 that I should be sent home." 
 
 "Salvatore, he is courting the Signorina ; he follows her." 
 
 Salvatore's eyes searched his sister's face. "Come," he 
 said, "how do you know?" 
 
 Zita did not answer. 
 
 "He stays at the same hotel, that's all."
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 107 
 
 "No I have seen them together many times." 
 
 "That is nothing English ladies go about alone with 
 gentlemen." 
 
 "But I am sure that tlje Signore is courting La Prima- 
 vera, and oh! Salvatore, I hope she will not marry him." 
 
 Salvatore's sense of justice returned to him. "If the 
 Signore is in love with her, I can forgive his insult more 
 readily. A man in love is not accountable." 
 
 "But does he love her?" Zita paused. "I must confess 
 something to you, Salvatore mio." 
 
 "Confess?" He looked at her anxiously. 
 
 "This afternoon I left the house for almost an hour. I 
 was with La Primavera; we went to the cake-shop; we 
 drank chocolate and ate cakes together." 
 
 Salvatore smiled. He was glad and proud. The 
 Signorina had been friendly with his sister; his wounded 
 pride was healed. 
 
 "We met the Signore; he wished to join us, but the 
 Signorina would not let him." Zita laughed mirthfully. 
 "The young English ladies are very sincere ; what they do 
 not wish, they do not pretend to want. Dio mio! He 
 was dismissed, Salvatore mio, and the best of it was that he 
 wanted to dismiss me, I too was to go home." 
 
 "He was envious." 
 
 "Gia, gia, but the Signofina had invited me, she had 
 insisted. And, Salvatore, I wanted her to come back to the 
 house, to keep her here until you returned. I wanted to 
 give you a surprise." 
 
 "Carina !" 
 
 "I did, Salvatore. I lied. I said I couldn't find the 
 terracotta box, and it was there before my eyes. The 
 Blessed Virgin understood, for all went well; you came 
 home in good time. Oh, Salvatore, how wonderful she is ! 
 Her little wrist-watch, with diamonds all round it! Her 
 beautiful blue eyes are angelic! Her golden hair, her 
 stockings all of pure silk ! She spoke of you many times. 
 When she laughs a little dimple comes right here," Zita
 
 108 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 touched her own chin, "just here. It seems to me as if 
 Cupid had left the shadow of his first kiss on her chin." 
 
 "Silenzio, carina mia!" 
 
 "The best part of it all was her dismissal of the Signore." 
 Suddenly Zita's voice broke ; she was crying, big tears fell 
 from her eyes. "I wish they were not there," she sobbed 
 as she kicked the floor with her foot. 
 
 "They are there," Salvatore said, "they are there. He 
 would not have spoken to me one month ago in the way he 
 did this evening if they were not there. His love for the 
 Signorina is no excuse. He wished to rule. You are right 
 he is going to use me." 
 
 "I never trusted him, Salvatore." 
 
 "No, you never did," he spoke almost sharply. "But 
 perhaps I am exaggerating; I was enjoying myself." 
 
 "All things have a meaning; time will explain all." 
 Zita spoke ponderingly. 
 
 "If he cannot sell them soon, I shall give them up to the 
 authorities." 
 
 "Why not give them up now? Oh, do, and let us be 
 free!" " 
 
 "The Signore has lent me some lire on them; I needed 
 money for my work ; it cannot wait indefinitely." 
 
 "Sacramento! He is a fox, he knew how to tie your 
 hands." 
 
 "If my work is successful, nothing will matter, Zita. We 
 shall forget this." He tried to speak cheerfully. 
 
 "Our father spent all his money on the same idea, Salva- 
 tore, and he died poor. Our mother had to work like a 
 peasant ; we live here like peasants." 
 
 Salvatore put his hands to his head as if her words hurt 
 him. "Don't! Zita mia, don't destroy my hope! I must 
 go to Rome." 
 
 Walls have ears, windows have eyes ! Bats carry secrets ! 
 So Salvatore never mentioned the exact nature of his 
 work. 
 
 Zita bent over him. "It is the Signore who robs me of
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 109 
 
 my trust. 1 only fear that you will be the worker and that 
 he will reap the gain." 
 
 "I have never told him ! I trust no-one but you. I did 
 not distrust the Signore; but," he shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "You do trust me?" 
 
 He put his arm round her. "We are of one flesh, carina." 
 
 "Does he know that I saw the urns brought to the 
 house? Am I also an accomplice?" 
 
 "Gia, gia. I did not tell him, but he knows." 
 
 Zita shivered. "He will order me as he ordered you!" 
 Her hands were tightly clasped. "I hate him, Salvatore, I 
 hate him and fear him." 
 
 "What have you to fear?" 
 
 "The unknown, Salvatore, the man's cruel power." 
 
 "Dio mio ! You are so easily excited. After all, he only 
 told me that I could return to my own house. If I had not 
 been so happy with the Signorina I should not have noticed 
 anything in his manner. I was jealous." 
 
 Zita shook her head. "I wish La Primavera had refused 
 his company as she refused it when she was with me. I 
 could have knelt at her feet." 
 
 "Bambina mia, she has won your heart." 
 
 "She is so graziosa. She was quite a friend to me, I 
 who wear no hat on my head and have but two chairs in my 
 house." Zita's eyes were mirthful. "I was her friend, her 
 honoured guest. I could have eaten her, Salvatore; the 
 sweet cakes were not so tempting as her skin it is all pink. 
 Dio mio ! how dark I am !" Zita sighed. "How splendid 
 it must be to carry about gold and silver in a little purse 
 made of gold! And her bracelet, Salvatore I counted 
 fourteen large pearls, each one like a tear-drop. Her petti- 
 coat was much grander than her muslin dress; and her 
 handkerchief, it was so fine that she put it into the palm of 
 her hand under her big white glove. Dio mio ! I laughed 
 when I saw her pull it out. Outwardly she is so quiet and 
 simple; inside she is like the King's daughter." Zita's 
 rhapsody left her breathless.
 
 110 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 Salvatore rose from her seat. "I must work. Stop 
 chattering, carina." He pretended to be cross ; as a matter 
 of fact, his provoked senses could stand the girl's descrip- 
 tion of Christine no longer. He knew that he was madly 
 in love with La Primavera, that her image had filled his 
 thoughts for days ; but he also knew that his love was hope- 
 less. Only work could help him. Listening to his sister 
 only increased his hunger. 
 
 The Signorina was as far removed from his daily life as 
 earth is from Heaven. She was a tourist in Sicily, a chance 
 patron of his wares. When she returned to England she 
 would not even remember his existence. 
 
 The hopelessness of his love exalted it to a footing of 
 sanctity. Even if one day he should become famous, if his 
 experiment should prove successful, it would not help 
 matters, for a girl so beautiful and wealthy would be mar- 
 ried as soon as she was of an age. Salvatore imagined 
 that Christine was about the same age as his sister. She 
 was a girl in every sense of the word. 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 ON Sunday morning Zita went to mass with a neighbour 
 and her daughter, a girl of her own age whose heavy bust 
 would have better adorned a matron of forty-five. She was 
 not prepossessing. Her complexion was heavy, her dark 
 eyes were small and suspicious, her black hair fuzzy; her 
 type was Saracen. 
 
 As she plodded along by her mother's side, her feet, 
 which were cramped into very yellow kid boots with large 
 pearl buttons, hurt. She felt so much grander than Zita 
 that she had no envy in her heart for the girl's beauty. If 
 beauty is married in the cradle, money is seldom an old 
 maid ; a dowry would gild her plain face. 
 
 Each Sunday morning she went to mass with her parents
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 111 
 
 in the same sedate fashion, to an ancient church, tucked 
 away in a corner ; a church of so humble an order that the 
 peasants living near it take their own rush-seated chairs 
 with them, an old custom which saves the soldi charged for 
 the church chairs. 
 
 Arrived at the piazza in front of the church, Signora 
 Aldo was openly greeting her friends ; her daughter was 
 demurely answering secret glances from aspiring swains. 
 Country donkeys and mules were lying on the ground or 
 standing close to the church, with their reins attached to 
 iron rings fixed in the wall. On festal Sundays a market 
 was held in the square and portable shops surrounded it ; on 
 this Sunday there was only a rosary stall kept by a very 
 old woman. 
 
 Just at the moment when Signora Aldo and Nina were 
 pushing back the heavy leather curtain to enter the church, 
 Zita, who was behind them, felt a thin roll of paper being 
 thrust into her hand. Her heart beat furiously, as her 
 mind leapt to the correct conclusion. It was her nameless 
 deliverer ; he must be behind her. 
 
 When the leather curtain had swung back and she was 
 inside the building, she looked nervously round. He was 
 in front of her, to all appearances totally unconscious of 
 her presence. This was not her church; she had not told 
 him that she ever went to it. Her own church was St. 
 Biagio on the Rupe Atenea, a church made out of the cells 
 of the temples of Ceres and Proserpine. 
 
 When Zita knelt in prayer her attitude was so devo- 
 tional that no-one could have imagined that confusion 
 reigned in her heart. Her deliverer had followed her; he 
 must have watched her leave her house. 
 
 With Nina's sly eyes always watching, she had no chance 
 of unfolding the note during service. The youth, accord- 
 ing to the custom of the humble congregation, had seated 
 himself on the male side of the aisle. Even in God's House 
 sex is not fogotten. 
 
 Zita's senses were in no condition for prayers. Though
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 her eyes appeared reverntly fixed on her prayer-book, her 
 thoughts were romantically roaming. The youth knew it, 
 For the language of the senses no wireless installation is 
 necessary. Zita and her lover talked to each other through- 
 out the service ; they said the things which words were only 
 invented to hide. The youth knew that his request had 
 been granted. 
 
 He was a goodly youth, tall and strong and clean- 
 limbed. While Zita knelt at prayer she could hear him 
 playing his reed pipe; the air from "Rigoletto" was far 
 clearer in her ears than the droning of the priest's Latin. 
 The high altar, with its cheap furnishings, had vanished; 
 the roof of the church had lifted. She saw the sunlight 
 streaming over the mountains, the deep shadows resting on 
 the plain. She saw the youth's blue-grey eyes laughing 
 back into hers as he said, "If you do not sing, what noise 
 was that you were making while I was playing? I call it 
 singing." 
 
 She took another long look at him, while Nina was fold- 
 ing up her flower-bordered handkerchief. 
 
 "Surely Salvatore will approve? Surely this man is not 
 like the Signore?" 
 
 When the service was over and the soldi had been col- 
 lected for the seats, the scuffling of feet and the scratching 
 of the chairs on the lava-paved floor began. The dispers- 
 ing of the congregation was to Zita maddeningly slow. 
 The youth had left the church. Zita and Nina followed 
 closely behind Signora Aldo, who was pushing her large 
 person past some worshippers who had come in for the 
 second Mass. 
 
 When at last they stood in the sunlight, Zita caught the 
 swift glance of her deliverer, who was untying the reins 
 of his mule from the iron ring. Her glance took the youth 
 in a transport of delight back to his home in the country. 
 Up steep gullies and over lone mountain tracks Zita's smile 
 brought songs to his lips and happiness to his heart. He 
 envied no man. When hope runs high a long journey is
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 113 
 
 short. Love knows no time. It is good to be young. 
 While he rode on his nimble-footed steed his heart fed on 
 Zita's beauty. Not once did he urge his mule on with the 
 long-drawn-out Sicilian cry of "Amonine! Amonine!" 
 
 Such is love in Sicily, such is love in the Laughing Land, 
 where truth is always stranger than fiction. 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 WHEN Zita was at last able to read her circumspect little 
 letter a flood of happiness bewildered her. He was honour- 
 able, he was trustworthy; he asked nothing of her which 
 need cause her the least shame or secrecy. 
 
 "Onorevole Signorina," it began, "I have waited. I 
 can see no other way, so if you will permit me, I will call 
 upon your brother and tell him that I have seen you and 
 that I desire to pay my respects. With your consent I will 
 take this step, which I will consider granted if you will 
 sprinkle some white sand on your front doorstep to-morrow 
 evening before six o'clock. May the good God bless you 
 and favour my entreaty, gentle Signorina. Until death, 
 yours respectfully and devotedly, Sardo Fontana." 
 
 The request made Zita quiver like a frightened wren. 
 Certainly he was a bold and unconventional lover, but he 
 was honourable and her awful episode with the Signore had 
 not made him think lightly of her ! She could rely on his 
 discretion. He would convey the impression to Salvatore 
 that he had seen her at Mass and had done as all Sicilians 
 do when they are in love watched for her coming and 
 going after he had discovered her daily routine. 
 
 When she entered the cottage, Salvatore was still seated 
 where she had left him at the table. His face was forlorn, 
 his eyes wretched. Zita expressed her surprise. 
 
 "Did La Primavera not come?" Her voice was sympa- 
 thetic. "Dio mio, I was sure she would !"
 
 114 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 "No, I have been alone." 
 
 "She is with the Signore !" Zita stamped her foot with 
 rage. 
 
 "Her aunt may have prevented her ... it was only 
 to be if she could get away ; her aunt dislikes all museums." 
 
 "It is the Signore, he has prevented her ! Oh, Salvatore, 
 shall we never see her again?" 
 
 "Spero di si, Zita mia." 
 
 "I don't think we shall. He is jealous; he will prevent 
 it." 
 
 "Silenzio! You forget! The Signorina is of the Sig- 
 nore's position ; I am only a poor workman." 
 
 "You are an artist, she herself said so. She knows we 
 are poor, but who could fail to see that fine blood runs in 
 your veins? Everyone knows that you are a Mazzini." 
 
 "Through his influence I receive all that we put in our 
 mouths. If he no longer needs my services . . ." 
 Salvatore threw back his head. 
 
 "He will always require it. Who is there to fill your 
 place? You are too humble." 
 
 "Zita, mia, no-one in this world is essential. Life wil] 
 teach you that." 
 
 "You are essential to me, Salvatore. Without you 1 
 should die." Would the youth on his mule have ceased his 
 singing if he had heard her remark ? * 
 
 "Men die and worms eat them, but it is not for love. 
 The great English Shakespeare said that; it is true." 
 
 "But he did not know me, Salvatore he was English. 
 He did not know that in Sicily love can kill. What poor 
 thin love he knew ! In our country love is not mixed with 
 water !" 
 
 He looked at her quickly, as though he had suddenly 
 realised the fact, a strange fact to Salvatore, that his baby 
 sister was now a woman. 
 
 "I must get a good husband for you, carina. You are 
 of a marriageable age I am forgetting my duty," he 
 laughed. "Who is there that you fancy? Remember, you
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 115 
 
 have no dowry, you cannot pick and choose. If you had a 
 nice fortune like Nina Aldo what a fine match you could 
 make, carina!" 
 
 Zita looked embarrassed. "I'm glad I'm poor; I'm not 
 envious of black-browed Nina with her ugly feet. I do not 
 wish to leave you." 
 
 "Santo Dio ! But a girl must marry. And you are so 
 pretty, that some fine young fellow may forget that you 
 are dowerless. Who knows? Whom the gods love, for- 
 tune smiles on." 
 
 "He need not trouble, Salvatore. And I will not marry 
 a dull old man just because I am poor, not if I have to 
 become a licensed beggar at the church door." Zita's pride 
 was up in arms. 
 
 "Perhaps you will be married for your money, carina. 
 Every day it seems more likely; it is only money I need." 
 
 "I will be married for myself alone, Salvatore, or not at 
 all." 
 
 "You have been reading English romances again," he 
 said. "English love-stories give you these impossible 
 ideas. What is the last called?" 
 
 Zita mentioned the name of one of Marie Correlli's 
 novels, while she wondered what Salvatore would have to 
 say, when he discovered that a handsome, well-off young 
 man was only waiting for an opportunity to ask him for 
 her hand in marriage. The mention of the book saved 
 her further embarrassment. It never occurred to her that 
 supposing she married her lover, she would no longer be 
 able to share her old life with Salvatore. The fine patri- 
 archal custom was familiar to her; it is greatly practised 
 in Sicily. Salvatore stood to her in "loco parentis"; he 
 would naturally make his home with her when she was 
 married. The system is economical and labour-saving.
 
 116 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE next evening at about half-past five o'clock when it 
 was drawing near the time for Zita to sprinkle the white 
 sand on her doorstep, the Signore appeared at the cottage. 
 Salvatore had not returned from his day's work. When 
 she saw her betrayer standing at her door, Zita's blood 
 turned cold in her veins. There was a new expression in 
 his eyes. She waited for him to speak. 
 
 "Permit me to wait here for your brother, if he has not 
 yet returned." He spoke respectfully and gently; she 
 could not refuse his request. "I have something of im- 
 portance to tell him." 
 
 "Please to enter, Signore." Zita made way for him to 
 cross her doorstep; she had tried to block the entrance. 
 
 When he was in the cottage, he looked meaningly at the 
 floor. "You guard your house very carefully, Zita mia! 
 I seldom see you out of doors. 
 
 "Si, Signore." 
 
 Again he looked at the floor significantly. "Are they 
 there? Did they arrive safely?" 
 
 "Si, si, Signore." Zita had edged nearer to the door, 
 which the Signore had shut behind him. 
 
 He crossed the room and stood close to the girl ; his 
 eyes held hers. "Salvatore has made you his little watch- 
 dog?" 
 
 Zita did not answer. 
 
 The Signore whispered something in her ear; he almost 
 hissed the words. Then he added aloud, "You tricked 
 and fooled me, Zita, because you were afraid of Salvatore. 
 Now you know that you need not have been, that he must 
 hold his tongue." 
 
 Zita was terrified but she said with dignity. "You 
 mean, Signore, that he is now in your hands, that he will 
 not dare to avenge his sister's honour. It is a lie! You
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 117 
 
 are his accomplice, not his master, and I will tell the Sig- 
 norina Lovat. She will hate you." 
 
 Her words brought her to his arms, her body crushed 
 helplessly to his breast, her face bruised against the but- 
 tons of his waistcoat. Yet her strength was like the 
 strength of a panther; it delighted her hunter. 
 
 "Little devil!" he said breathlessly. "You are jealous 
 and afraid to take what you long to receive. And now 
 you would destroy the Signorina's happiness!" He held 
 her at arm's length and stared into her eyes. "Curse 
 your intelligence," he said. "You think to be able to 
 rob me twice!" To show her how mistaken she was he 
 held her still more closely to him. Her breasts were 
 crushed and sore. It seemed to the girl that the fallen 
 Telamon had come to life; she was more helpless in his 
 arms than an infant at its mother's breast. He raised 
 her face to his. "Kiss my lips," he said; "kiss them." 
 
 To Zita the world had suddenly become hell, the devil 
 was filling her cottage. If she did not kiss him at his 
 bidding, what else would he take from her? She dared not 
 cry out, for the neighbours would give small credit to her 
 purity if they were to see her in the Signore's arms. 
 
 A thousand fears and terrors stormed her mind. The 
 Signore's lips were still close to hers. 
 
 "Kiss me, Zita," he said again, "kiss me and swear 
 that you will never speak to the Signorina again." His 
 eyes threatened her with a heavier punishment. "Kiss 
 me," he said again, more wooingly, "and make friends. 
 The Signorina will not interfere with us, nothing need 
 interfere; no-one need know." 
 
 Zita's horrified eyes questioned him. 
 
 'It would be wiser," he said, encouragingly. "Do as I 
 tell you. Salvatore's secret will be safe; I will guard his 
 honour." 
 
 "And my honour, Signore?" 
 
 "Yours?" he said. "Your honour already lies in my 
 hands. Think, pretty Zita, whose story will be believed,
 
 118 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 yours or mine? You went with me to Porto Empedocle, 
 that is sufficient. Even the English Signorina is not 
 without jealousy." 
 
 "I am to buy my brother's safety?" Zita spoke quietly. 
 "You wish to be my lover and I am not to tell the Signo- 
 rina anything? I am to be your mistress until she becomes 
 your wife . . . and what then?" The girl's face was 
 pale, but all trace of fear had left it. The man's 
 arms had crushed her until her body felt tired and 
 broken. 
 
 "Marriage is one thing; a lover is another." He 
 laughed, caressingly. "Madonnina, which do you prefer?" 
 
 "I will have both," she said quietly, "or neither." 
 
 "Sacramento!" he cried. "But you will have some- 
 thing ! You made a fool of me once, you little witch, or so 
 you thought, but you shall pay for it. Come, stop your 
 nonsense and pretences." 
 
 He lifted her from the floor and took her in his arms. 
 Salvatore's couch was in the corner of the room. As he 
 carried her to it, a superhuman strength came to Zita, she 
 became a tiger cat. Her sharp teeth dug into his hands, 
 she spat into his eyes, so neatly that he had to stand still 
 and grapple with her. Suddenly the house door opened 
 and Salvatore entered the room. 
 
 For a moment there was an awful silence while the two 
 men faced each other. The girl was weeping on the couch. 
 The Signore smiled, the situation was a joke, easily ex- 
 plained. Salvatore would not make a fuss. 
 
 "Your sister was threatening me with blackmail," he 
 said lightly. "She is jealous, poor child, of the Signorina 
 Lovat. I was making a pretence of punishing her; she 
 really deserves a whipping." 
 
 Zita's crying became hysterical. 
 
 "I have paid her a pretty compliment now and again, I 
 admit, but this outburst is foolish. She is determined to 
 tell the Signorina that I have been of use to you," he 
 looked at the floor significantly. "If I pay attention to
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 119 
 
 the Signorina Lovat she will take revenge that way. You 
 will, I know, restore her to reason, calm her." He paused. 
 
 "You are a liar !" Salvatore replied. "A damned liar !" 
 He spoke quietly, but his whole being was crying out for 
 the man's blood. 
 
 "I am your master, young man ; remember to whom you 
 are speaking!" 
 
 "You are a liar and a scoundrel ! I know only too well 
 the man I am speaking to." Salvatore caught hold of his 
 arm. 
 
 "Well, then, if you doubt me, ask your sister, ask her if 
 she has not vowed that she will tell your secret to the 
 Signorina Lovat." 
 
 Zita sprang to her feet ; she faced Salvatore fearlessly. 
 As he looked into her terrified eyes he asked himself if it 
 were possible that she had seen more of the Signore than 
 he knew? Did she really care for him? 
 
 "Give the lie to the Signore's foul words, Zita. Are 
 these vile accusations true? Did you threaten him?" 
 
 There was a heavy silence for a moment and then the 
 girl said slowly, "Yes, Salvatore, I threatened him, I spat 
 in his eyes and I will do it again if he dares to enter your 
 house." 
 
 Salvatore was too amazed and horrified to say more than 
 "Sorella mia! Sorella mia!" 
 
 "Listen, Salvatore, he has begged me to love him, to 
 deceive you; and he was to deceive the Signorina." 
 
 Salvatore sprang at the Count ; he could have strangled 
 him; if he had been carrying his revolver he would have 
 shot him. Zita's cry stopped him. 
 
 "No, no, Salvatore, leave him. You need not kill him. 
 He thinks the urns have tied both our hands, but he is 
 mistaken ! Because I refused what he asked he says I am 
 jealous, hysterical. He knows your work depends on him; 
 let him see that we prefer starvation." 
 
 Salvatore never doubted his sister's words. Instinct told 
 him that she was speaking fearlessly and truthfully. But
 
 120 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 he knew that it would be foolish and useless to attempt at 
 the present moment to take his revenge. The Signore was 
 a much more powerfully built man than himself and he 
 always carried a revolver; he was a reputed shot. Salva- 
 tore must wait; but a Mazzini can always wait. 
 
 Besides, there was Zita to be thought of. If he put him 
 self in the hands of the law, who would support her? As 
 these thoughts passed rapidly through his mind his grasp 
 on the Signore's arm slackened; the murderous expression 
 on his face changed only slightly, it is true, but the Sig- 
 nore, with his quick eyes and senses, felt the subtle 
 change. 
 
 When Salvatore's hand left his arm, he said blandly 
 he had adopted a bland tone throughout "It is a pity 
 that all this should have happened to-day, for I came to 
 tell you . . ." He paused and looked at the ground. 
 
 Salvatore was silent. The Signore's looks were sig- 
 nificant. 
 
 "This evening," he went on, "two American gentlemen 
 will come to se your urns. They do not know, of course, 
 that they are stolen goods. They can pay a fancy price." 
 As he finished speaking, he turned to Zita. "You need not 
 be a house-dog any longer, foolish child, if the urns please 
 the American. He seems keen about them." 
 
 Salvatore's anger deepened. The Signore's words were 
 meant to wound. 
 
 "They will he here at nine o'clock," the Signore said. 
 He waited for Salvatore to speak. As he did not, he went 
 on with his instructions. "You will arrange how they are 
 to be conveyed down to his yacht, which will be in the har- 
 bour in the morning." 
 
 Every word maddened Salvatore. He longed to tell 
 the man to leave his house, to refuse to listen to his orders 
 or to carry out the transaction, but the chains of slavery 
 held him. He was tongue-tied. The urns were in his 
 house ; the fact had to be faced, and the urns disposed of. 
 
 "Of course you will be responsible for the money, which
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 the American will hand over to you when the urns are on 
 the yacht." 
 
 "Your share as well as my own?" The words came 
 from Salvatore's lips like pistol-shots. 
 
 "Yes. I have only advised him to look at the urns ; he 
 knows nothing about them, or how you got them." 
 
 "Then you are an honest man in his eyes? He does not 
 know you!" Salvatore hissed the words. 
 
 "Salvatore Mazzini, do you wish to continue your work 
 at the farm ? If you do, hold your tongue. And I advise 
 you to make your foolish sister apologise." 
 
 Salvatore threw back his head. "I take no more food 
 for my stomach from your hands ! I know you now for 
 what you are, a lying Croat! If it were not for Zita, I 
 would match myself against you this moment." His grip 
 on the Signore's arm tightened. 
 
 Zita tried to calm him. "It is Government work, Salva- 
 tore, the Signore is paid by the Government. His money 
 does not feed us." 
 
 Salvatore threw off her restraining hand and sprang to 
 the door. As he opened it wide he cried out, "Get out! 
 Get out, and never let your breath pollute this house again ! 
 My father's son will not forget the insult you have offered 
 to his daughter." 
 
 The Signore moved slowly to the door. He only 
 laughed as though he thought they were foolish, angry 
 children, excitable Sicilians. He fully believed that Sal- 
 vatore would appear at the farm next morning with his 
 pick and spade. Sleep would cool his emotions. 
 
 As he stepped out into the street, he said to him, "You 
 can bring the money to the farm when you have recovered 
 your temper. I will trust you." His voice implied great 
 consideration. 
 
 When the house door was shut, Salvatore seized his sister 
 by the arms. "Tell me," he cried, "don't be afraid, tell 
 me the truth. Should I have killed him? Must I kill 
 him?"
 
 122 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 Zita clung to him. "No, no, you saved me, Salvatore! 
 You saved me! You need not kill him." She was 
 trembling. Salvatore felt her body growing limp in his 
 arms as he held her to him. Now that the Signore was out 
 of her presence her nerve was giving way. 
 
 "Don't be afraid, sorella mia. He will not return. I 
 will teach him who will laugh the longest." 
 
 "Oh, Salvatore, if you hadn't come! If you hadn't 
 come !" 
 
 Zita was sobbing and shaking. Salvatore did his best to 
 calm her and she found comfort and assurance in his 
 enfolding arms. When her trembling grew less he said: 
 
 "How long had the villain been here, Zita mia?" 
 
 "Almost twenty minutes, I think." She started in his 
 arms and tried to free herself; her trembling returned. 
 "What time is it now?" she asked miserably. 
 
 Salvatore heard despair in her voice. As he told 
 her that it was just six o'clock her head fell on his 
 shoulder. 
 
 "It is too late, too late, too late, Salvatore mio !" Her 
 words were a moan. 
 
 Salvatore laughed at her distress ; she seemed hysterical. 
 
 "Why, bambina, it does not matter if it is too late to 
 kindle the carbon we can eat cipolli." He sighed. "This 
 day week we shall have no carbon to burn, Zita mia. Don't 
 make yourself unhappy over my supper." 
 
 Zita raised tear-washed eyes. She had not thought of 
 kindling the carbon; their supper was forgotten. What 
 she had suddenly remembered was that it was six o'clock 
 and that Sardo Fontana would have passed and found no 
 sand on her doorstep. Yes, he must have passed. He 
 would be on his way home now, believing that she was, 
 after all, only a light girl, that she had tricked and fooled 
 him! 
 
 What happened was this. Sardo Fontana, after leav- 
 ing* his mule at the entrance of the town, had walked
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 123 
 
 quickly up the long street. He knew where Zita lived; 
 Casa Salvatore was easily found. 
 
 As he strode along his heart was light with hope, for love 
 disperses all fears, and he had a clean record to give Salva- 
 tore and a goodly inheritance to offer his wife. All was 
 right with the world. His thoughts danced round the 
 girl's image. One moment he saw her as his wife, at home 
 in her place as the mistress of his house, her first-born child 
 at her breast. The next minute she was shyly accepting his 
 first kiss, which would of course be after their marriage. 
 The next minute she was signing her name as a bride before 
 the Sindaco. How beautiful Zita Fontana sounded to his 
 ears ! He had of course discovered her name. 
 
 Now they were on their primo mese di matriminio 
 honeymoon. He could see her lovely eyes and laughing 
 lips, expressing their wonder at the sights of a great city, 
 Naples. His thoughts were a lover's, but a lover who re- 
 spects as well as loves the woman he desires. She was to 
 be his wife, the mother of his children; his thoughts did 
 no dishonour to her chastity. For a mistress, however 
 much adored, a man has other thoughts! In the South 
 they are not confounded. 
 
 Sardo disliked the town ; he was country bred ; his fath- 
 er's ancestors had lived on the same farm for many centu- 
 ries. A degree of pity for a girl like Zita, who was com- 
 pelled to live in the ugly, noisy street, cast a temporary 
 cloud over the brilliance of his world. He would take her 
 away, away from it all, from the dust and squalor and 
 vulgarity of modern Girgenti. He hated the upstart 
 youths who paraded the streets after working hours to 
 show off their cheap German clothes and flashy yellow 
 boots and stared at the women with bold eyes. He hated 
 the girls who covered their fine heads of hair with ridicu- 
 lous hats and stuffed their fat figures into ill-fitting 
 modern clothes. 
 
 Sardo Fontana was his own master. He had inherited 
 his farm from an uncle who had also made money in the
 
 124 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 Argentine. Zita would have no mother-in-law, which 
 meant that during their early married life he could spoil 
 her and spend as much money on her as he chose. Happy 
 Zita! 
 
 As he approached her house he looked around. He was 
 in luck; no-one was in sight. His heart was beating ex- 
 citedly. He felt sure that inside the little house Zita was 
 conscious that he was outside. At the door he stopped. 
 
 Was he blind? There was no sand on the step not a 
 single speck. 
 
 He stood still. In a moment the brightness of his world 
 changed to blackness. No, there was no sand; there was 
 no acceptance. Love always finds a way, he knew that. 
 Zita could have managed to find time and the means if she 
 had wished to. It was such a simple matter, such an every- 
 day matter. But the step was white and sandless. Obvi- 
 ously she had refused his request. 
 
 He examined the windows opposite. No eyes were look- 
 ing, no jealousies were lifted; the street was empty. He 
 knelt on the step and put his ear to the door; he heard 
 voices. With a beating heart he put an eye to the key- 
 hole. By doing so he was able to see the whole interior 
 of the room. 
 
 As he looked the hot blood in his veins ran cold. Misery 
 stabbed his heart. There were two people in the room, 
 Zita and a man. And Zita was in the man's arms. That 
 was all he needed to see. 
 
 That the man was the girl's lover there could be no 
 doubt. And he was a Signore. Sardo's ideals were killed 
 before he rose from his prying position. His young 
 world had become old and cold and sinister. Perhaps he 
 was going mad? This girl had seemed to him as pure as 
 the Virgin Mother. He would have sworn that her flight 
 from Empedocle was genuine, and not a clever pose or an 
 intrigue. Now he knew that he had been fooled. The 
 girl had been with her lover; why she had jumped on to his 
 cart from the window he could not explain to himself.
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 125 
 
 Probably she had stayed too long and she saw no other 
 means of getting home. 
 
 He laughed savagely. A cheated Sicilian is an ugly 
 thing. Sardo had been cheated and fooled. The girl was 
 bad and deceitful. And yet he cursed the man who had 
 taken her from him. In his thoughts she had lived with 
 him as his tenderly-loved wife ever since she had dropped 
 from heaven on to his cart. She had become a part of his 
 existence. Each day's work had been done for her, each 
 song he had sung had been sung to her, each lamb born 
 on his farm had been a promise of her first-born son, her 
 helpless babe feeding at her breast. 
 
 Now she had made all fair women false and accursed. 
 "Tesoro mio," he cried, "you are to be cast out of my 
 thoughts, you are to be one with all the other women of the 
 town, whose love is for sale !" 
 
 Even as he said the words he scorned them. Surely those 
 dear eyes had seen fear? He could hear her clear voice 
 singing "Caro nome" ; he could see her perched up on her 
 seat of green rushes. Must his thoughts no longer rever- 
 ence her? Was she a creature to be enjoyed and played 
 with, then cast aside? Motherhood would never set its 
 crown upon her beauty. 
 
 These thoughts crucified his flesh and stained and shat- 
 tered his ideals as his hurying feet carried him far from 
 Zita's sandless door. 
 
 In such a way was Zita robbed of a devout lover. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 IN the Casa Salvatore the Greek urns were on the table; 
 two strangers were gazing at them with admiring eyes 
 or rather, the elder of the two was examining them min- 
 utely, whilst the younger man was only making a pre- 
 tence; his eyes were stealing quick glances at Zita,
 
 126 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 The crevices of the window shutters and the door had 
 been plugged with cotton wool, the door had been locked 
 from the inside. 
 
 Mr. George A. Langbridge, the possible purchaser of 
 the urns, was a dignified, good-looking, elderly man, with 
 a singularly clean and attractive personality. He was un- 
 mistakably an American gentleman. His son, who was 
 not so good-looking, had a sterner face, though the ex- 
 pression of his mobile mouth was humorous and his eyes 
 when he smiled were reassuring. 
 
 Mr. Langbridge turned to Salvatore and said almost 
 reverently: "They are more beautiful than I expected; 
 they are worth much money. But you know of course that 
 we are not allowed to take antiques out of Italy." 
 
 "Si, Signore, but many go." 
 
 Mr. Langbridge smiled. "I want these vases. They 
 are worth twice the money you are asking for them." 
 
 Salvatore threw back his head. "I shall be glad to get 
 the sum I mentioned, Signore. I will not go back on my 
 word; I should not sell them if I did not require the 
 money." 
 
 The youth's voice hurt the fine sensibilities of the Ameri- 
 can. He looked at him keenly. 
 
 "Count Zarano fixed the price," he said. "I didn't beat 
 him down. I left all arrangements to him." 
 
 "I understand, Signore. I need money; I shall be well 
 paid." 
 
 The American's eyes travelled round the cottage. Had 
 so much pure beauty ever before been gathered in so small 
 a space? the Greek urns, the beautiful girl, the classic 
 youth ? 
 
 Apart from the urns, the contents of the room could 
 have been bought for a few pounds. The sheepskin in the 
 corner obviously covered a bed ; did the youth whose move- 
 ments made his own feel clumsy, sleep on it, he wondered? 
 
 Mr. Langbridge came of Quaker stock. He did not 
 know that he was buying stolen goods, but he did know
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 127 
 
 that he had no right to take antiques out of Sicily or Italy 
 without the permission of the Government. This seemed 
 to him an unjust law; America needed the refining influ- 
 ence of classic art more than Italy. Italy had plenty of 
 antiques. 
 
 "These urns were a great find," he said to Salvatore. 
 He had to say something while his mind was seeking for a 
 means by which he could better pay the youth for his 
 treasures. There was something about Salvatore which 
 prevented him from actually offering him a higher price 
 than the sum asked. An idea came to him suddenly. He 
 could add considerably to the cheque by paying him a 
 large sum for taking them down to his yacht ; nothing had 
 been said about that. 
 
 At first Salvatore refused the sum he offered, but the 
 Signore said it was not too much for the risk he was 
 taking; he would not let him do it for less. 
 
 "I should like very much to know," he said, "if you 
 won't think me merely curious, what you are doing I 
 mean, what is your ambition? Count Zarano told me that 
 you spent your leisure hours over scientific research." 
 
 "Si, Signore, I am deeply interested in the lost art of 
 glazing." Salvatore instinctively trusted the man who was 
 going to smuggle the Greek urns out of the Island ; but he 
 did not mean to divulge his secret to him. 
 
 The American's eyes kindled. "That amazing Egyp- 
 tian blue faience, perhaps? It is a lost art." 
 
 Salvatore bowed his head. "The iridescent glazes of 
 Italy and Sicily are to me more interesting." 
 
 "And you want money for your work ? That is why you 
 are selling the urns?" 
 
 "Si, si, Signore. I wish to go to Rome. I shall go if I 
 can manage to get the urns down to your yacht safely." 
 
 "You think you can manage it?" 
 
 "Spero di si. I will try." Salvatore's eyes were gleam- 
 ing, but his face was very pale. 
 
 The American took in every detail of his appearance
 
 128 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 his delicate fingers, his finely-chiselled ears and classic con- 
 tour of throat. He next entered into a discussion with him 
 regarding the exact time and place for the delivery of the 
 urns on his yacht. 
 
 As all their conversation had to be carried on in English 
 it took a long time to complete the arrangement. Mean- 
 while Zita had been answering the questions of the younger 
 man. He could speak Italian with fluency. As a con- 
 tractor in America he employed a large number of Italian 
 workmen; he had an Italian overseer; he understood 
 Italians and liked them; he respected their intelligence 
 and industry. 
 
 When Zita had told him about her brother's work as an 
 excavator, she answered simply and intelligently all the 
 questions he asked her, about the conditions of the sulphur 
 miners, their wages and their hours of work. 
 
 He was of course talking to her more or less for the 
 pleasure it gave him to look at her, for in no other way 
 could he have looked at her so much. He did not mind 
 how long his father took to settle about the vases. What a 
 strange country Sicily was ! Only that very afternoon they 
 had walked through the back streets of the town, where 
 they had seen so much ugliness and wretchedness that he 
 had flown from them in horror. Now the girl and her 
 brother, in their whitewashed cottage, showed him the other 
 side of the picture, a contrast which is peculiarly Sicilian. 
 
 When at last the business was finished, the lengthy 
 "addios" had been exchanged and the Americans were 
 walking down the street, the younger man said eagerly: 
 
 "My, dad! But there's some beauty in that cot- 
 tage." 
 
 Mr. Langbridge smiled. "Some beauty, as you say, 
 Waldo. Isn't this an astonishing country? Doesn't it 
 show that nothing ever dies? Those children are as Greek 
 as their urns." 
 
 "I was sorry to say good-bye, weren't you?"
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 129 
 
 "I'd like to do something for the youth. The puzzle is 
 what can one do? 
 
 The younger man laughed. "I'd like to do something 
 with that girl! My goodness, she's hard to beat! She's 
 a peach, she's a beauty." 
 
 I shan't get you safe back home, Waldo I can see 
 that." 
 
 "She's taken my fancy right enough." 
 
 "They are both worthy of better surroundings. But the 
 young man's going to Rome, he says. He's got sound 
 ideas; he's no fool." 
 
 "What about?" 
 
 "Glazes and hard cements and so forth." 
 
 "He has, has he? It's cement he's after? Is this exca- 
 vating only a sideshow? Roman cement for ships will 
 make someone's fortune." 
 
 "Yes, so far as I could gather, but it was not easy 
 for me to follow him; sometimes his English puzzled 
 me." 
 
 "Have you arranged about the urns?" 
 
 "Yes. He'll take then down to Porto Empedocle. They 
 will go on board as oil jars. They will be all right trust 
 a Sicilian!" 
 
 "I hope you won't be stopped and searched on the high 
 seas." 
 
 "Little likelihood they have never been seen by anyone 
 except that girl and the Count. It's not like a celebrated 
 picture or even a fine piece of furniture." 
 
 "I don't trust that dago Zarano. That nice Scots girl 
 is ways too good for him." 
 
 "Why, Waldo, I rather enjoy his society. He's very 
 cultured and clever." 
 
 "A rogue in six languages, if you ask me." 
 
 "Is iihat so? He speaks English like an Englishman, 
 and apart from his better manners, he might pass for one. 
 He's a very fine musician." 
 
 "I wouldn't mind betting you that he's going to get his
 
 130 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 'squeeze' out of that young excavator, a pretty big one, 
 too." 
 
 "You don't mean that?" Mr. Langbridge's blue eyes 
 looked wonderingly at his son. "He seems a gentleman; 
 he spends his money pretty freely." 
 
 "How does he make it?" 
 
 "This archaeological work appears to be a hobby, the 
 work of a gentleman of leisure and money." 
 
 The younger man laughed. "There aren't many men of 
 leisure and money amongst his countrymen." 
 
 "Isn't he an Austrian aristocrat? Aren't they the gen- 
 tlemen of Europe?" 
 
 "He prefers to be called an Austrian because Croats are 
 liked even ten degrees less than Austrians in Italy. The 
 feeling against Austrians is really not personal; it's 
 political. Austrians are gentlemen and Italians like them. 
 It is the Austrianized Croat that their soul abhors. And 
 little wonder! The Austrians have always used them as 
 tools against Itaty ; they have done Austria's dirty work." 
 
 "Then you think Count Zarano is a Croat? I know 
 nothing about Croats ; I know there is a rabbit-warren of 
 Balkan peoples in south-eastern Europe, troublesome 
 people, but I couldn't tell you one single thing about any 
 of them." 
 
 "You'll be able to tell more some day, or I'm mistaken." 
 
 "Is that so?" 
 
 "Why, certainly. Education with these people is going 
 to act like manure in a f orcing-bed ; it's going to bring 
 forth much fruit. Time will prove what the harvest will 
 mean." 
 
 When they reached the entrance to the hotel grounds 
 they caught a glimpse of Christine and the Count. 
 
 "Look!" Waldo Langbridge said. My Croat is in- 
 structing pretty Miss Lovat in the mystery of the heav- 
 ens." His voice was bitter. 
 
 His father looked for a moment before he saw the two 
 figures. "You are jealous, Waldo. He's only doing what
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 131 
 
 any other young fellow would do if he had the chance. 
 Miss Lovat is very much to my liking. I admire her good 
 style and freshness, don't you? She is a lady and that's 
 saying a very great deal in these days." 
 
 "Given the same chance, that little Greek girl would 
 wipe the floor with her." He paused. "In Scotland there 
 are many Miss Lovats ; I doubt if even in Sicily there are 
 two Zita Mazzinis." 
 
 "Miss Lovat is a woman we can understand, Waldo; 
 she's a woman of our own Anglo-Saxon blood. That little 
 girl might as well be the replica of a Greek coin as a 
 human being. She's one of Nature's gentlewomen, but I 
 doubt if I could ever understand her." 
 
 "A Greek statue spoilt by clothes." 
 
 "Just so! Now Miss Lovat can look like a wood 
 nymph, but in my thoughts she can be transformed into a 
 possible wife and mother and I suppose that is how we 
 ought to sum up women possible wives and mothers." 
 
 Waldo Langbridge laughed. "Italians always see in 
 young womanhood possible mothers of children." 
 
 "Do they?" 
 
 "In the women they respect, I mean." 
 
 "It's a good foundation for matrimony, Waldo. What 
 do you think?" 
 
 "Anglo-Saxon love takes a mighty lot on trust. Our 
 men will marry any kind of a girl if they are sufficiently in 
 love with her. The good wife and mother of his children 
 idea comes precious little into his calculations. I think 
 statistics would prove that the Italian principle is the 
 sounder." 
 
 The two men stood still. The heavens held them. The 
 stars at the moment seemed too many for the night sky ; 
 some of them fell to earth. 
 
 "Waldo, my boy, 'On such a night did pretty Jessica.' 
 Don't you think that climate has a mighty lot to account 
 for? These fireflies flitting through the air like golden 
 needles ; that scent of orange-blossom coming from lovers'
 
 132 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 Edens ; the subconsciousness that those pagan temples are 
 standing over there in that holy calm. . . ." He laughed 
 softly. "Why, at your age I'd have proposed to half-a- 
 dozen girls on a night like this." 
 
 "In spite of the wife and motherhood business, father?" 
 
 "Under these stars any sort of woman would appear 
 perfect; the stars and the moon are beautifiers. My! But 
 it's a dangerous land, a dangerous, delightful land. I 
 must get you out of it, Waldo." 
 
 "I'm not going, Siree. It suits me very well. Besides, 
 I want to see a 'tunny batto.' " 
 
 "Well, I don't feel as if I wanted to. They tell me that 
 the sea runs blood like a battlefield ; it's a gigantic shambles 
 on the high seas." 
 
 Christine and her companion Count Zarano were stand- 
 ing on the terrace which overlooked the great plain. They 
 were standing side by side looking at the stars, their heads 
 thrown back, the clear light of the moon lighting up their 
 faces. 
 
 The two Americans stopped ; their coming had not been 
 heard; for a moment they watched the lovers spellbound. 
 
 They were a goodly couple. Suddenly and as if by in- 
 stinct their upturned heads were turned to each other, their 
 lips met. The action was so natural and so beautiful that 
 the onlookers felt the same reverence for Christine's devout 
 kiss as they would have felt in the presence of the dead. 
 Americans are sentimental. 
 
 "Come on, Waldo," his father whispered, "let's get 
 away. We are on holy ground." 
 
 "I hope the Count thinks the same thing." 
 
 "Why, man, you can't doubt it ! That was the genuine 
 article." 
 
 "To a man like the Count a woman's kiss can so often be 
 the genuine article. However, it's no business of ours, so 
 let's turn in."
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 133 
 
 MKS. BULLOCK simply put her foot down. Christine did 
 not go to the Museum. 
 
 Of course Count Zarano had been at the bottom of it, 
 but she did not know that. He had told her aunt that for 
 Christine to go to the Museum and walk about alcne with 
 Salvatore Mazzini was neither wise nor really kind to the 
 hot-blooded youth. 
 
 "I have seen these things tried," he said, "and invari- 
 ably the English girl has been sorry for her thoughtless 
 conduct." 
 
 Christine did not dispute her aunt's command. She had 
 been brought up conventionally, and although Salvatore 
 Mazzini was an artist he was not socially her equal; she 
 had not thought of him as she thought of Count Zarano. 
 
 Instead of going to the Museum she had driven up to 
 the town and attended high mass at the cathedral with her 
 aunt. 
 
 That was only a few days ago. But much can happen 
 in a few days at such a critical epoch in a girl's life. 
 Christine was living quickly and A'itally ; each hour 
 counted, each day called her swiftly to greater things. 
 She was so inwardly happy that it did not matter very 
 much what she did. It was all Sicily, and three or four 
 times each day she had the excitement and pleasure of 
 being with her lover. Through his clever devising there 
 was some romantic pleasure to look forward to every 
 evening. 
 
 She had known him for less than a month, yet it seemed 
 years since she had felt any mistrust of him and misjudged 
 his character. The thought of it made her angry with 
 herself. She was now willing to trust herself to his keep- 
 ing for the rest of her life, and her life was to be a glorious 
 one. He was to take her to Egypt and to Syria and to
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 Greece. They were to live in the desert until they felt 
 the call of the world, the desire for other society than their 
 own. Then they were to go to Vienna and Paris and 
 Rome. 
 
 Christine never questioned her lover's worldly riches, his 
 ability to do all these things. He had asked her to marry 
 him, so of course he could afford to keep her in comfort, if 
 not in great luxury. With her aunt she had every luxury, 
 but her London life bored her. Her own small income, a 
 colonel's daughter's pension, which would of course cease 
 at her marriage, scarcely did more than pay for her taxi 
 fares. But her aunt liked to take about with her a pretty, 
 well-dressed niece who did her credit; every penny she 
 spent on the girl was spent for her own satisfaction. She 
 was an intensely selfish woman. 
 
 Christine was ridicuously happy. A lover in Sicily and 
 such a lover made the enchantment of the Laughing Land 
 complete. He made her heart sing with delight from morn- 
 ing until night. He taught her how poor a thing her life 
 had been before he had come into it. Things which were 
 beautiful were a thousand times more beautiful when seen 
 through a lover's eyes. A newborn pity for all unloved 
 things made her more womanly. But as yet she did not 
 know the difference between being romantically in love 
 with Love and being in love. 
 
 They were doing the sulphur mines. A chaperone had 
 been found and also another sightseer, who made a welcome 
 fourth. For the time being Waldo Langbridge put his 
 prejudice in his pocket. He wished to see a sulphur mine 
 and he imagined that Christine would prefer a partie 
 caree. But his dislike for the Croat had not diminished. 
 
 They had taken the train from Girgenti to the mining 
 centre of Serradifalco. From Serradifalco to the mine 
 they rode on donkeys. Long before they reached the 
 station Christine knew that they were in a sulphur district 
 and that Sicily had turned her ugly cheek to them. They
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 135 
 
 were in a barren land where nothing grew, and nothing 
 could live. It was as ugly as any Inferno pictured by 
 Dante. Instead of fields of blood-red sanfoil, pink lupins 
 and orange-coloured marigolds, which they had left be- 
 hind them, she could see absolutely nothing but what 
 looked like gigantic anthills of a pink and greenish colour. 
 They were the "tailings," as the rubbish-heaps of mines 
 are technically called. Here and there a monster chimney 
 reared its ungainly head and belched out smoke into the 
 sky. In the far distance there were blue and lofty moun- 
 tains. 
 
 They were in a world abandoned to sulphur. Sulphur 
 mines have a way of looking as if they were disused, an 
 appearance which adds to the natural desolation of the 
 scenery. Mine-owners are compelled to purchase the land 
 for nearly a mile round the area of the mines, because the 
 land is rendered valueless. Everything was very grey and 
 still and oppressive and of course destitute of shade. Now 
 and then a white falcon flew high over their heads in its 
 ardent desire to reach the sanctuary of the blue mountains. 
 In the distance Christine could distinguish trains of sul- 
 phur-laden mules winding their way in and out of the 
 hills. They looked like trails of ants migrating to some 
 fresh colony. 
 
 As they approached the valley where the mine, which had 
 been worked continuously for two hundred and fifty years, 
 lay, fumes of sulphur caught their throats and hurt their 
 eyes. The landscape became even more desolate. There 
 were no longer the distant hills to remind Christine that she 
 was riding through the playground of the Gods. She 
 coughed and rubbed her eyes. The Count was riding by 
 her side ; he had been watching her closely. 
 
 "The air is not really very bad to-day," he said, "be- 
 cause in the spring the fires which heat the little kilns for 
 melting the ore, and which are never allowed to go out, 
 have to be kept very low. The fumes must not travel 
 more than six miles."
 
 136 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 "What must it be like in winter, if this is not bad?" A 
 fit of coughing stopped her speaking. Presently she said, 
 "What did you say the fires Avere for?" 
 
 "To smelt and burn the ore. These 'gill fires,' as they 
 are called, keep on lighting themselves, which means an 
 enormous saving of labour. The man who invented them 
 was called Gill ; he came from the Isle of Man, which per- 
 haps you don't know has for its crest three legs, just like 
 the Sicilian Trinacria. You will see the yellow sulphur 
 pouring out of the kilns into flat pans. When it is taken 
 from the mines it is in a perfectly dry condition, of 
 course." 
 
 Later on Christine saw the liquid sulphur, which poured 
 out of the kilns like a golden stream of toffee. And far 
 down in the bowels of the earth, she saw men hacking it out 
 of its bed in the rocks. She saw wonderful sights in that 
 dark cool underworld, which came as a relief to her tired 
 body and burning feet, for the ground above the mine was 
 hot and soft ; an amazing world full of busy men and sing- 
 ing boys. 
 
 And now the adventure was over; they were again on 
 their donkeys and on their way back to the station. But 
 Christine could still see the half-naked men hacking out 
 the ore in small chambers, which were lit by safety-lamps, 
 their bright eyes and pale skins showing clearly in the dark 
 surroundings. She could hear the "carusi" (boys) sing- 
 ing old mining songs, as they pushed their ore-filled wag- 
 gons along the narrow gauge line which ran along the 
 galleries. She could feel again her lover's hand seeking 
 hers whenever an opportunity occurred. How she had 
 loved him for remembering her! 
 
 The whole thing had astonished Christine. She had been 
 told by Mr. Langbridge that she would see child-labour, 
 with all its horrors. Instead of which, she had seen boys, 
 singing and joking as they pulled trucks of debris along 
 smoothly laid lines. It had shocked her to hear the over- 
 seer boast that the best-paid miners could easily earn two
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 137 
 
 shillings per day, a day which began at six a. m. and ended 
 at six p. m., for if she had been offered a year's wages she 
 would not have gone down the mine again. 
 
 While she was riding and thinking these thoughts, some- 
 thing was vexing her much more than the economic condi- 
 tions of the miners. 
 
 The donkey-boy who was running behind her was every 
 now and then urging on her animal by jagging its flesh at 
 the most sensitive parts of its body with the sharpened 
 point of a nail, securely fixed into a short thick handle 
 of wood. Each time he jagged it the donkey threw up its 
 hind legs and scuttled on quickly for a few paces. 
 
 More than once she had tried to make him give her the 
 nail, but when she questioned him he made a pretence of 
 having done nothing to the animal. He had nothing in his 
 hand, it was not his fault. The English Signorina might 
 belong to the English Society for the Prevention of Cruelty 
 to Animals, which as he knew had insisted upon the Italian 
 authorities prohibiting the use of these primitive instru- 
 ments of cruelty. 
 
 At last Chrstine called out to her lover ; she could endure 
 it no longer. 
 
 "What is the matter, sweetheart?" 
 
 The Count had ridden back to her; he was on a very 
 fast mule. 
 
 "That wretched boy is stabbing my donkey with one of 
 those sharpened nails, and he won't give it up he says he 
 hasn't got one. Do make him give it to you." Christine's 
 eyes pleaded. "He is spoiling my day, and I'm getting so 
 tired and cross." 
 
 "You darling!" her lover said sympathetically. "But 
 the donkey will probably refuse to move if I take it." 
 
 "Oh no it won't! Do take it! I can't bear it any 
 longer. It was going quite well. He's just a cruel little 
 wretch." 
 
 The Count looked at the sun. It was sinking; he knew 
 that they had just time to catch the last train to Girgenti.
 
 138 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 The boy gave the donkey another dig. Up went its heels 
 and Christine almost went over its head. 
 
 "There !" cried Christine. Isn't he too fiendish? If you 
 love me, dearest, take that hateful thing from him." 
 
 "You will risk the consequences?" 
 
 "What consequences?" 
 
 "It will crawl for the rest of the way. They get accus- 
 tomed to such treatment and won't go without it." 
 
 Christine looked annoyed and disappointed. "I don't 
 mind if it does crawl anything rather than such abom- 
 inable cruelty. Surely you long to thrash ths little vil- 
 lain?" 
 
 "The animal has not got your skin, remember. 
 
 "I am sitting on it," she answered coldly, "and I can 
 feel it shrink and wince. It is nonsense to say it doesn't 
 feel." 
 
 The desolation of the sulphur-fumed country, the fatigue 
 of the day's excursion, were having their effect on the 
 girl's nerves. 
 
 Her lover saw her strained expression, the forlorn eyes ; 
 she was almost hysterical. 
 
 He called the boy to his side; at his stern bidding the 
 caruso handed over the nail. This made Christine still 
 more annoyed; the boy had refused to give it up to her. 
 She urged the animal forward until it was abreast of her 
 lover's mule. 
 
 "Let me see it," she said. "What sort of hellish thing 
 is it?" 
 
 This was a new Christine to the Count, who silently 
 handed her the nail. It was discoloured with blood and 
 covered with matted hair. 
 
 "Look !" she cried. "Look ! You can see how the poor 
 animal must have suffered." 
 
 Her lover did not seem moved or excited; he had wit- 
 nessed worse deeds from donkey-boys. Christine's eyes 
 expressed both horror and surprise. Was this her lover? 
 The tender shepherd who had bound up the limb of the
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 139 
 
 suffering helpless kid? She raised her arm high above 
 her head and flung the nail as far away as she could. 
 
 "There!" she said. "How I'd love to see you soundly 
 thrash the little beast, or at least feel as I do about it." 
 
 "What good would it do? He thinks you are both 
 ignorant and mad; in his opinion animals have no souls. 
 It is through our souls that we suffer, our souls raise us 
 above the level of animals. He thinks you are very 
 ignorant not to know that ; but you are only a Protestant, 
 a heretic." 
 
 "They know quite well that animals feel," Christine 
 said, in a dry voice, "else why should jabbing the donkey 
 make it go?" 
 
 Her donkey's pace was degenerating into a slow walk. 
 She urged it on, but it paid no attention to her humane 
 efforts. Soon the distance between her donkey and her 
 lover's mule grew greater and greater. They were both a 
 considerable way behind the rest of the party, who were 
 riding along the track in Indian file. 
 
 With a sinking heart she tried desperately to make the 
 animal quicken its pace by pulling the reins, by pressing 
 her heels against its sides, by cries, threats and entreaties. 
 But nothing had the slightest effect on the tired animal. 
 
 "Amonine! Amonine!" She tried to imitate the long- 
 drawn-out Sicilian cry. But if the animal recognized it, 
 it ignored it; its head sank lower and lower until it was 
 almost between its forelegs; it was scarcely crawling. 
 
 She called out to the boy to come and make it go more 
 quickly. He ran close up to it and gave such a yell that 
 Christine almost fell off its back. The donkey only 
 switched its tail and the boy did not attempt to do any- 
 thing more. 
 
 Her lover was now far ahead; his mule wished to pass 
 the others. 
 
 The boy was enjoying himself immensely. The Signo- 
 rina would miss her train ; she would soon find out her folly. 
 He gave another appalling yell ; it echoed round the deso-
 
 140 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 late hills. But this time the donkey did not even switch its 
 tail; it could not have gone slower without stopping alto- 
 gether. 
 
 Tears of helplessness and rage were swimming in Chris- 
 tine's eyes. She was angry with the world; the country 
 which she was going through was an inferno; the boy at 
 her side an impudent grinning little devil; her lover was 
 unsympathetic. Sicily was indeed showing her ugly face. 
 
 The Count looked at his watch. The girl had learnt her 
 lesson. He turned his mule, and digging his heels into its 
 ribs, in a minute or two he was at Christine's side. He was 
 no lover, but one to be obeyed. 
 
 "Get off your donkey quickly there is no time to lose. 
 You must ride my mule." 
 
 He had flung himself off and put his arms round Chris- 
 tine. But they held no caress. A delighted grin made the 
 boy's ugly face comely. 
 
 "Now jump!" her lover said, as he held her slim foot in 
 his hand. "And we must go like the wind or we shall miss 
 the train." 
 
 He sprang up behind her and called out, "Amonine! 
 Amonine !" 
 
 They were off together, off like an arrow shot from a 
 bow. The mule was at last allowed to pass its distant 
 companions if it could. 
 
 Christine was breathless and tired. She had no idea that 
 a mule could go at such a pace. Her lover heard her quick 
 breathing ; he felt the tension of her body. 
 
 "Now you know, sweetheart, why I did not give you 
 my mule to ride. It would have bolted with you ; I have 
 had my work cut out holding it back." 
 
 They were quickly gaining on the advance party. Chris- 
 tine was beginning to feel less miserable, although she was 
 also beginning to think that she had made a fool of herself. 
 She was too tired to speak, but her lover's presence was 
 soothing. To be so close to him was exquisite. He kissed
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 the back of her neck, where bright little curls flirted with 
 her ears and throat. 
 
 "I was so miserable," she said humbly. "You seemed 
 all of a sudden to have changed into the man I distrusted 
 and was afraid of." She laughed softly, as he stole an- 
 other kiss. "How long ago that seems now ! And I never 
 told you why I suddenly knew that I had been all wrong." 
 
 "My angry Christine, my tired little girl. I knew you 
 thought me heartless. But we must hurry, or we shall 
 miss the train. Personally I should like to ride like this to 
 Girgenti, or to Kingdom Come, but I must think of you." 
 
 "Are we late?" 
 
 "If you hadn't mounted the mule, we shouldn't have 
 caught the train." 
 
 "Was I so nearly missing it?" she laughed happily. 
 
 "It would have been pretty awful," he said. "As it is, 
 we haven't a minute to spare." 
 
 The mule had slackened its pace. He urged it on, and 
 with a few swift strides it was almost abreast of the leaders 
 of the party. 
 
 "Is there no other line, no other train to Girgenti?" 
 
 "No. You would have had to stay here all night." 
 
 They had made up on the others and no more was said 
 on the subject; but it gave Christine plenty of food for 
 reflection. 
 
 Waldo Langbridge was the first to speak to them as 
 they cantered up on the one black mule. 
 
 "Ah! There you are at last!" he cried. "We were 
 getting anxious." 
 
 "After I made my boy hand me over the horrible thing 
 he was jabbing my donkey with it refused to budge. I 
 should certainly never have caught the train if Count 
 Zarano hadn't come to my rescue and given me a lift on his 
 mule." 
 
 Waldo Langbridge laughed. "I did the same thing. I 
 made my boy give me the beastly thing, but I had to give 
 it him back again."
 
 142 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 "But I threw mine away." They laughed together. 
 "What fools we both must have looked to the young 
 wretches ! Count Zarano warned me, but I wouldn't take 
 his advice." 
 
 Miss Hudson had looked very shocked when Christine 
 appeared seated in front of the Count, but she accepted the 
 situation in the proper spirit when she heard Christine's 
 confession. 
 
 Soon the mule carried them far past their companions. 
 Christine turned a laughing face to her lover. 
 
 "You are happy again, sweetheart?" he said as his lips 
 met hers. 
 
 "More than happy, dearest. I was a fool and I 
 apologise." 
 
 "I didn't think it was the right time or place for the 
 lesson you wanted me to give the boy. I hated displeas- 
 ing you I suffered as much as you did. You believe 
 that, don't you?" 
 
 "Yes . . . but I longed to thrash the hateful little 
 beast! You . . . well, you didn't!" she said mis- 
 chievously. 
 
 "He isn't hateful really. He would probably show 
 more sympathy and charity to a starving man or woman 
 than any English schoolboy. And remember that in Sicily 
 and Italy there is no need for a society to protect children 
 from cruelty. That boy understands hunger and starva- 
 tion, so he has pity for the wretched and unfed, but he does 
 not believe that animals suffer." 
 
 And so it came to pass that Christine's visit to the 
 sulphur mines made her admire her lover for his justice and 
 impartiality, just as his kindness to the suffering kid made 
 her feel certain that her first impression of his character 
 was wrong.
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 143 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THAT same night in her aunt's bedroom Christine told 
 Mrs. Bullock that Count Zarano had asked her to marry 
 him and that she loved him. She had given her promise in 
 the hope that her aunt would gladly give her consent. 
 
 Her aunt's ivory-backed brush fell to the floor. A 
 jealous rage convulsed her; she could not make her lips 
 speak. Christine watched the heavy flesh on her cheeks 
 grow hideously pale. 
 
 "You like him, Auntie say you approve." 
 
 "Approve! Approve! No, I certainly do not approve. 
 You are a sly minx, Christine." Mrs. Bullock's voice was 
 high-pitched. 
 
 Christine tried to put her arms round her. Mrs. Bul- 
 lock shook her off. 
 
 "Yes, a sly deceitful minx ! You pretended you disliked 
 the Count! Before me you rejected any politeness he 
 showed you. And all the time it was a pose !" 
 
 "I did dislike him at first at least, I was a little afraid 
 of him ... he made me nervous ... he does still 
 sometimes, but it's rather a nice feeling." 
 
 Mrs. Bullock stared at her niece. Christine was stand- 
 ing in front of her in a thin pink kimono; it fell open in 
 front and revealed a soft nightgown of white crepe-de- 
 chine, which clung to her young figure. Her glittering 
 hair was about her shoulders. Her aunt was conscious of 
 the subtle fragrance of young flesh ; even to her unimagina- 
 tive mind the girl looked like a flower, a spring flower 
 culled from a moist English orchard. 
 
 "You don't know your own mind! You are just a 
 weathercock! This nonsense is only because the Count is 
 the first man who has seriously made love to you. Count 
 Zarano is a thorough man of the world ; he should marry a 
 woman of the world, not a schoolgirl like you."
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 "Girls of nineteen are not children nowadays. I shall be 
 twenty soon ; I am quite a woman." In spite of her words 
 Christine only looked like a slim schoolgirl. Most people 
 would have agreed with her aunt that she was "owr young" 
 to marry yet. 
 
 "You a woman, Christine? Count Zarano knows you 
 are only a child; perhaps he is tired of women." 
 
 "Oh, auntie !" Christine had time to say no more. 
 
 Her aunt had controlled her violent temper as long as 
 she could ; she now gave it full rein. The girl's expression 
 maddened her. 
 
 "Silly little fool !" she said. "What do you know about 
 him? What has he got to keep you on? A fine penny 
 you'll cost him, with your ignorance of money and love of 
 all fine things ! I don't suppose you have any idea of the 
 cost of that nightgown! What do you know about his 
 people or his past, I ask you?" 
 
 "Nothing, Auntie nothing except what love tells a 
 woman." 
 
 "Love? Fiddlesticks! You don't know what love 
 means. Anyone can tell that by the way you sing! No 
 singing-master can teach passion and you haven't got 
 any. The man has just played on your vanity. I didn't 
 think you could have been such a fool, Christine, I honestly 
 didn't." 
 
 Christine's cheeks were flushed, her blue eyes looked 
 black. 
 
 "But you liked him, you encouraged him, you enjoyed 
 his music and bridge and company generally!" 
 
 "Of course I did, but I didn't imagine I'd a fool for a 
 niece! Where has your Scots sense gone to?" 
 
 Christine sighed. "What can I do, Auntie? I hate dis- 
 pleasing you." 
 
 "Do? Leave Girgenti to-morrow, of course, that's what 
 you'll do. Tell your fine foreigner that you must give him 
 up, that you didn't mean it." 
 
 "That I never will !"
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 145 
 
 Her aunt came nearer to her and looked into her flaming 
 eyes ; they were like polished agates. 
 
 "You never will, won't you, Miss? Then tell him from 
 me that you are dowerless, for not one penny of mine shall 
 go to support an idle husband." 
 
 Christine's knowledge that her aunt had lost all control 
 of her temper helped her to keep her own. 
 
 "Can't you remember what it was like to be loved?" she 
 said. "To have a lover makes all the world wonderful! 
 You must know that a woman never really lives until she 
 loves ?" Christine imagined that she was speaking because 
 she felt these things. 
 
 "I am not in my dotage yet, Christine !" Mrs. Bullock's 
 voice was cruel, her eyes vindictive; she could have hit 
 Christine for her words. 
 
 "I never meant that, Auntie. Do forgive me and do 
 please give me your consent. It would make life just 
 perfect." 
 
 "I'll do nothing of the kind! I enjoyed your good- 
 looking foreigner's music and society, but if he thinks you 
 are going to be my heiress, he is greatly mistaken. I will 
 never consent to such a marriage." 
 
 "He never thought of such a thing." 
 
 "Oh, didn't he?" Mrs. Bullock imitated her niece's 
 voice of incredulity. "Didn't he just! If he knew that 
 you were penniless and had thought that I should be fool 
 enough, he would probably have proposed to the aunt and 
 not to the niece. You have played a clever, deceitful game, 
 Christine, but I can play another. I hold the trump card 
 in my hand." 
 
 Christine was an extraordinarily sweet-tempered girl, 
 but her aunt's vulgar methods of showing her disapproval 
 of her engagement roused her worst spirit. She could be 
 very stubborn ; there was a pigheaded Scots determination 
 in her gentle disposition. 
 
 "I have done nothing deceitful," she said coldly. 
 "People do not generally make love in public, nor do
 
 146 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 make girls remarkable by showing their intentions to the 
 world at large. As soon as he asked me to marry him, I 
 came to tell you. Why did you not tell me that you did 
 not really like him? It is you who were deceitful." 
 
 Christine's anger quieted her aunt, who had seldom seen 
 the girl in that cold determined attitude. 
 
 "Don't be rude, Christine! I found him amusing. He 
 is always polite, he has charming manners with strangers. 
 But just you wait! If you are foolish enough to marry 
 him, you will see how quickly those good manners will 
 change. Wait until the glamour of his passion has worn 
 off, wait until his quick brain finds you a bore ! You'll see 
 who's right then." 
 
 "These are the prejudices people had when communica- 
 tion with other countries was so restricted that we knew 
 nothing about any European peoples, when every 
 'foreigner,' as you call Count Zarano, was a villain, and 
 only British people possessed any moral qualities." 
 
 "I trust no foreigners. They amuse me, their music is 
 generally better than ours; but I wouldn't trust any man 
 or woman east of the Rhine, and very few Frenchmen at 
 that." 
 
 "Andrea's ways are our ways. He has neither foreign 
 accents nor habits ; he loves English people." 
 
 "It's no use arguing, Christine. And you are talking 
 nonsense. Not a foreigner! No Anglo-Saxon kisses a 
 lady's hand when he bids her good-night or good-bye. I 
 brought you to Sicily and I am responsible for you while 
 you are here. I will take you back to London men are so 
 tiresome in this country." 
 
 "What do you expect me to do in England?" 
 
 "What you used to do, of course ! Don't be silly !" 
 
 "I cannot now go on living with you." 
 
 "You won't live with me ? Why not, pray ?" 
 
 "Because you disapprove of my lover and I mean to 
 marry him just as soon as ever I can." 
 
 "Well, upon my word, I should like to shake you. A
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 147 
 
 chit of a thing like you talking to me like that! Go to 
 your bed and wake up with more sense and manners ! Not 
 live with me, indeed !" 
 
 "Before I go let me tell you this : I am entirely free ; you 
 have no legal right to control my doings and I mean to 
 marry whom I choose. Good-night." 
 
 Christine turned her back on her aunt and walked away 
 quickly. Mrs. Bullock looked at the indignant girl as if 
 she had never seen her before. The tomboy had turned 
 into an angry, defiant woman, a woman whose will she 
 recognized for the first time. 
 
 Christine reached her roam with flaming cheeks and a 
 panting heart. She went straight to the big open window. 
 She had hated talking to her aunt in such a fashion, for 
 she had been kind to her after a manner, and Christine had 
 been brought up to reverence and obey people who were 
 older than herself. 
 
 The night was beautiful, its stillness profound, the 
 mystery of sleeping Sicily surrounded the hotel. The 
 scent from the garden, which was illuminated by a million 
 stars, was wafted past her as she stood, framed by the 
 window, gazing into the heavens. 
 
 "Oh, moon and stars !" she said. "I have just been 
 given eyes ! You are a thousand times more wonderful 
 than you ever were before ! Oh, flowers, your scent is ten 
 times sweeter!" She stepped out on to the balcony to give 
 herself more completely to the sensuous silence. She had 
 learnt the joy of surrender. Sicily enfolded her in a lover's 
 embrace. After her aunt's vulgar scolding its tenderness 
 quieted her nerves. 
 
 "I cannot and will not go back to London," she said. 
 "I just won't go back and dress up and undress four times 
 a day for all the London seasons in the world ! One season 
 of it was more than enough for a lifetime!" 
 
 Her thoughts travelled from London to the future. Her 
 aunt was soon forgotten. Her home was to be in Athens, 
 in Egypt, and in the desert of Southern Tunisia. She drew
 
 148 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 in her breath. Footsteps were coming near her balcony. 
 She listened. They had drawn nearer. 
 
 It was Andrea. She could see him ; he was carrying 
 some white roses. 
 
 He stopped under her balcony. She peeped eagerly 
 through the iron bars of its floor; she could see him. He 
 was laying the roses on the ground beneath her balcony, 
 Sicilian roses with large loose petals. 
 
 Christine sighed. Love was so wonderful. It was ex- 
 hausting her. 
 
 The Count walked slowly away. It was the second time 
 that Christine, unobserved, had watched him perform an 
 act which was to affect the whole current of her life. He 
 was her devout lover. Her aunt's words were blown from 
 her mind like chaff before the wind. 
 
 PART II 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 TEN YEARS L.ATER 
 
 IN the island of Ischia, which lies within a short distance 
 of Naples and Capri, a cloud-burst had wiped out a village 
 which lay in one of the ravines on a volcanic mountain. 
 Isola d'Ischia is almost all mountains, with blue and white 
 and pink villages clinging like limpets to their sea-washed 
 cliffs or climbing their precipitous heights. 
 
 The morning after the storm the Island lay sparkling 
 like a jewel in the sea; the sky was cloudless, the air was 
 clean and invigorating. There was nothing to suggest the 
 tragedy of the night before. The storm had burst after 
 nightfall, that sudden nightfall of the South,! which had 
 ended an ominous and depressing day. 
 
 The inhabitants of Casamicciola, one of the largest towns
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 149 
 
 in the Island, were watching a small steamer plying across 
 the water and heading directly for their port, which forms 
 the lower portion of the town. It was not the customary 
 hour for the arrival of the boat from Naples; but it was 
 bringing food and comforts for the homeless and a very 
 important visitor to the scene of the tragedy. The village 
 which had been washed down the mountain side as if it had 
 been built of cards, lay right above the higher town of 
 Casamicciola. 
 
 It was absurd to think that comforts and aid were needed 
 for anyone living on the island, which must have looked to 
 the people on the steamer like an earthly Eden. Golden 
 nespoli, juicy and ripe, showed above whitewashed walls 
 which protected orange orchards and chestnut groves. 
 From the boat they must have seen oleander arbours offer- 
 ing delicious shelter from the sun and smelt the scent of a 
 hundred blossoms which love Southern soil and fierce sun- 
 light. 
 
 One man on the white steamer was straining his eyes to 
 get the first glimpse of these familiar scenes. He had not 
 visited the island since he was a lad, but he remembered 
 every feature of it. The strong Saracen towers built to 
 guard the coast from the sudden attacks of the daring Cor- 
 sairs; the mosque-shaped churches, with their cupolas of 
 bright tiles ; the flat-roofed houses, the round loggias and 
 outside stairs ; the fishing villages, pink and blue and white, 
 which sheltered under the cliffs all these things were 
 dearly familiar to his eyes. 
 
 When the boat put into the pier, there was a rush to the 
 gangway. Everyone wished to be the first to see the 
 famous Cavaliere, the "millionario," the benefactor of the 
 island. When they caught sight of him and met the bright 
 smile with which he received their welcome, a cry went up. 
 Every man, woman and child shouted: "Viva Salvatore 
 Mazzini! Viva il Cavaliere! Welcome to Ischia!" 
 
 The three black-coated and black-gloved citizens in 
 attendance followed him closely; they were jealous of their
 
 150 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 official privilege and not a little impatient at the delay on 
 the pier caused by the people. 
 
 Salvatore Mazzini loved every smile and expression of 
 sympathy which he received; he would much rather have 
 walked with the people up the steep path to the high town. 
 But it had been arranged by the municipality that he was 
 to be driven from the port up to the town, no distance at 
 all, so he willingly complied. To be seated in an old cab 
 behind a tired horse, is always considered a more dignified 
 mode of travelling in Italy than walking. Every step of 
 the way was full of meaning for him. His quick eyes saw 
 the smallest details with the rapidity of a searchlight. 
 His loquacious companions did not know that he was near- 
 ing his grandmother's cottage, the cottage which he had 
 lived in as a little child, that his whole interest for the time 
 being was centred on it. 
 
 When they reached it he saw a woman standing on the 
 doorstep. The sun was blinding her eyes, so she was 
 screening them with her two hands. Her personality or 
 magnetism, or who can say what? made Salvatore Maz- 
 zini look at her intently, rather than at his grandmother's 
 house. 
 
 As the horse stopped, at his request, the woman dropped 
 her hands, her arms fell to her sides and for one moment 
 Salvatore Mazzini, Ischia's illustrious visitor, gazed 
 straight into the eyes of Christine Lovat now Christine 
 Zarano. 
 
 It was only for a moment, for the horse went on again at 
 a brave pace, but it was long enough to disturb the mil- 
 lionaire's mind and completely drive out of it the answers 
 which he ought to have given to the black-coated individ- 
 uals at his side. Fleeting, indefinite, and wholly unsatis- 
 factory thoughts and conjectures leaped through his mind. 
 
 If the woman's eyes were curiously like the eyes of La 
 Primavera, if her hair was the same as the hair of the girl 
 who had come into his cottage like the breath of Spring 
 and had captured his heart for all time, they must belong
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 151 
 
 to someone who by strange chance happened to be La 
 Primavera's double. The girl whom he had worshipped 
 was a woman now and a Contessa not a cottager of Ischia. 
 
 The horse, urged on by the driver, beat, beat, beat its 
 iron shoes against the unyielding stones. The three figures 
 in black told the dreaming Cavaliere some more particulars 
 about the disaster of the previous night. They also de- 
 scribed to him the improvements which had been made 
 through his generosity to the sulphur baths. 
 
 With an effort the Cavaliere brought his wandering 
 mind back to the object of his visit to the island. He gave 
 himself up to the wishes of the people. He had come to 
 visit his mother's early home and to do what he could to 
 alleviate the suffering of the homeless, so it mattered very 
 little to him what he did with his time. If it pleased the 
 simple people to make a fuss about him, he supposed he 
 must endure it. Millionaires did not visit Ischia every day. 
 
 A few hours later he was conducted to the scene of the 
 tragedy. He had of course seen many devastations caused 
 by Nature, but none so intimate or pathetic as the ruin of 
 this little hamlet, which lay in all its nakedness asking for 
 succour. Not one stone was left standing upon another 
 it is true that there were few houses built of stone no 
 saint's shrine, by Divine care, had been saved; no altar to 
 the God Whose ways are inscrutable was left unwrecked. 
 Sodom and Gomorrah had not been more completely ruined. 
 
 And what was their offence? these humble toilers in the 
 mountain vineyards who worked so hard and were contented 
 with so little. 
 
 There were still visible portions of broken tables and 
 chairs, and twisted iron bedsteads, under the lathe and 
 plaster and cheap building materials of the devastated 
 homes. Burst straw mattresses ruined by water, fine cop- 
 per pots and pans bruised and beaten beyond any possible 
 use, lay with mocking intimacy under the glorious blue of 
 a southern sky.
 
 152 
 
 Salvatore Mazzini knew the daily lives of these patient 
 peasants, whose homes had been so ruthlessly destroyed. 
 He knew their thrift and industry, their childish enjoyment 
 of the humblest festivities. And as he went over the ruins 
 of their village he asked himself again and again, Why had 
 they been so cruelly punished? 
 
 At one spot where the wreck of property seemed more 
 complete than in any other, he came upon the woman whom 
 he had seen standing at the door of his grandmother's cot- 
 tage. There was no mistaking the tall slim figure, or the 
 golden hair. She was with an elderly woman, they were 
 obviously searching for some small treasure. The water in 
 the stream which had done so much damage had subsided; 
 there was now only a little running down the centre of the 
 narrow channel. 
 
 Cavaliere Mazzini asked his companions if they knew the 
 name of the fair-haired woman. When he had found out 
 all that they could tell him about her, he pointed to her and 
 said: 
 
 "Let us go and see what they are looking for." 
 
 When they arrived at the spot he was too shy to address 
 Christine. What his companions had told him had set his 
 senses dancing ; the years seemed to have rolled back. 
 
 "Si, Signore, I have lost all," the woman said in answer 
 to his question. 
 
 "But what is the particular object you are trying to 
 find ? I should like to help you." 
 
 "No, no, Signore, not you !" 
 
 "Ma! Signora, why not? I am strong, I have worked 
 hard, I can work again. Tell me what am I to look for?" 
 
 "No, no, Signore!" The woman looked distressed. 
 "The illustrissimo Cavaliere must not dirty his hands. 
 Ma grazie, Signore, grazie." 
 
 The Cavaliere laughed. "Must not dirty my hands in- 
 deed ! Donna mia, as a youth I spent all my days digging 
 amongst ruins and discovering bxiried treasures." 
 
 "Truly, Signore?" The woman smiled. Her dark eyes
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 153 
 
 looked at his searchingly; they appraised the value of 
 almost every article of clothing he wore. "You worked 
 with your hands when you were young?" 
 
 "Veramente, Signora." He turned as he spoke to the 
 'foreigner,' as his black-coated informants had called 
 Christine. She too was dressed in black and her clothing 
 would have cost no more than the peasant-woman's with 
 whom she was working. "You may perhaps recall that 
 fact, Signora," he said, "if you can remember long ago 
 coming to a little house in Girgenti and asking a young 
 man if he could sell you a Venus?" 
 
 Before he had finished speaking Christine's two hands 
 went out to him. 
 
 "Ah, I thought so! I hoped so!" she said. "You are 
 the same Salvatore Mazzini I was almost certain you 
 were, and yet I could scarcely believe my eyes." 
 
 "La Primavera," he said gravely, "the same Primavera 
 after all these years !" In the old days what would he 
 not have given to touch the hands he now held so firmly in 
 his own? The years rolled back and Salvatore saw her, the 
 ideal of his dreams and hopes, all robed again in the 
 glamour of youth. 
 
 Embarrassment hurried Christine into speech. "This 
 poor woman has lost her most valued treasure," she said 
 nervously. "I was helping her to look for it." Her 
 words, intentionally or otherwise, destroyed the intimacy of 
 silence. 
 
 "What has she lost? Can we replace it? I want to help 
 in every possible way." 
 
 Christine shook her head. 
 
 "One of those unbuyable treasures which show us the 
 poverty of wealth?" he said. He turned to the woman and 
 pointed to the ruins. "Let us look for it, Signora, but first 
 tell me what it is." 
 
 "A picture of my son, Signore, and the image of the 
 Madonna of Pompeii. When the sacred image was brought 
 to the island many years ago, I took my son to the shrine ;
 
 154. A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 he was cured instantly of the affliction which was killing 
 him. When he grew to be a man he gave me a beautiful 
 image of the Blessed Madonna; I have treasured it ever 
 since. My son is in South America, Signore ; he will never 
 come back if I fail to find the blessed image." Tears 
 poured down the woman's face; she threw up her arms to 
 the blue heavens. 
 
 "Don't despair, Signora, or forget the goodness of St. 
 Anthony. Have you asked his help?" 
 
 "Santo Dio ! But I have behaved like a heathen I have 
 indeed forgotten the blessed martyrs." A rosary made 
 from polished carob seeds slipped through her fingers as 
 she petitioned the blessed St. Anthony to help her. While 
 she was praying Salvatore turned eagerly to Christine. 
 
 Words failed him. They stood looking at each other in 
 an embarrassed silence while a thousand and one questions 
 passed through their minds. At last Christine made a 
 commonplace remark ; she remembered Zita. 
 
 "How is your sister, Cavaliere Mazzini? I remember 
 her so well." 
 
 "Zita is very well, thank you, and very busy. The years 
 have dealt kindly with her, Contessa." 
 
 "She is married?" 
 
 Salvatore shook his head. "She is still my faithful 
 'donna di servizio'; we live together just as of old." 
 
 Surprise brightened Christine's face. "But you, Cava- 
 liere . . . you . . . have you ... do you mean, 
 you have not married?" 
 
 Salvatore threw back his head in the old classic way. 
 "No, Contessa," he said, "I have found too much to do to 
 get married. My business has been my wife and I have 
 found her a most exacting one." 
 
 "But you were an antiquarian and an artist." 
 
 "Ah, Contessa . . ." 
 
 Christine held up her hand. "Please not 'Contessa' I 
 have renounced that." 
 
 The man smiled. Then seeing the gravity of the delicate
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 155 
 
 face, which had more real beauty in its pathos than ever it 
 had in its youthful gaiety, his expression changed. "You 
 have renounced the title, Signora?" 
 
 "Life has completely changed our positions, Cavaliere. 
 You were poor and hardworking while I was idle and rich. 
 . . ." She paused. "Or rather, my aunt was." She 
 cast her eyes round the tragic scene. "To-day you come 
 to this scene of tragedy as a saviour and benefactor; you 
 are rich and important. I am a worker and a very poor 
 woman." She looked away from him as she added, "I be- 
 lieve I'm indebted to you for all the money I earn." 
 
 "Signora . . . ?" 
 
 "I am one of the trained masseuses at the baths. I am 
 known here as Nurse Smith or Smitt, as the people pro- 
 nounce it." 
 
 She looked up. Their eyes met. His were full of ad- 
 miration and tenderness. To a remarkable extent the old 
 Christine, La Primavera, was standing before him, speak- 
 ing to him as she had spoken when she had almost de- 
 manded him to sell her a Venus. Time had but added a 
 womanly charm to the girl who had lived in his thoughts 
 like a bright flame for ten years. 
 
 There was no time for more conversation for the three 
 black coats, which at his request had left him to examine 
 the ruins by himself, had returned. They monopolised him. 
 
 After a voluble discussion it was decided that he should 
 return with them to the town, where a deputation was wait- 
 ing to present him with an address. 
 
 "I wish to speak to that poor woman who is looking for 
 a precious image. I will come with you in five minutes." 
 
 As he turned to speak to the woman he saw Christine 
 holding up something in her hands. As she did so, she 
 called out: 
 
 "Ecco Signora, e trovato." 
 
 She was kneeling amongst the debris, close to the edge 
 of the stream. 
 
 Again Salvatore heard her call out, "Signora Coppa,
 
 156 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 I've found it! It's quite whole look!" She held up a 
 small ironbound box ; it had been lodged against a scaldino, 
 which was half buried in the mud of the river. The image 
 was still inside it. 
 
 "Brava! Brava!" the woman said, as she threw up her 
 eyes to the heavens. "Grazie a Dio ! Grazie a Dio !" 
 
 When Salvatore put some francs into her hand, he said : 
 "Our good friend St. Anthony does not like to be forgot- 
 ten, Signora. He was only waiting." 
 
 The woman clasped the image to her breast. "Even 
 with no home, and nothing to call my own, I have much to 
 be thankful for. Your heart is all for the poor, Signore. 
 It is uncuore d'oro." 
 
 Salvatore smilled. The woman was in deadly earnest. 
 "Addio, Signora Coppa," he said, "you shall have a home 
 again and plenty to call your own very soon. The world is 
 full of kind hearts." 
 
 The woman's flow of gratitude was so unending that he 
 had to leave her before she had half finished her eloquent 
 expressions of relief and thanksgiving. 
 
 To Christine he said formally : "I was once deprived of 
 a great privilege; to make up for that disappointment, 
 which at the time was a very great one, may I have the 
 pleasure of calling upon you before I leave the island?" 
 
 Christine laughed it was her old ringing laugh. "Of 
 course you may. But please remember that you are Ischia's 
 distinguished visitor; everything you do is of importance. 
 You are now 'the millionaire Mazzini'; your old friend 
 Christine Lovat is a working woman." 
 
 "La Primavera that is what I called you." He smiled, 
 as though he were visualising the past. 
 
 "Zita told me you called me that. Well, I am autumn 
 now." She tried to laugh lightly. 
 
 He shook his head. "To Zita and myself you are 
 sempre Primavera, sempre sorridente, sempre allegra, 
 sempre rosea." 
 
 "That was ten years ago, Cavaliere Mazzini. Since you
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 157 
 
 gave me my first lesson in Greek art much water has flowed 
 under the bridge." 
 
 "Much has happened in ten years, Signora." His eyes 
 rejected the insinuation that she had changed. "But I 
 must say good-bye. May I call on you? Permit me, 
 Signora." 
 
 "If you can spare the time, I shall be delighted." She 
 held out her hand. In the old days she would not have 
 offered him her hand the thought passed through her 
 mind as he held it. "In the midst of all this tragedy," she 
 said shyly, "meeting you has been a great pleasure and 
 surprise. My life is very uneventful." 
 
 The next moment she found herself standing alone 
 amongst the ruins, smiling and recalling happy thoughts 
 of her girlish admiration for him and her interest in his 
 work. Certainly wealth had not vulgarised him, as wealth 
 vulgarises so many self-made Italians. He had now the 
 simplicity and dignity of a great man. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 THAT same evening after sundown Christine heard a knock 
 at her door. Her eyes brightened as she rose to answer it. 
 
 "So you have come?" she said gaily. "This is indeed 
 an honour ! How nice of you !" 
 
 "Please, Signora, don't say that." 
 
 "But it is nice of the popular idol of the hour to find 
 time to come to my quiet little home. Do come in." 
 
 "May I?" In the same breath he said, "Oh, how 
 charming !" 
 
 Christine's cottage was indeed charming in its humble 
 way. Wild flowers in copper water-jars gave it a fresh and 
 homely air, and the few pieces of furniture had been well 
 and carefully chosen. Nothing in it had cost her more 
 than a few lire, but the things had once belonged to people
 
 158 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 of refinement. There was somehow an English air about 
 the room which Salvatore felt at once. 
 
 As he said, "How charming!" Christine smiled happily. 
 "I'm glad you like it," she said. "It is very easy to make 
 a small house look pretty in this climate and in a country 
 where old furniture costs so absurdly little." 
 
 "Yet how few such homes do we see !" 
 
 "If you have any time to spare for a talk, Cavaliere, do 
 sit down." 
 
 "The evening is my own," he said. "I have got through 
 all my duties." 
 
 They were speaking in English, a fact which Christine 
 had not noticed, for Salvatore had addressed her in English 
 from the first. He spoke it now as well as she did her- 
 self. 
 
 "It has been a terrible disaster. Your coming has 
 delighted the people." 
 
 "Poor things! They were so brave and philosophical! 
 How typically Italian the whole thing has been ! Do you 
 know, until I came here I had not realised how different my 
 life has become." 
 
 Christine's eyes answered his. They said to her, "Pic- 
 ture my old life contrast the me of to-day with the me of 
 ten years ago." She had been doing so ever since he had 
 spoken to her in the morning, amidst the ruins of the 
 devastated village. 
 
 "They will build another village in the same place?" 
 she said. "That is what is so surprising. You know, I 
 suppose, that the whole of Casamicciola was destroyed in 
 1881 and again in 1883? More than a thousand lives 
 were lost." 
 
 "Yes, I know. The last was a hideous disaster." He 
 sighed, and then said musingly, "It is a tragic little island. 
 It seems to me that there may be some truth in the legend 
 that the Giant Typhoeus lies buried under these mountains, 
 just as Encaeladus lies under Mount Etna. Periodically he 
 heaves up his mighty shoulders, and that is the result."
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 159 
 
 "Can't he be 'laid' as we 'lay' our ghosts in Scotland?" 
 Christine smiled. 
 
 Salvatore threw back his head. "Perhaps, if you pro- 
 pitiate Jupiter he it was who imprisoned him." 
 
 "You know the Island well?" Christine said. "Didn't 
 your mother live here?" 
 
 "Yes, she lived at Lacco. But how wonderful of you to 
 have remembered! This was my grandmother's cottage, 
 when she was a widow ; I stayed here as a little boy." 
 
 "How extraordinary! In this very cottage?" A wave 
 of colour dyed Christine's cheek. Why had she thought it 
 extraordinary. 
 
 "Yes. That is why I made the cab stop at the door for 
 a moment this morning; I was looking at the house and 
 then I saw you." 
 
 Their eyes met nervously. "And you knew me?" 
 Christine spoke softly. 
 
 "I saw someone whom I knew must be your double if it 
 were not you." He hesitated before he said, "I don't 
 suppose you recognized me? Of course you wouldn't. The 
 old Girgenti days did not mean to you all that they weant 
 to me. My life at that time was so uneventful." 
 
 "Oh, but I remember everything about those old days. 
 This afternoon after you had left me everything that hap- 
 pened at Girgenti passed before my eyes in the sunlight, 
 just like film-pictures." 
 
 Her eyes dropped; she looked confused. The memory 
 of the urns brought a trace of stiffness into her manner; 
 her husband had told her about Salvatore's act of dis- 
 honesty. After she knew it she had never desired to visit 
 his cottage again. 
 
 "I remember one thing that you will have forgotten 
 you promised to come to the museum if your aunt would 
 let you . . ." he paused. "Well, you never came." 
 
 She looked up ; his eyes banished her suspicion. She was 
 sure now that the story about the urns had been one of her 
 husband's many lies. "I remember quite well. I had to
 
 160 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 go to church with my aunt. How cross I was ! It wasn't 
 my fault." 
 
 "Is she alive?" he asked. 
 
 Christine shook her head. "I don't know. I am dead, 
 to her, at any rate." 
 
 "Ah, Signora !" 
 
 "I married against her wishes." 
 
 "The Conte Zarano?" 
 
 "Yes, 'il Signore,' as Zita used to call him." Her voice 
 suggested shame and suffering; she shrank from the 
 memory of her folly. 
 
 "Gia, gia." Salvatore lost himself in thought. 
 
 "That is why I live here quite cut off from my old life. 
 I couldn't live like this in England ; Italy is the only coun- 
 try where poverty means refinement; in most places it is 
 degrading and unlovely." 
 
 Salvatore's eyes spoke to her. His words meant little at 
 the moment. The mere mention of her marriage had built 
 up a wall between them. 
 
 "Poverty means simplicity in this wonderful climate. 
 But generally speaking, it is nonsense to talk about 'the 
 refining influence of poverty.' In most countries, if it has 
 not a degrading effect, it has a narrowing effect intel- 
 lectually, except in very rare cases. Genteel poverty such 
 as you get in England is mere wretchedness." 
 
 "The mind becomes a thrift machine." Christine man- 
 aged to laugh; the situation was saved, her husband for- 
 gotten. "Here in the South the sunshine makes everyone 
 rich in a measure. Poor as I am, I live with beauty all 
 day long ; I wear simple clothes and look at glorious flowers 
 and views. In London I used to wear beautiful clothes and 
 look at ugly, smoke-begrimed houses." 
 
 "You always loved beautiful things," he said. "Do you 
 remember how disappointed you were because I couldn't 
 sell you a terracotta Venus ?" 
 
 Christine's old laugh echoed through the cottage. 
 "Fancy you recollecting that! Wasn't I a silly tourist?"
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 161 
 
 She rose from her chair and went quickly into an inner 
 room. When she came back she laid something on the table 
 near her visitor's chair. "Look do you remember that?" 
 
 The Cavaliere turned his chair round so that he could 
 see what she referred to. 
 
 "Ah, Signora, the little casket ! You have kept it !" 
 
 "Yes, I have kept it and used it ever since. It holds all 
 my little baubles." 
 
 "All these years ?" His eyes caressed her. 
 
 "Yes, it has gone with me through good and evil for- 
 tune; it has known all my joys and sorrows." 
 
 "Primavera!" The word was scarcely audible, but 
 Christine heard it. "Did you ever guess that that little 
 casket was the cause of a lie ?" he smiled tenderly. "Would 
 you like to know?" 
 
 Christine became anxious. Was he going to tell her 
 about the urns ? Was Andrea's story true ? Had the casket 
 also been stolen? 
 
 "My sister told the lie, Signora. Yes, you can afford to 
 smile. There is no need for your grave expression it was 
 not a very big one." 
 
 "She told a lie about this ?" Christine held up the casket. 
 
 "Yes. Zita wished me to see you again ; she was afraid 
 I never should if you got the casket, so she deliberately 
 said what was not true; she pretended the casket was not 
 in the high cupboard." He smiled. "Ah, Signora, I re- 
 member it all so well life held so few great pleasures in 
 those days. Do you remember that you had to wait for the 
 casket?" 
 
 "Yes, it all comes back to me. I took Zita to a cake- 
 shop ah, and that reminds me she had a secret! She 
 met a young farmer there; you did not know anything 
 about it. And she has not married him?" 
 
 Salvatore's face darkened. "My sister's girlish romance 
 was ruined. She was romantic; she is still romantic 
 . . ." he paused. "It is strange how clearly all these 
 things stand out. Nothing has mattered so much since.
 
 162 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 But I must not be ungracious, Signora. We are happy, 
 and mortals must not expect everything in life. Fortune 
 has indeed smiled on my enterprise." He laughed, but not 
 mirthfully. "You would find Zita greatly changed, but 
 she has still her simple nature. To me, she is quite 
 wonderful." 
 
 "She was exquisite as I remember her. I hope she has 
 not changed too much." 
 
 "Three years in a convent school in America have made 
 her . . ." he paused ". . . shall I say a lady,' 
 Signora ?" 
 
 "There is no need. Zita was always one; in her 
 peasant's dress she was a lady." Christine held out her 
 skirt. "I wear a peasant's dress now; I hope it has not 
 made me any less . . . well, 'ladylike.' ' 
 
 "You are laughing at me, Signora, but you know what 
 I mean. Zita in the old days did not aspire to being any- 
 thing more than a well-brought-up peasant girl. When I 
 became well enough off to afford the expense I sent her to 
 a good school. She has worked hard and she has benefited 
 by the advantages which wealth threw in her way." 
 
 "Then you live in America?" 
 
 "My business is there; we are citizens of the world." 
 Their eyes met. "I was once a dilettante, Signora ; I had 
 dreams of marvellous things. So had my father. Then 
 Fate threw into my hands a wonderful secret, which had 
 been waiting and waiting for a discoverer." 
 
 "Yes," Christine said. "Was it the iridescent glaze you 
 spent much time and study upon? I remember you hoped 
 you might be able to revive one of the great earthenware 
 industries, such as Caltagirone or Gubbio. I have heard 
 your name connected with Sicilian pottery." 
 
 "Pottery is now only my hobby, Signora, the hobby of a 
 wealthy man. It could never in these days make a man's 
 fortune." 
 
 "But you still work at it?" 
 
 "I have a kiln and a small bottega at Licata. Last year
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 163 
 
 some very fine work was done. At the Paris Exhibition 
 one of our plates won the Gold Medal." 
 
 "Have you a bottega in America ?" 
 
 He threw back his head. "America ! Signora, America 
 is the land of machine-made labour, a land of labour-saving 
 ingenuity. The artisan in America does not understand 
 the pleasure our men take in hand-made work, in the pro- 
 duction of objects of beauty which can only be made by 
 patient hand-labour. To American workmen factory- 
 made plates and vases are more beautiful than the hand- 
 made objects, baked in our small kilns." 
 
 "Fatto a mano!" Christine said. "How familiar those 
 words become in Italy." Their eyes met in sympathy. 
 
 "There is sadly little that is hand-made in America, 
 Signora. The genius of the inventor seems to expend 
 itself on machines to save hand-labour. They kill artistic 
 feeling." He smiled his peculiarly gentle smile. "There 
 is something extraordinarily mechanical and hard about 
 life lived under such circumstances ; one misses the beautiful 
 service of those who stand and wait. The poor do not 
 even cultivate their gardens because it entails a certain 
 amount of hand-labour." 
 
 "Under such conditions life soon loses its repose and sim- 
 plicity," Christine said. "Here in Ischia, where wealth is 
 unknown, labour never means toil." 
 
 "In New York I can do nearly everything except put 
 myself to bed by turning cranks or touching buttons. Here 
 I have smiling faces and willing hands in place of electric 
 buttons, caro paese." 
 
 "In Ischia all those inventions would be out of working 
 order in a week's time." Christine laughed. 
 
 "My dear, happy-go-lucky, unmethodical country!" he 
 said. "Thank God the people are not yet too proud to be 
 called servants." 
 
 "Italy is beautifully unsnobbish," Christine said. "You 
 only get snobbishness with what we call 'new money' 
 people returned from America."
 
 164 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 "Ah, Signora !" the millionaire laughed. "I am sure 
 that was not meant personally; yet perhaps the cap fits. 
 We do not know ourselves ; it is impossible to feel vulgar." 
 
 "Of course it wasn't personal, and you know as well as 
 I do the sort of Italians and Sicilians I mean. America 
 generally spoils them. But you never told me what your 
 'new money' comes from." 
 
 Salvatore took up the jewel-casket. "While I was 
 working away with glazes and cements and idling my time 
 over Attic red-figured vases by the way," he said absently, 
 "did you know that Ischia served the potters of Cumae?" 
 
 Christine shook her head ; her eyes expressed the interest 
 he had aroused. 
 
 "Cumae was the oldest of the Greek colonies on the main- 
 land, I think. Its Greek civilisation dates back to about 
 1500 B.C. But Livy asserts that Ischia, not Cumae, was 
 the settlers' first landing-place Pithecusa, as it was called. 
 After a time, for more practical trading purposes they 
 went to the mainland and Cumae became the new colony. 
 But they still got the clay for their famous pottery from 
 the island." 
 
 Christine's eyes smiled tenderly. The millionaire was 
 the ardent Salvatore of ten years ago; he had completely 
 forgotten his 'new money' in his visualising of the early 
 Greek settlers in Ischia. She was interested in all that he 
 told her, but her more human interest clung to the hope 
 that he would not forget to tell her how he had acquired 
 his wealth. Was his 'new money' clean? Could he show 
 her that the story of the stolen urns was not true, that his 
 wealth did not even owe its foundation to dishonesty? She 
 hoped so. 
 
 "You have left the story of your own invention again," 
 she said laughingly. "Please go back to it I was so 
 interested." 
 
 "But it is not interesting, Signora, only very common- 
 place. I struck oil when I was looking for something else ; 
 wealth came to me through a very practical discovery
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 165 
 
 nothing nearly so fascinating as Greek vase-painting or 
 Caltagirone pottery." He sighed, as though his life had 
 once been picturesque ; now it was merely luxurious. "Bene, 
 Signora" he spoke in Italian ; much of his mother tongue 
 had slipped into their conversation "you know I was also 
 interested in cement; the old Roman kind had a great 
 attraction for me. It was while I was trying to rediscover 
 the old indestructible article that I discovered another even 
 more valuable one I hit upon a thing for which the world 
 has been waiting, Signora, for many, many years." 
 
 Christine was listening sympathetically. 
 
 "I stumbled across the secret of how to make paint which 
 will withstand water. I suppose you know that up to a few 
 years ago, no paint had been discovered which could resist 
 the action of water? Ships and bridges had to be painted 
 incessantly. Do you know that in your own country a hun- 
 dred men were continually painting the Forth Bridge? 
 Think of the labour that meant ! They painted it unceas- 
 ingly. A water-resisting paint which would save all that 
 labour and cost was waiting to be discovered." 
 
 "How clever of you to have invented it !" 
 
 "It was chance, mere chance, Signora. These useful 
 discoveries are generally made while the discoverers are 
 striving after something quite different. I very much 
 doubt if Lord Kelvin ever devoted his great genius to the 
 common household tap, yet they say it made his fortune." 
 Salvatore's eyes were travelling into the distance. 
 
 "And then what happened?" Christine's face was alight 
 with interest. She did not mean to lose any of the story ; 
 she questioned him as she had questioned the youth who 
 told her how the red-figured Attic vases were painted, ten 
 years ago. 
 
 "I was working at the time for an American ; the cement 
 which I had discovered was useful to him, although it was 
 not equal to the Roman article. He financed the making 
 of it; I drew a small percentage and earned a fine salary. 
 When I hit upon the waterproof paint I had enough money
 
 166 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 to keep the concern in my own hands ; but he was extremely 
 kind to me." Salvatore looked up. "Now, Signora, you 
 know the foundation of my wealth ; it is a purely practical 
 one, not at all romantic waterproof paint, very 'new 
 money.' When I was young," he said quietly, "I never 
 imagined such wealth." 
 
 Christine felt relieved, foolishly so. "And you have 
 made it in America, not in Italy?" 
 
 "Yes, in America. But all my workmen are Italians. 
 The economic position of my own country does not allow 
 a poor man to succeed in any commercial enterprise." 
 
 Christine's eyes questioned him ; had he become any less 
 ardently patriotic? 
 
 "In Italy business undertakings are taxed so outrage- 
 ously that they cannot possibly pay; sooner or later they 
 have to close down. That is why our Italian industries are 
 almost negative ; only the vast wealth of American or Ger- 
 man capitalists can hold out, and then," he added em- 
 phatically, "only if the business is an exceptionally paving 
 one." 
 
 "Yours was?" 
 
 "It could never have flourished in Italy." 
 
 "Then you have become an American citizen?" 
 
 "Non mai, Signora." He spoke emphatically and threw 
 back his head. 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 "Because I am an Italian and a Mazzini." 
 
 Christine laughed. "But America has behaved better to 
 you than Italy; you owe something to her." 
 
 "Signora, Sicily is my country ; I am an Italian." 
 
 "Certainly I should not like to change." 
 
 "Italians do not forget. They leave their mother only to 
 return to her with means to help her. Germans become 
 Americans, Slavs become Americans, almost every immi- 
 grant becomes an American, the Italian never. Our coun- 
 try and our families are sacred." 
 
 Christine leant forward and put her hand on the little
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 167 
 
 jewel-casket which he was delicately fingering. Her eyes 
 looked into his ; they were beautiful but very serious. 
 
 "I am so glad you have told me all this, so very glad, 
 amico mio. I wish I had known it sooner." 
 
 "Si, Signora." He saw that she could have said more. 
 "Tell me," he spoke abstractedly. 
 
 "Someone once told me something about you which I 
 know now was not true. It touched your honour. When 
 you left me this morning I began to wonder if . . ." she 
 paused, ". . . well, how can I say it?" Her eyes 
 smiled, her voice was apologetic. ". . . If your dollars 
 were clean? To-day I never doubted the fact until I found 
 myself alone, until the old days lived again, and I remem- 
 bered how sad I was when I was told that my first impres- 
 sion of you was incorrect." 
 
 "And it was, Signora . . .?" 
 
 "That you were the soul of honour, that you resisted the 
 most unusual temptations. I was very young and impres- 
 sionable at that time and your life seemed to me very 
 beautiful and almost ideal. Mine was very conventional 
 and uninteresting; my visit to you gave me immense 
 pleasure." 
 
 "And then, Signora?" the Cavaliere' s voice shook. 
 "And then?" 
 
 "And then I did not come any more. I did not wish to 
 come. My Sicilian idyll was spoilt; neither of you were 
 what I thought you were, or so I was told." 
 
 "My sister too little Zita?" Cavaliere Mazzini rose from 
 his chair. His face was ashen. Christine was astonished 
 at the intensity of feeling which her words had aroused. 
 "Was she slandered too? Did she suffer?" 
 
 "Please, Cavaliere, don't think anything more about it. 
 Of course it wasn't true, but I didn't know then all that I 
 know now." She paused. "I ought not to have told you ; 
 I ought to have known that it, like everything else, was 
 untrue, was false, was hideous." 
 
 "Signora . . .?"
 
 168 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 Salvatore's one word held a thousand meanings. Chris- 
 tine laid her fingers lightly on his arm ; she did it to miti- 
 gate the pain her words had caused him. He let his eyes 
 rest on the slender, well-remembered hands. 
 
 "Life has hurt you, Primavera it has been cruel?" 
 
 "No, Cavaliere, life has not been cruel ; it was I who 
 was foolish. Life is just what we make, what we bring 
 to it. I made mine hideous for five years; I let misery 
 trample on me. Then I got my back against the wall, I 
 determined to fight ; I wasn't going to lie down under it." 
 She laughed unmirthfully. "I had health and youth, and 
 now I have many kind friends, and a great capacity for 
 forgetfulness. Forgetfulnes is God's healing." 
 
 "Signora! Signora!" The Cavaliere's voice was 
 broken. "Do you know the inheritance of a Mazzini, the 
 characteristic of my great ancestor? An inability to for- 
 get, to be faithless to an ideal." 
 
 Christine became nervous under his eyes; the thoughts 
 in his mind were driven into hers. 
 
 "Don't be sorry for me, Cavaliere. I have long ago 
 ceased to be sorry for myself. We can enjoy life in so 
 many different ways, when we have got over the folly of 
 expecting Heaven on earth. Happiness may perhaps corne 
 to us if we could give up searching for it and expecting 
 it." 
 
 "Ah, Signora, Signora!" He repeated the words ten- 
 derly. She still looked too fair and young to have dis- 
 covered such wisdom. 
 
 "Is it not true, amico mio? I am not speaking bitterly ; 
 I find life very delightful in this exquisite island." 
 
 He grasped her hands. 
 
 "You have called me your friend, let me prove myself 
 worthy of that honour." 
 
 "I would not have spoken to you as I have done if I had 
 not felt a very strong tie of friendship. Isn't it true that 
 when we are young we cry for the moon; when we get it 
 we find it is made of green cheese? It is not the fault of
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 169 
 
 the moon ; it has always been made of green cheese, only we 
 didn't know it." 
 
 "To-night's moon has yet to come, Signora ; to-day has 
 been made up of miracles. On my arrival here I was look- 
 ing for my grandmother's cottage ; I found you ! When 
 I was giving all my attention to the disaster, and it was 
 not easy, I found you again amongst the ruins." He 
 lapsed into silence, while his mind was visualising the 
 events of the last ten years. 
 
 Christine again shared his thoughts. Without one word 
 being spoken she felt that during all the years which had 
 passed his memory of her had meant a great deal to him. 
 What he had said about the inheritance of a Mazzini had 
 held a double significance. At last she spoke, for the 
 sympathetic silence into which they had slipped had to be 
 broken. 
 
 "How strangely the wheel turns ! Ischia conveyed noth- 
 ing to me years ago when you told me you had lived here 
 in your boyhood, and now I am actually living in the house 
 you used to stay in with your grandmother! Probably 
 she has been very near me all the time perhaps that is 
 why I have never felt lonely. Does your business ever take 
 you to Girgenti?" 
 
 "I am going there very soon. They will make a great 
 fuss about me, Signora. Money makes a vast difference! 
 I often look back upon the old days and wonder if any- 
 thing that is still to come in my life will ever compare to 
 the dreams of my youth ! As we grow older we exchange 
 Idealism for Materialism." 
 
 "You are an Idealist still, Cavaliere; you seem scarcely 
 to have changed at all." 
 
 He threw back his head. "Our ideals fade with our 
 youth. But I must say good-night, Signora." He held 
 out his hand. "You have been very kind. To-day has 
 made the world still more wonderful." 
 
 "It is you who have been kind, Cavaliere. I have en- 
 joyed your visit enormously. That is a truly British
 
 170 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 way of expressing my feelings, isn't it? Do you notice 
 when we are talking in English how rough and inelegant 
 our language is? When we speak Italian it is quite ele- 
 gant." She laughed. "I have really learnt to say many 
 pretty things in your language; it is almost more my 
 own than English now." 
 
 "I want sincere things, Signora." 
 
 "Is sincerity restricted to plain speech?" 
 
 "In Italy insincerity is often disguised by beautiful 
 language. I have learnt to appreciate English . . ." 
 he paused. 
 
 "That is a polite way of referring to the lack of grace 
 in the English language, but it is true that always when 
 we feel most, we become most inarticulate. In Italy it is 
 the reverse; emotion lends an Italian eloquence. English 
 people think them insincere." 
 
 "You are kind, Signora." 
 
 "Do you remember how I used to murder Italian ten 
 years ago?" 
 
 "Everything you ever said to me was charming, Sig- 
 nora." 
 
 "I thought we were to be friends, Cavaliere ! I am still 
 Scots enough to dislike flattery. You know quite well 
 that ten years ago my Italian was excruciating there's 
 an adverb or an adjective or a something for you, which 
 expresses the truth. I must often have said appalling 
 things." 
 
 They laughed together happily. 
 
 "I have studied English, Signora, and I have spoken 
 American for many years." Christine smiled at the dis- 
 tinction. "I am even familiar with American slang; I 
 could give you lessons in it." 
 
 "How cosmopolitan you have become! Does the old 
 Salvatore ever pop out and astonish you?" 
 
 "Tell me, Signora," he said impulsively, "where has the 
 old Salvatore gone? I often ask myself the question. Is 
 he roaming about Girgenti dreaming dreams and hugging
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 171 
 
 ideals? Ah, Signora, he was an infinitely finer youth than 
 the materialistic millionaire, the 'illustrious visitor.' But 
 acldio, addio." He tried to drag hmself away. 
 
 They were standing on the rough road outside the cot- 
 tage; it was lined on either side by white-plastered walls, 
 over which a wealth of southern vegetation coming from 
 hidden gardens hung like a curtain. Fireflies were darting 
 like golden needles. The air of the soft southern night 
 caressed them. A lovers' heaven encircled Ischia; from 
 end to end it was exquisitely clear and tender. 
 
 "Must it be good-bye, Cavaliere? When do you leave 
 the island?" 
 
 He stepped quickly back to her. The night was dan- 
 gerous. 
 
 "May I return, Signora? I did not like to ask." 
 
 Christine smiled at his intensity. "How much longer 
 are you staying on the island?" 
 
 "A boat goes twice a day to Naples. It is cooler here; 
 I can quite well do my business in Naples and live here." 
 
 "The island is delightful," she said, "at this time of the 
 year. Look at the stars !" She threw back her head. "I 
 have become truly Italian in my worship of the moon and 
 the stars." 
 
 "Exquisite, Signora, exquisite." 
 
 It was her white throat and slim body which he meant; 
 the stars in the heavens were to frame her. Suffering and 
 experience had made Christine intensely desirable. There 
 was still the bright hair, glittering and rebellious, and the 
 fair skin ; but now added to these things, there was that 
 which had been lacking in the old Christine. Exquisite as 
 he had thought the girl, Salvatore knew that the woman at 
 his side was infinitely more desirable. 
 
 As they stood together under Ischia's stars, he longed 
 to tell her how unconsciously he had waited for her for all 
 those years. Other women had amused him to himself he 
 was no saint; but always they had been found wanting. 
 He could have knelt and kissed her feet, while the night
 
 172 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 etherealised her. His wealth, for which other women had 
 wooed him, was forgotten ; his love was, as his old love had 
 been, exquisitely humble. He was the digger Salvatore, 
 she was the 'bionda Inglese,' the lady whose hands he never 
 dared to shake. As he recalled the fact, he raised one to 
 his lips. With a married woman, custom permitted it. 
 
 "May I return, Signora?" His eyes entreated her, 
 while they troubled her. 
 
 "Arrivederci, Cavaliere. If you are remaining on the 
 Island we shall surely meet again." 
 
 He dropped her hand. "Arrivederci, Signora." 
 
 As he walked slowly up the hill to his hotel, whose win- 
 dows looked out upon a scene of incomparable beauty and 
 whose gardens invited reverie and romance, his thoughts 
 embraced the slender figure which had turned abruptly into 
 his grandmother's cotage. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THE next day when Christine was at work at the Baths 
 she had to listen to a great deal of gossip about the mil- 
 lionaire. He was the hero of the hour; his donations and 
 immediate help to the suffering were the unending topics 
 of conversation. He was to rebuild, in a more sanitary 
 fashion, almost every cottage which had been destroyed. 
 
 And he was a man of their Island ! His good looks and 
 charm of manner had of course won all hearts. Many 
 people remembered him when he was a little dark-eyed boy, 
 as thin as a stick and as beautiful as a child saint. His 
 mother's delicate beauty was still fresh in the memory of 
 the elderly women of the island. 
 
 He was to pay a visit to the baths that morning. In 
 his speech of the day before he Jiad said that there was a 
 great future in store for the island, that the baths must 
 again become as renowned and popular as they were in
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 173 
 
 Roman times. In the opinion of experts, their waters had 
 curative powers excelled by none in Europe. Visitors must 
 flock to Ischia for treatment, as they flocked to the expen- 
 sive German baths, for Ischia had a climate to offer invalids 
 which it was impossible to find in countries further North 
 But invalids would not come to the island until things 
 were conducted at the baths in a more modern and hygienic 
 manner. Italy was, speaking generally, too contented with 
 inferior methods and too ready to leave things to chance. 
 He meant, if possible, to bring new life into the island by 
 developing its natural wealth; he had seen cures worked 
 by the Ischian waters which had taken his breath away; 
 they were equal to the miraculous cures of Lourdes or 
 Loretto. 
 
 While Christine was working she heard his speech dis- 
 cussed by the attendants. She glowed inwardly with the 
 secret knowledge and pride that this benefactor and illus- 
 trious visitor was nearer in thought and feeling to herself 
 than to anyone else in the island. His visit to her the day 
 before had given her food for much reflection. Even 
 while she hoped to see him again she dreaded doing so. 
 
 While she was planning out her future attitude towards 
 him, a cry burst out: "Evviva Salvatore! Evviva il 
 Cavaliere Mazzini, nostro Salvatore!" 
 
 Christine went on with her work. She was massaging a 
 little girl who was almost a cripple; she had lived all her 
 life in a malarious swamp south of Naples. All the other 
 attendants and most of the patients who could hurry into 
 their clothes, rushed to the public rooms of the building to 
 see the Cavaliere. A guilty sense of embarrassment kept 
 Christine from joining them. 
 
 She determined to let the Cavaliere get safely out of the 
 building before she changed her professional clothes for her 
 plain black gown. She had suddenly become nervous and 
 afraid of their possible meeting. If she did not see him 
 again she need not tell him the truth about her husband. 
 She was ashamed of the whole thing. Her story as it would
 
 174 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 have to be told was so very ordinary and ugly ; it would be 
 better to let him leave the island without seeing her again. 
 Why tell him anything more about her miserable marriage? 
 She even went so far as to plan in her mind a sure means of 
 evading the Cavaliere; she would pay a visit to an Ameri- 
 can friend, who was married to an Italian naval Captain. 
 They lived in a romantic old eastle some distance from 
 Casamicciola. She had been a patient of Christine's at the 
 baths. 
 
 But her plans for evading Salvatore did not fall in with 
 the plans of the Ruling Hand. On her return to her cot- 
 tage she found on her kitchen table a basket of fruit which 
 must have come by the early boat from Naples. 
 
 ''Such fruit! All out of season, of course!" Christine 
 said as she looked at it. 
 
 In the bottom of the basket she discovered a box of 
 chocolates which must have cost, according to her ready 
 reckoning, about as much as her wages for a whole week. 
 She buried her face in the Neapolitan violets which had 
 been laid on top of the fruit to keep it cool. 
 
 "How awfully dear of him!" she said. "How awfully 
 dear and sweet of him ! I wonder if he knows that I haven't 
 tasted a chocolate for years? Sweets are a luxury in 
 Italy, where sugar has always been expensive." 
 
 While she ate a chocolate she searched the basket to see 
 if there was any note in it ; but there was nothing. While 
 she was feeling half relieved at the fact and half disap- 
 pointed a knock came at the door. Her cry of "Avanti" 
 was answered by a radiant Salvatore, who held out both 
 his hands to her. 
 
 "Come sta, Signora?" 
 
 Christine laughingly said that she was very well. His 
 boyish eagerness amused her. Where was the material- 
 istic business man, whose whole soul was immersed in 
 water-resisting paint ? 
 
 "Signorina Primavera," he said laughingly, "let us be 
 young again. Senta, I have something to suggest." His
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 175 
 
 air of possession thrilled her. "Tell me," he said gaily 
 he was speaking in Italian "will you grant me a favour, 
 give me a great pleasure?" 
 
 "I must know what it is first, Cavaliere." He still 
 clasped her hands ; his eyes both demanded and pleaded. 
 "I am too old and wise to make rash promises." 
 
 "When I leave Ischia, will you come to Naples? My 
 sister is there will you be her guest for one day and then 
 come with us to Sicily?" 
 
 "No! No! Cavaliere!" Christine's cry was an imme- 
 diate and frightened refusal. She tried to turn from him 
 and withdraw her hands; her eyes caught sight of the 
 violets on the table. "What a beautiful gift of flowers and 
 fruit you sent me this morning! Thank you so . . ." 
 
 He stopped her. "Signora, Signora, don't evade my 
 request. I don't care a fig for the flowers and fruit." He 
 held her hands still more firmly and turned her round until 
 she faced him again. "Tell me, am I asking too great an 
 honour? Is the old Salvatore still in your mind? Is he, 
 Primavera, still the mender of images? To the islanders 
 he is a millionaire, a great Signore. To you, Signora, 
 whose opinion he so much more values, is he still the old 
 Salvatore, the foolish youth who was sent back to his cot- 
 tage like a dog, that evening when you had allowed him to 
 walk with you? You see, nothing of it is forgotten 
 everything was treasured." 
 
 "No, no, Salvatore." She pressed his hands in an eager 
 assurance; his Christian name came affectionately from 
 her lips. "I never thought of such a thing, you know I 
 didn't. You lived like a peasant, but you were always 
 quite different, different . . ." she hesitated ". . . . 
 different from all the other youths in Girgenti. You were 
 an artist." She looked up. "And a genius, Cavaliere. I 
 told my aunt even when I was a girl and knew so little, 
 that a genius is a child of the Gods. Genius belongs to no 
 class."
 
 176 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 "Ah, Signora my genius, what is it? I have invented 
 a water-resisting paint!" 
 
 "You will do more ; that is only a means to an end. Look 
 at your industry at Licata." 
 
 "Will you come, Signora ? My sister will require a com- 
 panion; things have changed she cannot wait at home 
 until I have finished work and take her out. She wishes to 
 go to Girgenti, to the old home." 
 
 "Girgenti !" Christine's voice shook. She felt his silent 
 sympathy. "I have not been there, Cavaliere, since 
 ." she drew her hands from his; they were only 
 lightly held "not since I thought there was heaven on this 
 earth, not since I lost my beliefs and faith." She stood 
 before him fighting for strength, strength to tell him 
 what he ought to know. Her emotion made her madden- 
 ingly fragile in Salvatore's eyes, and exquisitely pas- 
 sionate. 
 
 He longed to feel her slightness lost in his strength. He 
 wanted her so dreadfully that he was afraid of himself; 
 he was afraid that he would spoil all his chances of future 
 happiness by some mad act of heedless passion. How 
 was she to know that he had really been in love with her 
 for all those years? What woman would believe it? 
 
 "If you can look upon my sister and myself as your 
 friends, Signora, why will you not give us the pleasure 
 of coming with us to Sicily?" He paused. "You need 
 not go to Girgenti if you would rather not; you could 
 remain in Syracuse." 
 
 Christine contrived to shake off her serious manner. She 
 resolved to be flippant, less sympathetic. 
 
 "The old Christine is dead," she said. "I have seen 
 nothing of her for years, Cavaliere the silly sentimental 
 girl who visited you in Girgenti is a thing of the past. If 
 the new Christine went to Sicily she would go to Girgenti 
 just to prove to herself how dead the old Christine is." 
 She smiled. "Do you know what the new Christine said 
 the moment she opened your box of chocolates?"
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 177 
 
 "Tell me." His eyes were alight. 
 
 "Oh, nothing romantic or gracious. She just said, 
 'They must have cost him as much as my whole food for a 
 week.' " 
 
 "Cara, Signora!" His face became agonised. He in- 
 stantly pictured her as she had come to his cottage, dressed 
 as she was dressed in the old days, and carrying in her 
 hands a soft gold purse, studded with jewels. "Signora, 
 and I have so much! In the old days it was I who only 
 tasted meat on festas. I understand, I know!" 
 
 "If you hadn't known and hadn't understood, I 
 shouldn't have told you ; it is because you know and under- 
 stand that we can be true friends." She looked at him 
 with grave eyes. "I always thought somehow that you 
 would come into my life again; and yet I only saw you 
 . . . how often?" She asked the question absently. 
 
 "Three times, Signora, but I had seen you always ; you 
 only materialized that afternoon you had always been a 
 part of my life. The subliminal I expected you to come 
 some time." 
 
 She tried to speak lightly. "Wasn't it funny of me?" 
 
 "You had money, you wanted a Venus, and all I had to 
 offer you was a lot of damaged gods." 
 
 They were wandering from the point. Christine was 
 piping the tune, but Salvatore was not going to dance to 
 it any longer; he was determined to obtain her promise. 
 
 Time had flown and she had not made her confession. 
 She knew now that she would not make it. A fierce desire 
 had come to her to enjoy herself, to accept the happiness 
 which had been thrown in her way, to accept it as a gift 
 from the gods. She would go with the Mazzinis to Sicily 
 if she found that Zita really wanted her. Yet even to 
 herself she still pretended that she had not made up her 
 mind that she would go. 
 
 "Will you be kind, Signora? Will you let me have one 
 of the few personal pleasures which my 'new money' can 
 give me? Believe me, Signora," he added gravely, "being
 
 178 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 wealthy by no means fills one's youthful ideas. I prefer a 
 simple life; I hate show. And the things we desire most 
 are the things which money cannot buy. For instance, 
 this trip to Sicily with you and Zita it would be so de- 
 lightful that it would make up for all the years . . ." 
 he hesitated and then went on, hurriedly finishing his sen- 
 tence as he had not meant to, "of uncongenial work." 
 
 Christine knew what he meant, but she made no answer. 
 
 He waited for a few moments and then said, "Will 
 you come, Signora? Don't put me off with some trivial 
 excuse." 
 
 "I must consider. How can I decide at once?" 
 
 "No, no, you must not take time or you will say no. 
 Will you come for a little time, just to see the Laughing 
 Land in the gayest months of the year? Ah! Signora, 
 we will go to the Fields of Enna and gather narcissi where 
 Prosperine and her maidens gathered them ; we will go to 
 Syracuse, to Cicero's beloved Syracuse, where the people 
 are gentle and where Pan still pipes and Cyane haunts the 
 tall papyrus which fringes the banks of the Anapo; we 
 will go to Palermo, where Norman splendour and Arab 
 fantasy have bestowed romance on every street and build- 
 ing ! You will come, cara Signora ? We will all be young 
 again and give ourselves to Sicily! We will cast our 
 troubles into Charybdis and . . ." 
 
 "In Sicily I used to sing an old hymn, which went like 
 this:" Christine began to sing, "There is a land of pure 
 delight, where saints immortal dwell. I changed the word 
 'saints' into 'gods' to suit my surroundings." 
 
 "That is no answer, Signora. My sister will be happy. 
 She has not forgotten La Primavera ; she knows I have met 
 you. I wrote to her last night; we have no secrets from 
 each other. I think you will like her, Signora." 
 
 "If Zita will write me her true wishes, Cavaliere, I will." 
 Christine spoke slowly and hesitatingl} 7 . "If the letter tells 
 me that she will really welcome me, I will come." 
 
 He laughed happily. "Then you are coming! Ah,
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 179 
 
 Signora, what if I awake," he threw out his hand, "awake 
 and find that after all this is only a dream, only another of 
 the old dreams?" 
 
 "Then you must go to sleep and dream again, Cavaliere." 
 
 "Gia, gia, Signora, I must go to sleep again." He 
 sighed. "If we only had more faith, arnica mia, what suf- 
 fering we might save ourselves ! If I could have trusted ! 
 But our faith is so feeble, it cannot move even an anthill. 
 Meeting you again makes me ashamed of my lack of trust, 
 my . . ." he stopped. 
 
 "As for me, I live from day to day ; I have had to. And 
 I am really thankful for each happy hour. I never used to 
 be grateful ; now it seems to me that life is quite wonderful 
 if one is not tmhappy. Peace and kindly fellowship are so 
 good. When I was young I took these things for granted, 
 now I know how precious they are." 
 
 "Primavera ! Primavera !" His voice was broken. He 
 dared not look into her calm, eyes ; their tragedy lashed his 
 manhood. 
 
 "Peace and sunshine and nothing to be afraid of these 
 things are not the daily lot of every woman, Cavaliere." 
 
 "That you should have learnt that !" He longed to offer 
 her a new world, a world of pleasure and wealth and devo- 
 tion, but he added nothing to his simple words. 
 
 "Far better women than myself have learnt it, Cava- 
 liere." She smiled into his anxious eyes. "But don't look 
 so grave, for as you say, in Sicily we will let the years roll 
 back, we will forget, we will expect what youth expects and 
 not be content with an absence of apprehension and fear." 
 
 "No, no. For me, Signora, I will hold on to the present. 
 Zita will have to tell no more lies, for you will be with us." 
 He laughed as he looked at his watch. "You will be with 
 us all day long, and Zita will be your willing slave." He 
 held out his hand. "Now I can work for twenty-four 
 hours without feeling tired." He said good-bye. 
 
 "Must you be going? Christine looked troubled. 
 Again, she was letting him leave her without telling him
 
 180 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 the truth; she was permitting this intimacy while he was 
 in ignorance of her position. There was no doubt that he 
 thought she was a widow. 
 
 "I must, Signora. Zita will write to you; you will be 
 ready." 
 
 "How can I come like this?" she asked. "It is my best 
 frock." She looked at her plain black dress. It was made 
 simply and in no modern fashion, not unlike the plain 
 Mass black of the humble Sicilian matrons. 
 
 Salvatore thought that she looked enchanting. Certainly 
 its simplicity showed to advantage her fair throat and 
 wrists ; they looked white and rounded against the severe 
 black lines of the sleeves and neck. 
 
 "Veramente, Signora." His eyes worshipped her. 
 "Yes, surely, just like that. You were not too grand a 
 lady to go with my little sister when she could not even 
 aspire to a hat, when she had only a black shawl to cover 
 her head. I like you in black, Signora," he said in the 
 same breath. "It is very distinguished. But how well I 
 remember your white dress and your white hat and your 
 silk stockings ! Zita loved then all, Signora, and best of 
 all the little wrist-watch and the gold purse. I loved them 
 too, but now I love this best," he touched her black cash- 
 mere gown. "I love my Lady of Succour best of all." 
 
 "Hush," she said, "you must not be romantic. We are 
 to be friends, just true friends if I am to come to Sicily. 
 That is the bargain." 
 
 "I swear, Signora, that our friendship shall not be sac- 
 rificed." He laughed. "But poor human nature it is so 
 weak," he shrugged his shoulders, "or so masterful it has 
 a way of scattering our best intention to the wind." 
 
 "Yes," she said, "we mean to be so strong." She spoke 
 regretfully. "I meant to be so strong this very after- 
 noon." She tried to detain him ; he saw her anxiety. 
 
 "Don't be too strong, Primavera leave that to me." 
 
 He gave her no chance of revoking or of confession, for 
 as he said the words he left her.
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 1811 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 CHRISTINE was annoyed with herself. She had missed Sal- 
 vatore during his absence from Ischia and she had not 
 wanted to miss him. He had stayed in Naples without 
 coming to the island, as he had intended to do, every even- 
 ing, and the days had dragged horribly, and, as she had 
 confessed to herself, bored her almost to tears. 
 
 During his absence she had received a letter from Zita; 
 it arrived the morning after Salvatore left her, with the 
 half -promise that if Zita was really anxious to have her, 
 she would seriously consider the fact of going to Sicily 
 as their guest. 
 
 Christine had recognized at once that it was the letter of 
 a lady, and a very charming one. The notepaper was 
 faultless, though in keeping with the vogue of the day; 
 there was no scent about it and no pale mauve or pink tints. 
 There was, in fact, nothing which the vulgarised Italian 
 adores. This was a distinct relief to her. 
 
 "Dear Signora," it ran, 
 
 "My brother has told me of his meeting with you and 
 that you have almost consented to come with us to Sicily. 
 I can scarcely believe it is true. It seems so wonderful 
 after all these years ! I have not forgotten you indeed, 
 whenever we talk about the old Girgenti days, which is very 
 often, Salvatore and I always think and talk of you. 
 
 "I have been staying in Pompeii with some friends, but 
 I am coming with Salvatore to Ischia to see you and to tell 
 you what I find very difficult to express in a letter the 
 really sincere pleasure it will give me if you will come to 
 Sicily. 
 
 "Until we meet arrividerci, cara Signora, 
 
 "Yours sincerely, 
 
 "ZiTA MAZZINI." 
 
 It was difficult for Christine to realise that this note had 
 been written by her little "daughter of the gods." It was
 
 182 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 as characteristic of the change which had taken place in 
 the circumstances of the brother and sister as anything 
 that could have happened. Christine had pondered over 
 it and examined it in every detail, while her conscience was 
 reminding her that the very fact of the note being the note 
 of a refined gentlewoman made it all the more necessary 
 for her to tell Salvatore of her true position. The note 
 showed her that in all probability there would be nothing 
 about Zita which would jar her or prevent her accepting 
 her also as her social equal, and thus carrying things still 
 further on the tide of romance. 
 
 The letter suggested that wealth had not spoilt Zita. 
 She wondered if it had made her more ordinary, less inter- 
 esting, and if she had kept her looks? Of course it was 
 no use judging by Salvatore's opinion of her, for he obvi- 
 ously still thought her perfect. Christine quite well re- 
 membered how her husband had assured her that Zita would 
 probably look old and haggard as soon as she had passed 
 out of girlhood. Well, she was a girl no longer from the 
 Sicilian point of view, but then she had been spared all 
 privation and the exhaustion of a southern climate. She 
 could not picture her little Greek figurine dressed up in 
 flimsy up-to-date clothes. Would she suit them as per- 
 fectly as she had suited her black shawl or bright handker- 
 chief worn with her native dress? 
 
 The day when she had last seen Zita came vividly to her 
 mind the hour they had spent together in the cake-shop, 
 and Andrea's desire to dismiss the girl and spend the time 
 with herself. Then equally clearly she visualised the crest- 
 fallen Salvatore who had been sent back to his cottage by 
 her domineering lover. She remembered her own feeling of 
 shame at his dismissal, and how quickly it had been swept 
 away by Andrea's new air of proprietorship. She smiled 
 bitterly at her own foolishness, her total lack of discern- 
 ment. The ex-riding master in a military gymnasium, the 
 son of a Croatian tailor, was too fine a gentleman to asso- 
 ciate with Salvatore Mazzini!
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 183 
 
 "Ah, but he was clever," she spoke dreamily, "clever 
 and amazingly subtle." How craftily he had poisoned her 
 mind and vilified the man he was using for his own ends ! 
 
 But surely that had all happened in her last incarnation, 
 all that belonged to the girl Christine who, she had assured 
 Salvatore, was dead. She looked at herself in the mirror 
 which hung on the wall. She still looked young, whatever 
 she felt, and as she had said many times before she said 
 again : "Because in the old days I rashly exchanged a dull 
 life of ease and luxury for less than six months of mad 
 happiness if I could call it happiness I am not going 
 to consider my life finished or the world my enemy !" 
 
 Her commonsense had so often reminded that she herself 
 had been to blame. She had married a man about whom 
 she knew practically nothing, and he had turned out ten 
 times worse than all that her aunt had predicted. Well, 
 her Scots pluck had saved her. Since she had cut herself 
 adrift from Andrea and had said good-bye to her old ideas 
 of happiness, she had been happy, happy because her 
 health was good and the people in her simple world were 
 kind and lovable. 
 
 Since she had parted with Salvatore she had passed 
 many useless hours in arguing with her conscience. She 
 wanted to go to Sicily, and she was going, but that did 
 not prevent her pretending to herself that the fact was 
 not settled. 
 
 Quite apart from her conscientious scruples she won- 
 dered if the situation would be too difficult. Would she 
 ever get accustomed to it and forget the old days? It 
 certainly would be amusing to see Zita in her new role. 
 Then there was the fear that she herself might constantly 
 "put her foot in it" by reminding the girl of what she 
 probably wished to forget. Would Zita be well bred 
 enough to stand the test? In fact, was she as perfect a 
 lady as Salvatore was a gentleman? That remained to 
 be seen. The experience would certainly be a novel one. 
 
 The curious thing was that when she was with Salvatore
 
 184 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 she never for one moment remembered the fact that he had 
 once been beneath her socially; when it occurred to her it 
 was in a humorous and almost unbelievable fashion. 
 
 On the evening which was fixed for Salvatore's return 
 to the island with Zita, Christine put on her hat and wan- 
 dered down to the port. In Ischia almost all the seaport- 
 towns are dirty; Casamicciola is the exception. Even in 
 the tiny island there is room for southern extremes, both in 
 the people and in the vegetation. Some patches of the 
 island are filthy and foul-smelling, with no redeeming 
 charm; other parts are superlatively beautiful. To a 
 stranger its beauty is tragic because of the tale it tells 
 of its successive destructions ; they can be read in the 
 landscape and in the character of the people. 
 
 On the blue sea the boat came nearer and nearer to Casa- 
 micciola harbour. Christine's breath came more and more 
 quickly; her pretended calm vanished. During her two 
 days of boredom she had passed many milestones on her 
 sentimental journey, a journey which could have but one 
 end. 
 
 She would have scouted the idea that she was in love 
 with Salvatore Mazzini, because she did not know, for so 
 far nothing had shown her what her life in the south had 
 done for her. 
 
 When we speak of the effect of climate we refer more 
 generally to physical well-being. But the effect of climate 
 is much further-reaching; temperamentally its effects are 
 limitless. Christine had lived in a land where Nature 
 exhausts herself with the exuberance of living, a world 
 where the vegetation is but the outward and visible sign of 
 the intensity of human nature. In Ischia the homely 
 valerian becomes a shrub ; its heavy flowers are as pink and 
 full of colour as a Dorothy Perkins rambler. The white 
 cistus which covers the rocks has not even the life of a 
 butterfly ; its closed buds of the morning become scattered 
 petals by noon. 
 
 Live and live ardently is the message which drives at the
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 185 
 
 senses. Life and love and laughter are here for you to- 
 day ; to-morrow may bring tears, terror, tempests. 
 
 On this day of Salvatore's return to the island the 
 weather was perfect; the gardens, where water was freely 
 bestowed, were full of flowers; the sea was as blue as a 
 sea could be. There was an air of abandonment and passion 
 in the atmosphere which told the inhabitants that spring 
 had given place to summer, that spring, with its light 
 touch, had once more become a tender memory. 
 
 As soon as the boat touched the pier Salvatore sprang 
 ashore. Christine strained her eyes to see beyond the 
 crowd, for with him was the daintiest, prettiest little figure 
 she had ever seen. Even from a distance she could see that 
 as a modern girl Zita was a huge success. Although she 
 was dressed in the very latest mode, a fact which anyone 
 can tell at a glance by the outline of a woman's figure, 
 she was by no means a fashion-plate; she was distinctive 
 and individual. A long grey sun-veil, which fell from her 
 hat to the hem of her skirt, almost hid her face from 
 Christine, who had managed to elbow her way through the 
 crowd to her side. 
 
 The veil was probably a wise precaution against extreme 
 nervousness on Zita's part. It would hide her confusion 
 if the meeting was embarrassing. 
 
 But the precaution was quite u -necessary. From the 
 moment that her exquisitely gloved hand rested in Chris- 
 tine's ungloved one her nervousness fled. She forgot her 
 shyness, for Christine was kissing her. After gazing at 
 her for a moment, Christine turned to Salvatore. 
 
 "Amico mio, she is delicious !" 
 
 Zita laughed, and her laugh was like a pigeon making 
 love ; her heart was full of happiness. 
 
 "Signora, isn't it wonderful? after all these years, that 
 we should meet again! La Primavera is now to be my 
 friend." 
 
 "Yes, I'm going to be your friend and your guest it is 
 so kind of you." Christine's long arm was round the girl's
 
 186 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 shoulder. "We are all going to be very young again and 
 very foolish, and so happy." 
 
 "Sicily will do you good, Signora. Salvatore says that 
 you are very clever and very hardworked you need a 
 rest." 
 
 "I am all happiness to-day, Zita. But it must not be 
 'Signora' it must be Zita and Christine." 
 
 Zita turned to her brother. "The Signora says I may 
 call her by her Christian name. Don't you think she has 
 become very like a fair Florentine, who they say can be 
 thin without being thin, just as a Roman can be fat with- 
 out being fat? You are Scots no longer, Signora. I will 
 not call you Christine." 
 
 "Why not Primavera?" Christine smiled. She won- 
 dered if what the girl said was true. 
 
 Salvatore looked delighted. Zita gave a little cry of 
 pleasure ; it was a rebirth of the old Zita. 
 
 "Si, si ! Let it be La Primavera ! It shall be Zita and 
 Primavera." She spoke in Italian; to Christine it had 
 become instinctive. 
 
 Salvatore had left them to attend to their luggage. 
 Zita's luggage also was so characteristic of the change in 
 the girl that it brought a kindly smile to Christine's eyes. 
 The dressing-case was exquisitely correct, and the long 
 dress box foretold no creases to dainty skirts, while the 
 copious hat-box suggested other things than black shawls. 
 
 The girl at her side was so perfectly suited to her modern 
 luggage and so certain of herself in her new circumstances 
 that it was very difficult to believe that the two Zitas were 
 one and the same person. 
 
 "It is just as difficult," Christine said to herself, "to 
 visualise her now as she was when I first knew her, as it is 
 to recollect how a house used to look when it is trans- 
 formed into a totally different class of building." 
 
 When Salvatore returned he relieved the situation, which 
 had become a little more difficult after the first greeting 
 was over, by explaining to Christine why the trip to Sicily
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 187 
 
 had to be postponed for a few days. The business which he 
 had had to attend to in Naples had taken longer than he 
 expected. He had, in fact, forgotten the slow methods of 
 Italian business men; he had grown accustomed to the 
 rapid habits of Americans and had miscalculated the time 
 it would require to finish the work, which he could not leave 
 incomplete. The number of idle, black-coated limpets who 
 clung to every State Department opened his eyes to much 
 of which he had been ignorant in the old days ; the very 
 existence of all these poorly-paid Government clerks and 
 officials, all of them drawing the blood out of his country's 
 veins, had been unknown to him. 
 
 Salvatore supplied the Italian Government with 
 "Omega," his water-resisting paint, at a price far below 
 that at which he had sold it to any other Government. 
 From the Italian Admiralty he was content to receive a 
 very meagre profit ; but alas ! he had found it necessary to 
 trace a very considerable leakage to its source. Govern- 
 ment paint supplied by his firm was finding its way into 
 private concerns ; the old story of bribery and corruption 
 was at work. 
 
 This unpleasant discovery had been the reason of the 
 postponement of the trip to Sicily. 
 
 It did not surprise Christine, who would, indeed, have 
 been much more surprised if Salvatore had done what he 
 hoped to do in the time he had arranged. 
 
 It was almost impossible to talk about anything which 
 really mattered during their walk from the port to the 
 hotel, for Salvatore had to speak to at least half the 
 passengers who had travelled in the boat with him, and the 
 noise of the horse's hoofs on the stone-paved road made 
 hearing an effort. 
 
 When they reached their destination Christine promised 
 that she would return later on and dine with them in the 
 garden of the old-fashioned hotel, from whose dark arbours 
 in the daytime you can look out upon dazzling sunshine and 
 a blue sea ; and at night upon a dream-world, where fireflies
 
 188 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 flash against the darkness of the sky, which is no darker 
 than the blue of wet passion flowers. 
 
 At seven o'clock Salvatore appeared at Christine's door. 
 The pleasure of being alone with her sent him to her before 
 she was ready to leave her cottage. She laughingly told 
 him that he had come too soon. 
 
 "I want to do my hair, Cavaliere," she said, "and I do 
 it here there isn't sufficient light in my bedroom so you 
 must go." 
 
 "I suppose it is a sacred rite which I may not witness?" 
 
 They both laughed. She shook her head. 
 
 "Yes, very sacred. The transformation would shock 
 you it all comes off." 
 
 "Squisito," he said softly, "squisito." 
 
 Christine affectionately turned him out into the street 
 with the promise that she would be ready in a quarter of 
 an hour. For a moment she stood lost in thought. She 
 knew that it was not necessary to "dress" for dinner in an 
 hotel in Ischia, but she also knew that Zita would wear 
 just the right sort of gown the girl's taste in 'dress was 
 unmistakably correct. Until she had seen Zita's clothes 
 she had not thought about her own. 
 
 "Clever, clever little Zita!" she said to herself. "You 
 are absolutely 'it.' You were the Venus for which I once 
 asked Salvatore in vain ; my dear little Greek figurine was 
 adorable and scarcely real ; the new Zita is a modern woman, 
 perfectly turned out, and extraordinarily feminine." 
 
 Again before she was ready for him Salvatore's knock 
 came at the door. 
 
 She opened it. Her smile at his impatience made him 
 hunger for an embrace. 
 
 "Shall I do?" she said cheerfully. "I told you that 
 this was my best dress, and this cloak is a relic of my Tunis 
 days," she held out the corner of a burnous which she had 
 thrown over it. "It has been a faithful friend it won't 
 wear out and no sun fades it."
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 189 
 
 Salvatore was looking at her admiringly. The glorious 
 colour of the cloak and its graceful folds suited her to 
 perfection. Christine knew it. 
 
 "It is perfect, Signora. That is what the Arabs call 
 'sunset colour,' and these are the very few folds you get in a 
 Tanagra figurine." He let his hands slip down the fine 
 cloth of the burnous. "The East is so sure," he said. "It 
 never errs, when it is the East; it is only the new East 
 which can be so horribly wrong." 
 
 "I used to say that about Sicily," she said. "Where 
 Sicily was content to be Sicily, she was perfect ; where she 
 had become western, she was . . ." Christine threw 
 up her head. 
 
 "Senta, Signora, tell me has the West spoilt my 
 sister? Zita is no longer Sicilian has she stood the 
 grafting? I want your true opinion." 
 
 "Zita !" Christine cried. "Oh, Salvatore, Zita is ador- 
 able! I never saw such a tempting little creature in my 
 life!" Their eyes met. "Life is awfully interesting, Sal- 
 vatore! I should have said 'Cavaliere' you have per- 
 sistently said 'Signora.' " 
 
 "No, no ! Let it be Salvatore to you I must always be 
 Salvatore, just the old Salvatore who would willingly have 
 dug night and day if he could have found a Venus for his 
 wonderful visitor." 
 
 "I think of you as Salvatore of course," she spoke 
 softly, "but hadn't I better call you Cavaliere?" 
 
 "No, no," he said. "If you think of me as Salvatore, 
 let it be Salvatore." 
 
 They paused to look at the scene behind them. 
 
 "Does Ischia stand the test of revisiting?" she asked. 
 "The castles of our youth shrink into hovels when we see 
 them with grown-up eyes." 
 
 Salvatore looked tenderly at the view spread before him. 
 "Ischia is beautiful," he said. "And does it please you 
 as it pleases me to remember that Vittoria Colonna found 
 it so beautiful that in the autumn of her life she lived in
 
 190 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 that castle out there, and wrote from it her wonderful 
 letters to Michelangelo?" 
 
 "Yes, I know," Christine said. "And another pic- 
 turesque person lived there the great Hohenstaufen." 
 
 Salvatore smiled. "Yes, but Frederick of Hohenstaufen 
 built it on the site of an older fortress and city, which is 
 interesting to us because the original castle was built by 
 the Syracusans when they wished to establish a small 
 colony on the rock to do honour to their king Hiero." 
 
 "I think the Castle of Ischia touches the very zenith of 
 romantic beauty," Christine said. "I remember how it 
 fascinated me years ago when I first saw it rising out of 
 the water like an enchanted fortress in a mediaeval 
 legend." 
 
 When she had finished speaking their glowing eyes met. 
 
 "I remember, Signora in Girgenti, in Casa Salvatore, 
 you told me that you longed to visit the island." 
 
 "I believe I did. But fancy you remembering that!" 
 Christine's eyes dropped. "What a prodigious memory 
 you have got!" 
 
 "You are not really surprised ; my memory is not at all 
 wonderful !" 
 
 "To me it is," Christine said with mock lightness. "You 
 make me ashamed of mine." 
 
 As she spoke they entered the hotel. With Zita there 
 would be less chance of conversation drifting into danger- 
 ous channels. During their short walk Salvatore's eyes 
 had made her say to herself over and over again, "In 
 Sicily we must be three, not two. I must keep Zita beside 
 me." 
 
 Their dinner which had been specially prepared for 
 them, was eaten in a round arbour, which looked over luxu- 
 rious gardens and the sea. Christine did not hesitate to tell 
 Zita how much she was enjoying the excellent chicken and 
 good caramel pudding a very simple meal, but with the 
 addition of a well-dressed salad and some beautiful fruit 
 and sweets, which Salvatore had bought in Naples, it was
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 191 
 
 to Christine a banquet. She enjoyed it just as much as 
 Zita would have done ten years ago. 
 
 "My usual evening meal," she said, "consists of an egg 
 when they are very cheap, and some figs ; in the cooler 
 weather I have a cup of chocolate and some brown bread 
 and butter. I am so fond of the rough native bread with 
 little pine seeds on the top of it. Do you remember it, 
 Zita?" 
 
 "Of course I do, Signora." She laughed as gaily as a 
 child at Christine's question. "Why, in the old days even 
 that bread was only for festa days, wasn't it, Salvatore? 
 With perhaps a poor little goldfinch to flavour a big dish 
 of macaroni. We called that meat, ftignora." 
 
 "Who said Signora?" Christine cried. 
 
 Zita's eyes shown with happiness. "But that is true, 
 Primavera. And after that in Rome do you remember, 
 Salvatore, even the one goldfinch was too costly? Ah, 
 Sign . . ." she stopped herself, "No, no, I mean Prima- 
 
 "Were you poorer after I left?" 
 
 "Much poorer, Sign . . ." Zita laughed again, 
 "Primavera. May I tell her, Salvatore?" 
 
 They were drinking their after-dinner coffee. The 
 brother and sister looked at each other. 
 
 "Certainly, if she cares to hear the story of our woes." 
 Christine smiled encouragingly to Zita. 
 
 "Well, when we left Girgenti we had a little money; it 
 was to be spent on Salvatore's work. It seemed to both of 
 us at the time a great deal oh, so much! Do you re- 
 member, fratello mio?" 
 
 The colour mounted to Christine's cheeks. She looked 
 at Salvatore nervously. Was she, after all, to hear the 
 story her husband had told her? Where had that money 
 suddenly come from? 
 
 "We thought the money would keep us in Rome for as 
 long as it would have kept us in Girgenti. We soon 
 found out our mistake. Signora, in a large city you have
 
 192 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 to breathe gold. Poor Salvatore worked and worked and 
 he grew thinner and thinner; I could have earned money 
 as a model, but he would not let me. It was terrible, for 
 I could do nothing, nothing but see him get paler and paler 
 and thinner and thinner." 
 
 Christine had laid a sympathetic hand on Zita's arm; 
 her eyes were fixed on the girl's beautiful face. 
 
 "Don't tell all that, Zita it is past and over. It is not 
 mirth-making." Salvatore had hastily interrupted her. 
 
 "But it is so interesting. Tell me how it all ended 
 what saved you? Don't stop her, Salvatore; please let me 
 hear." 
 
 "Salvatore gained a big prize at the Acoademia and on 
 the very same day almost that it was awarded to him he 
 was introduced to a business man from America." Zita 
 paused and then went on breathlessly: "His partner had 
 seen and spoken to Salvatore when we were in Girgenti." 
 She paused again. 
 
 To break the tense silence which followed Christine said, 
 "And then?" 
 
 "From that day fortune favoured us. At first it came 
 gradually, didn't it, Salvatore? Then later on, all of a 
 sudden, Salvatore's discovery of water-resisting paint 
 changed our comfort into luxury, and for the last five 
 years, Primavera, we have had more money per hour 
 than we had per year in Casa Salvatore." 
 
 "I am so glad," Christine said, "so awfully glad !" Her 
 voice betrayed the very genuine emotion which she felt. 
 Because she felt deeply she was tongue-tied. There was 
 something pathetically romantic about the life-story of 
 the brother and sister. If she had been alone with Zita 
 she would have asked her what had happened to the youth 
 who had spoken to her in the cake-shop. But with Salva- 
 tore listening to their conversation it was difficult. The 
 fact that Zita had not married looked as if the broken 
 romance to which Salvatore had alluded had hurt the girl 
 more than her gay manner suggested.
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 193 
 
 As Christine visualised the meeting between Zita and the 
 young man in the shop she could not help smiling. How 
 ill-suited he would now appear to the Zita who sat beside 
 her! 
 
 In a way it seemed to have happened only yesterday; 
 it was all so vivid. And yet when she thought over the 
 great changes which had taken place during the years 
 which had parted them, it seemed like a century. All that 
 she herself had suffered and all that she had thrown off as 
 of no account passed quickly before her eyes. The amaz- 
 ing thing was that she was still young and that her looks 
 had improved with keeping. Life is a strange problem. 
 How could it be explained? For she had endured youth- 
 killing things shame, remorse and disillusionment. And 
 yet here she was, wanted by these two dear wealthy people, 
 who were going to spoil her and pet her and adore her. 
 And she was going to let them spoil her, she was going to 
 give herself up to their whim and thoroughly enj oy herself. 
 
 The good dinner which she had eaten made her think 
 longingly of the fleshpots of Egypt. Having enough to 
 eat of cheap food is a very different thing from dining well, 
 and Christine had lived on the edge of things for so long 
 that sufficiency had become to her almost as extraordinary 
 as luxury. 
 
 She saw a picture of herself massaging her patients 
 until the beads of perspiration trickled from her forehead. 
 The heat from the sulphur baths was quickly reducing her 
 already slender figure to the merest shadow. But she was 
 going to say good-bye to rheumatic limbs and the steaming 
 heat of the baths ; she was going to change all that for the 
 Hotel Igeia, at Palermo, that superb invasion of Monte 
 Carlo into Sicily, and the Hotel San Domencio in Taormina. 
 
 As the Mazzinis were extremely rich, and they had none 
 of the expenses which are attached to property and in- 
 herited wealth, allowing for the fact that Salvatore gave 
 large sums to charities, Christine knew that they had an 
 abundance to spend on personal pleasures and luxuries.
 
 194- A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 These thoughts had been in the back of her mind while she 
 talked to Zita and Salvatore about other things. Her 
 visit to Sicily as their guest would mean nothing in the 
 matter- of expenditure. 
 
 As the evening advanced she wanted more and more to 
 hear from Salvatore' s own lips the denial of the slander 
 which had been deliberately planned to put an end to their 
 old intimacy. Yet something held her back. She did not 
 wish to introduce her husband's name. If she spoke about 
 him again she would certainly have to tell them that he 
 was alive, and on this first night with Zita, why bring a 
 cloud on the horizon? 
 
 Salvatore had become grave and silent; Zita had done 
 all the talking. 
 
 "Do you sing, Primavera?" she asked. "It is just the 
 evening for a song." 
 
 "I once thought I could sing," Christine laughed, "but 
 that was before I knew Italy. The most ignorant peasant 
 here knows how to produce her voice better than I do, after 
 all my expensive lessons. But you sing, Zita of course 
 you do." 
 
 "Yes, I sing," Zita said. "Salvatore likes my voice, but 
 not to-night, Signora I mean, Primavera. To-night I 
 could listen to other people singing, but I could not sing." 
 She laid her hand on her heart. "Do you understand?" 
 
 "Yes, I understand," Christine said. "I feel like that 
 too." 
 
 Zita tried to smile. "Salvatore says my voice is always 
 full of tears even when I sing songs of happiness ; tears of 
 happiness would overflow to-night." She slipped her arm 
 round Christine's waist. "Let us take a little stroll to- 
 gether Salvatore is so far away; he will not come back. 
 Look! He takes no return ticket on these journeys. I 
 never know when to expect him home." 
 
 Salvatore lifted unseeing eyes. Zita's story had sent his 
 mind adrift; he was the old Salvatore, miserable and 
 ashamed ; the theft of the urns seemed but yesterday. Yes,
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 195 
 
 the new Christine must be told of his former dishonesty; 
 she must hear the story from his own lips. But how was 
 he to tell her? Why need he do it yet? 
 
 It was the same cry with Christine. It went on un- 
 ceasingly : She must tell Salvatore, he must know, but how 
 was she to do it ? Why need she do it yet ? 
 
 When the girls were walking arm in arm under the 
 pergola, Zita said impulsively, "Will you be kind, arnica 
 mia? I want you to tell me something." 
 
 Christine's breath came quickly. What did the girl want 
 to know ? 
 
 "Am I in your opinion a lady? Is Salvatore's opinion 
 of me correct? He thinks I have adapted myself very 
 well . . ." Zita hesitated. 
 
 Christine gave a sigh of relief as she said, "You dear 
 little Zita, I have forgotten that you were ever anything 
 but a refined and charming woman of the world! You 
 were always a lady, you know you were! And isn't it 
 funny? I can't think of you as you used to be." She 
 turned the girl's pleased face to hers. "You are absolutely 
 'it,* Zita do you know what that means ?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, I know much slang. Some Americans speak 
 more slang than English; but Salvatore objects to it. So 
 did the nuns." 
 
 "Well, you are absolutely 'it.' How else can I put it?" 
 
 They were talking in whispers. Salvatore was still 
 planning and dreaming. Zita pointed to him; her eyes 
 were tender, her lips smiling. 
 
 "Look, he is so far away, so very far." 
 
 Christine looked, and as she looked a twinge of annoy- 
 ance made her withdraw her eyes. He was certainly very 
 far away; he had apparently forgotten her presence; he 
 seemed content to let her talk to Zita. Perhaps, like all 
 men, if he could not monopolise her, he did not want her. 
 She turned to Zita. 
 
 "Let's slip away he won't notice, and I want to say so 
 many things."
 
 196 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 They left the pergola and walked to the far end of the 
 rambling garden. When they had seated themselves on a 
 marble seat which had once graced a classic villa, Zita 
 said : 
 
 "Really, Primavera, I am so glad that you think I am 
 'it,' " she laughed, "that I do not look like the rich 
 daughters of some of our peasants who go out to South 
 America and come back millionaires. To me they look 
 horrible in their best clothes; but one cannot see oneself, 
 cara arnica how can one tell? These poor things think 
 they are very refined and grand. But you have told me 
 the truth, Signora ? You have not only been polite? Long 
 ago we both said that we preferred truth to flattery." 
 
 "Zita, you must know that you are absolutely correct." 
 Christine looked at the girl admiringly. In the soft light 
 of the stars, under the violet of the southern sky, she was 
 as Christine had said to Salvatore, "delicious" ; her pallor 
 was intense and passionate. "Salvatore is awfully proud 
 of you." 
 
 "Oh, but Salvatore is no judge. He sees me with ador- 
 ing eyes. But you, Signora, you can judge because you 
 have not seen the gradual change in my manners and dress. 
 You are to be my friend, you should not flatter." She 
 thought for a moment and then said apologetically, "I do 
 try to do justice to Salvatore, so for his sake I would 
 gladly take any hints you could give me. It is because I 
 am so anxious to please him that I have talked so much 
 about myself." 
 
 "I don't flatter, Zita ; I remember our conversation that 
 afternoon in Girgenti." 
 
 "Gia, gia." When Zita visualised the past intensely, the 
 Sicilian "gia, gia," slipped naturally from her lips. "I 
 remember it was the day I told you a lie." She laughed. 
 "You never guessed, Signora? You never knew?" 
 
 "But I know now, Zita. Salvatore told me. And I 
 remember something else, which he did not tell me in the 
 cake-shop a young man spoke to you ; I thought you cared
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 197 
 
 for him. Do you remember you asked me not to mention 
 it to Salvatore." There was another understanding pres- 
 sure on her arm. "Where is he? Did you ever see him 
 again? I was sure he was in love with you." 
 
 "He went to the Argentine. He too is very wealthy, so 
 I have been told. He sends frozen meat to Italy." Zita 
 laughed. "Even a less romantic form of wealth than 
 'Omega.' " 
 
 "Is he married? Did you never see anything more of 
 him?" 
 
 Zita shook her head. "I don't know I don't think so. 
 Ma, Signora, let's talk of happier things." 
 
 "Was there so much unhappiness ?" 
 
 "No, no. Only a misunderstanding ; it all seems so little 
 now." 
 
 "Couldn't Salvatore have put it right? Was the youth 
 jealous?" 
 
 "Salvatore knew nothing about it. Sardo . . ." she 
 hesitated as she said the name, "... he did not under- 
 stand ... it was not his fault. He had every reason 
 to suspect me ... to think . . ." She paused. 
 
 "What did he think ? Did someone tell lies about you ?" 
 Christine's cheeks were aflame ; her senses told her who had 
 been at the bottom of the mischief. 
 
 "Sardo was not to blame." 
 
 "And you cared? What a shame!" 
 
 "Perhaps not. Signora, a young girl does not know her 
 own heart." Zita broke off impulsively. "Please do not 
 ask me any more about it I can never tell you all that 
 happened. I have quite forgotten it ; only seeing you has 
 brought it back to my memory." 
 
 "I didn't mean to be inquisitive, Zita you know that, 
 don't you?" 
 
 "It was such a very little affair, Primavera you must 
 think it absurd of me even to remember it. To prove to 
 you that I have forgotten all about it I will tell you a 
 secret. There is someone in America who has waited for
 
 193 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 me for a long time. I would not give him any promise 
 until I had been to Sicily. I ..." she stopped abruptly. 
 
 "Is he an Italian?" 
 
 Zita shook her head as she said, "Oh, no." 
 
 "Tell me about him. Why have you kept him waiting?" 
 
 "I don't really know. Perhaps because I have ceased to 
 be Sicilian and become a modern woman. I appreciate my 
 freedom and I find no-one as charming as Salvatore. Our 
 life together is almost perfect. When I was Sicilian I 
 should, as you know, have married whenever I was old 
 enough, if I was not too ugly or deformed. Now, cara 
 arnica, I do not think that marriage must be the chief end 
 of woman. In America I have found it so disagreeable to 
 say no; I dislike it very much, don't you? But to say yes 
 when you mean no would be still more unkind." 
 
 Christine kissed her soft cheek impulsively. "You are 
 a perfect duck, Zita. I wonder you haven't been gobbled 
 up long ago. You are as pale as Dante's Beatrice; the 
 old Zita was as sunburnt as a wall nectarine." 
 
 "I was at school so long you forget that. I went to 
 school when Sicilian girls get married, and I remained at 
 school until I was twenty-one. I spent all my holidays 
 with Salvatore, and the last school was only a Pension 
 where the girls attended classes; we had our chaperones." 
 
 "How splendid of Salvatore !" 
 
 "He was so busy that I had no home, and I was quite 
 unsuited to live in the fashionable world alone. My 
 chaperone was very kind and interested in my education." 
 
 "I don't wonder, Zita. She had rather an interesting 
 occupation, watching your development." 
 
 "I studied music and French and German, and of course 
 I heard English all day long. I had no time for any fool- 
 ishness." Zita laughed. "You know, Primavera, a rich 
 girl has to be very wise I did not know how wise in the old 
 days. Money brings many admirers." 
 
 "You were always very wise, Zita mia." 
 
 "No, no, you don't know ! I was very foolish !"
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 199 
 
 Christine suddenly interrupted her. She took the girl's 
 hands in hers and held them lightly. 
 
 "Do you remember my husband?" she said breathlessly. 
 With no preparation she suddenly found herself introduc- 
 ing the subject which she had determined to avoid. 
 
 Zita's eyes fell. Her hands told Christine something of 
 what she had guessed. 
 
 "Tell me, Zita you needn't be afraid you can't hurt 
 me. That life is all over and done with. I remember you 
 used to be afraid of him, you disliked him?" 
 
 Zita's head was bowed over her hands; she avoided 
 Christine's eyes. 
 
 "Don't ask me," she said almost in a whisper. "You 
 loved him?" 
 
 "I once did, Zita, when I was a romantic schoolgirl." 
 
 "You were unhappy, Signora?" Zita's eyes were raised 
 to Christine's. 
 
 "Unhappy does not express my married life, Zita. I 
 soon gave up expecting happiness. When daily humilia- 
 tions occur and go on unceasingly, one very soon does." 
 She smiled. "For some years I endured hell; there you 
 have my story in a nutshell. But don't let us spoil our 
 evening by discussing my woes ; they are past and done 
 with. My quiet life in Ischia seems like having reached 
 heaven after enduring hell." 
 
 "And he is enduring it now, cara Signora he is endur- 
 ing the suffering he deserves." She said the words vindic- 
 tively ; her Sicilian love of revenge rang in her voice. "I 
 hope he is enduring the torments of an awful hell!" She 
 paused. "Senta, Signora mia, long ago I wanted to warn 
 you. I tried to see you, but he made it impossible. He 
 knew I had sworn that I would tell you the sort of man he 
 was, so he kept us apart. Then suddenly we heard that 
 you were going to marry him, and I knew that if you loved 
 him you would not believe anything I told you. Salvatore 
 said it was too late, far too late." 
 
 "Listen !" Christine said ; she held up her hand. "Isn't
 
 200 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 that your brother calling to us ?" She was relieved by the 
 interruption. 
 
 "Si, si! Ecco, Salvatore! Come to us we are under 
 the arbutus arbour." 
 
 When he reached them he was still in a detached state of 
 mind, exquisitely gentle and appreciative of the night, and 
 to Christine his silence was almost more eloquent than she 
 could endure. It spoke to her super-senses ; it warned her 
 of the man's nature; it urged her to tell him the simple 
 truth that she was not a free woman. 
 
 And yet she was silent, although her divorce was merely 
 a matter of expense, as silent as Salvatore, for her super- 
 senses knew that the future was an unknown quantity. The 
 present, so long as they remained as they were, was 
 delightful. 
 
 "That is the old lonely, mysterious Salvatore," Zita said 
 apologetically, "all dreams and moods ; the business man 
 is lost. I often wonder how he made a fortune." She 
 laughed. "Salvatore says that there are two distinct Salva- 
 tores, one for America and one for the old country." 
 
 "I am glad America hasn't killed the old Salvatore, 
 aren't you? that his mind hasn't become all dollars and 
 trusts !" Christine was relieved at the turn the conversa- 
 tion had taken. "But I must be going now it is really 
 quite late. It is so easy to forget in Ischia that the night 
 is drifting into morning. There will be no sleeping time 
 for me if I don't go ; you people can steal some hours from 
 the morning to add to your night, but I must be up be- 
 times." She broke off suddenly. "Oh, Zita, won't Sicily 
 be divine? No work, just sheer idleness all day long!" 
 
 "Poor Signora! I wish I could do your work for you 
 to-morrow." 
 
 "It would be a very poor Signora indeed if I hadn't any 
 work to get up for ! There would be no polenta and not 
 even the toe of a goldfinch in the festa macaroni." 
 
 Salvatore left them abruptly. Christine's words, which 
 had been said humourously and with no intention of self-
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 201 
 
 pity, from their very lightheartedness brought tears to his 
 
 eyes. 
 
 Silently Salvatore saw Christine to her cottage-door. He 
 could not trust himself to speak as he walked by her side. 
 He wondered if he could endure the strain of being in Sicily 
 with her, if he were to keep his promise and remain her 
 friend. 
 
 The very fact that Christine had accepted his silence, 
 that she had not made its understanding less complete 
 by the vulgarity of words, had unfurled the sails of his 
 desires and set them adrift on shoreless seas. 
 
 . 
 
 "Addio, Primavera," he said. "I have been a poor and 
 stupid companion and a very remiss host." He held out 
 his hand. 
 
 She clasped it eagerly. Christine's hands were beauti- 
 fully human. "Don't say that!" she said. "If we are 
 to be true friends we must be perfectly natural; we must 
 be ourselves. You have many things on your mind." 
 
 "No, no!" he said impatiently. "You know it is only 
 one thing my promise." He looked at her. "My promise 
 that we are to be friends." 
 
 "Oh, but we are that already!" she said with assumed 
 lightness. "You need not look so grave." 
 
 "Cara signora," he said softly, "let your words be as 
 sincere as your silence." 
 
 Her hand was dropped suddenly, then quickly he raised 
 it again to his lips. Christine shivered as she felt his 
 breath on her flesh. Salvatore's sensibilities were wounded. 
 She was a married woman why had she repulsed this ordi- 
 nary form of politeness? 
 
 "You are not yet accustomed to our Italian courtesies, 
 Signora ? Forgive me !" 
 
 "I couldn't help it. It was silly of me, but . . ." she 
 spoke brokenly ". . . Tie used to do it. The first time 
 I ever saw a man kiss a woman's hand was at Girgenti ; he
 
 202 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 used to kiss my aunt's hand. The memory of it came back 
 with your kiss." 
 
 "Cara Signora, I understand. Cara Signora! Cara 
 Signora !" 
 
 "I thought it was such a pretty custom. And now 
 
 . . !" She tried to laugh. "It always brings back 
 his personality, and my fears, and . . ." she hesitated 
 "all my aunt's warnings and a host of other things which 
 it is wiser to forget." 
 
 "Primavera ! Primavera !" 
 
 Salvatore left her abruptly. His words in her ears were 
 a wounded cry. She watched him almost run up the rough 
 road until she could see him no longer, and then she went 
 back to her cottage, stumbling as if she were drunk, her 
 hands held out for guidance. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI - 
 
 THE trio had been a fortnight in Sicily and nothing had 
 happened to disturb the friendly attitude which Salvatore 
 had managed to maintain towards Christine ever since they 
 had left Ischia. He was, of course, very wise, for if Chris- 
 tine had been attracted to him and had liked him very much 
 before they went to Sicily, she had during this wonderful 
 fortnight grown fonder and fonder of him and her respect 
 for him had increased each day. He was keeping his pact 
 admirably he was, in fact, allowing Christine both to eat 
 her cake and keep it. He was behaving outwardly as a 
 friend, while his deeper self kept her senses tuned to con- 
 cert pitch. 
 
 Salvatore was an ideal lover. Pan piped the songs which 
 he dared not sing, while the gods lay in ambush in the hills 
 and secret passes. For two weeks the game had gone on 
 merrily. 
 
 Zita and Christine had become good comrades. From 
 the day of their departure from Ischia they had arrived at
 
 203 
 
 an unspoken understanding that for Christine the past 
 was taboo. 
 
 They had arrived at Girgenti at the end of the second 
 week. They went to a native inn, which stands up on the 
 city bastions and commands a superb view of the distant 
 temples and the landscape, which reaches to the sea, the 
 country over which Salvatore had always journeyed to 
 reach the Temple of Aesculapius. 
 
 It was a fine old"inn, managed in the true Sicilian fashion. 
 Rough terracotta jars served them for their bedroom 
 water-jugs and the old tiled floors were carpetless. To 
 Zita the inn was amusing and interesting ; it proved to her 
 what a long way she had travelled from the simplicity of 
 her early days. Ten years ago it would have seemed to her 
 very luxurious. Now her dainty clothes seemed absurd in 
 the huge bare bedroom, which was devoid of any wardrobes. 
 When Christine saw her very modern lingerie and delicate 
 clothing hanging from the one peg she laughed until the 
 tears swam in her eyes; they looked so disconsolate and 
 pathetic, for although the room was as large as a chapel it 
 was as bare as a barn. 
 
 But nothing could dim the radiance of those first days in 
 Sicily, certainly not the lack of luxury. Zita had regained 
 her girlhood, she was La Gioconda once more. 
 
 On this particular night there was to be a banquet given 
 to Salvatore by the citizens of Girgenti ; he was to be pre- 
 sented with the Italian equivalent of the Freedom of the 
 City. After it was over Christine and Zita were to attend 
 the soiree and hear the speeches. 
 
 In the afternoon they decided to pay a visit to the Casa 
 Salvatore. When they arrived at the cottage, Christine 
 had to be the spokeswoman; Zita was too overcome with 
 emotion. To bring a little lightness into the situation she 
 said to Salvatore, who was as silent as his sister: 
 
 "I am not going to ask for a Venus this time I am 
 coming to visit the house of a distinguished citizen. Casa 
 Salvatore has become a "monumento nazionale.' "
 
 204 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 He smiled. He was in a dream. The little home was 
 unaltered, but how small it had become ! He stepped inside 
 at the gracious invitation of the yellow-faced woman, 
 obviously a victim to fever, who was greatly surprised and 
 honoured. How near the walls were! And the old table, 
 how it filled the room ! Zita, who had quickly regained her 
 composure, was talking to the woman. 
 
 "Non mai, Signorina, you lived here ? In this cottage ?" 
 she stared at her visitors. 
 
 "Gia, gia, Signora, I lived here and my brother used to 
 sit here, with books on the table, so late every night that 
 he used to fall asleep over them." 
 
 "The Cavaliere?" The woman's fever-bright eyes grew 
 bigger; her amazement increased. 
 
 "Veramente, Signora. And my mother also lived here; 
 she died here." 
 
 Salvatore had laid his hand on the woman's shoulder ; his 
 eyes smiled into hers. "Alas ! Signora Majelli, if only my 
 wealth could have come in time to give my mother ease and 
 comfort !" 
 
 "Ah, Signore !" She threw up her eyes. 
 
 "I have learnt, donna mia, that money never gets near 
 the heart of things. It still leaves happiness round the 
 corner." 
 
 "But money is power, Signore." Her eyes became 
 flames. 
 
 "Is power happiness, Signora?" 
 
 The woman's face changed; it became vindictive; her 
 gracious smile was lost in the cruel expression which trans- 
 formed it. "Power means revenge, Signore, and revenge 
 is sweeter than good meat and plenty to drink! Revenge 
 enables us to endure !" 
 
 Christine, who had been listening to the conversation, 
 knew how Sicilian was the quick fire of anger and the 
 woman's undying desire for revenge. She herself had 
 suffered and had probably been treated as badly as the 
 woman who so thirsted for her enemy's blood, yet she had
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 205 
 
 not the slightest desire for revenge or wish to do her hus- 
 band any harm. All she wanted was never to see or hear 
 of him again. She looked at Salvatore. Although he was 
 not encouraging the woman in her outburst of hate, his 
 eyes were sympathetic; he was inside her mental attitude. 
 Christine was not. 
 
 When Zita returned from the room which had been her 
 bedroom, she took her brother's arm and silently they stood 
 side by side, looking down at the floor in front of the 
 Sicilian stove. Suddenly Zita threw herself into his arms 
 and wept just as she had wept years ago when they had 
 stood on the same spot looking down on the buried urns. 
 It was only for a moment, and the little outburst and 
 loss of control was the climax of a day of pent-up 
 emotions. 
 
 "Forgive me, arnica mia," she said to Christine. "I 
 really felt as if my poor throat would burst if I did not 
 cry. It is all so poignant with memories." She looked 
 ashamed ; she had behaved foolishly. 
 
 It was Christine who broke the strain of the situation. 
 She had not guessed that there was another reason for 
 Zita's display of emotion other than of sentiment and over- 
 strained nerves. 
 
 "Zita mia," she said, "in that corner cupboard up there 
 you kept the jewel-case I remember it quite well. What 
 if I had jumped up to look?" 
 
 "I knew you were too polite, Primavera." 
 
 "Was my second visit worth the lie?" 
 
 "Yes. And it was for Salvatore I told it," Zita whis- 
 pered laughingly. "He was so good to me, and I wanted 
 to give him pleasure." 
 
 Christine blushed. "Anyhow, you told a fib and I 
 thought you so truthful! I did believe anything then 
 you know what I mean." 
 
 An expression of anguish changed Zita's face as quickly 
 as the look of revenge had changed the yellow face of the 
 woman.
 
 206 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 "Don't be silly !" Christine said quickly. "I didn't mean 
 to hurt you. I know now how absurd it was to believe 
 anything my husband told me about Salvatore! I should 
 have come and said good-bye to you I could have managed 
 to do it somehow. But when he told me that lie about 
 him, I just said to myself, 'Then, after all, Salvatore Maz- 
 zini is just a charming liar and a clever rogue.'" 
 
 "Signora! Signora!" Zita's mind was back in the old 
 days. Christine was the Signorina, the beautiful Prima- 
 vera ; this was their home ; she could even smell the delicate 
 perfume which came with her presence like the drifting 
 scent of spring flowers. Her words were nothing, only 
 "Signora ! Signora !" Yet they made Christine stop and 
 look at the girl wonderingly. Her face was absurdly 
 tragic; her eyes were mysteriously eloquent. 
 
 "What have I said, Zita?" Christine whispered. "Come 
 along we have been too long here ! I told you both that 
 it would be trying for sensitive natures. I think I must 
 be awfully hard, Zita I just won't let old memories spoil 
 my Sicily. And after all, it is I, not you, who have reason 
 to weep !" 
 
 "You have been happy with us, Primavera ?" 
 
 "Happy isn't the word, you dear child !" 
 
 "Sometimes my brother is so quiet, so abstracted, that I 
 am afraid you may think he does not appreciate the pleas- 
 ure of your society." Zita shook her head. "It is just," 
 she smiled tenderly, "just Salvatore, Signora." 
 
 "Just Salvatore !" Christine said tenderly. "And a very 
 good thing to be, Zita ! I don't mind any of his moods, and 
 to-night he has his great speech to make and his address 
 to receive. No wonder he is absent-minded." 
 
 "To-night may test your true feelings for him; his 
 speech means more to us both than you understand. But 
 please do not ask me about it ; I promised I would not tell 
 you. Let us find Salvatore he will be in his old workshop 
 at the back of the cottage." 
 
 Salvatore did not hear them enter his workshop. He
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 207 
 
 was seated at the old bench, with his head in his arms, 
 which were stretched across it. 
 
 "Salvatore mio, fratello mio!" Zita's words were 
 whispered while her arm went round his neck. She knew 
 that he was living again in the past. 
 
 He raised his eyes and saw that Christine was with her. 
 "Cara bambina," he said apologetically, "we have been 
 much too long here. Come along." 
 
 In the living room the sick woman was seated in its 
 darkest corner; her bones hated the sun. She was slowly 
 picking some good rice from a sieve which contained about 
 ninety per cent, of inedible rubbish. When Salvatore put 
 a handful of silver in her wire sieve, she seized both his 
 hands and raised them to her lips, while large tears fell into 
 her worthless rice. The sudden possession of so much 
 wealth was too much for her enfeebled condition. She was 
 still thanking him and blessing him as they left the cottage. 
 She was jangling the money in her hands; the sound of it 
 delighted her. 
 
 As they were descending a short flight of steps which 
 took them to their hotel, Christine slipped on a piece of 
 orange-peel. Zita had gone ahead. As she slipped Salva- 
 tore' s arms went round her; for one moment he held her 
 crushed to his breast. Then he set her on her feet, without 
 even asking her if she was hurt. 
 
 In that brief embrace Christine undid the work of weeks. 
 The incident was over in less than two minutes, but it had 
 revealed to both of them the fact that they had been lovers 
 from the first. That quick embrace left no room for denial. 
 
 Christine had to calmly assure Zita that no harm was 
 done, the ankle was not strained. It was difficult to speak 
 reasonably and collectedly when nothing seemed to matter 
 but Salvatore's embrace. It had blotted out every other 
 feature of the day. It had warned her that she could no 
 longer play with her own feelings. She was angry at her 
 prosaic surroundings ! she had to be dignified and con- 
 ventionally pleasant, while otherwise they might have
 
 208 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 been no, they could not be that, not yet; she must tell 
 him first. 
 
 "I'm afraid that we must have wearied you, Primavera, 
 with our sentimental journey," Salvatore managed to say. 
 "Zita and I lost ourselves ; the years rolled back." 
 
 Of course Christine assured them that she had not been 
 bored, but greatly interested. And she spoke the truth, 
 for it had been interesting from a psychological point of 
 view. The visit to their old home had proved that Salva- 
 tore and Zita were too well-bred to understand the meaning 
 of the word "snobbish." There was something delightfully 
 ingenuous about Salvatore; it was his most endearing 
 quality. 
 
 When they reached the rambling old Albergo, Zita sug- 
 gested that when they had finished their tea, which she 
 always got Christine to make they had with them a well- 
 appointed tea-basket they should lie down and rest until 
 it was time for Salvatore to go to the banquet. Salvatore 
 seconded the idea ; Zita looked tired, and while they rested 
 he would go over his speech and make himself word-perfect. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 SOME hours later, as they entered the crowded hall where 
 he was to deliver his speech, Zita slipped her hand into 
 Christine's arm. The girl's eyes expressed emotion. 
 
 She said earnestly, "Primavera, I told you that this 
 speech may make a difference to our position in your eyes. 
 You will be surprised. He has something to announce to 
 the people which will astonish you." 
 
 Christine did not answer. There was nothing to be said ; 
 but she wondered what he could have to tell the people that 
 mattered so greatly. Why had he never alluded to it? 
 Anyhow, it could be nothing which could affect her feelings 
 for him.
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 209 
 
 Although he could not see her, he knew the moment she 
 entered the building. He was on the platform, seated in 
 the centre of a group of important citizens, who were all 
 very grave and heavy with official responsibility. An 
 illuminated address was to be presented to Salvatore by the 
 Sindaco, who made a flowing and eloquent speech on behalf 
 of the magistrates and the citizens of Girgenti. In it he 
 welcomed the illustrious Cavaliere back to his old home. 
 Girgenti was proud of Salvatore Mazzini ; he was the type 
 of citizen to whom everyone could point as an example of 
 all that was best in a Sicilian gentleman and a patriot. 
 For himself, he could only say that he could wish for no 
 greater good fortune than that his two sons should take 
 Salvatore as their example. If either of them should ever 
 achieve the position which the Cavaliere held in the opinion 
 of the citizens of Girgenti, he would be a proud father. 
 
 This and much more of a similar nature was poured out 
 with true Sicilian eloquence and elegance of expression. 
 Salvatore was thanked for the many benefits which he had 
 conferred on the town, such as the Chair which he had 
 founded at the University for Archaeological Research, and 
 the Hospital for Children which his enthusiasm had started 
 and his liberal donations made possible. 
 
 Christine listened eagerly to every word of the Sindaco's 
 speech. It was all new to her, for neither Zita nor Salva- 
 tore had ever mentioned any of these things. Her spirits 
 rose as she heard them ; her heart was full of pride. She 
 was too shy to take more than a glance at Salvatore, who 
 was very pale and nervous. He could not, she knew, be 
 feeling nervous in the ordinary sense of the word, not 
 nervous in such a gathering, when he must have been enter- 
 tained very often in a much more imposing manner and 
 have spoken on occasions of far greater importance. But 
 it is always more trying to fill the position of a hero or of 
 a celebrity amongst one's own people. In Girgenti Salva- 
 tore was in his own family circle ; familiar faces, old smiles 
 and peculiar gestures met his eyes whichever way he looked.
 
 210 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 "Come sta?" was called out to him every other minute; 
 sometimes he was "Signore" or "Cavaliere" ; other times it 
 was "Nostro Salvatore" or "Salvatore lui stesso" (Salva- 
 tore himself). 
 
 Zita, in her fashionable clothes, had at first struck fear 
 into their hearts; they stood more in awe of her than of 
 Salvatore, until the girl spoke to them and won their hearts 
 by her simplicity. Then she was "La Gioconda," "bambina 
 Zita," "the little orphan." They would have been hard 
 hearts indeed which were not won by the girl's charm and 
 beauty. 
 
 "Isn't it fun," she would say with laughing lips and 
 friendly eyes, "isn't it fun to see your little orphan turned 
 into a grand lady? But do you know, no cakes ever taste 
 like the cakes you used to send us each Pasqua ? We never 
 forget them." 
 
 When Salvatore rose to make his speech, he was so pale 
 and nervous that Zita's hand found its way into Christine's. 
 Her tightening grasp told Christine how agitated the girl 
 was. There must be some strange reason for her anxiety, 
 for the Cavaliere was known to be a fine speaker. 
 
 Salvatore had raised his hand. The cheering was deaf- 
 ening, but his hand was eloquent. Hands as well as lips 
 speak in Sicily, and Salvatore's raised hand begged for 
 silence. 
 
 "Silenzio," he said, "per piacere aspetta." There was 
 a sudden quietness, a tense quietness of roused expectancy. 
 This was a new and striking way to begin a popular speech. 
 He had silenced their welcome ! , 
 
 "Onorevoli Signori," Salvatore said as he bowed to the 
 Sindaco and to the grave cittadini on the platform : "Ono- 
 revoli Signori," he said again as he faced the audience; 
 "Miei amici, I must ask you to wait until I have told you 
 what I have long wanted to tell you, before you give voice 
 to your expression of welcome. If after that you still 
 think me worthy of this address and of your friendship, 
 then please raise your voices and give me welcome."
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 There was an attempted interruption. Cries of "Viva 
 Salvatore!" "Nostro Salvatore!" rang through the hall. 
 
 "Aspetta, aspetta!" he said gravely. "I am going to 
 tell you my story in as few words as possible." He smiled. 
 "You must bear with me, for I am afraid that like many 
 others, I have lost my native grace of speech in America. 
 In my pursuit of wealth I have lost better things." 
 
 There were cries of "No ! No !" 
 
 He held up his hand. "Senta, this is my story: Once 
 upon a time I was very poor, you all know how poor. So 
 poor that very often I should have slept better at night if 
 I had been less 'hungry. But I was ambitious, intellectually 
 ambitious and curious. I had no thoughts in those days of 
 great wealth ; I only wanted money enough to study for 
 two years at the University and to help me to carry out my 
 dream of reviving one of the old earthenware industries of 
 Sicily. I was earning at that time one franc forty per 
 day ; there is not much to be saved off that. But I had the 
 means of adding a little to my income by selling to the 
 forestieri who came to see the temples the small objects I 
 dug up which the Museum did not want or the archaeological 
 authorities did not wish to keep." Salvatore paused. 
 
 Zita's fingers were crushing Christine's hands. A flash 
 of understanding suddenly came to Christine. Her whole 
 being waited for Salvatore's next words; her lips were 
 tightly closed. 
 
 "I was trusted," Salvatore said very slowly and dis- 
 tinctly. "I was trusted." The words rang through the 
 building. "I was trusted, my friends, by the authorities 
 and by every-one. Onorevoli Signori, miei amici, I be- 
 trayed that trust." 
 
 There was a low cry through the audience : "No ! No ! 
 non e vero ! Impossible !" 
 
 Salvatore's voice rose above the cries. "Si, si, Signori, 
 I betrayed that trust. I was under an oath that I would 
 ehow all that I found, all buried treasure, to the local au- 
 thorities and to my employer; all objects of any particular
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 value or interest which I found were taken away from me." 
 
 Cries of "Shame! Shame!" interrupted him. 
 
 "No, no, Signori. It was just and right. They were 
 the treasures of Girgenti; they belonged to Girgenti. I 
 was only paid for finding them." He held up his hand. 
 "Will you not listen to the rest of my confession? One 
 day by accident I found two Greek urns, marvels of ancient 
 Greek art. They had been made for prizes to be given to 
 the heroes in some games. They were worth a large sum 
 of money." He paused. 
 
 Christine, who had not dared to look at his eyes, was 
 watching the nervous twisting of his fingers ; her own fair 
 cheeks were burning. 
 
 "Signori," he said, "I kept those two urns. I showed 
 them to only one person, my accomplice." Salvatore's voice 
 broke. 
 
 A cry of sympathy rang through the hall, cries of 
 "Quite right ! Quite right ! They were yours ! Who finds 
 keeps !" 
 
 "My friend, I have not finished. My accomplice helped 
 me to sell them ; he sent me a purchaser, a wealthy Ameri- 
 can who was ignorant of the sin I was committing. I 
 shared the money with my companion in dishonesty." He 
 paused, and as he paused his eyes met Christine's. "Will 
 you hear the rest of my story?" he addressed the audience. 
 
 Cries of "Si ! Si. Caro amico ! Caro Salvatore !" gave 
 him courage. 
 
 "I thought I was rich. I went to Rome. My sister and 
 I nearly starved. In that great capital, the sum which 
 I had thought so vast proved very, very little. But, 
 Signori, I succeeded. Everything I did seemed to bring me 
 good luck. You all know by this time that my fortune was 
 not made off the small industry which I have started at 
 Licata." He smiled. "It costs me a fortune, my friends." 
 
 He took a sip of water from the tumbler at his side. His 
 nervousness was disappearing as the attitude of his 
 audience became more and more reassuring. His earlier
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 213 
 
 pallor and agitation were not so noticeable. Zita had 
 loosened her grip on Christine's hands. 
 
 "I have one thing more to tell you," he said. "During 
 the last two or three years I have become a wealthy man, 
 but I have always felt that the foundation of my wealth 
 was built upon dishonour." 
 
 Cries of "No ! No ! Signore !" rose once more. 
 
 "Yes, Signori, I could not have gone to Rome without 
 that sum of money." 
 
 "The urns were yours you round them . . ." 
 
 "I stole them. Give the words their true meaning. I 
 stole them and bitterly have I regretted my dishonesty." 
 He turned to the Sindaco. "Onorevoli Signori, I am in 
 your hands, but before you sentence me let me tell you that 
 the first thing I did when I was well enough off was to find 
 the gentleman in America who had bought the vases and 
 then buy them back from him." A cry of delight filled the 
 hall. "I bought them, miei amici, and they are here. They 
 are waiting to be put in their rightful place, in your 
 Museum." 
 
 Almost immediately a servant brought in first one urn 
 and then the other. They were placed on a table in full 
 view of the audience. It was the first time that Zita had 
 seen them since she had helped Salvatore to take them away 
 in pig-skins from their cottage. She could not keep back 
 her emotion. Christine tried to screen her, but Salvatore 
 saw her. He was speaking again. 
 
 "There is just one thing more I should like to tell you, 
 Onorevoli Signori, miei amici. My sister, your old friend, 
 La Gioconda, took no part in my dishonour ; she implored 
 me not to stain our father's name. So whatsoever measure 
 of blame you may bestow on me, remember that La Gio- 
 conda is above suspicion. And now I have done, Signori, 
 and I thank you for your patience." 
 
 Salvatore sat down. A roar of applause burst as if 
 from one giant voice; it was startling. Sicilian cries of 
 comradeship, affection and admiration poured out one upon
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 another. "Caro Salvatore! Illustrissimo Signore! Ono- 
 revole Cavaliere ! Amico generoso !" 
 
 These cries of affectionate sympathy left little doubt in 
 Salvatore's mind as to his position in the hearts of the 
 people. When the prolonged applause and expressions of 
 welcome had died down, he rose again. His face was almost 
 paler than it had been before, but his eyes were luminous, 
 and his smile youthful and happy. 
 
 "Cari amici, concittadini, I thank you, your welcome is 
 almost more than I can bear. I came among you to-night 
 not knowing with what feelings I should leave you. I am 
 leaving you with a heart so full of gladness that emotion 
 robs me of all eloquence. You have shown me that there is 
 no longer a stain on the Casa Salvatore. I know that, in 
 spite of my confession, 'i orfani,' " he smiled, "have still a 
 place in your hearts, that I am forgiven." 
 
 "Nostro Salvatore, there's nothing to forgive! Our 
 hearts are full of gratitude ! Viva la Casa Salvatore ! Viva 
 i orfani." 
 
 Salvatore acknowledged the interruption with a happy 
 smile. The audience was listening again ; he turned to the 
 Sindaco. 
 
 "Onorevoli Signori, will you grant me the privilege of 
 presenting, or rather I should say, returning to the city of 
 Girgenti, these two urns?" He lifted one of the urns in 
 his hands and held it up to the audience. As he placed it on 
 the table again, there was another outburst of applause, 
 which had to be silenced. 
 
 The Mayor rose to speak. He accepted the urns quite 
 simply while he shook Salvatore's hand, but the speech 
 which followed was one of those verbose Italian speeches 
 which pour on like a cataract. There is no public speaker 
 more tedious than a pompous Italian. 
 
 When at last all the speeches came to an end, and Salva- 
 tore had been cheered again and again, there was a sudden 
 cry of : "Where is Zita ? We want you, Zita ! La Gio- 
 conda ! Cara bambina !"
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 215 
 
 Zita at the first sound of her name tried to escape. 
 
 "You must go on to the platform," Christine said. 
 "They want you listen ! They will go on until you do." 
 
 Zita shrank back still further in her chair. "No, no. I 
 can't speak to them, and I shall only look foolish if I cry. 
 I've been nearly crying all evening. I can't go." 
 
 The cries of "Dove e Zita? Dove e la Gioconda?" grew 
 louder and more insistent. She sprang to her feet; their 
 affection gave her courage. Salvatore helped her on to the 
 platform. 
 
 For a moment or two she stood quietly looking at the 
 audience, then she kissed her hand and smiled and cried and 
 smiled again. Zita cried adorably; her tears were jewels. 
 
 The familiar words : "Carina ! Carina bambina ! Come 
 bella ! Come e simpatica !" rang through the hall, while 
 other voices demanded: "A speech!" 
 
 When the cries of welcome died down Zita tried to make 
 her escape, but that was not allowed. The demand for a 
 speech increased in insistence. So far she had only smiled 
 and said, "Grazie, grazie." She begged Salvatore to say 
 a few words of thanks for her. 
 
 "No, no!" he whispered. "Say them yourself just 
 anything, bambina." 
 
 She shook her head. "Tell them that my heart is too 
 full to speak. . . . No wait. . . . Tell them I will 
 sing; say I have never spoken in public." 
 
 When Salvatore repeated her words, there was an en- 
 thusiastic response. "A song! A song!" came from a 
 hundred lips. 
 
 Of course there was a piano on the platform. Zita stood 
 by it for a moment, lost in thought. What song should she 
 sing? Salvatore was to play for her. She whispered to 
 him, "Caro nome." 
 
 They all knew that and loved it. As he played over the 
 prelude to "Caro nome" there was a murmur of gratifica- 
 tion, and cries of " 'Caro nome,' Zita ! 'Caro nome,' Zita 
 Mazzini !"
 
 216 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 No-one in Girgenti had ever heard "Caro nome" sung as 
 Zita sang it that night. Emotion gave the song a passion 
 and beauty which touched every heart in the hall. It was 
 just like Zita, Christine said to herself, as she listened to 
 the girl's perfectly-trained voice, not to wish to show off 
 her knowledge of good music by singing some song which 
 the townspeople could not have enjoyed. She knew that 
 "Caro nome" would reach every heart. 
 
 Zita's judgment had been correct. "Dear name," "Dear 
 name," were the words on every man's and woman's lips, 
 as they elbowed their way out of the hall. " 'Dear name,' 
 Zita Mazzini." 
 
 Salvatore was not allowed to walk to his hotel. He was 
 carried shoulder high by the students of the University, 
 while Zita and Christine were placed with much dignity in 
 the old-fashioned barouche which was kept at the expense 
 of the city for the use of the city dignitaries. The Sin- 
 daco himself conducted Zita and Christine to their hotel. 
 They were both so tired that they could have cried when 
 they found that the verbose gentleman meant driving in the 
 carriage beside them, but there was nothing to be done but 
 accept the attention gracefully. 
 
 When at last they were left to themselves and were walk- 
 ing along the corridor to their sitting-room, Zita said 
 apologetically, "If course, I ought to have invited him to 
 come in, Christine. He ought to have drunk our health in 
 Marsala and made a thousand more eloquent speeches." 
 She threw back her head. "Well, I just couldn't ! In that 
 respect I have ceased to be a Sicilian. And I never was so 
 tired in my life !" 
 
 She was so tired that she even dreaded the intimate con- 
 versation which there must be between herself and Christine 
 when they were alone. She was not quite sure how Salva- 
 tore's confession had affected Christine's feelings for both 
 her brother and herself. She had been silently sympathetic 
 and charming, but love is capricious. For less reason than
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 217 
 
 Christine had been given to-night it takes wings and flies 
 off never to return. Friendship comes under more reason- 
 able, less sensitive rule. In fact, we generally know why 
 we like people ; why we love them is another matter. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 WHEN they reached their private sitting-room in the hotel, 
 Zita and Christine threw themselves down in comfortable 
 armchairs. Neither of them spoke ; there was too much to 
 say. Their minds both held the same thought. 
 
 Although Christine had left her husband years ago she 
 could not help feeling that some of his dishonour clung to 
 'her; she still bore his name and until she was legally free 
 from him he was a hidden force in her life. 
 
 Zita was wondering if Christine, with her English sense 
 of honour, would understand and forgive Salvatore's one 
 base action. Even now, was she thinking differently of 
 him? Had his brave and honourable speech changed her 
 love for him into a friendship not untouched with pity? As 
 she looked at Christine she said to herself, "Well, at last 
 she knows ! At last Salvatore's conscience is free ! But 
 will she ever understand what this evening has meant to 
 him?" 
 
 Zita was not left very long in doubt, for Salvatore him- 
 self appeared before they had spoken to each other. He 
 had got rid of his admiring and noisy companions and had 
 come straight to the sitting-room, to learn from Christine's 
 eyes what her attitude towards him was to be. Had his 
 speech killed the love which he knew she had felt for him 
 in the morning? Had it taught her to distrust him? 
 Would he not for ever now be associated in her mind with 
 her vile husband? They had been companions in guilt. 
 
 As he entered the room Christine rose from her chair 
 and slipped out on to the high terrace which overlooks the
 
 218 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 little farms and the inhabited districts on the slopes of the 
 hills. Zita would like to be alone with her brother for a 
 few minutes. Besides, she too wanted to see Salvatore 
 alone. Zita was a dear, but she was not Salvatore. 
 
 Christine stood with her hands clasped before her. She 
 saw nothing, nothing of one of the fairest scenes on earth. 
 She only felt that Salvatore was in the room behind her, and 
 that soon, very soon, he would come and find her. 
 
 The shrill whistling of a million frogs did not reach her 
 ears ; the lonely cry of screech-owls and the barking of dis- 
 tant dogs were not sounds they were merely part and 
 parcel of Sicily, the wild and romantic, Sicily which was so 
 intimately a part of her life. 
 
 In the room Salvatore had grasped Zita's hands. His 
 eyes spoke to the eager ones which were raised to his. 
 
 "She is out there," she whispered, "waiting for you. 
 Go to her." 
 
 Salvatore walked noiselessly out to the balcony, but 
 Christine felt his coming. Her one desire was to be ready 
 for him, ready to assure him that if he wished it she was 
 his, to assure him that her love of the morning had become 
 her whole world. She turned at his coming ; for one moment 
 their eyes questioned each other. 
 
 Then Christine cried: "Salvatore, Salvatore! ecco mi!" 
 
 The words were unconsidered. They were an entreaty; 
 he was to come to her ; she had been waiting for him. With 
 inviting arms she swam to him through a mist of unreality ; 
 the material world had dissolved; they were spirits freed 
 from earthly restrictions. 
 
 "Primavera," he said softly, "Primavera mia." 
 
 She was in his arms, his breath was on her face. Yet he 
 did not kiss her ! 
 
 "Ecco mi, Salvatore !" She held her lips up to his. 
 
 But he did not take her offered gift. "You know me 
 now," he said, as he held her more closely to him. "You 
 did not believe that I was a thief." He spoke breathlessly. 
 
 Christine released her hands from his only to throw her
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 219 
 
 arms around his neck. "Salvatore mio, Salvatore mio, I 
 love you! Oh, how I love you!" Her words ended in a 
 happy sigh. "I think I never could have loved you so much 
 if you had not kept the urns." 
 
 "Cara, Signora, and I was so ashamed, so afraid." As 
 their lips met he said, "I was so afraid you would think 
 that I too had no honour, that being dishonest in one thing 
 I should be dishonest in other things. You had reason to 
 be afraid." 
 
 Christine clung to him reassuringly. She raised her 
 eyes to his. "Do you know that all that you told the people 
 this evening only proved to me how much I loved you? A 
 woman is a silly thing I wanted them to know that you 
 loved me. I wanted to call it out ! I wanted to say, 'I love 
 him, I love him, and your Salvatore loves me.' It was so 
 hard to sit still and say nothing. You looked so pale and 
 anxious, and you only looked at me once for about a second. 
 But it was a lovely second !" The laughter of an infinitely 
 happy woman assured him. 
 
 "How can I believe it? Amor mio, donna mia, can life 
 be so wonderful?" He looked up to the heavens. "Can 
 God think me worthy of such love? The stars are not more 
 wonderful than our love, dearest." He raised her face to 
 the sky. "For ten years I have waited for this night! I 
 have dreamed of it! But no dream was ever so sweet as 
 this!" Their lips met again. "Tell me the dear words 
 again, anima mia, my ears love the sound. Say, 'Salva- 
 tore, I love you.' ' 
 
 "My dearest !" she said. "Haven't you heard the song 
 my heart has been singing? For days and days it has been 
 saying unceasingly 'I love you, I love you, I love you!' 
 Salvatore, it has been singing that all day long, but to- 
 night I know that you are my very life and happiness, I 
 belong to you !" 
 
 He folded her in his arms. Kisses rained upon her dear 
 lips and passion-closed eyes. "Ti do tutto quanto il mio 
 cuore puo offrire in tenerezze," he murmured, and he said
 
 220 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 the words even more tenderly in English "I love jour 
 little ear, let me kiss it, let me talk to it just in little 
 whispers, let me tell it all the dear things I have had to say 
 to myself for ten years while the ocean has divided us. 
 Your ear, Primavera, is like a shell, and in our sea-shells 
 there are songs, dear heart, songs which were sung into 
 them thousands of years ago by syrens and dolphins. My 
 love-song will live in your ears when we have ceased to be 
 mortals." \ 
 
 Salvatore said no more. Words were banal with Chris- 
 tine in his arms, so ungrudgingly his. Sicily surrounded 
 them ; its unheard melodies were sweeter far. 
 
 As the town clock struck twelve, Christine's lips received 
 a devout kiss for each stroke. 
 
 "Twelve vows went with my kisses," Salvatore said, 
 "and twelve thanks to God for you, beloved." Suddenly 
 he held her from him. "Let me look at you, anima mia." 
 
 Christine's laugh was better to Salvatore than a caress. 
 
 "Well, you are different now, sposa mia, quite different. 
 Half-an-hour ago I was afraid of your eyes, I was a humble 
 supplicant. Now you are my heart, my eyes, my brain. 
 We are necessary to one another, we are promessi sposi. 
 So much can happen in half-an-hour. When I came to look 
 for you I was afraid that I should be met with kindness 
 mixed with scorn." 
 
 "Oh, Salvatore, how could you? If you loved me, how 
 could you think such a thing?" 
 
 "Sposa mia," he spoke the words tenderly, "love can 
 make us afraid of almost anything." 
 
 She nestled closer to him. "Yes, love can make us be- 
 lieve anything, do anything. It makes the bravest afraid." 
 
 "It makes us brave or timid, confident or humble; it 
 makes us twist simple things into mysteries, and for a man, 
 carina, it teaches him that there is no-one good enough for 
 a pure and loving woman." 
 
 They stood silently together.
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 "When a man gains the love of a woman like you, he 
 wishes that he had kept himself more pure and worthy of 
 her gift ; it makes him ashamed of his nature in comparison 
 to hers ; he hates the memory of his human frailties." 
 
 Christine felt her first twinge of guilt. "You are more 
 than worthy, Salvatore." She paused. "Far more 
 worthy. I am . . ." her words lost themselves in a 
 sudden physical weariness. 
 
 He held her more protectingly. "No, no," he said. \ 
 "Never feel afraid any more." 
 
 "But you should marry some innocent young girl, 
 whose eyes have not seen and whose ears have not heard 
 what my eyes and ears have seen and heard." Christine's 
 sense of guilt was urging her to confession. 
 
 "Mia amatissima," he said gravely, "all that is passed 
 for ever. Nothing of it has stained your soul; your eyes 
 are still the eyes I loved when I first saw you. They are 
 the eyes of the pure in heart." He took her two hands 
 and pressed them to his breast. "I want you to promise, 
 beloved, never to think of the past, never to let it dim one 
 moment of our happiness, never to speak of it. Never let 
 us speak of him. You are to be my wife, you are 
 coming to me as the girl Primavera would have come ten 
 years ago, if God had not seen fit to make us both wait and 
 suffer. Cara Signora," he said passionately, "if you only 
 knew the torture a man endures when he thinks of the 
 woman he loves receiving the caresses of another!" 
 
 Christine was crying. 
 
 "Anima mia," he said penitently, "you are unhappy! 
 I never meant to cause you that anguish!" As she still 
 wept quietly, he said, "What have I done? What have I 
 done ? Look at me, Primavera . . . tell me what I have 
 done." 
 
 Christine was trembling. She shook her head. "Not 
 to-night, Salvatore. I will explain another time. To- 
 night I want to take happiness to bed with me; I want 
 only your love." Her self-control had returned ; she spoke
 
 222 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 quietly. "Let us return to Zita and tell her." She laughed 
 happily. "Zita never needs telling, does she?" 
 
 Salvatore put his arm round her waist, as they returned 
 to the sitting-room. 
 
 "She has gone to bed," Christine said as they entered 
 the deserted room. "Dear little Zita! Wasn't she ex- 
 quisite to-night? Didn't she sing beautifully?" 
 
 Salvatore's free hand went into his pocket. "That re- 
 minds me," he said gaily, "I have a note for Zita it was 
 handed to me as I left the hall." 
 
 "From some old admirer who heard her sing, I suppose?" 
 
 "Probably he has never seen her before and now he won't 
 stop thinking about her until he has to take unto himself a 
 wife because a man needs a wife and ought to have children 
 of his own the Sicilian temperament, you will say !" 
 
 The note went back into his pocket, where it lay until 
 the next occasion on which he wore his evening clothes. 
 
 As they were saying good-night, Christine said, with 
 grave eyes, "I wonder, Salvatore mio, if I shall ever be as 
 happy again ? I am afraid to go to bed ; it may break the 
 spell. To-morrow always begins new things." She held 
 out her hands; he clasped them eagerly. 
 
 "Sposa mia, try to trust me ! Try to forget my decep- 
 tion and forgive me!" 
 
 "I have nothing to forgive. You are just the same 
 Salvatore whom I instinctively trusted. He was just the 
 same man whom I instinctively feared and distrusted. 
 Good-night, beloved. Some day I will tell you the incident 
 which made me lose my distrust of him and made me be- 
 lieve that I had misjudged him." 
 
 " No, no," he said emphatically. "Don't tell me any- 
 thing. Just forget everything. He is dead; we are to 
 speak no more of the dead. I hate remembering him, 
 Signora mia." He wrung her hands, whilst his eyes wor- 
 shipped her. "Let me forget! Let me forget!" 
 
 Christine was silent. She hated herself. She could not 
 promise because she knew the promise could not be kept.
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 Before she could be Salvatore'g wife she must get her 
 
 divorce. Very soon he must be told everything; but not 
 
 to-night, not on this wonderful night. After all, her 
 divorce was simply a matter of expense. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 THE next morning was one of Sicily's fairest and gayest. 
 It seemed a happy augury for the lovers, a pleasant ap- 
 proval of Dame Nature. 
 
 Christine had not yet joined Salvatore and Zita at 
 breakfast; her early rising in Ischia made her appreciate 
 the luxury of having her prima colazione in her bedroom 
 and dawdling down at whatever hour she pleased. She 
 was just a little bit afraid to begin a new day; she wished 
 to enjoy her happiness for a little longer in a world of 
 her own. In her bedroom she could shut out everything 
 that spoilt the fact that Salvatore loved her, that she 
 was his promised wife. 
 
 "He will be telling Zita," she said to herself, as she 
 pressed the violets which he had placed on her breakfast 
 to her lips. How cold they were ! How divinely fragrant ! 
 "And Zita will be coming up to throw her arms round my 
 neck and ask me when we are to be married !" 
 
 It was so glorious to lie at rest in her little bed in the 
 vast Sicilian room, where here and there on the floor could 
 be seen remains of Spanish tiles, iridescent and glowing, 
 and doors of elaborate intarsia work, to remind her of the 
 by-gone splendour of the old building; to lie and look 
 coldly at these things while Salvatore's love for her glowed 
 like a great jewel in her soul. 
 
 Andrea Zarano had never known this new Christine, thi.4 
 woman who had risen out of the ashes of the one whom he
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 had tried to destroy. He had many times said to her, "If 
 I had married a German woman she would have become a 
 good Hausfrau; if I had married a French woman she 
 would have amused me. But you, you are neither the one 
 nor the other. You will soon discover, however, that your 
 frivolous English ways must cease. You have married 
 an Austrian, a far superior being to any Englishman, and 
 you should be very proud to wait upon him." 
 
 "When a woman bores a man," he would say brutally, 
 "it is damnable to have to live with 
 
 At that moment Zita received a message from the 
 padrona di casa to say that a gentleman was in the salone 
 and would like to see her if she could spare him a few 
 minutes. In Sicily no hour is too early to receive callers. 
 
 Salvatore had still so much to tell her that Zita left 
 him reluctantly. She hurried along the terrace, where they 
 had all their meals, and passed into the hotel. When she 
 reached the salone she hesitated for a moment; for the 
 first time she wondered who it was who had come to see 
 her. 
 
 She was always daintily dressed and Salvatore's news 
 had made her radiant. She entered the room with smiling 
 lips and eyes alight with triumph. Then she stopped sud- 
 denly. Something caught her heart; something familiar 
 and yet unfamiliar was in the room. She could not see 
 who it was. She could only feel, but she was feeling so 
 acutely that she became nervous and grave. 
 
 Close to the farthest window in the long room a man 
 was standing, holding a little boy by the hand, a child 
 Raphael, with appealing eyes and a fragile physique. 
 Zita's quick brain took in the child and the man at a 
 glance the short-comings of the man as a gentleman and 
 his superb qualities as a man, the child's unhealthy beauty. 
 Her soul shrank from her immediate summing-up, for hid- 
 den in the man somewhere was the ghost of her old lover, 
 Sardo Fontana.
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 225 
 
 The man bowed. "Prego, Signorina, have I taken too 
 great a liberty? I heard you sing last night. I could 
 not resist the temptation." 
 
 As he looked ardently at her, Zita became very un- 
 emotional and hard. This sudden meeting with her old 
 lover had robbed the story for ever of its romance. It 
 was his kid boots and ill-chosen tie of the richest silk. 
 Yet surely these things were unessential? Surely she was 
 not such a snob that these things really mattered? 
 
 "I am Sardo Fontana," he said gravely. "Do you re- 
 member the day you jumped into my cart from a window 
 at Porto Empedocle?" 
 
 Zita held out her two hands. "Bene, bene, and so it is 
 you !" She clasped his hands eagerly ; she was anxious to 
 be nice. It was a simple matter for her to be gracious. 
 
 "When you sang 'Caro nome' last night the years rolled 
 back. I was a boy again ; you were sitting on my cart." 
 
 "The song just came to me. I have scarcely sung it 
 since. Girgenti and the people brought it back." 
 
 They looked at each other, questioningly. There was so 
 much they wanted to know. While their eyes spoke, their 
 senses were taking in the change which had taken place 
 during the ten years. The simple country girl had been 
 transformed into a fashionably-dressed woman of the world. 
 With his first glance Sardo had recognized that socially 
 Zita was now his superior. What he had not done for 
 himself she had done successfully. He did not know that 
 in his farmer's homespun he had looked much more nearly 
 a, gentleman than he did now, in Argentine clothes imported 
 from Germany. 
 
 "They tell me you have not married," he said nervously, 
 while his hands caressed his son's bright hair. 
 
 "I am an old maid, as they say in England. In America 
 girls do not marry when they are children and when they 
 are women they have such a good time that they don't 
 want to." She tried to laugh. "They have so much free- 
 dom."
 
 226 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 "In the United States, you mean not in South Amer- 
 ica." 
 
 "Yes, in New York, where I have lived with my 
 brother." 
 
 "In the Argentine, where I live, Signorina, they marry 
 almost as young as they do here." 
 
 "Of course you are married, Signor." Zita's eyes fell 
 before his steady gaze. Somehow everything she said 
 seemed to her to show a lack of feeling and forgetfulness. 
 "This is your son?" She stooped down and caressed the 
 gentle child tenderly. 
 
 "He is my only child. His mother died when he was 
 an infant." 
 
 Zita's senses found relief, her heart bounded. "He mar- 
 ried, he forgot me ! Why does he assume the air of always 
 having remembered and loved me?" But her super-senses 
 told her that there was nothing assumed or insincere about 
 the man. Whatever impression he conveyed, it was uncon- 
 sidered and unintentional. 
 
 "How beautiful he is," she said gaily ; "like a picture of 
 Raphael when he was a little child." She kissed the boy's 
 soft hair. 
 
 "Carlito is a good boy." He spoke with melancholy. 
 
 "He is not strong?" Her eyes asked the question 
 anxiously. 
 
 "I have brought him to the old farm ; it is pure moun- 
 tain air. I hope it will brace him up." 
 
 When the subject of the child's health was exhausted 
 Zita searched her mind for something to say. It is not 
 easy to break the silence of memories. Were those memo- 
 ries to be touched upon or were they to be ignored? If 
 they were to be ignored, there seemed nothing else to talk 
 about. 
 
 "Your brother, the Cavaliere, is he married, Signorina? 
 He has become a great man; Girgenti is very proud of 
 him." 
 
 "I have never shared Salvatore with anyone." She
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 227 
 
 smiled. "But I hope he will marry soon now." A cloud 
 passed over her glowing face. Must she explain that he 
 was going to marry the wife of the man who had behaved 
 so outrageously to her in Porto Empedocle, the man but 
 for whom Sardo would have found sand on her doorstep? 
 
 But it was all so long ago. Was it wise to recall it? It 
 really was such a trivial thing now, although it had seemed 
 so important at the time. Very likely he had never thought 
 about her until he had heard her sing "Caro nome" last 
 night. He had loved his wife and probably still loved her 
 memory. For she had given him a son. 
 
 Zita argued these things with her senses, while she knew 
 quite well that her song had rekindled the fire of his early 
 romance for herself, that in spite of his marriage he had 
 never forgotten her. There was something about him which 
 impressed her with the fact that their youthful romance 
 had affected his whole life. 
 
 "You have been happy in each other, Signorina?" Sardo 
 said. "Do you sing in public? Is it your profession?" 
 
 "Sing in public !" She laughed. It was the contagious 
 merry laugh of the girl who had jumped into his cart. 
 
 Hot blood rushed through Sardo's veins. He had cher- 
 ished that laugh, even as he also had striven to forget it. 
 At first he had almost forgotten it in the duties of a young 
 husband and a father and in the life of activity which he 
 led in the Argentine. 
 
 "Ma Signorina, why do you laugh ? You sang last night 
 as beautifully as any professional singer I have ever 
 heard!" 
 
 "It was just a noise," she said provokingly, "just the 
 same noise as I made when you played the reed pipe in 
 your cart." 
 
 Her eyes bewildered him. 
 
 "Ah, Signorina, you remember?" 
 
 "Per certo, I remember. Please sit down, Signor Fon~ 
 tana, for I should like to tell you something." Her eyes 
 changed from gay to grave; her smile faded into reflec-
 
 228 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 tion. It was better to plunge straight into the memories 
 which filled their thoughts. 
 
 Sardo waited for her to seat herself on an absurdly un- 
 sociable piece of furniture. 
 
 "No, let us try the sofa. It's not much better, but this 
 stool of repentance makes conversation impossible." 
 
 "The Albergo is still as it was ten years ago; we can 
 forget the present." 
 
 Zita's senses were becoming restive. Was she allowing 
 him to think that she still nursed any sentiment for him? 
 As the minutes had passed she had become more and more 
 aware of her inability to feel one thrill. She felt ashamed. 
 
 "Bene! Bene!" he said. His eyes waited for her story. 
 
 "Prego, Signor Fontana, I will tell you, but it is diffi- 
 cult to know how to say what I want to." 
 
 He smiled. "I shall understand and, Signorina, I 
 have hungered to know." 
 
 Zita's face flushed under his eyes. "I was too young at 
 the time to tell you what had happened and afterwards 
 . do you remember?" 
 
 "It was yesterday!" 
 
 "No, no, Signor, I am a woman now. I am twenty- 
 seven; in Sicily I should be an elderly woman." 
 
 "You were a child-woman, Signorina. I called you 
 'Madonnina,' 'Mogliettina' (little wife)." He said the 
 last words almost inaudibly. 
 
 "I had behaved like a child, Signor Fontana. I went 
 with Count Zarano in his automobile to the Port. He had 
 told me that I should meet my brother there, that Salvatore 
 had told me to come with him ; I went because I wanted the 
 drive and I believed that Salvatore would be there. Dio 
 mio! How I enjoyed the drive! I remember every bit of 
 the journey." She paused. "When I got to the Port, of 
 course there was no Salvatore. If I had not been such a 
 child, I should have known." 
 
 Sardo dared not raise his eyes to Zita's burning face. 
 
 "When we arrived at the Port he took me into an inn
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 and offered me some wine and fruit. He . . ." she 
 paused, and then said hurriedly, "Need I tell you that he 
 wanted to make love to me?" 
 
 Still Sardo did not look at her. 
 
 "He made a pretence of going to look for Salvatore. 
 He locked me in the room, so I determined to jump out 
 of the window. You were passing." Zita held out her 
 hands. "You saved me, Signer Fontana, and I have never 
 forgotten that drive and your kindness." 
 
 "And after, Signorina? Tell me. I went happily and 
 confidently to your house ; there was no sand on your door- 
 step." His eyes questioned her. "I was young, I was 
 mad with disappointment. I looked through your keyhole 
 to see if you had returned, and I saw . . ." he threw 
 back his head "I saw Hell, Signorina." 
 
 "You looked through the keyhole? You . . . you 
 . . ." Her voice faltered; she stared at him in amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 "Yes, Signorina. I hoped that you had not returned, 
 that something had . . ." 
 
 Zita interrupted him. "He was with me ; he had come to 
 take his revenge. I was alone with him. Santa Virgine! 
 Why did you not come in? Why did you not try to save 
 me a second time?" 
 
 "If I had, Signorina . . . ?" Her eyes pleaded for 
 an answer. 
 
 "If he had," Zita said to herself, "I should now be his 
 wife!" It seemed impossible and yet it was the truth. 
 
 "Jealousy turned my brain, Signorina; I thought he 
 was your lover; you were in his arms. Was I to blame?" 
 
 "Listen," Zita said earnestly. "He was never my lover. 
 At first his attentions and refined manners flattered and 
 pleased me, but when I learnt their true meaning I hated 
 him. When you looked through the keyhole I was terri- 
 fied ; it did not seem as if even the Blessed Virgin could save 
 me from such a villain." 
 
 "I thought that you had deceived me, that he was your
 
 230 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 lover! All these years I have nursed that evil in my 
 heart." 
 
 "Very soon after that he married the girl whom my 
 brother is engaged to now. How strangely the moving 
 finger writes!" Zita's face brightened. "Salvatore is a 
 Mazzini he has waited!" 
 
 "Your brother is going to marry the wife of Count 
 Zarano?" Sardo's eyes expressed something more than 
 surprise. 
 
 "Yes. Why not?" Zita spoke quickly. "They be- 
 came engaged last night after we left the hall. She is 
 wonderful. But her husband was no Count everything 
 about him was a lie ! He was . . ." 
 
 Sardo interrupted her. "You say 'was,' Signorina is 
 he dead?" He asked the words hesitatingly; he looked 
 surprised. 
 
 "She has been a widow for many years." 
 
 "Ah, that is good." His voice expressed relief and 
 satisfaction. 
 
 "You looked surprised." 
 
 "I have been misinformed, that is all." He shook his 
 head. "It is a mistake." 
 
 "She promised to marry my brother last night. Yon 
 heard his speech?" Zita's eyes looked proudly into her 
 companion's face. 
 
 "A brave splendid speech! I know who the villain was 
 who induced him to keep the urns ; I understood the whole 
 story. But I never until now knew why you had, as I 
 thought, so cruelly deceived me. When I fled from your 
 door, Signorina, I determined to find out all about your 
 lover. No, no, let me speak! I know better now, but I 
 was young and I adored you ; every breath in my body was 
 for you. You were sacred to me, until I saw you in your 
 lover's arms!" 
 
 Zita's hands covered her face. The man at her side had 
 faded away. The youthful Apollo with the golden-brown 
 hair and the laughing eyes was standing at her door look-
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 231 
 
 ing for the sand; he was kneeling, with eyes straining 
 through the keyhole; he was cursing her in his heart for 
 her treachery. She dropped her hands and looked at him 
 questioningly. What was the new Sardo really like? In 
 his voice there was only a thin note of the old Sicilian 
 youth. There was so little in the prosperous merchant 
 to remind her of the Apollo who had piped while she sang ! 
 
 He continued his story. "When I turned away from 
 your door, Signorina, I thought I hated you and I cursed 
 the man; I vowed that I would find out all I could about 
 him, that I would kill him. I am not a Mazzini, Signorina, 
 but I am a Sicilian, and I too can wait!" He paused, and 
 their eyes met. The old longing for revenge had leapt 
 into life in the man. 
 
 In the big room the movement of a fly could have been 
 heard, while the girl sat with her hands folded lightly in 
 her lap. She was thinking rapidly: "If he had known, 
 what would have happened? If he had killed the Count, 
 would Primavera ever have married Salvatore?" If the 
 man at her side had come to her aid a second time this 
 story need not have been written. 
 
 Zita raised her head. In her heart she was thankful 
 that he had not trusted her. "You were not to blame. I 
 knew you found no sand, but if I had known that you had 
 seen us together in the cottage, I think I should have died 
 of shame." She sighed. "A strange thing happened God 
 sent Salvatore home early that night." Her eyes said the 
 rest. 
 
 Sardo rose hastily from his seat. "And he did not kill 
 him?" 
 
 "There was Christine! Salvatore had learnt that she 
 loved him. But for that I think he would have killed him. 
 And I was so afraid that he would kill him or rather, try 
 to," Zita said hurriedly, "for the Count was a deadly shot 
 that I never told Salvatore that 'il Signore,' as I called 
 him, had driven me to the Port. My brother thought that 
 that was the first time that he had insulted me." She gave
 
 232 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 a tired sigh. "What was the use of telling him? What 
 good would it have done? Salvatore was all I had in the 
 world ... if I had lost him?" She threw back her 
 head. "Salvatore had to think of that there was no-one 
 to look after me if he were killed. I orfani had to cling 
 together." 
 
 "Corpo di Bacco! And you say the man is dead? I 
 am deprived of a pleasant business ? I would have searched 
 the world for him !" 
 
 "Amico mio, it is all over now," Zita said. "Now that 
 you understand, it is absolutely all over and done with. I 
 have always longed to let you know that I ..." She 
 hesitated, and then went on hurriedly. "Now all I really 
 want is to see Salvatore happily married. 'La Primavera,' 
 as we call her, has become quite Italian, Italian enough to 
 understand an Italian husband." She smiled whimsically. 
 "But as for that, Salvatore is now only half Italian ; he is 
 even less Sicilian than you are, Signor Fontana." 
 
 "He is cosmopolitan. I have lived in the Argentine. 
 Life there is more like life in Italy." He spoke sadly. "I 
 orfani have become citizens of the world; I am, as many 
 people think, a good Sicilian spoilt." 
 
 "You are my old friend!" Zita spoke impulsively, 
 almost affectionately, but without passion. Their long and 
 intimate talk had made her feel much more at her ease. 
 
 With Sardo it was not so. He was in love with her 
 again and each fresh revelation of her beauty and charm as 
 a woman made him feel less at ease. The very fact that 
 she could speak so frankly of her girlish feeling for him 
 told him that their meeting had not done for her what it 
 had done for him. To a lover Friendship tolls the knell 
 of Romance. 
 
 "Prego, tell me, Signorina, tell me this one thing 
 
 
 "Tell you what?" His despondent looks made Zita 
 flippant. 
 
 "If the Count had not been with you, if he had not come
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 233 
 
 that evening . . . ? You can tell me that now, Sig- 
 norina I deserve to know the whole story." 
 
 Zita's great eyes looked unflinchingly into his. She felt 
 cruelly unthrilled and critical. She had not wished to 
 notice the all absurd little things which proclaimed the 
 man to be her social inferior ; she despised herself for feel- 
 ing and seeing them; they were not the essentials about 
 the man they merely showed that by chance he had ab- 
 sorbed the manners and customs of a civilisation which did 
 not fall in with her ideas of good form. He was not 
 what the cultivated and intellectual world calls a gen- 
 tleman. 
 
 She called herself a snob for feeling these things, and 
 yet it was these little things which made it possible for 
 her to return his gaze without one quicker movement 
 of the heart, without one responsive throb of her senses. 
 
 "Would there have been any sand, Signorina?" He 
 sighed. "It can do no harm to tell me that now." 
 
 Still Zita's eyes did not flinch or her senses respond to 
 his, as she said thoughtfully, "Of course, amico mio, there 
 would have been sand. I was no coquette. You were my 
 hero. Why do these things happen? Life is a strange 
 problem. Was it because I was too young to understand 
 that Providence intervened?" She smiled. "I was very 
 ignorant and very romantic. You had a lucky escape, 
 Signor. For three nights I sprinkled my doorstep with 
 fresh sand ; I tried to persuade myself that something had 
 detained you, that you would come another night." She 
 shook her head. "Che sara sara we are so helpless." 
 
 "Ah, Signorina, if I had only known! I fled to the 
 Argentine, and from that day I hated my own country. 
 It is the destruction of ideals that kills youth. I believed 
 that all girls were false; I tried to look upon women as 
 . . ." He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "Amico mio!" 
 
 "Love can be pitiless ; it can be an agony to youth. It 
 was unkind to me; I became a different man."
 
 234 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 "You have been happy, Signer?" Zita caressed the 
 bright head of the child at her feet. Carlito was playing 
 with a box of delicately-coloured shells which he had dis- 
 covered in a cabinet. "We were both romantic, Signor, 
 and very Sicilian. Sometimes I can scarcely believe that 
 I am the same girl, that I could ever have thought of 
 marrying a man whom I had only spoken to once. Amer- 
 ica has made me more cautious." Her eyes became 
 thoughtful. "But there is plenty of love there, Signor, 
 if there is not so much romance. Now, if you had met 
 me in New York, I should have invited you to my house." 
 Her eyes smiled. "There is no singing under balconies, no 
 need to throw sand on doorsteps ! Men and women can 
 meet openly and become lovers." 
 
 "Sicily is not progressive, Signorina. The outward 
 signs of change mean very little; the home lives of the 
 people are just where they were centuries ago. Sicilians 
 do not change." 
 
 "I don't want them to change. Do you?" 
 
 "Change, Signorina, should come from within. To copy 
 other countries is a mistake ; it is not true progress ; it is 
 sacrificing culture for a parvenu civilisation. And after 
 all," he sad hotly, "Italy civilised Europe; we need not 
 begin to copy!" 
 
 Zita had had no idea how much she herself had changed 
 until this morning. In the old days she would never have 
 thought about all the things which jarred upon her now. 
 She was shocked to find herself coldly critical about the 
 smallest details of Sardo's personality. Long ago, as a 
 well-to-do Sicilian farmer, he had seemed to her not only 
 remarkably handsome, but "ben allevato" (well-bred). 
 She wondered if she really was a snob. When she ques- 
 tioned herself, she felt comforted with the reflection that if 
 he had to-day jumped off his cart, in his country clothes, 
 she would not have felt as she did now ; she would have felt 
 the difference between them less. 
 
 And why on earth did he dress his boy on a warm summer
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 235 
 
 day in an azure blue plush suit with a Vandyke collar of 
 imitation lace? These things were, she knew, trivial, but 
 they were idiotically annoying to her nerves. And yet, as 
 she looked at him, there was no denying the fact that her 
 youthful Apollo had developed into a fine specimen of 
 manhood. 
 
 The longer they talked together the more Zita felt at 
 her ease, because she saw all these things very clearly. She 
 knew that nothing could ever revive the old romance. She 
 had cleared her name and explained the tragedy to Sardo, 
 but the sad thing was how terribly little it mattered now. 
 Long ago, during her lonely and poverty-stricken life in 
 Rome, she had longed to see him again and explain every- 
 thing to him. Now that he knew it seemed of ridiculously 
 little account. How could she have cared so much? In 
 America she had looked back upon the episode as very old- 
 world and intensely Sicilian ; and yet it always wounded her 
 sensibilities when she thought of how the man who had 
 saved her must have blamed and despised her. 
 
 With the prosperity of later years her life had been lived 
 quickly and fully ; only occasionally she had thought ten- 
 derly of her broken idyll, her Sicilian lover. America had 
 taught her that all romantic episodes need not end in 
 marriage. 
 
 Sitting by his side, she visualised herself as the busy 
 wife of a Sicilian farmer. The fashionable world to which 
 she now belonged would never have existed for her ; Sardo 
 would never have gone to the Argentine if she had sprinkled 
 sand on her doorstep. 
 
 As for Sardo, while she was thinking these things and 
 saying conventional ones, he was asking himself how the 
 girl had achieved such distinction. No Sicilian aristocrat 
 had a finer air of breeding or more gracious manners. In 
 the old days he knew that in offering Zita Mazzini his 
 hand he was from a material point of view a very good 
 match for a poor girl. To-day he knew that she was 
 socially his superior. Sicilians never mistake the "real
 
 236 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 thing." Zita was no mere copy of a refined gentlewoman ; 
 she was one. He realised the fact and it made him des- 
 pondent. 
 
 There was another thing which angered him. The man 
 who had robbed him of the jewel of life, was dead. If only 
 he had been alive he would have found some satisfaction 
 and outlet for his feelings in killing him. By the time he 
 rose to say good-bye he was as much in love with Zita as 
 he had been when he lifted her to the ground from the 
 shaft of his cart. 
 
 "Addio, Signer," Zita said. "But it must not be for 
 long we shall soon meet again, and this time," she smiled, 
 "I shall not be afraid to introduce you to Salvatore. He 
 will be delighted to meet you." 
 
 "No, you will not be afraid, Signorina." He said the 
 words regretfully. "You will not be afraid." 
 
 Zit-a's eyes remained friendly and sincere. "I am glad 
 I sang the old song old friends are true friends." 
 
 Sardo's face was grave. "You have many friends and 
 must have much to do. You have been very unkind to spare 
 me so much time. Addio." 
 
 "Per certo, I have much to do, amico mio, but nothing 
 more pleasant than to talk to you." 
 
 "You are returning to America, Signorina?" 
 
 Zita shook her head. "Our plans are uncertain my 
 brother's marriage may change them. I will let you 
 know." She thought for a moment. "No please come 
 again on Sunday evening. I would ask you to dine with 
 us," she shrugged her shoulders, "but you will do better 
 at home." Their eyes met. Zita laughed gaily. "In the 
 old days I should have considered it a great treat to dine 
 here. Ah, Signor, how soon luxury spoils our appetites! 
 Salvatore says I grumble if my coffee is not Mocha. Do 
 you know, every night our dinner here costs us more than 
 we had to live on for a month in Casa Salvatore!" She 
 laughed. "Salvatore is not spoilt he will eat anything 
 rather than give trouble."
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 237 
 
 "You are not spoilt, Signorina, only critical. At heart 
 you are just the same. Good Sicilians never change." 
 
 "I have a sense of humour, amico mio I think that has 
 saved me. Without it I might have become very stuck-up 
 and snobbish ; I might have tried to make the dear people 
 here forget the poor Zita of long ago." 
 
 "You are too clever and wise to be spoilt, Signorina." 
 
 "You may call it clever, if you like, Signor, but the truth 
 is that from someone, I don't know from whom, I inherited 
 a fine bump of commonsense and a sane judgment of the 
 value of things. My brother's promised wife is Scots. 
 Ma ! Signor, the climate has changed her she is now more 
 Italian than I am." She stooped and took Carlito in her 
 arms. "He is adorable, Signor Fontana. Aren't you 
 very proud of him?" 
 
 Sardo Fontana's eyes filled with tears. 
 
 "Addio, addio," Zita said quickly. His tears told her 
 that the child's days were numbered. "Come on Sunday 
 evening and we will drink coffee on the terrazza, and I will 
 sing for you." 
 
 "Not 'Caro nome' this time, Signorina." 
 
 "No, not 'Caro nome.' " She paused ; their eyes met 
 again. "Amico mio, I don't think I shall ever sing 'Caro 
 nome' again." She did not add what she felt was the 
 truth that her meeting with him had robbed it of its 
 romance. 
 
 Sardo Fontana took his son by the hand and walked to 
 the door. As he opened it he said again, "Addio, addio, 
 Signorina, e grazie." 
 
 When she was left alone, Zita stood looking out on to 
 the terrace, her hands clasped tightly together, her eyes 
 searching the distance. 'Twixt sea and hills stood temples 
 whose gods still frolic with the passions of men. Lying 
 out in the sea was the port where she had first become the 
 victim of their caprice. What further use had they for 
 her, she wondered? Her thoughts travelled to New York. 
 
 The clock struck twelve. "Mezzo giorno!" she said to
 
 23S A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 herself. "Is it as late as that?" Her hands fell to her 
 side, her eyes left the distance. "Poor Sardo, poor man !" 
 she spoke tenderly. "Why did I sing 'Caro nome' ? Why 
 are we made like this? Why did I not care one scrap? 
 The only thing I cared about was that he should not care. 
 My business now must be to show him that it is no use, that 
 every bit of the old feeling is dead, completely dead, dead 
 and buried." She sighed. In her heart she knew quite 
 well that from the first moment that Sardo had betrayed 
 his feelings for her she had realised the depth of her own 
 for the man in New York who was waiting for her. She 
 roused herself. 
 
 "But I must go and see Primavera. She will be waiting 
 for my coming; she will think me unkind, if she does not 
 know that Sardo was here." She hurried to Christine's 
 bedroom. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 THE moment she opened the door Christine called out, "Is 
 that you at last, Zita mia? Do come in." 
 
 "Yes, it is Zita, oara sorella, cara sorellina." She put 
 her arms round Christine. "It is so nice to know that you 
 are really my sister. Isn't it all like a story-book?" 
 
 "I have been longing for you," Christine said. "But 
 what is the matter? Why so grave?" 
 
 "Something has happened, but I want to speak to you 
 about Salvatore." Zita became silent. 
 
 Christine's nerves were instantly agog. Had she dis- 
 covered? 
 
 "What has happened worthy of that grave face, you 
 tragic little Sicilian?" She managed to speak flippantly. 
 
 "I have seen Sardo Fontana you know, the man I once 
 should have married. And now I don't know how I could, 
 just because he wears kid boots and the wrong sort of
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 239 
 
 clothes and lets his polished nails grow too long. Oh, 
 Primavera, I hate myself! I hate human nature!" The 
 girl's head went down on Christine's shoulder. 
 
 Christine laughed heartily; it was the best thing she 
 could have done. 
 
 "Don't laugh, Primavera ! It is no laughing matter he 
 cares, he is in love with me all over again. . . . You 
 know ... he will suffer!" 
 
 "And you don't care for him because he wears American 
 kid boots, poor man ! Zita mia, but you are delicious !" 
 
 "I am a worthless cat. I am not delicious how can you 
 say so?" 
 
 "You are a very human woman. And don't be tragically 
 idiotic ! You have changed and he has not, that's all it's 
 perfectly natural." 
 
 "But he has changed ! That's just it. Long ago he was 
 a simple Sicilian ; there was nothing about his manner 01 
 appearance which even you would object to. But now 
 . . . well . . . he is simply neither one thing nor 
 the other he is neither an American gentleman nor a 
 Sicilian farmer." She paused. "And his little boy a 
 perfect angel-child was dressed, poor little thing, in azure 
 blue plush! Just imagine plush in this weather!" 
 
 "Oh, he is married, is he ? Then why all this tragedy ?" 
 Christine shook the serious girl. "What does it matter if 
 you don't care? He got over it as the saying is, he 
 forgot you and took unto himself another woman." 
 
 "He is a widower." 
 
 "But he loved someone else." 
 
 "Non mai, Primavera. I could feel that, I knew it." 
 
 "Then why did he marry her?" 
 
 Zita threw back 'her head. "Why does half of the world 
 marry? Because home life is necessary, because a man 
 wants sons, because a woman wants someone to keep her 
 ecco, you have it!" 
 
 "Did he tell you all that?" 
 
 "No, no." Zita sighed. "But let us talk of your hap-
 
 240 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 piness. You have promised Salvatore? You are to be my 
 real sister? When can you marry him?" 
 
 Christine smiled. "Yes, I have promised. And you are 
 glad? You really won't grudge me Salvatore?" 
 
 "It makes me so happy, carina. It is just like a beau- 
 tiful story-book. I was right. I thought you loved him; 
 I did not see why he should have been so afraid to tell 
 you." 
 
 Christine interrupted her. "He was afraid to tell me, 
 Zita, because it was my husband who tempted him and he 
 wouldn't ask me to love him until I knew all about it." 
 She stopped. 
 
 Zita grasped her hands. "Ah," she said, "it is such a 
 great mercy he is dead and that the good God has been 
 his judge, for if he were alive to-day Sardo Fontana 
 would find him; he would not rest until he had killed 
 him." 
 
 Christine's heart seemed suddenly to fill her throat; an 
 awful blackness swam before her eyes. But she managed 
 to speak without showing her emotion. "But why Sardo 
 Fontana?" she said. "What had he to do with Andrea?" 
 Her eyes questioned the girl anxiously. 
 
 "Sardo suffered too through his wickedness. I never 
 meant to tell you don't let us speak of it." 
 
 "Zita, tell me, did you ever love my husband? Did he 
 make love to you? You can't hurt me always there was 
 some other woman. Don't be afraid to speak." 
 
 Zita raised burning cheeks and eyes to meet Christine's. 
 "Don't ask me, Primavera. It was all so ugly, so ordinary. 
 Please, I would rather not think of it. I never need think 
 of it again, now that Sardo knows ; I explained the whole 
 thing to him this morning." 
 
 "Yes, I understand. But tell me, I must know what 
 had Andrea to do with your broken romance?" 
 
 Zita bowed her head. "He had everything to do with it. 
 When Sardo Fontana came to our house on the evening 
 when I was to give him my answer, he saw me in your hus-
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 band's arms; he had come to our house. . . ." Zita 
 stopped. The words were hideous, the story vulgar. 
 
 "Did you love him ? Was he courting you even while he 
 was engaged to me? Was he false to me even then?" 
 
 "I never loved him. I was afraid of him. But he tried 
 to make me love him ; I think before he wanted you he tried 
 to make me his mistress. But I tricked him and outwitted 
 him, and then when I warned him that I would tell you 
 everything, that I would allow you to judge what sort of 
 a man he was, he hated me. He longed to take his revenge. 
 Soon after that you married him and left the island." 
 
 "He was very anxious that I should engage you as my 
 maid; he often urged me to suggest the idea to you." 
 Christine's voice was cold and even. ".Tell me exactly 
 what happened." 
 
 "He came to our house when Salvatore was out, when he 
 knew that I should be alone. It was the very hour that 
 Sardo Fontana had appointed. Some sand on our doorstep 
 was to be my silent token that I wished to accept his 
 addresses. If the sand was there he was to come again to 
 see Salvatore. Cara mia, how long ago it all seems ! Poor 
 Sardo, he saw no sand ! He hoped that perhaps I had not 
 returned from the farm he knew I went there. He 
 thought I might have been detained, so he peeped through 
 the keyhole." Zita paused. How could she tell the mis- 
 erable truth? 
 
 Christine laughed mirthlessly and yet spontaneously. 
 "How Sicilian peeping through the keyhole !" 
 
 "It was only to comfort himself with the assurance that 
 I was still down at the temple with my brother, that the 
 cottage was empty." 
 
 "Well? Go on." 
 
 Zita spoke in a whisper. "He saw me in your husband's 
 arms. And if he were alive to-day Sardo would kill him. 
 He is still a Sicilian." 
 
 Christine was silent. Her heart seemed bursting. The 
 girl's words had suddenly filled her world with tragedy. If
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 she told Zita that her husband was alive Sardo Fontana 
 would hear of it. She hated her husband, but she could not 
 contemplate his murder. Her firm determination of an 
 hour ago to tell both Zita and Salvatore that he was alive 
 had suddenly been made impossible. She must take time 
 to consider what was the wisest thing to do. At present 
 the only course was to keep silent. 
 
 Zita saw her agony. "God is good, sorella mia. Sardo 
 need not kill anyone." She smiled happily. "And perhaps 
 you would never have loved Salvatore if all this had not 
 happened. Dio mio ! When I think of it, of course you 
 wouldn't! Socially we were poles apart. Cara mia, in 
 those days it was 'lei,' not 'voi' or the more familiar 'tu.' " 
 
 "I always thought of Salvatore as intellectually my 
 superior." 
 
 "I believe you, for Salvatore had an individuality which 
 even in those days made him different. When I think back 
 upon it all, the life we led was quite refined and cultivated, 
 even if we were very poor." She stopped. "There is Sal- 
 vatore listen! He is impatient, poor boy. It is almost 
 lunch-time." 
 
 In answer to his knock at her door Christine called out 
 "Avanti!" 
 
 Salvatore entered the room eagerly. "I couldn't wait 
 any longer; what have you both been doing?" His arms 
 encircled them as he held them both in a tight embrace. 
 "Sposa mia, sorella mia," he said gaily, "a man can hold 
 his entire world in his arms!" 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 WHILE they were at Girgenti a visit was to be paid to 
 Salvatore's bottega at Licata, the ancient Gela. Salva- 
 tore had settled his bottega there because Licata lies at 
 the mouth of the river Salso. His earthenware pottery
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 243 
 
 required the special earth or clay which is brought down 
 by that river in torrential seasons. 
 
 * 
 
 The bottega had been visited. There was such a 
 pleasant atmosphere of enthusiasm and refinement about 
 the small industry that it carried Christine's mind back to 
 the accounts which she had read of the famous Fontana 
 family and their bottega at Urbino. And surely no Castel 
 Durante ware was more beautiful than the Mazzini ware 
 at Licata? Every process of the work was interesting, 
 from the mixing of the earth or clay to the painting of 
 the articles by artists who were inspired with a desire and 
 an ambition to turn out of the bottega as fine work as the 
 Gubbio ware of the sixteenth century. 
 
 Long ago Salvatore had discovered that his industry 
 was an expensive hobby. He soon realised the fact that 
 Maestro Giorgio could never have produced the articles 
 of immortal beauty which he made in his bottega at 
 Gubbio but for the wealth and encouragement of the 
 great Italian house which financed him. 
 
 When they had inspected the bottega Salvatore asked 
 Zita if S'he would celebrate the occasion of their visit by 
 presenting his employees with some memento. Zita, who 
 was nothing if she was not human and understanding, 
 said she would if Salvatore would go and do a little sight- 
 seeing with Christine. Dear as she knew she was to her 
 brother, she also knew that he appreciated her skilful 
 handling of chaperonage. 
 
 Salvatore and Christine were wandering over classic 
 ground. When they were tired they seated themselves 
 within sight of the home of the brazen bull. They were 
 lovers, so their interest in Licata Majolica and the horrors 
 perpetrated by Acragas soon drifted into a more personal 
 channel. 
 
 Salvatore spoke of their marriage. Had she decided 
 yet when it was to be? Couldn't they fix the date? 
 
 Christine's nerves were on fire. "Dearest," she said,
 
 244 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 "we have only been engaged two days and it is so lovely 
 is there any need for hurry?" 
 
 Salvatore's long fingers clasped her ankle, which had 
 restlessly been moving about while her toe turned over the 
 white stones which covered the ground. They were seated 
 on large flat stones near the dry river bed. 
 
 "Hurry! Donna mia, do you call ten years hurrying?" 
 He spoke accusingly. 
 
 "It is hurried since. . . ." 
 
 "Since you said you loved me? Well, go on say it, 
 beloved! The words are more wonderful each time I hear 
 them!" 
 
 "Well, since I said I love you." She smiled. "Don't 
 let's hurry over all the niceness too quickly. Each bit 
 of our love is so heavenly." 
 
 He laughed delightedly. "You darling, are you so 
 happy?" 
 
 By way of answer Christine kissed his shoulder and 
 rubbed her cheek against his coat, of indestructible Sicilian 
 frieze. 
 
 "Dear, dear man," she said as she pressed her shoulder 
 more closely to his, "you dearest thing in the world, I 
 want to enjoy my engagement and my honeymoon and 
 just everything! Don't let's hurry." There was a note 
 of anxiety and sadness in her voice. To Salvatore it sug- 
 gested that to hasten their marriage might break the spell 
 of their happiness. 
 
 "You are sad, Christine. I hear apprehension in your 
 voice. Precious woman, is it because you are afraid to 
 be happy?" His eyes questioned her. 
 
 "I don't know. If I'm sad it is only because to me hap- 
 piness such as ours seems dangerous. We have reached 
 the point when something must happen we are only 
 mortals." 
 
 "That is due to nerves, donna mia. You are in need of 
 rest ; I must take better care of you." 
 
 She held up a smiling face to his. "Perhaps it's just a
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 245 
 
 kiss I want." Her gaiety was all assumed. "Remember, 
 I haven't had one all day." 
 
 Salvatore took her face in his two hands. When their 
 clinging lips parted they looked round with a guilty air of 
 lovers who have been stealing kisses in a public place. 
 
 "No, no! No-one was looking!" Salvatore said 
 boyishly. 
 
 But he spoke -without having looked. Christine had 
 looked and she had seen a figure suddenly stoop to a 
 crouching position in the river, which was practically dry. 
 
 "There is a man in the river bed," she said. His crouch- 
 ing attitude preyed on her nerves. "I wonder what he 
 is doing? He seemed to be hiding for some reason or 
 other." 
 
 "I don't know and I don't care, beloved, so long as he 
 doesn't come this way. But tell me, diletta mia, how 
 much longer am I to wait? It's lovely being engaged, but 
 it will be a thousand times lovelier being married." 
 
 "Don't ask me to tell you until we leave Sicily ! Don't, 
 darling! Just let things be as they are until we go back 
 to Ischia." Christine raised pleading eyes. 
 
 "A whole week?" he said woefully. 
 
 "Only a week," Christine said regretfully, "only one 
 more week of perfect delight and happiness." 
 
 "But don't you want to marry me?" 
 
 "More than anything in the world." 
 
 "Then why wait one hour more than we need?" 
 
 "Because we can never be engaged again and it is so 
 heavenly. Being engaged is like the feeling of spring, 
 with all its promise of the summer before one." 
 
 "You darling !" he said. "When you put it like that I 
 must be content to wait. But would you believe it ? since 
 we've been engaged I seem to have waited for years and 
 years." 
 
 "Dear silly thing!" 
 
 "Isn't it splendid being silly, sposa mia?" 
 
 Christine's eyes did not meet his. He felt that her
 
 246 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 thoughts had left him ; she was sitting like a pillar of salt 
 by his side. He spoke to her teasingly. 
 
 "Come back, Signora. I'm jealous of your thoughts." 
 
 Still Christine made no response. 
 
 He caught hold of her. She was trembling; her face 
 was ashen. "Donna mia, donna mia, what have I done?" 
 He rolled himself over on the stones until he could see her 
 averted face. "What have I done, Primavera? Why do 
 you look like that?" 
 
 When Christine tried to speak her lips only trembled; 
 she shook her head. If only he would leave her! If only 
 he would go away! She wanted to bury her face in the 
 ground and cry until her aching heart burst; she wanted 
 to hide herself somewhere, to escape, to get away. But 
 Salvatore did not leave her. He held her in his arms and 
 kissed her with all the terrified tenderness of a lover who 
 easily exaggerates anything that affects the health of his 
 beloved. 
 
 Christine struggled for self-control. "Could you dip 
 my hankie in the river, dearest? It might cool my head." 
 
 She offered him her handkerchief. He refused it and 
 took instead the napkin which had covered their tea 
 things ; it would keep longer wet and go better round her 
 forehead. Salvatore was almost distracted. Moisture 
 formed in drops on his forehead as he dashed off to the 
 river to do her bidding. 
 
 The moment Salvatore's back was turned Christine 
 looked round with terrified eyes. She scanned the rocky 
 ground in front of her. The figure which she had seen 
 crouching in the river bed had crept closer to them. Now 
 it was kneeling behind a rock. She had watched its 
 stealthy movements, for almost from the first she had 
 recognized the man. He was her husband. 
 
 Andrea Zarano was watching Salvatore! He had of 
 course seen all that had taken place between them. Chris- 
 tine crouched to the earth. What should she do? What 
 was her husband going to do? Would he follow Salvatore
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 and spring on him, or was he just spying on them for the 
 satisfaction of discovering that they were lovers? 
 
 Salvatore had reached the little trickle of water in the 
 wide river bed; he was stooping down to wet the napkin. 
 Her husband was still watching him from behind the rock. 
 He was twice as far from Salvatore as he was from Chris- 
 tine and there was very rugged ground in between the two 
 men. She was too terrified to move, and yet she knew that 
 she ought to do something and that something quickly. 
 
 The instant Salvatore turned his back on the river with 
 the wet cloth in his hand, her husband left his hiding-place. 
 He was stealthily picking his way over the loose stones to 
 where she was sitting. Her heart stood still ; fear paralysed 
 her. The two men must meet. Nothing she could do could 
 prevent that now. Probably her husband was armed and 
 well prepared for the meeting. He must have followed 
 them from Licata. 
 
 Salvatore waved his hand to Christine. In his anxiety 
 he paid no attention to the man who was ahead of him. As 
 the man quickened his pace, however, and drew closer to 
 Christine he became annoyed. Then, to his surprise and 
 horror, he saw him lay his hand on Christine and Christine's 
 head go down to the ground. With her hands she was 
 digging amongst the stones like an animal seeking covert. 
 
 Mad with rage, Salvatore leapt forward. He was at her 
 side in a moment. Christine's obvious terror had brought a 
 yell of rage from him like the roar of a bull. 
 
 "Take your hands off !" he shouted. "If you don't I'll 
 kiU you !" 
 
 Christine made no movement. She dared not face the 
 meeting of the two men. She knew that at any minute 
 Salvatore must recognize her husband. Still grovelling in 
 the loose stones she crouched closer to the ground. She 
 could not and would not see what she knew must happen. 
 The desolate world was waiting for death it was coming. 
 
 For a moment the world was still silent; its desolation 
 fed no living thing. Then suddenly a horrible choking
 
 248 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 gasp, a throat-gurgle and the hard crunching of feet on 
 the loose stones, made her spring to her feet. The sound 
 was ominous, but not what she had expected. No revolver 
 shot had rung out in the clear air. 
 
 What she saw when she raised her head was her husband 
 with the wet napkin which was to have eased her head 
 twisted tightly round his throat. Salvatore was twisting 
 it tighter and tighter, while his victim's face was getting 
 redder and redder. 
 
 Andrea Zarano had paid no attention to Salvatore's roar 
 of anger, so the throttling was swift and effectual. From 
 behind the napkin had gone over his head with the quick- 
 ness and sureness of Salvatore's unerring eye and hands. 
 The Count had no time to even attempt to free himself. 
 
 His face was quickly turning from deep red to a dull 
 purple and his eyes seemed to be bursting out of their 
 sockets. The sight was so horrible that it brought a cry 
 from Christine's lips. 
 
 "Salvatore! Salvatore! Leave him! You are killing 
 him ! For heaven's sake let go the napkin ! Oh God !" she 
 said. "How horrible !" 
 
 At the sound of her voice Salvatore looked suspiciously 
 at her. His habitually gentle expression had changed to 
 one of vengeance and cruelty. 
 
 Christine gazed at him in terror. He was quite capable 
 in his present state of killing the man who was so com- 
 pletely in his power. The Count had ruined her young life 
 and he was going to ruin it again, but his staring eyes, 
 which looked as if blood might at any moment spurt from 
 them, sickened her. 
 
 Not a word had been spoken until Christine's cry tore 
 through the air. The tragedy had been enacted in silence. 
 It was tense, dramatic and typically Sicilian. Salvatore 
 had only recognised the Count as the noose went round his 
 neck. 
 
 Christine's cry had not made him loosen the napkin. 
 Indeed, since he had looked at her, he seemed more deter-
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 249 
 
 mined than ever to kill the man. She sprang to his side 
 and tried to catch hold of his hands, but Salvatore was too 
 quick for her. 
 
 "He is better dead ! Leave him to me." 
 
 "No, no! Don't kill him !" she shrieked. "Look! look! 
 His face is almost black ! Oh, Salvatore, leave him ! For 
 my sake, don't kill him ! He is my husband." 
 
 Instantly Salvatore's grip slackened. He allowed the 
 man a little mercy. As he slackened the napkin his eyes 
 sought Christine's. In them she saw a new agony. 
 
 "If I let him go, it is because you love him." As he 
 spoke, his fingers twisted the napkin back again into the 
 old creases. 
 
 Christine felt as if she were going mad. In the blinding 
 sunlight against a background of white stones the two men 
 were hideously distinct, though both of their faces were 
 scarcely recognisable. If she did not tell Salvatore that 
 she loved her husband, he would kill him. Salvatore would 
 be a murderer. Often she had wished Andrea dead, and 
 never oftener than within the last few days, but Salvatore 
 must not kill him. She could never marry the man who 
 had killed him. 
 
 Salvatore waited for her answer. The only sound was 
 the crunching of the men's feet on the stones. Water was 
 beginning to ooze up and wet the snow-white gravel and 
 sand. The Count had no breath left for groans. 
 
 As Salvatore spoke his eyes lashed her with scorn. "If 
 you love him," he said, "if you ask me for his life, it is 
 yours, I will give it to you." 
 
 "Answer me," he said. His eyes seemed to have forgot- 
 ten his love for her. He was no longer the Salvatore who 
 had caressed her a few moments before. "Do you love 
 him?" he repeated harshly. 
 
 "Yes, I love him," she said firmly. "Give me his 
 life." 
 
 A roar of human agony went up to the cloudless sky. 
 The Count was free and Salvatore Mazzini was rushing
 
 250 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 wildly and heedlessly from the man and woman, who were 
 left alone on an ocean of white stones. 
 
 As Salvatore's cry filled the desolate landscape, it told 
 Christine what her words had done to him. They had com- 
 mitted murder. They had done a far more cruel deed than 
 the killing of a worthless man. It was the cry of a hope- 
 less soul that had gone out into the wilderness. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 WHEN Andrea Zarano recovered from the effects of Salva- 
 tore's throttling, with some assumption of the old playful- 
 ness which he had adopted towards Christine in the first 
 days of their married life, he said to her : 
 
 "So my wife still loves me, she is glad to return to her 
 Andrea !" 
 
 He saw Christine shrink from him; every nerve in her 
 body was strung to a cruel pitch of agony. Why had 
 Salvatore deserted her? Why had he not known that she 
 had only said that she loved her husband to save him from 
 murder ? 
 
 ''Your lover has left you," the man said. "He won't 
 return." 
 
 As he spoke he came closer to Christine and held out his 
 hands. 
 
 "So my little Christine is coming back to her husband, 
 her Andrea, who was always willing to forgive her?" He 
 tried to embrace her. She was the beautiful woman he had 
 imagined matrimony would make her. 
 
 "Don't touch me!" Christine said. "Don't ever dare to 
 touch me !" 
 
 "But you love me what's the matter?" He laughed 
 cynically. 
 
 "You know I hate you ! I would rather kill myself than 
 go back to you ! Keep your hands off !"
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 251 
 
 "Was that your sly way of getting rid of him, your 
 parvenu lover? Are you tired of him? May I know his 
 rival? This is very amusing." 
 
 "Oh, you beast and coward, can't you even be grateful? 
 To save yours, I have spoilt my life. I saved you and yet 
 you dare to speak to me like that !" 
 
 "Why did you do it?" he said softly. The voice was 
 gentle. 
 
 Christine was superb in her anger; she was well worth 
 wooing all over again. 
 
 "Why did you ask for my life if you did not want me ?" 
 he asked with well-assumed sincerity. "Come, let us for- 
 get, let us begin all over again. I will forgive your infi- 
 delity because I want you. I have always wanted you." 
 He held out his arms. "Fill them, sposa mia, and be a 
 loving and forgiving little wife." 
 
 Christine sprang from him. She knew every phase of 
 the man's character. "I begged for your life," she said, 
 "because I love Salvatore. If anyone else would kill you I 
 should thank God ! I would kill you myself if it would not 
 kill him too." 
 
 "Pretty spitfire!" he said mockingly. "You have more 
 passion in your little finger than the old Christine had in 
 her whole body. Now you are worth a man's fidelity." 
 He moved closer to her. "You must give me what you 
 never gave me before and we will be lovers again." 
 
 Christine looked all round. She was terrified. The place 
 was utterly deserted. She must get back to Licata, she 
 must somehow get away from him. She knew only too well 
 what he was like when his passions were roused, when a 
 woman was desirable in his eyes. 
 
 The tragedy had been enacted in less than a quarter of 
 an hour, but already it had distanced her by years from 
 Salvatore, whose devotion comprised her world. Now, 
 although the napkin which he had dipped in the river was 
 not yet dry, he was infinitely far away ; he was rushing 
 blindly and madly through Hades. He had left her to go
 
 252 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 with her husband, whose neck was still scarred with the 
 marks of his strangling. 
 
 These thoughts rushed wildly through her mind as she 
 turned to the man at her side, whose impertinent demands 
 maddened her. But she must ignore his requests. It did 
 her credit that she was able to say with perfect self- 
 composure : 
 
 "You know what a Sicilian is capable of doing to avenge 
 his sister's honour and to save the woman he loves. If I 
 had not lied to Salvatore and told him that I still loved you, 
 he would have killed you is that not perfectly true?" 
 
 "Your lover was always a primitive where a woman came 
 into the question ; he is little better than a savage. What 
 can you expect?" 
 
 "Never mind what he is," Christine said quietly. "He 
 would have killed you, and according to his Sicilian code of 
 honour he would have been justified. It would not have 
 been murder. By lying to him and breaking his heart, I 
 have saved your life. Now I ask you, for once be fair to 
 me. Will you do one deed for which I can thank you ?" 
 
 He bowed mockingly. "I am only a poor archaeologist 
 my work is at Licata. I cannot help you financially I am 
 no millionaire." 
 
 Christine kept her temper. "Will you let me return alone 
 to Licata? You have robbed me of my lover" she used 
 the word deliberately. "I am absolutely penniless. To 
 force me to come back to you would be madness." 
 
 He looked at her plain gown and her un jewelled hands. 
 "Your lover has not spent many of his American dollars 
 on his mistress ; as my wife you were better dressed." 
 
 Christine's face burned and her eyes blazed, but she held 
 her tongue; it was worth while. "I have never willingly 
 harmed you and to-day I have saved your life. Will you 
 let me go?" 
 
 The Count was silent. The woman was very desirable ; 
 she was his wife. But he realised that if she shrank from 
 him it would be the old story over again. He had no wish
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 253 
 
 to support a grudging woman. The woman with whom he 
 was living at present was rich and goodnatured. She was 
 ignorant, but she had tact enough not to bore him, and her 
 Levantine type of beauty had not yet developed into gross- 
 ness. He of course never doubted that Christine was living 
 with Salvatore. It was her passion for him which had 
 beautified her and made her what he himself had failed to 
 make of her. It gave him a keen satisfaction to know that 
 he had separated them. 
 
 "As I have no wish to live with a reluctant wife," he said 
 lightly, "I will let you return to Licata. Without your 
 lover what will you do there?" He smiled sardonically. 
 "You should have been a better business woman, Christine ; 
 you should have insisted upon a settlement. Your looks 
 justified it, and the 'paint' millionaire can well afford to be 
 more sporting." 
 
 Christine bit her lip. She could have killed the man for 
 his insolence. 
 
 "Thank you," she said. "I am really grateful." 
 
 Indeed, the sudden relief which his words gave brought a 
 look of almost kindliness into her eyes. She was totally 
 unprepared for it, because she knew that a part of Andrea 
 Zarano's complex nature was his lust for mental torture. 
 He had practised it upon her with almost fatal results in 
 the old days. Her softer expression was not unnoticed. 
 
 "Sposa mia," he said sentimentally, "do you realise that 
 I am doing a generous action? You have grown into a 
 very lovely woman." 
 
 His words struck fresh terror into her heart. Was he 
 only letting her go for the pleasure of trapping her and 
 recapturing her? 
 
 " Thank you," she said hurriedly. "You will never 
 regret it." Her voice was formal ; her eyes had lost their 
 gentleness. But he must not know the terror she was en- 
 during. Again she said, "Thank you, Andrea. Good-bye." 
 
 "Good-bye, sposa mia," he said mockingly. "This has 
 been a strange meeting." He put his hand to his throat.
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 "Take care of yourself that wild cat lover of yours 
 might become a dangerous bedfellow." 
 
 To Christine's great surprise he left her abruptly. As 
 she stood watching him pick his way over the rough stones 
 and shelving gravel, she realised that he was not so agile 
 as he had been when she had watched him carry the 
 wounded kid away to the farm. Long ago he had been 
 almost as light of foot as Sal va tore; to-day he had to look 
 where he placed his feet ; he took fewer risks. 
 
 She watched him with anxious eyes. He was walking in 
 the opposite direction to the town. He was going, though 
 Christine did not know it, to the small house which had 
 been built for him to be near the site of some new excava- 
 tions. He had returned to Sicily after a very long absence 
 to work again for the Italian Government. In Sicily he 
 was pretty well his own master and under less vigilant eyes 
 than he had been in Crete or Egypt, which in more senses 
 than one had become too warm for him. It had suited him 
 to return to the island and accept the post which was 
 offered him at Licata. 
 
 His struggle with Salvatore had exhausted him. It had 
 not been without an effort of self-control that he had 
 managed to talk to Christine and treat the matter lightly. 
 It was, indeed, due to his physical exhaustion that he had 
 consented to Christine's request. He never once looked 
 back. As soon a.s he was out of sight he wanted to lie 
 down and rest ; only his vanity had saved him from a total 
 collapse. 
 
 The whole thing had been so sudden. It had come out of 
 the stillness with the rush of a typhoon. The horror of it 
 had raged and threatened and terrorised; death had been 
 before her eyes and then as suddenly it had ceased. In less 
 than half-an-hour she was alone in the blinding sunshine, 
 alone with nothing but white stones and the scattered con- 
 tents of Zita's tea-basket before her eyes. Was ever a 
 scene more desolate or further removed from human pas-
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 255 
 
 sion? The sea which lay far beyond the field of white 
 stones looked almost purple. Here and there the twisted 
 and bind-blown trunks of ancient olvie-trees broke the flat- 
 ness of the landscape. Some of them looked like the petri- 
 fied torsos of a prehistoric people. 
 
 Christine gave an ugly laugh when she found herself 
 packing up the tea-basket. How could such things mat- 
 ter? What was she doing it for? Where was she going? 
 
 It is the doing of conventional things which saves the 
 human brain in such moments of agony. She not only 
 packed the basket in an orderly and precise manner, but 
 she shook out the twisted napkin three or four times and 
 laid it on the flat stones to press out the creases ; then she 
 shook it out again. Would nothing rid it of its ugly sug- 
 gestion? The fierce sun had dried it; the curled creases 
 seemed indelible. Some hairs from Andrea's neck still stuck 
 to it. When she left it alone it curled back again to the 
 size of his throat. Would the sight of it ever leave her 
 
 memory 
 
 When the basket was packed she walked blindly and in- 
 stinctively towards Licata. Her subconscious self guided 
 her. It had determined to see Salvatore and to explain the 
 whole thing to him. Her conscious self was incapable of 
 definite thought or of any fixed plan. 
 
 She was covering the same ground as she had dawdled 
 over an hour ago with Salvatore. 
 
 Once in Licata she went straight to the appointed meet- 
 ing-place with Zita. But no Zita was to be seen. Christine 
 looked up and down the street. Their motor was not in 
 sight, nor was there any trace of the brother and sister. 
 Had they both deserted her? Did Salvatore really believe 
 that she was in love with her husband? His love, which 
 had been her anchor, would surely have returned when his 
 anger and jealousy had abated? 
 
 A waiter from a Locanda which was close to the church 
 which was to have been their meeting-place, addressed her. 
 
 "Prego, Signora," he said, as he handed her a visiting-
 
 256 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 card, "I was to give you this." It was Zita's visiting-card. 
 "The Signorina is in the hotel. She is waiting for you, 
 Signora." 
 
 Christine followed the man, who took her into a preten- 
 tious little sitting-room, very full of uncomfortable furni- 
 ture and cheap ornaments. Her super-senses noted the 
 incongruity of Zita's surroundings. Her classical beauty 
 gave them an added hideousness. 
 
 Zita did not raise her face as Christine entered the room, 
 nor had she made any response to the waiter's announce- 
 ment: "Ecco, Signorina, 1'ho trovato." 
 
 Christine waited for the man to leave the room and then 
 fell on her knees beside the figure of Melancholy which Zita 
 presented. 
 
 "I have come to explain, Zita. Sorella mia, let me ex- 
 plain everything." 
 
 Zita only pressed her handkerchief to her eyes. 
 
 "Look at me, Zita! Speak to me! Don't you know 
 that I am nearly mad?" She pulled the girl's hands from 
 her eyes. 
 
 "You have killed Salvatore," Zita said. Her voice was 
 lifeless. It struck an agony of remorse into Christine's 
 heart. "He will die this is more than he can bear." 
 
 "But I can explain everything I didn't mean to de- 
 ceive either of you. It isn't such a serious thing as you 
 think. Oh, Zita, if Salvatore had killed him ... !" 
 Christine's head went down on Zita's lap. 
 
 "Salvatore was honest with you. He had to tell you 
 everything, even his one dishonest deed." 
 
 "How much has Salvatore told you, Zita? Do you know 
 all that happened? Where is Salvatore?" 
 
 "I only know that your husband is alive that is enough. 
 Oh, why did you not tell him?" 
 
 "I tried to tell him, Zita, this very afternoon I tried, and 
 also on the night we became engaged. I never meant to 
 deceive him. I loved him so dearly that I just put off tell- 
 ing him from day to day we haven't been long engaged."
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 257 
 
 "Engaged!" Zita laughed. "How could you be 
 engaged when you knew you couldn't marry?" 
 
 "What on earth do you mean? Of course we can marry. 
 I only hid the fact that I must divorce my husband because 
 I wanted a few more days of perfect bliss, a few more 
 days before anything unpleasant had to be discussed." 
 
 Zita looked into Christine's eyes. "Divorce, Primavera? 
 You know my brother is a good Catholic?" 
 
 Christine tightened her grasp on the girl's arm. Her 
 terrified eyes frightened Zita. 
 
 "You don't mean to tell me that Salvatore thinks I can 
 never marry him while my husband is alive? That he 
 doesn't believe in divorce?" 
 
 "Salvatore will be here very shortly; he must tell you 
 himself." The tone of zita's voice was final. 
 
 "But you, Zita surely you don't think that we must 
 ruin our lives, that I must give up Salvatore? That I am 
 to be punished and my husband go free? That my hideous 
 marriage was a holy sacrament?" 
 
 "I don't think, Signora. I just know that while you are 
 one man's wife you cannot be another's." 
 
 "Then you are mad," Christine said, "or rather, hope- 
 lessly ignorant of how unholy some marriages can be. I 
 can divorce Andrea any day." 
 
 "And you thought Salvatore would marry you ?" 
 
 "When I am free, he will marry me. He . . ." 
 
 Zita's voice stopped her. "When you are free? Poor 
 Salvatore ! My poor brother ! Ah, Signora, it was cruel, 
 cruel! How could you do it?" 
 
 "He wouldn't listen to anything about my husband and 
 I ... Oh, Zita, can't you understand, after all these 
 years of suffering, how precious his love was ? I never for 
 one moment imagined that he would think like that about 
 divorce it is so unlike either of you." 
 
 "But, Primavera, you know that Salvatore is a religious 
 man ! He is far more religious than I am." 
 
 "It is not a question of being religious. The Church
 
 258 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 made these laws ; they have nothing to do with our belief in 
 God or trying to be Christ-like in our lives. The civil law 
 of the State allows us to marry again; it is a Christian 
 State." 
 
 "As members of the Catholic Church we do not question, 
 we obey." Zita spoke in a lifeless yet definite way. With 
 a. Catholic the question of divorce was beyond dispute. 
 
 "You are both so modern, so intelligent; you have 
 thought for yourselves in other matters. You know quite 
 well that Sicilians ignore the laws of their country when 
 they do not approve of them ; any Italian only keeps those 
 that he thinks are good and wise. Why should the same 
 men be so law-abiding to the Church?" 
 
 "When laws are passed by parliament, by men who have 
 only their own interests at heart and not their country's 
 good, Signora, no independent Italian dreams of keeping 
 them. What would their country eventually become if they 
 did? But laws made by God they are different, Signora." 
 
 "Laws made by the Church, you mean, the early Fathers 
 of the Church, who were just as much party people and 
 quite as self-interested as any modern politician ! The only 
 difference was that their aim was church glorification." 
 
 Christine put her arms round the unresponsive girl. She 
 must make her see reason. 
 
 "Has Salvatore told you nothing beyond the fact that 
 he saw my husband?" 
 
 Zita shook her head. "He was too overcome. He could 
 not speak to me ; he couldn't tell me." 
 
 "Then listen, Zita. Salvatore would have killed Andrea 
 if I had not saved him. He was choking him with a wet 
 napkin; he threw it over his head from behind. Andrea 
 was helpless. I saw murder in Salvatore's eyes. At the 
 time I could only think of one thing if he killed Andrea I 
 could not marry him." Christine paused. The girls were 
 staring at each other wildly. In Christine's eyes there was 
 the horror of the scene which she had witnessed. "Listen, 
 Zita. Andrea was almost at his last gasp when Salvatore
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 259 
 
 heard my wild screams. He looked at me and said, 'If I 
 spare his life it is because you love him. . . . Tell me, 
 do you love him?' ' 
 
 Zita was trembling. "Poor Primavera!" she said 
 weakly. "Poor Primavera!" 
 
 "To save Salvatore, to save your brother and my lover 
 from murder, I said I loved the man who had ruined my life, 
 the man I hate more than anything on earth." 
 
 While Christine was describing to Zita what had oc- 
 curred, the door had opened and Salvatore had entered the 
 room. He sprang to her side. His face was withered and 
 white; ten years had passed over his head. 
 
 "Did you tell me you loved him to save me? Is that 
 why you are here ?" 
 
 Christine flung herself into his arms. "Yes, yes! Of 
 course I did ! Why didn't you understand ! Oh, Salva- 
 tore, kiss me and love me ! Only your love matters ! I was 
 almost mad with misery." 
 
 Salvatore's arms were round her, but they were not a 
 lover's arms. 
 
 "I am yours, all yours, beloved. You must know that it 
 is true. I only tried to save you, for if you had murdered 
 him I could never have married you." She laughed and 
 cried hysterically. "Say it is all right, dearest the agony 
 has passed!" She pressed her lips to his; she knew the 
 intoxication of her kisses. Her words ended in a wail, her 
 arms slackened, her lips begged for no more. Her endur- 
 ance had reached its limit. 
 
 Zita had thrown herself face downwards on the sofa, to 
 blind herself to the agony of the lovers. 
 
 Christine's silence and her physical exhaustion quickly 
 reduced Salvatore to the level of humanity. His suspicions 
 were banished. For the moment every obstacle to their 
 happiness was forgotten. Only one thing triumphed 'her 
 love for him. 
 
 "Zita," Christine cried, "Zita, I am forgiven ! Salva-
 
 260 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 tore knows that I only lied to save him." She turned to 
 Salvatore. "Dearest," she murmrued, "I couldn't let your 
 hands do it how could I?" 
 
 As Zita raised her head, her eyes met Salvatore's. They 
 questioned him eagerly. Had he indeed renounced his 
 Church and his religion? 
 
 In a dull voice she reminded the lovers that the afternoon 
 had almost gone, that they must get back to Girgenti be- 
 fore the quick darkness descended. 
 
 Salvatore looked at his watch. Zita was right; they 
 must be making their way home. A little of the ccstacy 
 with which Christine's caresses had lighted up his face 
 left it. Zita's eyes and words had brought him back to the 
 world of reality. His eyes did not answer her questioning 
 gaze. Had he renounced his Church? She wondered. If 
 he had she could not tell at the moment whether she was 
 glad or sorry. If he had renounced it it was for the 
 woman who had saved him from committing a hideous 
 murder. 
 
 As Salvatore closed the door behind him and went off to 
 bring the car round to the locanda, Christine put her arms 
 round Zita and said: 
 
 "You see, piccola sorella, it is all right. Salvatore said 
 nothing about the divorce. All that he was unhappy about 
 was the silly fear that I still loved Andrea." 
 
 Zita was silent. The unfolding of her motor-veil seemed 
 to demand all her thoughts and attention. 
 
 Christine took her hands in her own. "Are you glad, 
 Zita mia? Are you glad that I was right? Say some- 
 thing don't sit there like a dumb thing." 
 
 "Gentilissima Signora" Zita had slipped back into the 
 old formal address "if Salvatore can do it, I shall be very 
 glad. I am a Catholic, but I love Salvatore, I love him far 
 more than my own soul. If he can marry you and be happy 
 I shall be glad." 
 
 Zita tried to be very gentle and kind, but more than that 
 she could not be. Her beloved Primavera, her almost divine
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 261 
 
 Signora, had been capable of deceit ; she had hidden from 
 Salvatore the fact that her husband was alive, even after 
 Salvatore had made his confession in public of his youthful 
 act of dishonesty ! The comparison in Zita's eyes was dis- 
 paraging to Christine. Salvatore had broken the eighth 
 commandment. Christine was quite willing to break the 
 seventh, and to Zita the breaking of the seventh meant 
 more than the breaking of the eighth, for it involved dis- 
 obedience to the Church. For her it was adultery if Chris- 
 tine lived with Salvatore while her husband was alive, for 
 nothing in the wide world but the death of Andrea would 
 make Christine a free woman. 
 
 Christine felt Zita's new attitude towards her. It had 
 come as a surprise and a shock to her that the girl whom 
 she thought she understood, the modern and travelled Zita, 
 still believed in the dogmas and laws of her Church as truly 
 as she believed that God made the world. However, as 
 Salvatore apparently did not think as she did, she com- 
 forted herself with the assurance that he would convince 
 his sister and prove to her that the doctrines of the Church 
 are not divine decrees. 
 
 The first part of their drive home was very trying, for 
 Zita and Christine sat together in the body of the car, 
 whilst Salvatore sat in the front seat. Christine felt that 
 her modern little friend had suddenly slipped back into the 
 church-fearing, priest-ridden Sicilian of ten years ago. 
 
 Towards the end of the journey, however, Zita's soft 
 little figure gradually nestled closer to Christine ; her hand 
 pressed her arm. When Christine looked into her upturned 
 face she saw tears rolling down her pale cheeks. 
 
 For the rest of their j ourney they were happier and more 
 at their ease. Zita's attitude became silently expressive of 
 sympathy and melancholy. For many years the world had 
 spoilt her; she had grown accustomed to wealth, pleasure 
 and happiness. All that Salvatore had undertaken had 
 succeeded; wherever they went they had made friends and
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 met with kindness and attention. Her later years had been 
 so bewilderingly novel and amusing that she had been able 
 to brush aside all small worries. Wealth is a golden key ; 
 youth does not easily tire of fitting it into new locks. Sud- 
 denly, and in the cruellest manner, her happiness had 
 seemed completely destroyed. Everything she believed in 
 was shattered. Salvatore was the sun of her world. To- 
 day she had discovered that he was also a shattered idol, a 
 broken image. 
 
 Christine saw very little of either Zita or Salvatore that 
 night. After dinner Zita went off to bed and Salvatore 
 excused himself on the plea of having business to attend to. 
 When he came out on to the terrace to say good-night to 
 Christine, he held her in a long and tender embrace. He 
 might have been leaving her for years instead of one night. 
 
 Christine tried to laugh at his tragic air. But her whis- 
 pered words brought no smile to his eyes or lightness to his 
 heart. Again clouds had gathered in his radiant world. 
 
 "You are so grave and I am so happy, beloved," she 
 said, "so gloriously happy. I suppose I had to be unhappy 
 for all these years, so as to be worthy of you and of all that 
 life is going to give us in the future." 
 
 Salvatore's last kiss served instead of an answer and 
 Christine went to bed confident in the belief that the 
 tragedy of the afternoon had only served to unite her more 
 closely to her lover. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 THE next morning when Christine came downstairs Zita 
 welcomed her with a grave face. 
 
 "Salvatore left this note for you," she said. "He has 
 been called away on very important business." 
 
 "And he never even called out good-bye!" Christine's
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 263 
 
 face was immediately clouded. "Couldn't he have spared 
 one minute?" She took the note from Zita. "Did he tell 
 you he was going?" Jealousy sharpened her voice; a cold 
 hand clutched at her heart. 
 
 "No. The padrona told me." Zita's voice broke. 
 
 Christine held out her hand. "I was a pig! Forgive 
 me, Zitimt. But it is so disappointing, so strange." 
 
 She opened the letter. It ran : 
 
 "Mio dolce Amore, 
 
 "I must leave you and Zita for a few days. Please don't 
 go out alone and on no account go beyond the city limits 
 until I return. Do this and spare me unnecessary anxiety. 
 Addio. 
 
 "Yours as ever and for ever devotedly and in haste, 
 
 "SAI/VATOBE." 
 
 Christine handed the letter to Zita. "He never spoke a 
 word about having to leave us yesterday. What can it be? 
 I saw him for five minutes late last night." 
 
 "Sometimes he has to leave me like that. It can't be 
 helped. That is why I remained so long at school." 
 
 "Then you think there is no need to worry?" 
 
 "It is certainly strange that he did not say good-bye. 
 Otherwise it is just what he is often compelled to do." 
 
 Christine drank her coffee and ate her buttered roll in 
 silence. Salvatore's note was loving and thoughtful. There 
 was no use in trying to create trouble and anxiety where 
 there was none, but Zita's grave eyes made it a little diffi- 
 cult for her to feel cheerful and confident. 
 
 It was a glorious morning and the distant view in front 
 of the terrace looked more than usually beautiful. The 
 far-off temples were just discernible through a soft haze 
 which hung over the plain ; it was drifting landwards from 
 the sea. Sicilian cries, shrill but musical, caught her ears ; 
 they were the morning cries of vegetable sellers. 
 
 The two girls on the terrace listened subconsciously to 
 the life of the people which was going on below their high
 
 264 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 point of vantage. To Zita all things were new and yet 
 strangely familiar. 
 
 At last Christine said, "How are we going to amuse our- 
 selves until Salvatore returns? We aren't Sicilian enough 
 to watch these people all day long, although it's really the 
 nicest thing to do in Girgenti." 
 
 Zita shook her head. 
 
 "That means you don't care. Zita dear, do be less 
 despondent. Surely we can be happy together? Will you 
 help me to finish my muslin frock? You are so clever." 
 
 "Of course, if you would like me to." 
 
 "I've scarcely put a stitch in it. The time has just 
 flown!" 
 
 "We were too happy to sew !" 
 
 "We are happy still, silly child !" Christine put her arms 
 round Zita. "I want to shake you and wake you up, you 
 tragic Madonnina! Look who's that? What a good- 
 looking man ! He's lifting his very fine hat to you." 
 
 As Zita looked down disinterestedly she caught Sardo 
 Fontana's eyes. "Good morning. Come sta?" 
 
 "Come sta?" he said. "May I come and see you later 
 on?" 
 
 "Yes, we shall be here all day." She turned to Christine. 
 "It is Sardo Fontana. He was coming to-morrow night 
 any way, but he seemed so glad to see me and so anxious to 
 come, what could I do but invite him?" 
 
 "Why not? It will help to pass the time for you." 
 Christine's eyes followed the man up the hill. "I can see 
 what you mean about his clothes and . . ." 
 
 Zita did not allow her to finish her sentence. "Oh, but 
 he is very nice. He is a part of one's old life. He makes 
 the world feel more stable, more true." 
 
 "Do you mean that you have lost your faith in me, Zita ?" 
 
 "I don't know, Primavera. I don't know what I believe. 
 Don't ask me. I only know I love you and now you have 
 done something I don't understand. Even Salvatore 
 puzzles me, and yet I love him so much that I want him to
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 265 
 
 do what he is doing. I should be just as unhappy if he 
 acted otherwise." 
 
 "What is he doing? What do you mean?" 
 
 "He is behaving as your lover ; he apparently means to 
 marry you." 
 
 "Oh," Christine said, "is it that all over again? Why 
 will you go on worrying about a thing which is of course 
 unpleasant, but really of no importance? Che sara sara 
 it has to be gone through." 
 
 "Salvatore's conscience is of great importance. If he 
 marries you or rather, if he goes through a form of mar- 
 riage with you, I don't believe he will be happy. I know 
 he won't. Perhaps he has gone away for that reason." 
 
 "Oh!" Christine cried. "Then you want me to give 
 him up?" 
 
 "No, no! I want him to be happy and without you I 
 think he would die. You don't know yet how much he loves 
 you, or all that your love means to him." 
 
 "Then what do you want ? I am not to give him up and 
 yet he will not be happy if he marries me !" 
 
 "I don't know what I want. That is why I am so un- 
 happy. The problem cannot be solved." 
 
 "Salvatore isn't of your opinion, thank goodness!" 
 
 Zita remained silent. 
 
 "Look at his note read it again." 
 
 Zita read it. "Every word of it is true. He has been 
 yours in thought and in spirit all these years. I know it." 
 
 "You think he only means that?" Christine spoke 
 almost pityingly. She knew better. She had enjoyed his 
 assurance of a more human and natural devotion. 
 
 "I can't think, Christine. What happened yesterday 
 has made so me stupid, so brainless ! I am bewildered. You 
 should not listen to what I say just believe what you like." 
 
 "You still love me? You aren't angry with me?" 
 
 "If only he were dead!" Zita said impulsively. "If 
 only he were dead! Or if there had been no yesterday 
 afternoon ! You could have married him so soon !"
 
 266 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 "Why will you keep on saying 'You could,' Zita? Sal- 
 vatore knows that I can divorce Andrea." 
 
 "Ah, Signora, does he?" 
 
 "Of course. Why not?" 
 
 "Because God married you." Zita's eyes were grave. 
 
 "God never did such a cruel thing. God is all love and 
 mercy and sympathy. Would it be like a loving Father or 
 a kind Friend to do such a thing? Would anyone who was 
 all-Love marry an ignorant, romantic girl to a villain? 
 Would any God do such a thing?" 
 
 "You married him against your aunt's wishes." 
 
 "Yes, because I was young and foolish. If it had been 
 against God's wish of course He wouldn't have let me do it. 
 And if it was His wish He certainly would not have re- 
 venged Himself in that hideous manner. It is only your 
 Church that teaches you these things. They aren't true, 
 Zita mia. They are unfair to Christianity." 
 
 "But the Church cannot marry you to Salvatore !" 
 
 "All the same, I am going to marry Salvatore, little 
 stupid. And as I said to Salvatore, I am almost glad it all 
 happened. I so hated him not knowing. It was always 
 there, always spoiling my happiness. And then when 
 I tried to tell him he just wouldn't listen, and always I was 
 so glad, so awfully glad." 
 
 "Poor Primavera ! But I want to go to Church." Zita 
 spoke determinedly. "I feel so wicked; I must try and 
 make my thoughts less awful." She looked at Christine. 
 "All the time I am wishing that someone would kill your 
 husband. I feel like a murderess, and that is almost as 
 wicked as being one." 
 
 "Wait for a minute and I will come with you." 
 
 "No, no. I can go alone it's so near. I will only go 
 to the little church round there." Zita pointed to the white- 
 washed building tucked away in the bastion of the wall 
 which guarded their terrace. 
 
 "It is just there, I know I could throw this cigarette on 
 it. But you have to go through the streets to reach it.
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 267 
 
 Come along, let's go together. Remember what Salvatore 
 said in his letter. I know he wouldn't like you to go alone." 
 Her voice sank to a whisper. "I suppose he is afraid of 
 Andrea." 
 
 The two girls were kneeling together in the old church in 
 which Sardo Fontana had handed Zita his fatal note. Zita 
 had been praying long and earnestly. 
 
 As Christine watched her she said to herself, "I hope 
 when Sardo Fontana comes he will make her forget yester- 
 day's tragedy. She is still highly emotional." 
 
 To her surprise and pleasure she noticed Sardo Fontana 
 enter the church at that moment. He tiptoed to a seat 
 close behind Zita. He proceeded to watch her closely 
 through his uplifted hands. 
 
 Christine rose from her knees and left the building. 
 Sardo would see Zita home ; he was evidently waiting until 
 the girl had finished her prayers. His company would be 
 far better for her. 
 
 When Zita rose from her knees and walked to the door 
 of the churdh, Sardo did the same. They met as if by 
 chance just as she was pushing aside the leather curtain. 
 Sardo smiled as she recognised him in the bright sunlight. 
 
 "It is strange to meet here again, Signorina. Much 
 water has passed under the bridge since the last time we 
 dipped under that curtain together." 
 
 "S5, molto, molto." Zita's eyes were unsmiling. 
 
 "But you are in trouble ?" She saw that her tears pained 
 him. "Can you let me help you, Signorina? For the sake 
 of long ago trust me with your trouble. A trouble shared 
 is a trouble halved." 
 
 "Yes, we are in much trouble," Zita said simply, "but 
 no-one can help us. You could do nothing." 
 
 As she said the words she remembered his words: "If 
 the man were alive I would find him and kill him!" A 
 curious chill trickled over her skin. 
 
 "If I do not know what it is, that is true, Signorina.
 
 268 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 You were so happy three days ago, so untroubled. And 
 now ... !" 
 
 "Our poor palace of pleasure has fallen to the ground. 
 But don't ask me to tell you. No, no!" Zita shook her 
 head, her expression changed. 
 
 Sardo Fontana saw fear in her eyes, where there had 
 been tears. 
 
 "Let us rest here, on this wall, and talk things over, for 
 I too have something which I must tell you. It is not 
 pleasant news, but I think you ought to know it." He 
 looked at her. "The bearer of ill tidings is always an ugly 
 fellow, Signorina." 
 
 "Tell me," she said eagerly, "what have you heard?" 
 
 "That Count Zarano, as he still calls himself, is alive, 
 that he is the excavator of the classic sites at Licata." 
 
 "You knew it? And yet you asked me to tell you our 
 trouble?" She looked at him with eyes which expressed 
 more than amazement. 
 
 "But surely, Signorina, things are not so bad as all 
 that? The Contessa can divorce him. He has formed 
 new ties and I suppose he has long since ceased to support 
 her?" 
 
 "Sacre Madre ! You too can say these things ? You too 
 can speak lightly of divorce?" 
 
 "No, not lightly," he said quickly. "Remember, the 
 Contessa is above suspicion. In this case . . ." 
 
 "All cases are the same," Zita said, interrupting him 
 impatiently. "Marriage is for better or for worse." 
 
 "Ma ! Signorina, you don't mean that your brother will 
 give her up ? He will not take advantage of the law of his 
 country? Your brother knows what the Count is." 
 
 "Salvatore loves Primavera so much that for the present 
 he does not know what to do. We have not discussed it ; 
 but I know him. If he lives with her he will never be happy. 
 The laws of his Church mean more to him than the laws of 
 the State." She looked up. "You know how the laws of 
 the State are made. You can remain a loyal and patriotic
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 269 
 
 Italian even if you break a hundred laws made by the vile 
 politicians who are ruining the country. With the Church 
 it is different." 
 
 "You make me feel ashamed, piccola donna. You are so 
 in earnest. Your Church means so much to you." 
 
 "And to you ?" she asked. "Would you marry a woman 
 who had divorced her husband because she wished to marry 
 you ?" 
 
 "Veramenta, donninina, if the woman I loved could be 
 mine for the divorcing of a bad husband, or for the killing 
 of him, I would marry her and worship her." 
 
 "Amico mio! Amico mio!" Zita murmured the words 
 pityingly. She was the woman for whom he would do these 
 things ! 
 
 "The woman I love is the custodian of my soul, donna 
 mia." 
 
 While they spoke without words, the silence became 
 acute. 
 
 "And Primavera thinks as you think," Zita said nerv- 
 ously. "She never imagined that we should think other- 
 wise. Thousands of Protestants are divorced every year 
 and marry again. I suppose because we have lived in 
 America she thought it wouldn't matter." 
 
 "Then she knew?" he said slowly. "She knew?" 
 
 "You mustn't blame her," Zita said loyally. "She was 
 only weak because she was so happy, so happy that she put 
 off telling us. Salvatore will tell you how she tried to tell 
 him more than once." 
 
 Sardo Fontana was silent. His mind was working 
 rapidly. 
 
 "Don't you understand how it was? Poor Primavera! 
 She has suffered so much; happiness and Salvatore's love 
 were so precious. You must remember, she really thought 
 that it did not matter. But now! What are we to do? 
 What in heaven's name are we to do?" 
 
 "I can't advise you, for I don't feel about divorce as you 
 do. If I were Salvatore, I should marry her."
 
 270 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 "Why did you come to church? Are you not a good 
 Catholic?" 
 
 "Si, si." He laughed. "Ma, I suppose I treat the 
 Church as you treat the State. When I approve of its 
 laws I obey them, when I don't I break them. I go to 
 church to pray to God ; I believe and hope that He is above 
 all these dogmatic disputes. But this morning I didn't go 
 to pray." 
 
 "Oh, don't!" Zita said. "Please don't!" Her distress 
 touched him. 
 
 "I will try not to," he said apologetically. 
 
 "I want a trustworthy friend, not a lover. Won't you 
 be that friend?" 
 
 "Half a cake is better than none. I will do my best." 
 
 Zita held out her hand. He clasped it eagerly. 
 
 "Madonnina! Madonnina!" he said. "You are so 
 beautiful! How can a man do what you ask? How can I 
 be no more to you than a friend when there is nothing of 
 me but love for you?" 
 
 His sudden and vehement outburst was only what Zita 
 had expected. Sooner or later she knew that it would come. 
 She knew the moment she saw him at the church door that 
 she must make him understand that if they were to see 
 much of one another, he must be contented with her 
 friendship. 
 
 She did not withdraw her hand. She was an adept in 
 the art of conciliation. She could always make the most 
 ardent pleader see that it was wiser to accept what she was 
 willing to give than be banished for ever because he could 
 not get all that he wanted. Sardo's speech could still be 
 reckoned with in the abstract. All that she had to do was 
 to warn him that as a friend he could see as much of her as 
 his time permitted ; as a lover he must say farewell. 
 
 He took the warning and meant to abide by it. He felt 
 confident that Salvafcore's love for Christine, which had 
 been so enduring, would triumph. He judged him by his 
 own feelings and convictions. Manlike, he loved Zita all
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 271 
 
 the more intensely for her earnest and devout religious 
 sentiments. Women should be conscientiously religious. 
 On the other hand, if Salvatore renounced Christine on 
 account of his convictions, as a man and a lover he would 
 be unworthy of her. With Sardo the Church came a long 
 way after the woman. 
 
 When they parted at the door of the Albergo, in spite of 
 the seriousness of their conversation, Zita was in a less de- 
 pressed state than when she had parted with Christine. It 
 does a woman's spirits good to meet a man who desires and 
 admires her. In ten cases out of twelve his passion thrills 
 her if it does not bore her. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 BY Sunday evening the gown which Zita had helped Chris- 
 tine to make was finished. As Sardo Fontana was coming, 
 Zita begged her to put it on. She wished Christine to look 
 her very best. 
 
 Scarcely anything happened during the evening, nothing 
 that bears recording, beyond the fact that Sardo Fontana 
 was greatly impressed by Christine, so greatly that he 
 stood a little in awe of her and therefore did but poor 
 justice to himself. Zita knew that Christine was acutely 
 conscious of all his shortcomings and of his air of almost 
 acknowledged social inferiority. 
 
 But Christine was determined to make him her friend and 
 put him at his ease. She wanted his influence when the 
 time came for discussing the subject of her divorce. She 
 certainly did win his admiration and respect, if it cannot 
 be truthfully said that she succeeded in putting the poor 
 man at his ease. Zita possessed that human gift of sym- 
 pathy which is so peculiarly Latin; she was "simpatica." 
 Christine could be sympathetic and very often was so ; but 
 on this occasion, where Zita would have succeeded, she 
 failed.
 
 272 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 When she left the terrace, after they had drank their 
 coffee and smoked for a little time, Zita turned quickly to 
 her companion. Her eyes questioned him; they asked, 
 What do you think of her? 
 
 "Come e bella," he said spontaneously, "come e bella." 
 
 Zita smiled. "And she is altogether beautiful. Long 
 ago she was just as nice to me as she is now." 
 
 "Senta! Signorina, tell me am I correct? Was she 
 with you in the cake-shop that day? Do you remember?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 He sighed. "I remember it all so well. Her clear blue 
 eyes are just the same; they are so unlike the Sicilian 
 blue." 
 
 "Poor Salvatore! How he suffered that day!" Zita 
 told him very quietly the events of that afternoon. "Caro 
 Salvatore," she said thoughtfully, "he was so wounded. 
 We lived humbly, as you know, amico mio, but the Maz- 
 zinis did not always live like that." Her eyes sought his. 
 "Salvatore's character shows how directly the great Maz- 
 zini 'Aood flows in his veins." She laughed tenderly. "My 
 father married the daughter of a dreamer and an inventor 
 like himself, and so we just drifted down and down until 
 . . ." she shrugged her shoulders, "well until it was very 
 beautiful and wonderful of the Signorina Lovat, as she 
 then was, to make a friend of me and to treat my brother 
 as her equal." 
 
 "Si, si." He nodded his head. "Hers is not only a 
 charming face; it is a noble one. Your brother will be 
 happy. He is fortunate ; everything he does succeeds. He 
 is a strange mixture of a practical man and an idealist." 
 
 "Since I saw you yesterday morning I have banished 
 thought. I have been singing and playing and . . . yes, 
 really ... I made the dress Christine is wearing." 
 
 "You can do anything, Signorina, you are everything." 
 
 A warning hand went up. "Don't forget ! Don't make 
 me not nice to you, or I shan't be able to sing. What shall 
 I sing? some gay Neapolitan song?"
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 273 
 
 "Anything, Signorina, except 'caro nome.' ' He 
 shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps some day, if the fates 
 are kind qui sait?" 
 
 "Do you know this? Everyone in Naples is singing it 
 just now?" She hummed a catchy fisherman's air. 
 
 "Yes, I know it." He hummed the air with her. 
 
 "Then let's sing it together. It's so gay and yet so 
 strangely melancholy; so typically Neapolitan with its 
 fascinating jerky time. Neapolitan music is so expressive 
 of that gay pagan city, which is always jesting and play- 
 ing with life. I love the brave way it snaps its fingers at 
 care while all the time Vesuvius lies smouldering behind it." 
 
 Sardo's eyes drank in every word she said. He nodded 
 his head. They sang again for a few minutes. 
 
 "Our voices go well together," she said gaily. 
 
 "I thought so ten years ago." 
 
 "When I made that noise?" 
 
 "When I gave you my heart," he said solemnly. 
 
 "Ma, that was rash, for we didn't know each other." 
 
 "Prego, Signorina, what is knowing? Do we ever know 
 anyone? How often had Salvatore seen the Contessa?" 
 Sardo always spoke of Christine as the Contessa. 
 
 "Three times, I think." 
 
 "And he remembered her all these years?" 
 
 "But he is a Mazzini. Our men are all the same; nd 
 Mazzini was ever faithless to a lover or to a cause." 
 
 "You are a Mazzini, Signorina." 
 
 Zita again raised a warning hand. "Basta!" was all 
 she said laughingly. 
 
 "It is impossible, Signorina, im-pos-si-ble." He spoke 
 slowly and in Italian. 
 
 "What is impossible?" 
 
 "I love you, Signorina, and I am human." He rose to 
 go. "Any man would fall you the same thing." 
 
 "I am so sorry." Zita spoke as if she had been rude 
 and was apologising. "I owed you so much long ago. I 
 wish I could . . ." she paused. "I really wish . . ."
 
 274 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 "That you could love me ? It needs no saying." 
 
 Zita was silent. 
 
 He looked at her with grave eyes. "It would be a 
 pleasure to suffer for you, donna mia. Physical agony 
 borne for you would be exquisite. Anything but this poor 
 attempt at friendship!" He threw back his head and 
 stopped abruptly. 
 
 "Ah, here comes La Primavera!" Zita said. "Doesn't 
 she look like a spirit? She should never have left us, amico 
 mio." 
 
 "In the old Sicily she dared not have been so kind." 
 
 "In the real Sicily it does not happen now; it is only 
 you and I who have changed. We are no longer true 
 Sicilians." 
 
 "If I had the Wishing Cap, Signorina, I would wish 
 that we were Sicilians again, that we were just as we were 
 ten years ago." 
 
 Zita refused to be serious. "Primavera, come here !" she 
 called out. "Signer Fontana says that if he had a Wish- 
 ing Cap, he would put it on and wish that we were just as 
 we were ten years ago. What do you say?" 
 
 Christine answered immediately, "Certainly not. I'd go 
 through it all again for this." 
 
 "I congratulate you, Signora. Fate has not been so 
 kind to me," he said simply. "I have prospered financially ; 
 but what is money without a 'home? And my only child 
 . . ." he threw back his head. 
 
 Christine's eyes met his; he saw that she was wholly 
 sympathetic. And indeed she was, for the situation as it 
 stood was strangely pathetic to her. She saw it very 
 plainly the disillusionment of the girl and the infatuation 
 of the man. All that he said was so good and true, and yet 
 there was so much that was wrong about him. They were 
 such pathetically small points upon which he failed. The 
 nuances of what we call good breeding are so small and so 
 delicate that they will not bear the rough handling of words. 
 It is impossible to give a purely Western mind a correct
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 275 
 
 impression of the man's social shortcomings, for where an 
 Englishman would have failed, Sardo succeeded, and where 
 an Englishman would have been quite correct, he was all 
 wrong. 
 
 Everything Zita did or said seemed to plunge him more 
 deeply into the ocean of love, and the more in love with 
 her he became, the less chance he allowed himself of 
 winning her. When he said good-bye to her, to see her 
 again had become as essential to him as drink is to a 
 drunkard. 
 
 When the girls were left alone on the terrace, Christine 
 said abruptly, "Why don't you kill your victim and be 
 done with it, Zitina ? Don't play the cat-and-mouse trick ! 
 I hate to see you torturing him." 
 
 Zita looked at her in astonishment. "Torturing him? 
 Oh, Christine, if only I couldn't see his waxed moustache 
 and his . . ." 
 
 "And the too big flower in his buttonhole," Christine 
 added, "and his lavender satin tie and his . . ." 
 
 "Don't, don't !" Zita said. "I nearly let him kiss me 
 I hated them so much." 
 
 "To crucify the flesh?" 
 
 "Because I felt such a low down thing." 
 
 "You think you shouldn't be affected by these things, 
 that the man is above them?" 
 
 "They shouldn't matter. He saved me once; he would 
 kill himself to make me happy now." 
 
 "You wouldn't notice these things or care a fig about 
 them if you loved him." 
 
 "But if it isn't these things which prevent me loving 
 him, what is it ? I once loved him, or I thought I did." 
 
 "You've developed, passed away from him. You can't 
 make yourself love him, so don't try. But for pity's sake 
 don't lead him on to think that you ever will." 
 
 "Oh, I don't ! I have told him that very plainly, very 
 cruelly." 
 
 "But what have you looked, Zitina? What have those
 
 276 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 melting eyes not said? What have they not made him 
 hope?" 
 
 "I can't be horrid when people are nice. I was only quite 
 natural, I was just my own self." 
 
 "Then I suppose the Almighty is to blame for making 
 any woman such an intensified atom of adorableness. Come 
 to bed. This time to-morrow night Salvatore will be here." 
 She sighed. "When I watch you, I only wish I could be 
 one quarter as nice and tender to him." 
 
 "Oh, but you are, carina ! To Salvatore you are divine 
 and all your ways are the best." 
 
 "That is because he- is a Mazzini and he can't help being 
 faithful." Christine laughed happily. "What a glorious 
 quality to possess! What an inheritance!" She paused 
 and then said abruptly, as though she had torn her mind 
 from distant things, "Good-night, Zitina." 
 
 "Good-night, sorella mia." Zita's use of the word 
 "sister" was intentional; her love for Christine so often 
 triumphed over her anxiety for Salvatore's future; her 
 fears came and went like neuralgic pains. 
 
 "Thanks, dearest. Good-night." Christine's eyes shone 
 happily. The girl's intentional use of the word which she 
 had not used since the tragedy of Licata seemed a happy 
 augury. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 To do honour to her lover's return the next day Christine 
 put on her white muslin frock, and Zita had bought for tea 
 the most delicate and appetising pasticceria she could find 
 in the town. Salvatore had a great weakness for the light 
 pastry of Sicily. 
 
 Christine was waiting for his coming on the terrace. 
 When he did at last arrive, the padrona ushered him out 
 with the words, "Lui stesso (himself), Signora Contessa." 
 
 As Christine looked at "lui stesso" who was walking to
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 277 
 
 meet her, she saw a new man, a worn and physically ex- 
 hausted one, a mere suggestion of the old Salvatore. At 
 the moment he looked twice his real age. 
 
 "My darling," she cried, "you are ill! Have you had 
 fever? Where on earth have you been? Why did you go 
 away ?" 
 
 Salvatore took her outstretched hands, but he made no 
 attempt to embrace her. 
 
 "You poor darling," she said, "you are absolutely worn 
 out ! Come and have a cup of tea. Zita has bought your 
 favourite 'squashy cakes.' ' Her voice suddenly trailed off, 
 a feeling of mystery and disaster overwhelmed her. As he 
 remained silent, she said excitedly, "Salvatore, what is the 
 matter? Why don't you speak to me? Are you too ill to 
 want my lips ?" They were held up to his. 
 
 Salvatore sank into a chair. He made no attempt to 
 speak. His eyes were fixed on the ground. 
 
 Christine knelt down beside him. "My dearest, you are 
 unkind! Don't frighten me. Tell me, what has happened? 
 Tell me what you've been doing." 
 
 "I have been fighting," he said "fighting a deadly 
 duel." 
 
 "Salvatore!" Christine's cry rang through the air. 
 "You haven't killed him? You didn't leave me to do that?" 
 
 "That would not have been so hard. He still pollutes 
 the earth." 
 
 "Then what do you mean?" For a moment Christine 
 wondered if he were delirious; fever patients go through 
 Strange phases of delirium. 
 
 He touched her white dress and bright hair with 
 trembling hands. "If only you weren't so beautiful ! Why 
 this new temptation?" His wretched eyes gazed at her 
 accusingly. 
 
 "Zita made it for me, to please you." She spoke hu- 
 mouringly. Surely he was delirious? 
 
 "It's beautiful," he said. "But if only you had been a 
 little less enchanting!"
 
 278 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 "Dear man, don't be foolish ! We are all going to have 
 tea together. Zita has been very happy all day long be- 
 cause you were coming back to us." 
 
 "She has been happy?" He looked surprised. 
 
 "Just full of fun and nonsense the old Gioconda." 
 
 "Then I was wrong. That is odd, very odd." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "I felt that she was with me, that's all. I thought she 
 knew; always when I suffer, she suffers too." 
 
 "I shall be jealous of Zita." Christine tried to laugh. 
 "When did you begin to feel ill, to suffer? Won't you tell 
 me?" 
 
 "I am riot ill," he said wearily, "not in the way you 
 think." He turned his head away. "If I sit like this 
 perhaps I can tell you. No, don't touch me. Let me be 
 strong. Don't come any nearer stay there." 
 
 "Dear man, you are crazy ! Whatever has happened to 
 you?" Christine's voice was desperate. 
 
 "All must be over between us," he said defiantly. "That 
 is what I am trying to tell you. You are another man's 
 wife. Nothing can make you mine, not all my years of 
 love and devotion." 
 
 As he shook his head a heartbroken cry pierced the air. 
 It was carried down to the peaceful farms encircled by 
 high defences of prickly pears. As it rang out Salvatore 
 shivered and shrunk ; it had stabbed his heart like a dagger. 
 
 Long after the cry came Christine's broken words. 
 "You have given me up ? You mean you are not going to 
 marry me? You can do this thing Salvatore?" 
 
 "I must," he said. "You can't be the wife of two men." 
 
 "Then let me be your mistress." The fighting instinct 
 was roused in Christine. "In my own eyes I shall be your 
 wife." 
 
 He moved further away from her. "It can never mean 
 happiness for either of us, and I can only give you up if I 
 behave as I am behaving." 
 
 "It would mean happiness for me, Salvatore. I would
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 379 
 
 rather be your mistress than any other man's wife. Oh, 
 my dearest," she said desperately, "can't you love me a 
 little more than your church?" 
 
 "Don't you know that if I didn't love you more than 
 anything in the world I should agree to do what you sug- 
 gest? I should go through this mockery of a marriage. 
 Primavera mia, he said brokenly, "don't you understand? 
 Don't you know that it is because you are what you are 
 to me, that I can't do it?" 
 
 "You left me meaning to do this?" 
 
 "I left you because I was too weak to do it, too weak 
 until I had fought out the duel with my higher self." 
 
 "Your higher self has triumphed! The poor human 
 woman who cares for nothing but your love has been 
 beaten !" 
 
 "Sacramento," he said wildly, "don't torture me!" He 
 writhed in his chair, but he kept his eyes determinedly 
 turned from her while he spoke. 
 
 "Oh, Salvatore, if I could only make you see things 
 sanely and reasonably! You know that if we were both 
 free and if we were married in your church by ten bishops 
 and six archbishops and a dozen priests, we should not 
 be man and wife according to the laws of your State, 
 unless we were also married at the Municipio. Whereas 
 if we were married at the Municipio and not in the church 
 at all, we should be man and wife. It is the State con- 
 tract that matters. I can be divorced by the State and 
 married by the State, thank God." 
 
 "You think so?" He shook his head. 
 
 Christine became impatient. "I knew you were a Roman 
 Catholic, but I never dreamed that you still thought like 
 that. Do you believe that the Pope has temporal as well 
 as spiritual power? 
 
 "No, no," He spoke quickly. "I think temporal 
 things belong to the State, but our marriage belonged to 
 things spiritual." 
 
 "Belonged?" Christine sobbed. "Oh, Salvatore 'be-
 
 280 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 longed'? Why do you speak of it as if it were a thing of 
 the past?" 
 
 "It is past," he said. "Your husband is alive ; until he 
 is dead you are his wife." 
 
 "You tried to kill him, and yet you are too religious to 
 marry me?" 
 
 "Why did you save him? He needed killing." 
 
 She caught hold of his hand. "Tell me, would you have 
 married me? Would you, Salvatore?" 
 
 "There can be no answer to that question. At the time 
 I gave no thought to the future or to what I should do." 
 He withdrew his hand. "This I do know that I was not 
 going to take his life so that I might marry his widow. 
 The man wanted killing! I should have done it." 
 
 Christine fell on her knees beside his chair; her head 
 sought his knees. "Take me, she said pitifully. "Oh, do 
 take me ! Our love can't be wrong ! If you love me as I 
 love you, you couldn't doubt it, you simply couldn't!" 
 
 Salvatore's strength was ebbing. He tried to draw him- 
 self away from the long arms which were creeping further 
 and further round his exhausted body. He was silent, but 
 soon 'his lips were pressed to her throat. His body no 
 longer sought for distance. It was throbbing against hers, 
 throbbing and trembling as a man's body trembles when 
 passion has to be mastered, when desire drives and honour 
 holds the reins. 
 
 "My husband, my dear, dear man, say something ! Tell 
 me you won't do it again! You have nearly killed your 
 Christine. Oh, my darling, my darling, why have you 
 been so foolish? Why did you make this trouble? We 
 were so happy!" She paused for a moment; her ears 
 hungered for assurance. "Don't only kiss me, Salvatore! 
 Say you won't leave me, say over and over again, 'sposa 
 mia, sposa mia,' as you used to say it! Have you for- 
 gotten so soon?" Christine waited. "Have you for- 
 gotten how you implored me to fix our wedding-day?"
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 281 
 
 Evening cries were reaching their ears from the road 
 below. The toilers in the fields were returning to the city. 
 "Amonine, amonine!" came from the different voices of 
 the mule and donkey riders. Young kids were bleating as 
 they hurried after their mothers, who were following the 
 herdsmen in their own straggling and disobedient fashion. 
 
 Christine had listened to the same sounds in the morning 
 with a happy heart and satisfied mind. In the evening 
 Salvaifcore would be with her ; they would be watching these 
 same workers returning to the town and to their homes. 
 
 The evening had come and with it the accustomed 
 sounds. There were the high flying birds, mere black 
 specks in the sky, homing their familiar way. 
 
 Salvatore's silence maddened her; it kept her heart full 
 of fear. 
 
 "I have done all the love-making," she said bitterly, 
 "all of it! I feel like one of Bernard Shaw's odious 
 women! Can't you help my fallen pride?" 
 
 "Primavera mia," he said gently, "sempre sorridente, 
 sempre allegra, sempre rosea." It was his old greeting. 
 
 "That's not what I want." She 'held his face in her two 
 hands. "I am not going to let you off. Say just as you 
 used to say, 'Mogliettina,' 'sposa mia,' and all the other 
 things you could never say often enough." 
 
 Someone had come out on to the terrace. She slipped 
 from Salvatore's arms, and stood up. 
 
 "Now do let's be cheerful," she said. "Here comes Zita ; 
 she is just recovering from the shock she got at Licata." 
 
 Salvatore took his sister in his arms and held her 
 hungrily to him. A pang of jealousy poisoned Christine's 
 joy. Zita clung to him and hugged him as if he had been 
 parted from her for years instead of days. 
 
 When Salvatore let her go Zita made no remark upon 
 the change in his appearance. She accepted i'c as if she 
 had expected ib. She knew her brother's nature and con- 
 stitution, how quickly any unhappiness or anxiety taxed 
 his not too strong physique.
 
 282 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 "You will be better without me," Christine said sadly. 
 "I will have my tea indoors." 
 
 "Oh, Primavera!" Zita said. "Why do you say that?" 
 
 "You know why, Zita. You don't need telling. Salva- 
 tore only went away to be able to say good-bye to me for 
 ever." 
 
 "Primavera ! Pri-ma-vera !" 
 
 "I believe you knew it, Zita." 
 
 Zita turned swiftly to Salvatore. "Fratello mio, f ratello 
 mio, how much you must have suffered while we made 
 dresses and talked such rubbish! But for all that my heart 
 was breaking, all the time I was suffering with you!" 
 
 Salvatore's eyes met Zita's. He Lad not been mistaken. 
 
 "He is so trying, Zita," Christine said. "He says noth- 
 ing, nothing at all of what is to be done or of what he 
 means to do." 
 
 "I am going to leave you," Salvatore said abruptly, 
 "because I am not strong enough to stay !" 
 
 "You are going away?" both girls cried out at once. 
 
 "Yes. I have engaged a man from Cook's office to take 
 both of you back to Ischia. I shall meet Zita in Naples ; 
 he will bring her there to me." 
 
 "Then it is all over," Christine said. Her mouth sud- 
 denly became dry and parched; she could only speak with 
 difficulty. 
 
 "It must be," he said. "It is best that you should think 
 me heartless. Anything is easier to bear than your 
 love." 
 
 "Zita, I have just told Salvatore that I will willingly 
 and gladly become his mistress if he can't think of me as 
 his wife." A sob broke her dry throat. "I have had no 
 very good reason to feel proud of the word 'wife,' have I? 
 Let him call me by any name he chooses, his love will re- 
 main equally dear to me." 
 
 She turned to leave them, while Salvatore and Zita stood 
 together, hating themselves for hurting her and despising 
 themselves for the very act which they were torturing
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 283 
 
 themselves to perform. They felt like cowards and de- 
 faulters. 
 
 When Christine had gone a few steps along the terrace, 
 she turned suddenly and said to them, "I shall go back to 
 Ischia alone. It is absurd to think that I require any com- 
 panion or man from Cook's." 
 
 "I can't allow it," Salvatore said. 
 
 "You have just renounced the right to say that." She 
 looked at him very searchingly. "If you really mean all 
 this, Salvatore, I shall go away to-morrow. I shall go back 
 to the old life in Ischia. The sooner this is a thing of the 
 past the better it will be for us both. Tell me, do you 
 mean it?" 
 
 "Yes, I mean it. Our marriage is impossible." 
 
 "Then good-bye," she said softly. "And please don't 
 try to see me again, for I too must be strong." 
 
 Zita sprang after her. "Cara Primavera, let me come 
 with you. Let me try to comfort you." 
 
 Christine looked at her affectionately. "No-one can 
 comfort me, Zita. I have suffered so much, I can suffer 
 again. I am not like Salvatore unhappiness won't kill 
 me. It only makes me a hard fighter. Now leave me," 
 she said sternly, "and go back to Salvatore." 
 
 When Zita returned to Salvatore he was still seated as 
 she had left him, in a large basket chair near the wall of 
 the terrace, his head buried in his hands, his tired body 
 shrunk into something pathetically delicate and inert. 
 She sat down on the wall beside him ; her presence was all 
 she could offer him, her silent, sympathetic presence. 
 
 They had each other. Christine had no-one. They had, 
 be.sides, all which they had so much enjoyed before she had 
 re-entered their lives they had health, wealth and youth. 
 The world was their playground ; they could do what they 
 wished and go where they wished. 
 
 And yet they had nothing. Now there seemed to Salva- 
 tore no meaning in any of the things which had once filled
 
 284 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 his days. It was wonderfully strange to him now that 
 these things had ever meant so much to him, that they had 
 kept him so interested and occupied that ten years 
 had passed over his head and left him still in love 
 with the first girl who had ever made his pulses beat 
 quickly. 
 
 Christine's personality had remained with him like a 
 light perpetually burning before a sacred shrine ; its flame 
 had grown larger and larger until it had lighted up the 
 whole temple of his soul. 
 
 Would its flame still light up the sanctuary of his soul 
 if he accepted her offer and went through a ceremony of 
 mock marriage with her? That was the question. Rather 
 than be faithless to his ideal of her and put out the flame 
 of the sacred lamp, he would renounce the living vital 
 woman. He was a Mazzini; whether he would or not he 
 must remain faithful to his ideal. The woman he loved 
 and had loved for ten years was the soul-woman. The 
 little lamp which had kept his manhood pure, which had 
 been his inner strength during his ten years of prosperity 
 and adulation, could not burn before a desecrated altar. 
 How desolate his life would be without that little lamp! 
 How incomplete his poor aittempt to satisfy his hunger 
 for the woman! 
 
 "What can we do for her, Salvatore?" Zita said at 
 last. 
 
 "Nothing, nothing," he said. "In suffering we are al- 
 ways alone, bambina." 
 
 "We have so much . . . money, I mean." 
 
 "Poverty means nothing. To me wealth is a mockery.'* 
 
 "I know. And yet . . ." Zita paused. "And yet 
 
 5 
 
 
 
 "Work will give her less time to think. Thoughts can 
 kill; poverty seldom does. Remember, Poverty is the 
 Child of Our Lady." 
 
 "It seems so terrible. If you married her, she would 
 foiave been so wealthy. Now she has to go back."
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 285 
 
 "If we married," lie said, " it could only have meant 
 happiness for a short time." 
 
 "I know, Salvatore mio. I knew it while you seemed not 
 to know it. I was so afraid for you. If we could only take 
 up our old life again! We were so happy." 
 
 "There is no use trying to do that," he said quickly. 
 "A shattered jar can never go to the well again." 
 
 "Veramente. But what are we to do? Tell me that." 
 
 Salvatore clasped her hand tightly. "First let me rest, 
 little sister. I am so tired. To-morrow we will think ; we 
 will begin to reconstruct our lives, you and I." 
 
 "Si, si, domani, domani! To-morrow, to-morrow!" 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 THERE is an old saying that to-morrow never comes. 
 Nevertheless, on the morrow of the day on which Salvatore 
 had come back to Girgenti to renounce Christine, Zita was 
 seated all alone in the ponderously furnished salon of the 
 albergo. 
 
 She was thinking and thinking and trying to devise some 
 new means of arousing Salvatore. When he had sufficiently 
 recovered and rested from the strain of parting with Chris- 
 tine, what on earth could she suggest that he should do ? 
 
 An almost complete relapse had followed upon his fare- 
 well scene with Christine, which had taken place at dawn. 
 She had gone by the first train to Palermo, crossing by 
 the night boat to Naples, and thence to Ischia. 
 
 Zita knew so well that but for her own sake Salvatore 
 would gladly slip out and be done with the struggle. He 
 was so shattered and broken that for the present nothing 
 which she might suggest would appear anything but a 
 toil and a needless effort. 
 
 Her own world was, of course, saddened and completely 
 changed because of Salvatore's wretchedness. Much as
 
 286 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 she loved Christine and deplored her loss as a sister, it 
 was through Salvatore and his suffering that her real 
 anguish came. With her anguish had come an unacknowl- 
 edged longing to return to America. Waldo Langbridge's 
 silent, and what seemed to her now very comforting and 
 restful personality, would be helpful and so good for Sal- 
 vatore. In America they had been excellent friends. She 
 wondered what he would say of Salvatore's decision? Of 
 course, he would approve of his doing what he thought 
 was right, but would he understand Salvatore's point of 
 view any better than Christine did? Did the Anglo-Saxon 
 mind ever really meet the Latin on its own plane? Prob- 
 ably not, but anyhow it would be comforting to discuss 
 things with him. They had discussed so many things 
 together. 
 
 While Zita's thoughts were centred on Waldo Lang- 
 bridge, Sardo Fontana was shown into the room. Zita 
 smiled as she 'held out her hands ; her eyes welcomed him. 
 
 "Come sta, Signorina ?" he said wonderingly ; her frank 
 avowal that his coming pleased her was a pleasant sur- 
 prise. He held her two hands eagerly as he said, "Amabile 
 Signorina, I came to tell you something. ... I should 
 not have again intruded." 
 
 "Si, si, dimmi. Salvatore is ill; he is in bed. I am 
 very troubled. I hope it is not bad news, amico mio?" 
 
 "Keep him in bed," he said quickly. "He is safe there. 
 The Count is in Girgenti; he is waiting for him outside 
 the hotel. Where is the Signora?" 
 
 "Christine has gone," Zita said. "They have parted. 
 Happiness seems very far away." 
 
 "Donna mia, donna mia, they have quarrelled? But do 
 not despair; with lovers partings are but re-unitings." 
 
 "No, no. They love each other more than ever. Poor 
 Primavera! Poor Salvatore!" 
 
 "Has he renounced her? He will not marry her without 
 the blessing of his Church?" 
 
 "He loves her too devoutly."
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 287 
 
 Sardo shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "Oh, don't!" Zita said imploringly. "He has fought 
 and struggled so hard. He has loved her for all these 
 years ! Think of what it means to him !" 
 
 "I don't understand him." 
 
 "You respect him!" 
 
 "Veramente." The one word was burdened with truth. 
 
 "Thank you for that one word. Spiritually Salvatore 
 is very strong, but physically he . . ." Zita left her 
 sentence unfinished. "I have always had to take great 
 care of him. In his youth he fed his brains and starved his 
 body." Zita spoke simply and tenderly, as she always did 
 about their early days of poverty. "Youth needs good 
 food when it works very hard, amico mio." 
 
 Sardo's cry made her regret her words. 
 
 "Caro amico, they were happy days! But tell me 
 what you have heard of the Count." 
 
 "While he is here in Girgenti Salvatore is safer in bed." 
 
 "He cannot always stay there." 
 
 "Something may happen before he is up and about. 
 The Count may think he has left the town. Anyhow, for 
 the present, will you stay with him? Don't leave the 
 albergo." 
 
 "Do you really think he would harm Salvatore?" 
 
 "He has not forgotten his throttling ; he will always be 
 your brother's enemy." 
 
 "Oh, if only he were dead ! If things could be as they 
 were one short week ago ! Why is he allowed to live ?" 
 
 Before Sardo could answer her the door opened. It 
 was the padrona. 
 
 "Will you go to the Cavaliere, Signorina? I think he 
 is worse my husband has gone for the doctor." 
 
 Zita's face blanched ; her eyes filled with tears. "I must 
 go, she said. "He has so little strength to fight against 
 both fever and unhappiness." 
 
 Sardo Fontana put his arms round her and gathered 
 her to his breast. At last their two hearts were beating
 
 288 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 together. Zita made no struggle; his physical support 
 and sympathy were necessary to her at the moment. 
 
 "Caro amico, caro amico," she said, "I know you would 
 
 help me if you could. You are so good ... so 
 
 
 He interrupted her. "Go to him," he said. "And thank 
 God I have held you in my arms !" He released her. "I 
 am going to help you, Signorina; I am going to prove 
 myself worthy of your gratitude." 
 
 Before he had finished speaking Zita had fled from the 
 room. When he found himself alone and returned to 
 earth, he said to himself, "There is only one way and I 
 must take it. The Mazzinis are immovable ; Salvatore will 
 die rather than act contrary to his conscience or sacrifice 
 his ideal. Well, if to prove my love I too have to die, 
 death will be preferable to life without her, without her 
 love." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 SOME days later Zita received a letter from Waldo Lang- 
 bridge. It was written from the Carlton Hotel in London. 
 
 With the open letter in her hand she went nervously to 
 Salvatore's room. His temperature was at last almost 
 normal, and although he was still very weak, he was in a 
 convalescent state. When Zita entered the room he laid 
 down the book which he had been trying to read. 
 
 "Look, Salvatore," she said, "read that." She laid the 
 letter over his book. "Read that and tell me if you would 
 like him to come, if you feel strong enough for a visitor." 
 
 Zita tried to conceal her nervousness. She felt almost 
 humiliated, for her letters to Waldo must have betrayed 
 more than she had imagined of her true feelings for him. 
 He had been in England for four months, but she knew 
 that he would not have written to her as he had done if 
 her letters to him had not, so to speak, given her away.
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 289 
 
 Salvatore read the letter in silence. When he had fin- 
 ished it he folded it up and held it out to his sister. Zita 
 took both the letter and her brother's hands eagerly in her 
 own. Unfortunately the unspoken language of Sicily 
 cannot be written. She slipped down on her knees and 
 buried her face in the clothes. Salvatore felt her emotion. 
 
 "I am quite strong enough, bambina," he said, "if you 
 are." His hand caressed her head. "Have you thought 
 this well over?" 
 
 Great eyes were raised to his. She knew what he meant. 
 This might mean the reconstructing of her life. Salva- 
 tore's words came back to her. Was she strong enough 
 to decide? Could she ever be as happy with any other 
 man as with Salvatore? 
 
 "Are you strong enough?" he asked again. "Do you 
 know your own mind? If you don't, for pity's sake be 
 definite ! Don't play any longer with a strong man's feel- 
 ings. Don't be feline." 
 
 Zita's eyes questioned him. 
 
 "I wonder if you will ever know what love means, sorella 
 mia? You have one man's devotion and attention here 
 isn't that sufficient? If you don't really want Waldo, 
 leave him alone." He paused. "Women are so different," 
 he said languidly, "so utterly different." 
 
 "But, Salvatore . . ." 
 
 "No 'buts,' " he said sharply. "The time has come 
 when you must stop playing with men's hearts. Tell 
 Waldo not to come; tell him I am not strong enough, not 
 nearly strong enough." 
 
 Zita was silent. Her brother was talking to, her as he 
 sometimes used to talk in the days when the difference in 
 their ages had been more apparent. 
 
 "Go and tell him that," he said. "There must be no 
 half measures a man's love knows none." 
 
 Zita rose impetuously from her knees. "Very well, I 
 will write to him at once. And you are right!" she said 
 hotly. "Women are different. Men are always sure!
 
 290 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 When they care for a woman they want everything from 
 her ; a woman only knows that she wants the man to want 
 everything." She paused. "I believe women only marry 
 because they are afraid that the man who wants them will 
 marry someone else if they don't. Girls do, anyhow." 
 
 "That is a fact," Salvatore said. "But you've played 
 long enough with Waldo. He has loved you ever since 
 that night ten years ago . . ." Salvatore's eyes fell. 
 
 "Yes, I believe he has. And oh, Salvatore, what ages 
 ago all that seems ! And yet I can see you standing at the 
 table with his father, while Waldo questioned me, just as 
 clearly as if it had only happened yesterday." 
 
 Salvatore's Jhand went up to his eyes. "Immortal 
 moments never grow dim," he said. "Go and write your 
 letter. Tell him that we are leaving Sicily, and don't add 
 any tender memories." 
 
 As Zita was leaving the room he called her back. 
 
 "What is going to happen to Sardo?" he said. "What 
 does refusing Waldo mean?" 
 
 Zita looked confused. She was ashamed of herself. She 
 ought not to have allowed Sardo to caress her; it had been 
 on her conscience ever since. But at the moment her 
 senses had demanded physical sympathy. 
 
 "What is going to be the end of Sardo?" Salvatore 
 said again. "You are finishing off Waldo; don't be less 
 merciful to Sardo." Salvatore's own hunger for Christine 
 made him keenly sympathetic. "What is to be the end of 
 Sardo? I want to know. You can't mean to marry him?" 
 
 Zita tried to laugh. "You are so serious, Salvatore. 
 Heaven only knows what is going to be the end of Sardo, 
 and it won't tell. I do wish men would realise that half a 
 loaf is better than no bread at all." 
 
 "Which means that you want to go on playing the 
 same selfish game." 
 
 "It means that I hate dismissing nice men for good and 
 all, and yet I can't marry Sardo . . . you know I 
 can't."
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 291 
 
 "Then what is going to be the end of him? Remember, 
 he is a Sicilian, not an American." 
 
 "I told you before, fratello mio, only Heaven knows 
 what is to be the end of him and it won't tell. Che sara 
 sara." Zita spoke with assumed lightness. "In the mean- 
 time, don't you think that the dismissal of one lover and 
 good comrade sufficient for this morning? I am to say 
 that you are not strong enough is that it?" 
 
 "Yes, not nearly strong enough," Salvatore said firmly. 
 "Tell him that I never shall be strong enough." Having 
 said these words, almost brutally, he pulled the bedclothes 
 over his head and turned his face to the wall. 
 
 Downstairs in the great salon of the hotel Zita wrote her 
 letter. It was very definite and to the point. It left no 
 doubt in Waldo Langbridge's mind when he read it. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 A TRAGEDY had fallen on Girgenti. 
 
 What exactly happened no-one will ever know, for in 
 Sicily on such occasions no-one is ever looking. Omerta 
 forbids it. 
 
 From apparently nowhere and for no known reason the 
 tragedy had hurled itself like a thunderbolt upon the Arca- 
 dian scene. Zita was reading aloud to Salvatore on the 
 terrace of the hotel when the excitement began. At first 
 she paid no attention to the uproar, for if the saying is 
 true that one woman and a goose can make a market, it is 
 equally true that in Sicily it takes but two excited men 
 to make a tumult. 
 
 But the cries which came up from the road below drowned 
 her voice. She put down her book. "I must go and see 
 what it is all about," she said. "Listen! Can you hear 
 what they are saying?"
 
 292 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 Salvatore shook his head. "It's sure to be much ado 
 about nothing, or a pickpocket caught in the act the 
 people love that!" 
 
 Zita rose from her chair. "It must be more than that," 
 she said. She leaned over the terrace wall to look. 
 
 A procession of men and women, field-workers and 
 country folk who had been either going to or from the 
 town, were following a party of men who were carrying 
 someone on an improvised stretcher. Sobbing women had 
 flung their aprons over their faces, while others were walk- 
 ing with their arms thrown up to the heavens. Their cries 
 and long wails were Biblical and Eastern. 
 
 Two soldiers carrying a camp-oven-pot brought up the 
 rear; they happened to be taking a picket their evening 
 meal. A third soldier wearing a scarlet fez on his dark 
 head was carrying a huge iron spoon. The steaming 
 soup struck Zita at the moment as cruelly sardonic, for 
 whoever it was who was lying so straight and still was 
 either dead or dying. Truly in the midst of life there is 
 death. 
 
 "What is it all about?" Salvatore called out, with the 
 irritability of the convalescent. 
 
 Zita shook her head. "I don't know. I think someone 
 has been killed they are coming up the road they will 
 pass the hotel door." 
 
 As she spoke, the soldier with the iron spoon looked up. 
 A woman's soft voice was more to him than a dead man. 
 He had fought in the Tripoli war. 
 
 "What has happened?" Zita called out. "Has someone 
 been injured?" 
 
 When the man's senses had enjoyed her beauty, he 
 answered, 
 
 "E morto, Signorina, e morto," and passed on. 
 
 Zita called over her shoulder to her brother, "Someone is 
 dead, someone of importance, I imagine." She looked 
 down again at the crowd below. "How eloquent we 
 Sicilians are!" she said to herself. "Imagine a crowd in
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 293 
 
 America saying all these fine things on the spur of the 
 moment !" 
 
 She listened more acutely. Then her ears caught the 
 cries of: "Povero orfano! Povero orfano!" 
 
 The words chilled her. A cold hand clutched at her 
 heart. She hurried to Salvatore's side. He noticed her 
 haunted face. 
 
 "Shall we go round to the door and find out what has 
 happened?" Her words came brokenly. 
 
 Salvatore dropped the thick rug which had covered his 
 legs and followed her across the terrace, through the big 
 salon and down the old tiled passages until they reached 
 the door. Never before had the hotel seemed to Zita so big 
 and straggling. 
 
 As they approached the front door the padrona di casa 
 and her heavy husband hurried to meet them. The illus- 
 trious cavaliere had not walked so far since his illness. He 
 still looked alarmingly fragile and extremely beautiful, or 
 so the woman thought. She threw up her hands and said: 
 
 "Oh, Signore, what a fatality ! And he was such a good 
 father ! Who will now take the same care of his little 
 son?" 
 
 As Zita looked at the woman her horrible dread became a 
 certainty. Her heart almost suffocated her. She could 
 not raise her voice above a whisper. 
 
 "And he was so handsome and generous, with a heart of 
 pure gold!" 
 
 Zita grasped -the woman's arm and made herself speak. 
 "Of whom are you talking? Who is dead? Tell me." 
 
 Her super-senses had told her long ago, but her mate- 
 rial self must hear the truth. The woman seemed to have 
 been talking for hours. 
 
 "Have you not heard, carina? Signor Fontana has 
 been shot through the lungs. He bled to death down at 
 the temples. The custodi found his body in a pool of 
 blood. But alas!" she said vindictively, "his murderer 
 has escaped.*
 
 294 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 As she spoke she looked searchingly at Zita. She knew 
 that the dead Signore had been in love with the girl, for 
 he had brought a wealth of flowers and fruit to her brother 
 while he was ill, and he had haunted the precincts of the 
 hotel for many days past. The Signorina did not know 
 how near her he had often been. 
 
 Zita turned to Salvatore. She was trembling ; her face 
 was stricken. Sardo's last words to her were ringing in 
 her ears. But Salvatore had left her to seek information. 
 
 With a fine effort of self-control she questioned the 
 woman. Was she sure that Signor Fontana was dead? 
 Had the doctor seen him? 
 
 The woman shook her head. "Non so, Signorina, non 
 so the dead tell no tales. Ma! sacra Virgine, he could 
 ill be spared!" 
 
 Before the woman had finished speaking Salvatore re- 
 turned, with a face as white and stricken as Zita's. At the 
 moment they were as like each other as two peas in a pod. 
 
 With the ghost of the dead man before them they re- 
 mained silent. They dared not give voice to the fear which 
 filled their hearts, for in Sicily silence is more than golden. 
 They did not join in the general cry of "Povero Signore!" 
 "Povero Signore!" Perhaps the emotion of the rabble 
 kept them tongue-tied. This was not the first occasion 
 upon which they had found themselves separated from their 
 people. 
 
 But if their lips were silent, they were talking eloquently 
 to each other in the ancient soundless language. 
 
 "Did you see him?" she said at length. "Did you 
 manage to get any information?" 
 
 "Nothing at all," he said. 
 
 Zita took his arm impulsively. "Tell me I want to 
 hear you say so you don't think 'he killed himself? Oh, 
 you don't think that?" Her eyes entreated. 
 
 "No, no. We know, you and I ... we know." 
 
 "Yes, we know." Her eyes fell from his. Alas ! She 
 knew so much more than Salvatore, so much more! How
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 295 
 
 horrible it was ! Sardo was dead and her letter had gone 
 to Waldo. It made her feel a traitor to the dead man. 
 Salvatore's mistaken interpretation of her added nervous- 
 ness made her miserably self-conscious. 
 
 "What can we do?" she said. "What can we do for 
 him? These people are kind, but you and I meant more 
 to him. Only you and I understand. We can't leave him 
 to them we ought to be with his poor bleeding body." 
 
 "We can't do anything, carina," he said slowly. "It's 
 best to let these good people manage things in their own 
 way. And, after all, he was one of them. He was a true 
 Sicilian at heart; only the outer man was changed." 
 
 Zita looked at her brother. He was speaking in an 
 exaggeratedly unemotional way. From the moment that 
 the woman had told them that Sardo was dead, Salvatore's 
 eyes had forbidden her to say one word about Christine. 
 That was the last word which must pass her lips. Yet all 
 the time her super-senses knew that Salvatore was speak- 
 ing to her in these cold even tones because he was trying 
 to suffocate the clear voice which was telling him that as 
 yet all the tragedy was not known. Sardo had met his 
 death in trying to liberate Christine; but where was the 
 Count? 
 
 Zita made no protest about not following the stretcher- 
 bearers. Perhaps her brother was right. 
 
 "We can be nearer Sardo on the terrace, bambina," he 
 said gently. "Let us go back. What they are following 
 does not matter." 
 
 Zita pressed his arm more closely to her as she said, 
 "Let us go back! Oh, Salvatore," she said impulsively, 
 "Sicily is here! Is there any New York anywhere in the 
 world?" 
 
 "Si, si, Sicily is here," he said gravely, "and you and I 
 are her children." 
 
 It would have seemed cold-blooded and callous just to 
 return to the quiet terrace if they had not known that 
 Sardo would have wished it, that the last thing he would
 
 296 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 have desired was that Zita's name should be mixed up in 
 the tragedy. Sicily is nourished on secrecy; it was their 
 duty to regard the dead man's secret as theirs. 
 
 Just as they were leaving the hotel door a blood-curdling 
 cry rang out. A fresh excitement had sprung up. 
 
 Zita remained rooted to the spot. Her super-senses in- 
 stantly told her what the cry meant that the second act 
 in the tragedy had begun. 
 
 At the same moment a light victoria dashed up to the 
 hotel door. In it was the guardian of the temples. He 
 had flung the news to the gossips and idlers who had not 
 followed the stretcher-bearers. He had told them that the 
 hated Croat was dead. The seducer of virgins, the re- 
 ceiver of stolen goods, the traitor to Italy, had been found 
 dead at the foot of the precipice rock which forms a 
 platform for the Temple of Juno. 
 
 "Corpo di Bacco! But he is better dead!" was the oft- 
 repeated verdict. The only thing to grieve about was that 
 Girgenti was rid of a bad Croat at the expense of a good 
 Sicilian. 
 
 Every town as well as country has its own code of 
 morals, what is forgivable and what is unforgivable. In 
 Rome you must still do as Rome does if you wish to be 
 accepted of her people which means, if you must sin, 
 sin as Rome sins, or do not sin at all. To sin in any other 
 way is worse than a sin -it is bad form. And so it is in 
 Girgenti. 
 
 The Croat was better dead. Things were known to the 
 citizens which made 'his sins unforgivable. No-one said 
 "Povero Signore!" "Povero Signore!" Even the women 
 did not weep. The gossips and the dawdlers who had 
 come in for the second tragedy followed the guardian of 
 the temples on his important mission to the police-station, 
 and very soon a stillness had fallen on the Albergo, a still- 
 ness which to the brother and sister was burdened with the 
 soul of the tragedy. 
 
 Before they returned to the terrace, Zita said to Salva-
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 297 
 
 tore, "Come into the house first and put on your coat and 
 have some vermouth." 
 
 She had spoken mechanically. Salvatore obeyed her 
 mechanically. 
 
 When he put the little glass back on the brass tray their 
 eyes met. Salvatore's were even more forbidding than 
 they had been. Zita was not to let that name pass her 
 lips. 
 
 It was not to Zita, but to the wide heavens and the 
 classic land which lay before them that Salvatore said, 
 "Truly greater love hath no man." 
 
 Zita's cry stopped him. "Oh, Salvatore, say something! 
 Even if we mustn't speak . . . the truth ! Surely you 
 know that my heart is bursting? Can't you say some- 
 thing to make me feel less like a murderess?" 
 
 "You could give him nothing to live for." 
 
 Zita's quick answer stopped him. Her eyes held his. 
 "Tell me, could you, if you tried, not love? To love at 
 command is no easier than not to love." 
 
 "I am a Mazzini. With us it is different." He shrugged 
 his shoulders. "You loved no-one else, your love was 
 not . . ." 
 
 Zita turned abruptly away ; she interrupted impatiently : 
 "You forget that I, too, am a Mazzini! I, too, can be 
 faithful to an ideal." 
 
 "Sardo did not fill it?" 
 
 "He only fulfilled the ideal of a Sicilian girl; the new 
 Zita . . . Well," she said hotly, "Sardo never blamed 
 me. And am I to blame? Life is always changing; we 
 change with it." 
 
 "These things are beyond us ; they are not in our hands. 
 I don't blame you, sorella mia." 
 
 As they paced the terrace restlessly, their talk came in 
 snatches, mere fragments of their thoughts. 
 
 "He knew that I loved you better than anything in the 
 world, Salvatore. He knew what your happiness meant to 
 me. That is the meaning of everything."
 
 298 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 Salvatore's unseeing eyes were following the flight of a 
 falcon; he did not answer. 
 
 "He might have hesitated," Zita went on, "if Carlito's 
 case had been less'hopeless. He knew the Count's reputa- 
 tion as a shot." 
 
 "Is Carlito really doomed?" 
 
 "The doctor gives him six months, not more. He was 
 born of a consumptive mother; it is in his bones." 
 
 "Do you think they met by appointment? They were 
 obviously both armed." 
 
 "No, no. Let Girgenti think they did, let Sardo's 
 secret be buried with his bones. No-one has the slightest 
 suspicion; only you and I know the real story." 
 
 "And it was?" Salvatore's voice was hollow and 
 grating. 
 
 "He loved me so much that he wished to bring me happi- 
 ness through his gift to you. The man who blocked your 
 path was better dead. You know, life is still held very 
 cheaply in Sicily, when it is without hope. Sardo took the 
 sporting chance." Zita shivered. "If he had lived and 
 the Count had died. . . ." 
 
 "My God!" Salvatore said. "Don't say it, don't say 
 it! At Licata I should have killed the traitor!" 
 
 "And in doing so have broken two women's hearts !" 
 
 Salvatore covered his face with his hands; his frail 
 body shook. 
 
 "Remember," Zita said, "Sardo made this sacrifice for 
 me, not for you. It was his saci-ament to love." 
 
 "Sacra Virgine! And would you have me walk over his 
 dead body to embrace the woman I love?" 
 
 "Love was such a very simple and definite thing to 
 Sardo, that I feel sure that if he could speak to you now 
 he would beg you to accept with gratitude the gift he has 
 bestowed on you. He would not understand you if you 
 refuse it. La Primavera was to be yours because I could 
 not be his ; the whole thing rests on me." She spoke 
 calmly and firmly. She was so afraid that the excitement
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 299 
 
 and tragedy of the evening would bring on another attack 
 of fever that she almost succeeded in subduing her own 
 feelings. Her anxiety to comfort and relieve her brother 
 helped to calm her own nerves. 
 
 Salvatore did not answer her. He had flung himself 
 down on a long chair; he felt so physically and mentally 
 exhausted that he only wished to lie like a log, completely 
 outside the realm of thought. 
 
 It was pelasant to rest under the ever-deepening violet 
 sky and wait for the coming stars. In his highly-strung 
 condition his ears were tuned to the very finest sounds ; he 
 could distinguish unconsciously the diiference between the 
 quick patter-patter of the small donkeys and the longer 
 strides and heavier tread of the mules' feet on the road 
 below. The cries of the homing rooks and the helpless 
 pleading of the little kids were not sounds ; they were only 
 a part of the evening. 
 
 His only consciousness was the desire to keep back 
 thought, to keep the door of his mind tightly closed. For 
 with thought came questions which hurt his tired head 
 and exhausted his feeble body. 
 
 Even Zita's silent presence became a burden, for her 
 thoughts were affecting his. She was going over and 
 over their old life in Casa Salvatore; her first meeting 
 with Sardo and her horrible scene with the Count; and 
 lastly Sardo's body, bleeding to death amongst the 
 asphodels. 
 
 Like film pictures these things were passing before her 
 eyes. The screen on which they were presented was Sicily, 
 which lay stretched out beyond the high terrace. 
 
 And so the time passed, as time ever does pass, like 
 water through the hands of Sicily's children. Suddenly 
 the silence was broken, and for a moment their minds 
 were torn from the past and focussed on the material 
 present. It was the voice of Giulio Romano. 
 
 "II pranzo e pronte, Signore." He said the words with 
 suitable solemnity.
 
 300 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 Dragged back to the routine of the day, Zita thanked 
 him and said mechanically, "The dinner is ready, Salva- 
 tore." 
 
 Giulio Romano left the terrace and returned to the 
 dining-room, where he held his soul in patience for twenty 
 minutes. At the end of that time, he employed his idle 
 hands in slipping on to cheap Sicilian cigars the gold 
 bands which had been carefully removed from expensive 
 Manilla ones. 
 
 In Sicily the devil never misses 'his chance. 
 
 Darkness had fallen on the southern landscape before 
 the brother and sister left the terrace. It was only when 
 the cathedral bell boomed through the stillness that Zita 
 rose determinedly from her chair. 
 
 "It is quite dark, and so cold, Salvatore. Do come in. 
 I suppose we must eat our dinner and go to bed as usual. 
 And of course it will be boiled mullet, and of course it will 
 be decorated with marguerites and pink begonias, and of 
 course Giulio Romano will offer it to us as if we had never 
 eaten one before." 
 
 As they rose from their chairs she looked towards the 
 temples. "To-day is over. Salvatore, to-morrow this will 
 be yesterday." 
 
 Salvatore knew what she meant. To-day Sardo had 
 been one with the living; to-morrow he would be one with 
 the dead. To-morrow would not know him. Thus quickly 
 do the sands of time slip through the hour-glass. 
 
 Giulio Romano hurried forward to receive his guests, 
 and when they were seated at table he appeared at Zita's 
 side with a long boat-shaped dish in his hand. In it lay 
 a grey mullet decorated with pink begonias. He apolo- 
 gised. The fish was now quite cold, and it had been pro- 
 cured with great difficulty as a treat for the Signore. 
 Delicate fish was good for one with so little appetite. 
 
 The ghost of a smile lit up Zita's face. She looked at 
 Salvatore; his eyes too held a kindly smile.
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 301 
 
 Fratello mio," Zita said, "that flower-decked mullet is 
 as typically Sicilian as Sardo's death." 
 
 "Si, si," he said gravely, as his eyes lingered on the 
 long grey fish. "Nostro paese, nostro caro paese, nostro 
 paese immutabile, nostro paese violente." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 ONE month later Zita was playing with Carlito on the 
 terrace of the hotel. The child had lived with her since 
 his father's death and had benefited by her sound com- 
 monsense and vigilant care. He was clapping his hands 
 with delight because Zita's steady hand had placed an 
 Italian flag on the top of the castle which he had built 
 with bricks, when the padrona ushered a visitor out on to 
 the terrace. 
 
 The moment Zita caught sight of the man who was 
 striding across the terrace to reach her, she became 
 alarmed; her knees trembled. 
 
 Before she had time to think or act Waldo Langb ridge 
 had gathered her up in his arms. Carlito's castle was 
 scattered to the four winds. Knowing his woman, he gave 
 her no chance to escape. She had laid her cards on the 
 table; there must now be no revoking. He had come to 
 demand her complete surrender. And womanlike, Zita 
 enjoyed his method of wooing. To be folded in protecting 
 arms and kissed into forgetfulness came as a merciful 
 healing to her stricken soul. With Waldo's lips on hers 
 and her heart beating against his breast, her old fear 
 that she did not know whether she loved him sufficiently to 
 renounce her freedom seemed absurd. Surely she never 
 could not have known? 
 
 She had only been in her lover's arms for a few 
 moments and yet it seemed as though it must have been 
 in her former incarnation, when she was afraid to acknowl-
 
 302 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 edge even to herself her love for him. In these few 
 moments he had become her lover as completely and surely 
 as though they had been engaged for many months. If 
 the whole Albergo full of prying eyes were looking down 
 upon them, well let them say that which they say. 
 
 It was Carlito's petitioning voice that told her how 
 short a time she had been in Waldo's arms. 
 
 "Do tell him to go away, Auntie Zita, and stop bother- 
 ing us." The child's eyes scrutinised Waldo. "I like 
 your face," he said thoughtfully, "but your big feet have 
 spoilt my castello." 
 
 Waldo picked the child up in his arms. "Why, sonnie," 
 he said, "I will build you a far better one. It will be a 
 wonderful castle for a beautiful princess. And what do 
 you think is the name of the beautiful lady?" 
 
 The child shook his head. 
 
 "I call her Princess Love ; you call her Auntie Zita. I'm 
 really awfully sorry I spoilt your castle, but you see, 
 Princess Love is so quick that I was afraid that she'd 
 run away if I didn't snatch her up in my arms at once." 
 
 Carlito looked at him with puzzled eyes. "Do you 
 really and truly mean Auntie Zita ?" 
 
 "Yes, your Auntie Zita is my Fairy Princess, and I'm 
 going to build her a beautiful castle." 
 
 Carlito put his unhealthy little hand in Zita's. "Is that 
 true?" he said anxiously. "Or is the new man saying 
 these things because I am a little boy?" 
 
 "It is true, Carlito, and the castle is to be called 'Castell' 
 Amore,' and you shall come and live with us. But look !" 
 she cried, "here comes your old friend." She turned to her 
 lover. "The child worships Salvatore and Salvatore adores 
 the child. Carlito has really done his spirits and general 
 health a lot of good." 
 
 When Salvatore saw them standing together a look of 
 astonishment and at the same time of great satisfaction 
 crossed his face. Like a flash of summer sunshine on a 
 Highland lake, it dispersed its habitual melancholy.
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 303 
 
 Waldo stretched out a hand to him. His other was 
 clasping Zita's waist. They were obviously declared lovers. 
 
 "You can see how things are," Waldo said laughingly. 
 "I didn't lose any time after I got your message. I came 
 as quickly as trains could carry me." 
 
 Salvatore's whole being asked for an explanation as he 
 said, "Journeys end in lovers' meetings." 
 
 "Yes my journey's finished, thanks to your message." 
 
 Salvatore only looked at him. 
 
 "You dear old thing!" Zita said. "Don't you know 
 what happened, why Waldo came so quickly? Tell, him, 
 Waldo, and spare my . . ." She stopped. "Oh, 
 Salvatore, you are a goose!" 
 
 "Why, I came because your sister wrote and told me 
 that your health was pretty bad, but that you were quite 
 strong enough to enjoy a visit from an old friend. She 
 was kind enough to say that nothing would do you so much 
 good as my company." 
 
 Salvatore gazed at Zita, whose whole being was rippling 
 with mischievous happiness. 
 
 "You sent that message from me to Waldo? You wrote 
 that after asking my advice?" 
 
 "Yes, I wrote that and a good deal more, apparently, 
 from what Waldo says. Are you glad or sorry, Salvatore? 
 Don't look so surprised you ought to have known I'd do 
 it." 
 
 "I do hope you aren't sorry," Waldo said drily, "for 
 I've come to stay. Zita's letter didn't suggest a return 
 ticket." 
 
 Salvatore laughed happily. "I never knew Zita to do such 
 a deceitful thing before," he said tenderly. "All this time 
 I have been imagining that she had dismissed you. She 
 told me that she didn't know if she cared for you and she 
 knew that she cared for her freedom and her life with me, 
 so I told her that she was not to allow you to come to 
 Sicily ; it was not to be the same old game. I forbade it. 
 I said I wouldn't have it."
 
 304 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 Waldo laughed delightedly. 
 
 "Off she went with her head in the air to write the letter, 
 and we've never alluded to the subject since." 
 
 "What have you to say to that?" Her lover's eyes 
 caressed Zita's glowing face. 
 
 "Salvatore was treating me as he used to treat me when 
 he put me to bed and smacked me when I was naughty ; the 
 grown-up Zita wouldn't stand it." She linked her arm 
 affectionately in her brother's. "You see, fratello mio, I 
 didn't think you were managing your own affairs well 
 enough to allow you to manage mine." 
 
 Salvatore freed himself from her clinging band. "Go 
 back to your lover," he said with mock harshness. "It 
 seems to me I managed yours extremely successfully. 
 Come, Carlito," he said in the same breath, "we shall have 
 to comfort each other." He picked up the inquisitive 
 Carlito. 
 
 The child's arms went round Salvatore's neck. "The new 
 man's promised to build a beautiful castle for Auntie Zita. 
 It's to be called Castell' Amore, and it is to be so big and so 
 strong that it will never fall down." 
 
 Salvatore was nervously anxious to leave the lovers, 
 whose welcome of his inopportune coming had been so 
 charming. 
 
 "Bless you both," he said with mock lightness. "I be- 
 lieve Zita cares for you enough, Waldo, to be happy in 
 Casa Salvatore. But build your castle and give it deep 
 foundations and wide bastions. Castell' Amore must stand 
 the test of age and change. Come on, bambino," he spoke 
 to Carlito, "come and let us get a big gun and a very lean 
 dog and go and shoot a yellowhammer. There is nothing 
 like a good day's sport in .the mountains for settling the 
 nerves after a severe shock. We must take a big game bag 
 to hold the yellowhammer and put an eagle's feather in our 
 caps." His eyes laughed back to Zita. "It will just re- 
 mind Auntie Zita that Sicily is here, that Girgenti is not 
 New York."
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 305 
 
 As he hurried out of sight Zita turned to her lover, whose 
 arms were ready for her. 
 
 "Dear Salvatore!" she said. "Sicily is here, and New 
 York is here, and the whole wide world." She looked at 
 her lover with melting eyes. "And only twenty minutes 
 ago I didn't know that ! I didn't know that being in your 
 arms could make me wonder why I ever could have been 
 such a fool !" 
 
 "Perhaps our happiness will bring him to his senses." 
 
 "Ah, you think like that?" Zita's eyes looked eagerly 
 up into her lover's. 
 
 "He will be lonely," Waldo said. 
 
 "Desperately lonely," Zita whispered, as her lips left her 
 lover's. Her sigh was self-accusing. 
 
 "It is the best thing that could happen. Loneliness may 
 do for him what commonsense never will." 
 
 At that moment Salvatore was trying to shut his eyes to 
 the picture of his awn empty home when Zita had left him. 
 Her happiness must be his only thought; he must not let 
 her even suspect the dread that filled his heart. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 ISCHIA: six MONTHS LATER 
 
 CHRISTINE was resting after her hard day's work at the 
 baths. She was still living in Salvatore's grandmother's 
 cottage. 
 
 Her letters, which she had just read, were lying on the 
 table before her. One was from Zita, who was in Japan. 
 Every sentence in the letter except the one which briefly 
 alluded to her brother's loneliness was expressive of radiant 
 happiness. It was signed "Yours devotedly, Gioeonda." 
 By this Christine knew that life for Zita at least was full 
 of laughter and love.
 
 306 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 She picked up another letter which she had already read 
 through twice ; she almost knew it by heart, so keenly had 
 it hurt her. As her eyes scanned it her face hardened. 
 
 "Hotel Metropole, 
 
 "Nice. 
 "My Dear Christine," the letter ran, 
 
 "I am at present staying in Nice, as I 'have had to do for 
 some winters for my health, which has not been at all good 
 for the last few years. I read last spring in the Nice 
 edition of the 'New York Herald' that your husband had 
 been killed in some disgraceful affair in Sicily. I am thank- 
 ful to say that your name did not appear in connection 
 with the case. I have been expecting to hear from you ever 
 since, but as no letter has reached me, I am going to send 
 this through your father's lawyer I suppose he knows 
 your address. 
 
 "Now that you are alone I feel I must offer you a home, 
 as I imagine your husband had nothing to leave you. If he 
 has provided for you and if all that I prophesied did not 
 come true, I shall only be too glad to own that I was in the 
 wrong and that I misjudged him. You could make your- 
 self very useful to me in my present state of health, so do 
 not hesitate to accept the home I am offering to you. I 
 cannot help thinking that if your marriage had been as 
 happy and successful as you expected it to be, you would 
 have looked up some of your old friends and relations, 
 instead of carefully hiding yourself away in some out-of- 
 the-way corner as you have done, ever since the day you 
 married Andrea Zarano. Hoping to hear from you soon, 
 "I remain, your affectionate aunt, 
 
 "HARRIET BULLOCK." 
 
 "Poor Aunt Harriet !" Christine said, as she threw down 
 the letter as something unclean and defiling. "Just as if I 
 wouldn't rather beg my bread than accept one crust from 
 your hands ! Fancy telling her that she was right that 
 the Christine Lovat who stood before her in her night-dress
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 307 
 
 in Girgenti that night, and openly defied her for the first 
 time, was a young fool ! Fancy acknowledging to a woman 
 like that that what she prophesied and a vast deal more 
 had come true! And picture her amazement if I told her 
 that even after that lesson as she would call it I wanted 
 to marry another 'foreigner,' and that 'foreigner' the 
 humble curio-dealer Salvatore, the youth who lived on 
 'squeezes.' ' 
 
 Christine's eyes travelled to the photograph of Salvatore 
 which hung on her cottage walls. His smile greeted her 
 every time she opened the door. It Avas her "salve." 
 
 "But this time my husband will not be a pauper, Aunt 
 Harriet. Indeed," she said wistfully, "I almost wish Salva- 
 tore was poor or, at least, not so awfully rich so that I 
 might prove to him that if he hadn't a lira in the world I 
 should marry him just as gladly! Being poor in Ischia 
 hasn't made me hate poverty." She looked round her 
 simply furnished home. Her eyes softened. 
 
 It had not made her hate poverty because Salvatore had 
 made her two-roomed cottage sacred. His spirit communed 
 with her there. If she returned to her aunt, what would it 
 mean? Comfort and luxury, but in luxury's train would 
 come vulgarity, loss of spiritual and artistic perception, 
 and more important than all, loss of close association with 
 all that she prized most in life. 
 
 It is true that almost a year had passed since her hus- 
 band's death, and Salvatore had neither written to her nor 
 sent her any message through Zita. And yet, Christine, 
 for no better reason than what her super-senses told her, 
 was confident that some day he would come and claim her. 
 She did not allow herself to think how long it might take 
 to bring him to her ; always she drove out the thought with 
 hard work. Her confidence in the belief that he would 
 eventually come gave her an almost supernatural physical 
 strength, while spiritually she was contented to await her 
 triumph. 
 
 She had become very philosophical in her acceptance of
 
 308 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 life. She could review all its tragedies and sorrows in a 
 well-balanced and critical fashion that is to say, on her 
 best days. She had her black-letter days as well, but she 
 had not grown old on regrets. Like a good Scot she could 
 fight with her back to the wall, fight as desperately as any 
 kilted soldier of her race ; she was the sort of fighter who 
 feels stimulated and not unnerved by a losing game. She 
 had the enviable quality of getting the best out of the 
 worst and holding out her arms to the sun. 
 
 Her aunt's letter had to be answered; and she would 
 enjoy answering it and trying to put into it as many sharp 
 stings as Mrs. Bullock had contrived to put into hers. The 
 Christian sentiment, "turn your other cheek to the smiter," 
 did not appeal to Christine; she thoroughly enjoyed slap- 
 ping the smiter's cheek until it was redder than her own. 
 She was not built on saintly lines ; her halo would not be 
 worn for meekness. 
 
 Before the letter was written or even begun, a knock 
 came to the door. It was Pepino Ignazio, the cab-driver, 
 and the father of little Ninfa, upon whose contorted limbs 
 Christine had performed miracles. The child's name was 
 no longer a cruel jest; she could run about and enjoy her- 
 self almost as freely as any other of the black-eyed, 
 straight-limbed children who played about the streets and 
 rocks like sparrows. Pepino Ignazio's light victoria, if 
 such a grand name could be given to his small vettura, was 
 always at Christine's disposal after his day's work was 
 done. He had now called at her cottage to ask her if she 
 would like to take a drive, to breathe "1'aria fresca," as he 
 described it. 
 
 Christine refused the man's offer on the score of having 
 important letters to write. She pointed to her cor- 
 respondence, which satisfied the amazed Pepino, who 
 only received one letter a year, from his brother in 
 California. 
 
 Pepino's arrival and departure drove Christine's mind 
 back into reverie ; her aunt's letter was forgotten. Uncon-
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 309 
 
 sciously there rose up before her the vision of the greatest 
 and wildest drive Pepino had ever taken her. 
 
 It was the day after her abrupt return to the Island 
 from Sicily, when her heart was bitter and sore, when 
 Salvatore's behaviour had seemed to her unnecessarily 
 cruel and unnatural. It was a day when a drive over the 
 mountain wildness of the volcanic Island would have seemed 
 to most people an act of madness. To Christine it was 
 what the condition of her mind needed. She wished to 
 drive right into the mists and storm-shrouded mountains, 
 to feel the passion of Nature and the driving rain scourg- 
 ing her cheeks. 
 
 How emblematic of her life the day now seemed to her! 
 Truly, mists still shrouded her future, but her certainty of 
 eventual happiness was as complete as her belief had been 
 that day that at mezzo giorno the rain would cease and the 
 sun would shine again. 
 
 She roused herself; her letter to her aunt must be written. 
 She rose from her seat and got her letter-pad. The letter 
 was complete in her brain; the writing of it did not take 
 her long: 
 
 "My Dear Aunt Harriet, 
 
 "Thank you very much for your offer of a home. 'M.y 
 husband's death has left me very much better off than you 
 imagine, so I am thankful to say that my future need 
 cause you no anxiety. 
 
 "I regret to hear that your health is troubling you. The 
 alkaline and saline baths of Ischia work wonderful cures, 
 both for sciatica and rheumatism. There are some springs 
 in the sea here too hot to put one's foot into. I remember 
 that you used to suffer from rheumatism perhaps these 
 baths would cure you? 
 
 *'I remain, 
 
 "Your affectionate niece, 
 
 "CHEISTINE ZAEANO." 
 
 "That's pretty nasty," she said as she read the letter
 
 310 A MENDER OF IMAGES 
 
 over. "It doesn't tell her much and it's quite grateful 
 enough for all she ever did for me ! Probably she is only 
 offering me a home now, because she thinks I could be of 
 use to her." 
 
 Before the letter was addressed and stamped, a shrill 
 whistle announced the arrival of the five o'clock steamer 
 from Naples. Christine looked at her clock. 
 
 "Either the boat is early or my clock is slow," she said. 
 "What an age I have been idling !" 
 
 She put away her writing-pad and crossed the passage to 
 her bedroom. She looked at herself in the small glass. 
 Was she tidy enough to go out, or must she change her 
 dress? She decided to change it. Nothing kills youth in a 
 woman more quickly than a disregard for her personal 
 appearance. , Christine fought against it. 
 
 When her dress was changed she discovered that there 
 was a hole in her stocking which showed just above the 
 heel of her shoe. It, too, must be changed. When at last 
 she was ready to put on her hat, a second knock came to 
 the front door. 
 
 "Oh, bother it!" she said. "Someone else come to use 
 up my precious time." 
 
 "Avanti!" she called out impatiently. She listened to 
 hear if she could recognise the step. "Please wait," she 
 said. "I shall be ready in two minutes." Her impatience 
 had fled, for after all this second delay was her own fault. 
 She had wasted time day-dreaming, and it was probably the 
 grateful parent of some patient whom she was treating 
 come with an offering of eggs or a chicken or a fine cake 
 from Naples. 
 
 "Who is it?" sihe asked, as she crossed the dividing 
 passage. This time her voice was cheerfully inviting. 
 
 "It is me, Christine, your Salvatore !" 
 
 As he spoke a cry rang through the cottage. It carried 
 the woman's soul to the man who at last had come for her. 
 It bore her into his arms. It told him all that he hungered 
 to know.
 
 A MENDER OF IMAGES 311 
 
 "It is your own Salvatore, donna mia, your own Salva- 
 tore. He is here, he has come for you." 
 
 The words were whispered into her ears while their hearts 
 were beating together. His lips stifled the words she tried 
 to say. "Oh, Salvatore mio ! Salvatore mio ! It can't be 
 true ! It can't be Salvatore, not lui stesso !" 
 
 He held her more closely. "Yes, it is himself, it is your 
 own Salvatore, Primavera. Will you let him stay or has he 
 come too late?" 
 
 Christine's body, so moth-like in its lightness, so ex- 
 quisite in its passion, clung to him. It assured him that 
 he must never go away, never, never again. He held her 
 closer and still closer. The hunger of years was in his 
 embrace. There was surely no material woman to kill, if 
 Love could kill. She was the spirit of Love clothed with 
 the sweet fragrance of woman. 
 
 "Donna mia," he murmured, "cara Signora, cara, cara 
 Signora!" These were the only words he whispered, for 
 they were the dearest of all his dear names for her. They 
 were to carry them back to the young world of their ideals, 
 to the wonderful days in the Laughing Land when the 
 poor Mender of Images had given her his heart for all 
 time. 
 
 A silence more golden than the marigolds, which with the 
 first breath of spring carpet the land they both loved, spoke 
 to them in melodies unheard. It took them far away. 
 Together they were on dangerous ground again ; they had 
 forgotten the jealousy of the forsaken gods. They were 
 very far away, these two, from Isola d'Ischia, which at that 
 particular moment was occupied with the steamer traffic. 
 
 The little island did not know that the boat from Naples 
 had brought Heaven before death to the man and the 
 woman in the whitewashed cottage who stood locked in each 
 other's arms. Isola d'Ischia did not understand that the 
 coming of the evening boat had ended the tragedy of Casa 
 Salvatore. 
 
 FINIS
 
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