IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII 
 
 ^^^^^■^^^^^^^^ i^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 RUJT
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT 
 
 From the Library of 
 
 Henry Goldman, Ph.D. 
 
 1886-1972
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE
 
 
 ■ ■■^^'Sri 
 
 "Thk Eternal City" 
 
 (From tht Painting by Jules Gulrin)
 
 THE 
 
 FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 BY 
 
 ROBERT HICHENS 
 
 AUTHOR OF "the GARDEN OF ALLAH," " FELIX, " 
 THE WOMAN WITH THE FAN," "TONGUES OF CONSCIENCE,' 
 
 ETC. 
 
 With a Frontispiece in Color by 
 JULES GUERIN 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS
 
 Copy right y IQII, by 
 Robert Hichens 
 
 All rights reser'ved, including that of translation into foreign 
 languages, including the Scandinanjian 
 
 September, igii
 
 n 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 OME lay in the embrace of a golden afternoon, one of 
 those clear afternoons of autumn which hold no foretaste 
 of winter sadness, but which are mellow and soft, which 
 suggest to the mind the glory of harvest, the merriment and 
 opulence of the vintage, when the sons of men take from the 
 earth her good gifts with joy and a careless thankfulness. The 
 close rows of the ilexes in the Borghese Gardens threw their twi- 
 light upon the paths about the Piazza di Siena. The tall pine 
 trees showed their round dark heads on the crest of the hill by the 
 Porta Pinciana. But in the Giardino del Lago, near the temple 
 of iEsculapius, the red and golden leaves were falling along the 
 edge of the opaque water, and the black figures of the students 
 from the theological colleges, who haunt this quiet enclosure, 
 coming and going among the trees, or bending motionless over 
 tlieir books of devotion in sheltered places, were relieved against 
 a delicate wonder of color that touched them with romance. 
 Upon the circular riding track that girdles the grassy open 
 space where games are plaj-ed by the students and youths of 
 Rome, ofHcers in uniform cantered by, sitting squarely on their 
 horses. Workmen in soft hats, their jackets loosely tied by the 
 sleeves round their brawny necks, went past smoking Toscanas, 
 and talking loudly. Strangers, seeking the intimate spell of 
 the Gracious City, dreamed on seats-beneath the pines near the 
 Vaccheria. Here and there a painter was reverently at work, 
 helped perhaps by the murmur of water falling into the mossy 
 basin of an antique fountain. Here and there a gay bicyclist 
 spun by, and the purr of a motor car, breasting the hill from 
 the Piazza del Popolo, struck a modern note in these Pagan 
 gardens. And the light voices of children thrilled through the 
 languorous air and rang out in the sunshine. 
 
 For it was the children's hour in the Villa Borghese. 
 
 The stalwart nurses in their flowing ribbons, with immense 
 gleaming pins, almost like daggers, stuck through their head- 
 dresses, walked proudly, carrying, or wheeling, their charges, 
 the dark-eyed h'lmbi of Rome, Older children, clasping dolls, 
 or carelessly cherishing as accustomed possessions, beloved but 
 thoroughly known, large Teddy bears, walked or skipped blithely
 
 2 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 along the paths, crying out like birds to each other, darting to 
 and fro as if full of mysterious purpose not to be divined by 
 their elders, or gazing at the horsemen and motors with a con- 
 centration behind which lay virginal tracts of desire, of dewy 
 hopes, of bright, springing imaginations. Some boys were play- 
 ing football, not cleverly, but lustily, exercising their limbs 
 with a riotous joy, and filling the air with their shouts. Many 
 young girls, with bright, watchful eyes and demure lips, moved 
 slowly with their English or German governesses towards the 
 Pincio. 
 
 It was a Saturday, and at three o'clock there would be music 
 in the kiosk from the band of the Carabinieri. 
 
 So fine was the afternoon that a crowd of people would 
 probably be there. It was early in November, and though the 
 gay season of Rome had not begun, would not begin till after 
 Christmas, though the Costanzi had not yet opened its doors 
 to opera-goers, and though many of the Roman aristocracy 
 still lingered in their country places, yet numerous palaces and 
 apartments were already occupied, most of the diplomats ac- 
 credited to the Quirinal and the Vatican had returned to their 
 duties, and in the hotels and the innumerable pensions there 
 was a goodly number of guests. So the young girls and their 
 governesses walked towards the Pincio, intent on hearing the 
 music, but still more intent on having a peep at the world. 
 
 As the hour struck, the conductor took his stand in the pil- 
 lared kiosk, settled his peaked cap firmly on his head with an air 
 of martial resolution, threw back his long cloak, lifted his arm, 
 and the first notes of a potpourri of airs from A'ida rang out to 
 the waiting crowd. 
 
 It was not a very large crowd as yet, and it v.-as not at all 
 fashionable. The children were there, the young girls with 
 their chaperons, tourists, students, casual old gentlemen with 
 newspapers, odd Russians and Germans, little French painters 
 in soft hats, flowing ties, and corduroy trousers that looked 
 like divided skirts, independent English and American women 
 with opera glasses over their shoulders and guide-books in their 
 hands. But there were few gay and pretty women, few 
 smart Italian men, and not many of the idle cosmopolitans 
 who year by year come to winter in Rome. The crowd on the 
 Pincio is not what it used to be. And as yet it was too early. 
 When the true lovers of the Pincio and the passeggiaia* did 
 
 * For translations of foreign words and phrases see page 522.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 3 
 
 come, they would stay, many of them, till the sun set, till the 
 straight fringe of pine-trees that crowns the hilltop between 
 St. Peter's and Monte Mario was black against the rose or 
 the amber of the sky, till under the ilex trees of the Villa 
 Borghese the shadows were deep and somber, and the murmur 
 of the fountains was like the whisper of the night stealing to 
 take possession of her Pagan territory. 
 
 Little iron chairs were dotted about in the neighborhood of 
 the kiosk, and presently a couple of young Englishwomen 
 walked briskly up and took possession of two of them. They 
 were plainly dressed in dark skirts and blouses, with belts 
 round their trim waists, and flowered hats on their fluffy hair. 
 Their faces were full of excitement, and they sat down in a 
 place that commanded a good view of the road with an air al- 
 most of triumph. 
 
 " We shall see splendidly here, Jenny," said one. " Shan't 
 we? I wonder if there'll be any princesses! They say Rome's 
 fairly full of them. I do wish we had someone with us that 
 could tell us who they all. are. And we'll, go down the steps 
 when it's over and get a cup of tea in the Piazzer, shall we? 
 You know! At that place where we went Thursday after St. 
 Peter's." 
 
 They settled themselves to stare. They belonged to a party 
 of English school-teachers who, having all contributed to a 
 common fund, were now, under the auspices of one of those 
 agencies which run cheap trips on the Continent, passing a 
 week in Rome. 
 
 The crowd gradually thickened as the time drew on towards 
 four, and the two young women found many things to attract 
 their attention and to stir them to comment. They wondered 
 at the sight of men enclosed in broughams, often with the 
 windows up, revolving slowly round and round. They mar- 
 velled at the odd shapes of some of the motor cars of foreign 
 makes that drew up on the other side of the road. The hats 
 of certain canzonettiste from the Teatro Olympia roused them 
 to excited discussion. And they gained great pleasure — tinged, 
 they thought, with a certain high intellectuality — in trying to 
 pick out from the cosmopolitan throng the various nationalities 
 represented in it. 
 
 Presently their happily agile curiosity was caught and fixed 
 by the two occupants of a soberly colored, but perfectly built, 
 victoria, which went slowly by, vanished and reappeared, hav- 
 ing circled among the ilexes.
 
 4 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 "Look, Jenny! What a little duck of a dog! What kind 
 •Is it?" 
 
 "It isn't a Pom!" 
 
 " No. Is it a King Charles? " 
 
 " Not it! I believe it's one of the rare dogs that come from 
 China, and that cost a mint of money. Dear! I do wish I 
 was rich. I should like to sit there like she does with that 
 dog in my lap. She must be happy." 
 
 " She " was the other occupant of the victoria, which at 
 this moment passed out of sight. 
 
 " Somehow I don't think she looked happy," said the other 
 school-teacher, pulling down her belt — a young Italian had 
 just sent her an expressive glance from his velvety eyes. " She 
 seemed very fond of the dog, if you like. Who wouldn't be? 
 I'm sure she just dotes on it. But I shouldn't call it a happy 
 face. There's a lot of these ladies in carriages with dogs and 
 what not, who don't look half as lively as you." 
 
 " Oh, me! Well, when should I look lively if not on a trip 
 like this? I've been thinking about it for years. There she 
 comes again! " 
 
 This time the carriage drew up not far from the two girls, 
 and the footman got down from the box and stood near It like 
 a sentinel, while his mistress enjoyed the sun and the air, and 
 listened to the music. The dog from China, seated upon her 
 knee in a prominent manner, sniffed perpetually with his blunt 
 nose, and stared about him with heavy, convex eyes, Vi^hich 
 seemed to be swimming in a bluish fluid. 
 
 " D'j'ou think she's foreign? " 
 
 " She's dark. Perhaps she's an Italian." 
 
 " I don't believe it. Somehow I believe she's English." 
 
 " Oh, no! Never! What makes you think so? " 
 
 " Something — the way she sits." 
 
 " Sits ! How could any one sit any different from the w^ay 
 she does ? " 
 
 " How you do catch one up, Jenny! The way she is then! 
 Say what you will, there Is an English way and a foreign way. 
 I do like her things. Look! She's stroking the dog's head. 
 Would you call her pretty ? " 
 
 " Yes, very." 
 
 " Well, I think it's more mysterious than pretty — her whole 
 look, I mean. Now she's going on again." 
 
 The footman was up on his box once more. The coachman 
 touched the horses with his whip, and the carriage moved.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 5 
 
 Just at this moment two children with their attendant came 
 between the school-teachers and the carriage, a girl of about 
 four years old and a much smaller boy, who struggled forward 
 with a sort of haphazard precaution, laughing, as if almost 
 intoxicated with triumph at his own powers in being able to 
 walk at all. Both children were clad in white plush coats 
 and white hats, and the girl, going backwards before the boy, 
 and holding out her arms towards him, kept crying out: "Ad- 
 dioj Peppino! Addio, Peppino!" as she receded, taking a 
 charming care to keep always very near to her brother. 
 
 Peppino grew red with determination not to be escaped 
 from. With the doughty, and almost ruthless air of a young 
 warrior, no longer laughing, but now frowning with concen- 
 tration, he measured the might of his short legs, encased in 
 white woollen gaiters, against the might of the impeding at- 
 mosphere. And still the girl roguishly cried out: "Addio, 
 Peppino! " as she tempted him prettily onwards. 
 
 The woman in the carriage looked at the babies — they 
 were little more — in their white coats, taking their first steps 
 into life; at the girl child leading the boy child onward with 
 her voice and her outstretched arms. 
 
 "Addio, Peppino! Addio, Peppino!" 
 
 Always the little girl walked backwards keeping her eyes 
 on the boy, and smiling, with her head a little on one side. 
 The woman put out one hand as if to fend the children oH. 
 Perhaps she feared they might come too near to the carriage 
 wheels. Her gesture was repellant. The nurse called out. 
 The little girl turned and stood still, staring at the dog as 
 if completely fascinated. 
 
 The woman gazed at her and at her small brother, and the 
 dog seemed to gaze at them too, with his heavy eyes which 
 bulged beneath his domed forehead. Then the horses trotted, 
 and the woman was carried away into the midst of the thicken- 
 ing crowd. 
 
 As if moved by a mutual Impulse the two school-teachers 
 turned and stared at each other. The light, the excitement, 
 had died away from their faces. 
 
 "Well!" said she who was called Jenny at length, with 
 a deep breath; " Well, I never! Did you see that? " 
 
 " Yes. She did look " — the girl paused, as if seeking a 
 suitable word — "she did look awful!" she concluded lamely. 
 
 " Perhaps she hates children." 
 
 " Oh, no! It wasn't that! Besides who hates children? "
 
 6 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " You never know." 
 
 " No, Jenny, it wasn't that." 
 
 The music stopped. 
 
 " I vote we go," said Jennj'. " I feel I want a cup of tea." 
 
 She got up. 
 
 " It gets a bit cold towards sunset," she added. 
 
 " Yes, so it does. I should like something to warm me up." 
 
 The two girls went off slowly together. 
 
 Meanwhile the woman with the dog, who had not seen the 
 two girls, and who was never to know of their existence, made 
 the round of the Villa Borghese and presently returned to the 
 Pincio. 
 
 " Please draw up on the terrace facing the music," she said 
 in Italian to the footman. 
 
 He spoke to the coachman, and the victoria joined a line 
 ■of carriages and motors on the terrace from which may be seen 
 a wide view over the cupolas and towers of Rome. 
 
 The sun was still shining with a temperate brightness, and, 
 despite the comment of the school-teacher, the air had not lost 
 its warmth. Once more the band was playing a lively air. 
 The crowd had increased. The space in front of the kiosk 
 was thronged with people. The footman again got down from 
 the box of the victoria and stood beside it, so that the view of 
 his mistress was not impeded. Leaning back with the dog still 
 held on her knee, she looked across the roadway. 
 
 Exactly in front of her, sideways to her carriage, a big red 
 motor car was drawn up. It contained a tribe of very fair 
 youngsters in jerseys and red caps. They were Russians, bloom- 
 ing with health, with sturdy limbs, frank blue eyes and prim- 
 rose colored hair. Among them, almost immersed in them, 
 was a patriarch. His yellow, serene face, with prominent 
 cheek-bones, his thick, snow-white hair, showed as it were 
 through a moving veil of children, which almost hid him from 
 sight. Besides the chauffeur, who wore a long fan-shaped 
 black beard, sat a small woman of about forty, who looked like 
 a governess. 
 
 The children, of whom there were probably five or six, but 
 who moved about with such rapidity — climbing on the seats, 
 disappearing unexpectedly into the depths of the motor, and 
 with equal unexpectedness popping up again — that it was not 
 easy to number them, talked perpetually in French, now among 
 themselves, now to the governess or to the old gentleman sunk 
 down in the seat of honor. They pointed at everything which
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 7 
 
 interested them, beat time to the music with their little soft 
 hands — hands which looked strangely innocent — uttered shrill 
 cries, and occasionally clambering up to some point of vantage, 
 tumbled from it, drawing shrieks of laughter from safely- 
 planted brothers and sisters. The governess, turning, some- 
 times held up a warning finger, which was joyously disregarded 
 by all. As to the old grandpapa, he remained calm as some 
 contented old tree about which young tendrils were twining, 
 throwing their tender green arms about his gnarled and weather- 
 beaten trunk, striving to conceal the ravages of time with their 
 fresh beauty, and clinging to his well-tried strength. 
 
 The woman in the victoria watched this joyous party. 
 
 She was just twenty-nine, but looked scarcely more than 
 twenty-six, despite her pale complexion, and the pathetic ex- 
 pression in her large, deep brown eyes, which had heavy lids, 
 very long upper and under lashes, and faint shadows, almost 
 like delicate stains beneath them. They were not set straight 
 in her head, but slanted downwards towards her temples. Her 
 eyebrows, which were very long and jet black, also slanted 
 markedly downwards. Her white face was oval and small, 
 with a low forehead framed in thick, wavy black hair, a straight, 
 small nose, with nostrils v^'hich often looked slightly distended, 
 and a beautiful mouth, tending downwards, like eyelids and 
 eyebrows, but only enough to be wistful in expression. The 
 red lips were pressed together, almost as if to retain some 
 secret, above a delicately firm chin. The ears were tiny. Her 
 small head, her great eyes, her nostrils, and her charmingly 
 graceful neck, which was long and looked frail, had led the 
 friends of Dolores Cannynge to christen her Gazelle. Many 
 people habitually spoke of her as Gazelle Cannynge, and there 
 was reason for the nickname. She was tall and very slim, with 
 little ankles and wrists, small, delicate feet and hands. And 
 in her movements and all her ways there was something per- 
 vasively feminine and fastidious that was absolutely natural, and 
 that she was wholly unaware of. 
 
 A shriek of laughter came from the red motor car. One of 
 the children had essayed to jump from beside the chauffeur 
 to the seat next Grandpapa, and had accomplished an un-v 
 usually successful fall. Even old Grandpapa was shaking 
 slowly with mirth. And the governess was making grotesque 
 faces in the endeavor to look stern above a mouth that was bent 
 on smiling. 
 
 The dog from China uttered a muffled bark. His mistress
 
 8 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 tapped his head to quiet him, and looked awaj^ from the radiant 
 children to the left. There, on a bench beneath the ilex trees, 
 sat a nurse in a white cap and apron, holding against her a 
 profoundly sleeping child, whose face was covered with a white 
 veil, and whose short legs, in close woolen gaiters, stuck out 
 in space with an artless disregard of appearances which was 
 comic, 3'et also pathetic. 
 
 For a long time Dolores gazed at these little legs. She no 
 longer heard the gay noise of the music. She was no longer 
 conscious of the crowd. She was away in a world of clinging 
 helplessness, in a world of instinctive trust. 
 
 A voice at her side startled her. It said: 
 
 " Then you have bought the wonderful doggie! " 
 
 A middle-aged and rather carelessly-dressed woman, in a 
 black toque which had got tilted to one side when it ought to 
 have been straight, was standing close to the carriage, looking at 
 Dolores w^'th kind gray ej'es, and holding out a large, generous 
 hand. About her neck she had a long streamer of purple gauze, 
 and round her toque was a big gauze veil which had gone 
 hopelessly wrong. She clasped the hand of Dolores, and con^ 
 tinued: 
 
 " Is he satisfactory? Has he brought you the joy you an- 
 ticipated? " 
 
 " But I didn't anticipate anything so evasive. Won't you 
 get into the carriage? I'm all alone, as you see." 
 
 " Or will you get out and take a little walk with me? " 
 
 " If you like." 
 
 The dog began to scramble and stretch. 
 
 " He wants a walk. What do you call him? " 
 
 " Nero." 
 
 They began to stroll down the ilex avenue, passing the nurse 
 with the sleeping child, from whom Dolores looked away. The 
 dog accompanied them, stepping daintily, and stopping now and 
 then to smell the earth round the trunks of the trees. 
 
 " Why do you call the little wretch that? " 
 
 " My husband baptized him, and doesn't love him at all. 
 He says poor Nero has the dull eye of an egotist and a tyrant. 
 And he thinks the breed unnatural looking." 
 
 " To speak quite frankly, so do I," said Lady Sarah Ides.' 
 '* The head is bulbous, but signifies nothing. The eyes are 
 large but dull. And the expression seems to me fretful, like 
 that of a naturally disagreeable person suffering from an attack 
 of influenza. Why didn't }'0u get a terrier?"
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 9 
 
 " Everybody has a terrier. And terriers are so frightfully 
 active." 
 
 " Like children. .What dozens of children there are out 
 to-day." 
 
 " Yes," said Dolores. " Shall we turn and go to the terrace 
 for a minute? There's the Boccara! I didn't know she was 
 back yet." 
 
 She nodded to a birdlike and very pretty woman, with 
 Venetian red hair and upturned eyebrows, who at that moment 
 passed them in a landaulette. The pretty woman smiled bril- 
 liantly, pulled a string, and the motor stopped. 
 
 " How nice to see you again! I've just arrived from Paris. 
 Motored all the way. Nino's been in Monte Carlo. Don't 
 ask me whj^, or with whom. But I shall tell you almost di- 
 rectly. I feel I'm going to. Come to tea at the Excelsior to- 
 day. Can you ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Dolores. " I'm not obliged to go anywhere else 
 this afternoon." 
 
 "I'll tell you then perhaps — probably. Directly the 
 sun sets! I'll be in the hall. What a delicious dog! So 
 odd and expensive looking. Bring him. I love dogs. So 
 much nicer than babies! And then they don't spoil one's 
 figure!" 
 
 She drove away. 
 
 " D'you know Madeleine Boccara?" said Dolores to Lady 
 Sarah, as they went towards the terrace. 
 
 " No. She doesn't come into my ambiente. Rome, small as 
 It is in comparison with London and Paris, is full of sets which 
 seldom mingle. And I'm an old thing, and haunt churches 
 and galleries, and walk in the byways, while the little Boccara 
 goes to the Excelsior and the Grand Hotel. IVe seen her 
 often though, and of course she's famous." 
 
 " For her beauty you mean? " 
 
 " No. She's the woman who has never seen the Colosseum 
 or the Vatican, and who doesn't know where they are, or says 
 she doesn't." 
 
 " Little poseuse! " 
 
 " We mustn't forget she's only been in Rome for seven or 
 eight years." 
 
 " I know. She's from Lyons, but says she's a Parisian. I'm 
 rather fond of her, but Theo isn't. He thinks she leads all the 
 frivolity of Rome." 
 
 "But is Sir Theodore such an enemy of harmless frivolity?
 
 10 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 He must have seen a great deal of it when he was in diplomacy, 
 and I never heard that he was a Puritan." 
 
 " He isn't. But since he retired " she stopped. Then 
 
 she said, with a changed voice: "Oh! if only he hadn't re- 
 tired! If only he were still in the service! It's such a mis- 
 take for a man no older than Theo, with Theo's nature, to 
 retire so early. Such a mistake! " 
 
 There was in her voice an emotion that seemed excessive, 
 and her small face, always very expressive, had become almost 
 mysteriously intense. 
 
 "Why did he retire?" 
 
 "Well, you know, Theo often acts suddenly. He was very 
 disappointed at losing Vienna. He quite thought he was going 
 to have it, and that he would do wonders there. And he sim- 
 ply hated the idea of being Minister at Stockholm. Stagnation 
 varied by tobogganning, he called it. And just at the moment 
 when he was in this mood, all the Templeton money came to 
 him and made him independent. He gave in his resignation 
 without saying a word to me." 
 
 "And if he had consulted you?" 
 
 " I should never have let him retire, never." 
 
 She spoke with a sudden force and determination that were 
 almost startling. 
 
 " I would have gone to Stockholm, Pekin, Patagonia, any- 
 where with him rather than that he should retire." 
 
 Lady Sarah put up her hand to her head, and gave her toque 
 a push, which sent it not into its proper place, but beyond. 
 
 " D'you think it so very bad for him to be without regular 
 occupation? " she asked, after a moment, with a rather anxious 
 glance towards her companion. 
 
 " Yes, I do. I know it is." 
 
 They had com^e to the terrace, and now stood still looking 
 down over Rome. 
 
 Some bells were ringing beneath them. The golden air was 
 full of voices, the sky full of the touching light of late after- 
 noon, which seems to tremble with wonder at its own magic 
 like a soul finding v/ithin itself a virtue that comes from afar. 
 Several people were standing by the balustrade and looking 
 down. Among them was a priest, evidently English, broad 
 built, with blue eyes, and a strong, but tender face. He glanced 
 at Dolores, then turned his eyes towards St. Peter's. His lips 
 moved. Perhaps he was murmuring a prayer. A nun, dressed 
 in violet and black, came up at the head of a little band of
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE ir 
 
 children, who followed her as lambs follow a shepherd of the 
 Campagna. She, too, looked towards St. Peter's with her quiet 
 eyes, which resembled the eyes of a child. For a moment she 
 stopped, and all the children at once gathered eagerly round 
 her, lifting their innocent faces to hers, which was equally in- 
 nocent. She spoke to them in Italian, saying something about 
 " // Papa" and pointing with one thin, kind-looking hand 
 towards the great dome which dominated the city. Then she 
 walked on with her flock behind her, confidingly treading in her 
 footsteps, and looking very happy and very safe. 
 
 " Dear, dear little things! " said Lady Sarah, following them 
 with her eyes, which had filled with tears. " Dear little puri- 
 fiers of the world' Ah, I often wish now that I were a nun 
 teaching at the Sacre Coeur! Last Sunday I was there at Bene- 
 diction. And how I wished it when I saw the little innocent 
 creatures in their veils filing in behind the grille." 
 
 *' I cannot imagine you a nun." 
 
 "No, my dear! And you are quite right, I'm a dusty old 
 worldling and quite unfit for the regions of dew." 
 
 She put up a handkerchief and wiped her eyes openly, then 
 pulled her veil more awry. 
 
 " And you could never shut out your beloved Rome," said 
 Dolores, " your beloved Pagan Rome. Come and sit in the car- 
 riage for ten minutes. If we stay here, Nero " 
 
 At this moment Nero uttered a piercing cry. A child had 
 inadvertently trodden on one of his delicate paws. Dolores bent 
 down quickly and picked him up. But she did not pet him. 
 And when they were in the victoria she put him down on the 
 floor, and told him he was to sit quiet. 
 
 " You are not like Madeleine Boccara," continued Dolores:; 
 " you love Rome." 
 
 "And not only Pagan Rome. But don't you?" 
 
 " I didn't want at all to come back this year. I wanted to 
 go to Cannes, or Mentone, or Egypt. But Theo would come. 
 Of course I didn't tell him I was tired of Rome." 
 
 She added the last words rather hastily, and they did not 
 sound quite sincere. 
 
 " But why not tell him — if you really are tired ? " 
 
 " I don't choose to." 
 
 She looked down at the dog, and smoothed the light rug 
 that lay over her knees with one of her narrow, delicate hands. 
 
 " There were difficulties," she continued slowly. " You see 
 we had taken that apartment in the Barberini Palace. No
 
 !I2 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 (doubt we might have got out of it, but " — she turned and 
 looked at Lady Sarah — "I had no real reason to give against 
 wintering here, and I didn't wish to seem what I am not." 
 
 "What's that, my dear?" 
 
 *' A capricious woman." 
 
 ** Ar€ 3'ou never capricious?" 
 
 Lady Sarah was smiling. 
 
 *' Not with Theo. At least I don't think I am." 
 
 She said the last words rather hesitatingly and slowly, raising 
 her eyebrows a little, and looking very thoughtful and uncon- 
 scious of herself. 
 
 "I may be about small things; buying a particular dog, or 
 some nonsense of that kind. But not about the things that 
 matter, the big things In Theo's life and mine. I often think 
 in the very big things men are more capricious than we are." 
 
 She sighed softly. Lady Sarah felt inclined to give her a 
 good hug. 
 
 There was something in Dolores that appealed to women as 
 well as to men, a soft naturalness that was seductive. Yet It 
 was Impossible to look at her and not to feel that if she once 
 made a resolve she would probably carry It out with an Invin- 
 cible firmness. Those lips were not pressed together without 
 a reason that lay In her character. But the eyes seemed to say 
 that not easily would she take a strong resolve. 
 
 *' Men call their caprices their fates," said Lady Sarah. " But 
 since you are settled in Rome, my dear child, why not use it as 
 I do?" 
 
 "As you do?" 
 
 " Yes. I think you know how that is. Rome Is to me con- 
 solation." 
 
 Dolores moved as If startled. 'Her little head turned quickly 
 on her long neck, and her eyes became suddenly bright and 
 searching as they looked into Lady Sarah's. 
 
 " Why should I need consolation ? " she said. 
 
 And in her voice there was a distinct sound of defiance. 
 
 " Most of us do, I believe." 
 
 Dolores laughed. 
 
 " If I did do you think I could find it among marble statues 
 or In the aisles of old churches?" 
 
 " Would you rather seek for it in a cotillon at the Excel- 
 
 sior 
 
 ? " 
 
 " I didn't say that." 
 
 " Well," said Lady Sarah, " I need consolation badly, and 
 i find it in Rome."
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 13 
 
 Dolores' face softened, and she put her hand for a moment 
 on her companion's knee. 
 
 " I know, I know. But at least you've had the only things 
 worth having." 
 
 " Do you mean children ? " 
 
 Dolores moved her head. 
 
 " Yes, I have had them and I have lost them." 
 
 Almost with fierceness Dolores said: 
 
 " I envy you ! I envy you ! " 
 
 At this moment Nero, probably feeling neglected, or even 
 outraged by his situation among toes on a carriage floor, from 
 which he could see little, made a convulsive effort to better 
 himself by scrambling into prominence. Dolores took him by 
 the neck, with less than her usual gentleness, and assisted him 
 on to her knees. 
 
 "Look at the substitute for children in my life!" she said. 
 
 Suddenly she forgot to be reticent. 
 
 She took Nero's head between her hands, and turned It round 
 till the dog faced Lady Sarah. 
 
 "There!" she exclaimed. "That Is the substitute." 
 
 Nero snuffled. Drops of moisture stood on his ej^elashes. He 
 blinked and looked dull and arrogant. 
 
 " The lonely women with dogs! " continued Dolores. " Ah! 
 how the mothers must laugh at them, must pity the poor 
 things!" 
 
 Nero gave a strangled yelp. Unconsciously his mistress had 
 preyed her hands rudely against the delicate dome of his head. 
 
 " But you are young," said Lady Sarah, very gently. " Per- 
 haps ..." 
 
 " No, no. I hoped ; for years I hoped. But I've given up 
 hoping. Look! The carriages are moving!" 
 
 The chauffeur with the fan-shaped beard bent down and was 
 going to press the button of his motor, when one of the children, 
 a boy, who had scrambled up beside him, interfered, and evi- 
 dently begged to be permitted to do it. Smiling, the chauffeur 
 took his small, eager hand and guided It. A sudden purring 
 arose from the machine. The little boy, strongly excited by 
 his achievement, sprang up on the seat, turned round to old 
 Grandpapa, and vociferously drew attention to his triumph as 
 the motor moved off. His rosy face shone with pride under 
 his red cap. His brothers and sisters looked at him with a 
 sudden respect and gravity. Grandpapa's yellow face smiled, 
 and he slowly nodded his head as If in approval of the great 
 and unexpected deed.
 
 14 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 The mouth of Dolores became almost stern. 
 
 ** Let me drive you home," she said to Lady Sarah. 
 
 ** No, my dear; I am going into the church of the Sacre 
 Coeur for a little. But — won't you come with me? " 
 
 " I'm so sorry, but I have promised to go to tea with Mad- 
 eleine Boccara at the Excelsior. You remember ! " 
 
 " To be sure." 
 
 Lady Sarah got out. 
 
 " Do come and see me at the Barberlni very soon. Theo 
 will like to see you too. We have just moved in. I want to 
 show you all we are doing to the apartment." 
 
 " I will come very soon." 
 
 "To the Excelsior!" said Dolores to the footman. 
 
 She drove off with Nero enthroned on her knee. 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 It was nearly five o'clock when Dolores arrived at the Excel- 
 sior Hotel. As she entered the hall on the right of the tea- 
 room, little Countess Boccara came to meet her. 
 
 " We shall be all alone," she said in her pretty, rather care- 
 ful English. " So we can say all that is in our hearts. If 
 there is nothing — then all that is in our heads." 
 
 With a caressing gesture she put her hand on the arm of 
 Dolores, and led her into the tea-room. 
 
 " Let us go into this corner. But there are not many peo- 
 ple. We shall be private." 
 
 As she said this she glanced eagerly about the great room 
 with eyes that seemed searching for acquaintances. She nod- 
 ded, lifted her hand till it was near to her face, and opened and 
 half shut it several times, smiling. It was her pose to be thor- 
 oughly Italian. 
 
 " Amalia Brunati with Tito!" she exclaimed. "Per pia- 
 cere due the," to the waiter. " Will you have toast, caraf " 
 she added to Dolores. " I eat nothing. I fear so terribly to 
 grow like the elephant." 
 
 Dolores could not help laughing. 
 
 " Yes, some toast for me, please. I am too thin." 
 
 *' You are perfect, like the gazelle as all say." 
 
 She suddenly broke into French, and continued the conver- 
 sation in that language.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 15 
 
 " But I must tell j^ou, cava, that I was really born to be 
 fat. No! No!" — as Dolores was going to protest — "you 
 do not know. But I was! As a child I was enormous, mon- 
 strous! It is only by my cleverness, my strong will, and my 
 energy that I am so slim. All Rome speaks of my wonderful 
 figure. But I have worked, lived for it, and still I work, I 
 live for it. I do not eat. I do not drink wine but only Vichy 
 and Kissengen waters. I do not rest after any meal, but stand 
 up like a sentinel at the Quirinal, and all for my figure. Some- 
 one, a philosopher perhaps — it is always one of those tiresome 
 old philosophers! — has said, ' Everj'body must live for some- 
 thing.' Well, I live for my figure. And you? But I know: 
 You live for the adorable doglet!" 
 
 And she bent down her pretty birdlike face, and pretended 
 to kiss the nose of Nero with lips which were delicately painted. 
 
 A waiter brought the tea. 
 
 " Now we can talk ! " continued the Countess, as if she had 
 been silent all this time. " Tell me, is it for the doglet that 
 you live? " 
 
 " I don't know what I live for," replied Dolores. 
 
 And her voice, after the Countess's gay tones, sounded al- 
 most somber. 
 
 " I certainly don't live for Nero," she added, giving that 
 potentate a bit of buttered toast, which he took sluggishly, 
 licked, turned over, and abandoned disdainfully upon the carpet. 
 
 " I shall find you something to live for," said Countess Boc- 
 cara, with a sly inflection of her voice. "Or — no — some 
 one." 
 
 " Oh, if you speak of human beings I have Theo." 
 
 "Your beautiful husband! Ah! how handsome he is!'* 
 
 " Yes, he is very handsome." 
 
 " But for how many years — eight — ten ? " 
 
 " I've been married ten years exactly." 
 
 " For ten years you have lived for the beautiful Theo, and 
 at the end you say, with a voice like a Camposanto, that you 
 don't know what you live for. This is not good! We must 
 remedy this." 
 
 " I was talking nonsense." 
 
 " With those eyes, that pale face, and so tall as you are! 
 No. It is not for you to talk nonsense. It is for me, with my 
 turned-up nose and my red hair. You have to be mysterious, 
 to suffer, to make people wonder about you. And you have to 
 live for some one. And I think I know for whom."
 
 i6 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " Absurd ! " said Dolores. 
 
 She spoke lightly, but her expressive face had changed. A 
 faint look, as of dawning anxiety, that was surely the physical 
 reflection of a mental shadow, crossed it, darkening it strangely 
 for a moment. 
 
 " You are always divining secrets that do not exist/' she 
 added, with a little laugh. 
 
 "Secrets! Did I say there was a secret?" cried the little 
 Countess almost sharply. 
 
 She leaned forward over the tea-table, staring at Dolores 
 with her bright, red-brown eyes. 
 
 "You have told me!" she said slowly, nodding her head. 
 " You have told me ! " 
 
 "What have I told you?" 
 
 " Two things. That you do not live for your beautiful 
 husband, and that you have a secret. Ah, it is dangerous to 
 deny what no one has suggested, cara!" 
 
 She paused, then added with a shrewdness that in her took 
 the place of intellectuality: 
 
 " It shows how the mind is working far away under all the 
 words." 
 
 She nodded again with an air of wisdom, and sipped her 
 tea, keeping her ej'es fixed on Dolores. 
 
 "Are you going to hunt this winter?" she suddenly ex- 
 claimed, with a change of manner. 
 
 "No," said Dolores. 
 
 She spoke with a decision that was unexpected even by her- 
 self, for till that m.oment she had not thought about the ques- 
 tion of hunting. A defensive instinct, abruptly developed, 
 seemed to answer for her. 
 
 " I shall have such a lot to do getting into our new apart- 
 ment," she added, more easily, " arranging everything, making 
 it pretty. There are endless things to think of. Besides there 
 are so many expenses. We shall have to be quiet for a time." 
 
 " Quiet ! When the beautiful husband has become a mil- 
 lionaire! " 
 
 " He hasn't. People exaggerate frightfully. Besides " — 
 she suddenly thought of Lady Sarah, and resolved to call her 
 up as a reserve — " this winter I am going to study." 
 
 "Study!" exclaimed the Countess, with half -incredulous 
 amazement. 
 
 " Study Rome. I am ashamed at my ignorance of Rome. 
 Lady Sarah Ides — I was with her just now when I met you
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 17 
 
 — is going to show me all the beautiful things I ought to 
 have seen long ago." 
 
 " The old lady with the little hat on her left shoulder, and 
 the veil floating at — what is it when some one is dead?" 
 
 " Do vou mean half-mast ? " said Dolores in English. 
 
 " That is it." 
 
 " She knows Rome. We don't." 
 
 " It is her genre to know Rome. She is an old maid." 
 
 " Indeed she isn't. She has been married and had two chil- 
 dren." 
 
 "And where are they?" 
 
 " They are both dead, her husband too." 
 
 " Poor woman ! Then she must study. But j'Our husband 
 is not dead, and you have never lost any children because, like 
 me, you have never had any. Children ruin the figure. I 
 shall never have babies." 
 
 " What is my genre then? " asked Dolores to turn the con- 
 versation. 
 
 Although she was not a prude, the extreme frankness of 
 some of the women she met in Rome occasionally embarrassed 
 her. 
 
 " If I may not be a student, what may I be? " 
 
 Countess Boccara looked at Dolores with cool criticism over 
 her tea-cup. 
 
 " It is not your genre to carry a string bag full of Baedeker, 
 to spend the day in Catacombs where all is dark, and where a 
 dirty monk shows you round with a tallow candle, and to go 
 at five and have tea, with all the other string bags from, the 
 Catacombs, in the Piazza di Spagna, where the only men have 
 red noses, weak e3'es, no hair, drink cacao, and wipe their mous- 
 taches, which droop as the walrus, with paper napkins. No ! no ! " 
 
 Dolores could not help laughing at this picture of the lovers 
 of ancient Rome. 
 
 " Your genre is " she paused. 
 
 She becam.e grave, even earnest. And it was evident that 
 she was making an unusually conscious mental effort. 
 
 " Your genre is to love, to be loved, and perhaps to suffer 
 terribly, but always because of love. And you must do this in 
 a certain milieu; of cultivation, of beauty, of mondanity. You 
 must love, you must suffer en grande tenue, not with the little 
 hat on the left shoulder, and the gauze for the dead, like the 
 old lady who knows Rome. We are stamped, my dear, v.-hen 
 we are born, just as the new money is, and it is useless to trv
 
 i8 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 to get rid of our stamp. And if we did! Why we should 
 not pass any more! No one could buy anything with us." 
 
 " No one has bought anything with me," said Dolores with 
 sudden bitterness. 
 
 "What? not the beautiful husband? But he is so devoted 
 to you, is not he? Has he not bought with you all the happi- 
 ness of love ? " 
 
 Dolores, if she had done the natural thing at that moment, 
 would have cried, perhaps shrieked out: "No! No! He 
 has not! He has not!" Being who and what she was, and 
 where she was, in the great room with the green and gold col- 
 umns, the pink and red carpets, the cleverly arranged lights, 
 and the many softly gossiping women, she said: 
 
 " Give me another cup of tea, dear. Theo and I are a very 
 united couple, if that's what you mean. But you see, we don't 
 understand life quite as you do. We take matrimony much 
 more seriously than you and your Nino take it." 
 
 The Countess poured out the tea, and twisted her little nose. 
 
 " Oh, but my Nino would be quite ready to take it seriously 
 if I would," she said, handing the cup. 
 
 "Really! Then why don't you? " 
 
 " Because I have my stamp. And it isn't that sort." 
 
 She looked into a large mirror near by. 
 
 " With these clinging gowns, unless one has a figure like 
 mine one is simply a terror — the Colosseum trying to be the 
 Alhambra." Suddenly her pretty, vivacious face was illumi- 
 nated by a light of triumph. " There! And they say I know 
 nothing of antiquities!" she cried. 
 
 She seemed pleased with herself like a child. 
 
 " How I wish the old lady who knows Rome had heard 
 that!" she added. "People misunderstand me. They say I 
 am frivolous." 
 
 At this moment there appeared at the other end of the tea- 
 room a tall, serious-looking man with thick fair hair, a long 
 nose, and a monocle unattached to a string, escorting a pretty, 
 small woman, with golden hair, blunt features, rather promi- 
 nent cheeks, and china blue eyes, who was dressed in a short 
 green velvet dress, and who was accompanied by a little girl 
 v/ith a yellow pigtail tied with an immense black riband. 
 
 "There's Nino with his last lady love!" exclaimed the 
 Countess. " Mrs. Tooms, an American. Look, they are sit- 
 ting down! Nino won't see me. He never sees anything 
 when he wears his monocle."
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 19 
 
 " Do you know Mrs. Tooms ? " 
 
 ** No. But I know all I need to know about her — from 
 Nino. He does love telling me things. And he tells them 
 well, for a Roman. Of course Parisians are far more witty. 
 She's got a good figure, but onlj' because she knows where to 
 go for her corsets. Now I needn't wear a corset at all unless 
 I want to. That makes Nino angry, because at present he 
 wants to pretend that Mrs. Tooms, though she has three little 
 girls, has a better figure than mine. As if a man could judge 
 of such things! Are you going already?" 
 
 " I must. I have so much to do at home just now." 
 
 " Ahvays the excuse of the apartment! But wait one min- 
 ute! When will you dine with me? I want to give a little 
 dinner at the Grand." 
 
 Dolores hesitated, with her large eyes fixed on the lively face 
 of the Countess. 
 
 " No, I'm not going to ask the beautiful husband! " the lat- 
 ter said. " Nor Nino. What night is your husband en- 
 gaged? "_ 
 
 " I believe he's engaged on Thursday — a man's dinner at the 
 Embassy." 
 
 " Come on Thursday, at half-past eight — Grand Hotel." 
 
 " It's very nice of you," said Dolores, still with hesitation. 
 "But who is coming?" 
 
 " How suspicious you are ! " 
 
 The Countess laughed lightly and merrily like a mischievous 
 child. 
 
 " If you are afraid of any particular person, tell me. And 
 he shall not be asked." 
 
 " Afraid ! Whom should I be afraid of ? Of course I will 
 come." 
 
 " Looking like a lovely gazelle, with pathetic eyes. Cava, 
 I will tell you a secret. For me you are the most beautiful 
 person in Rome. You look as if you had lost something, and 
 were seeking it in the dark. If you ever find it — ah! then 
 you will be too beautiful ! We other women are ahvays pray- 
 ing you may not. But I have never told you about Nino at 
 Monte Carlo. Well, that must be for another time ! " 
 
 Dolores had not far to go. The words of the little Count- 
 ess were still in her ears and in her mind when the carriage 
 turned into the garden of the Palazzo Barberini, and circled 
 till it drew up under the colonnade. 
 
 " If you ever find it — ah! then you will be too beautiful! '*
 
 20 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 Were the other women praying? If so, their prayers had 
 been answered till now. Till now! They would always be 
 answered. 
 
 " What a ridiculous little fool I am to take anything Made- 
 leine Boccara says seriously," said Dolores to herself, as she 
 m.aunted the shallow stone stairs. 
 
 And of course she did not really take it seriously now that 
 she was self-conscious. She was not a vain woman, though 
 she cared to look her best, like most properly constituted 
 women. And she did not for a moment think she was the most 
 beautiful person in Rome, or even that the Countess thought 
 so. But as she came into the first of the noble rooms in their 
 apartment she stopped for a moment, with her eyes cast down, 
 and she said to herself that Madeleine Boccara had implied 
 one thing which was true. If she — Dolores — ever found 
 that something for which she was seeking in the dark, she 
 would indeed be far more beautiful. How well she knew that! 
 How well she had known it for years! For beauty is com- 
 pleteness, and then she would be complete. 
 
 "But I'm not seeking! I'm not seeking any longer!" she 
 murmured in her mind, telling herself a lie. " And so it's all 
 utterly absurd ! " 
 
 And she turned on the electric light fully, and began criti- 
 cally to look at the great room. 
 
 It was square and lofty, with a painted ceiling on which 
 Diana was represented bathing with attendant nymphs after a 
 hunting excursion. The walls were covered with stamped 
 Genovese leather, which gave to the room a rich and yet sober 
 appearance, dignified and serene. Furniture was scattered 
 about, but was not yet satisfactorily arranged. It looked tem- 
 porary, as if it had hurriedly been brought in there, and would 
 perhaps soon be as hurriedly carried out to some permanent 
 home. Dolores pressed her lips together, and walked on into 
 the next room, switching on the light there as she entered. 
 
 This was to be her special room, in which she could receive, 
 but in which she also meant to carry on many of her occupa- 
 tions when she was alone. Like the first it was large and high 
 with a painted ceiling, and much time and care had evidently 
 been spent on its arrangement. The prevailing colors in it 
 were a deep green and a very splendid red, almost such a red 
 as Gustave Moreau was obsessed by. Green and red damask 
 covered the walls, and damask curtains, surmounted by ancient 
 gold cornices, hung at the long windows. There was a full-
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 21 
 
 sized Stelnway grand piano in the room. There were no pic- 
 tures upon the walls, but several stood on easels. One, by 
 Lenbach, was of a very old man, with a high bald forehead, 
 long gray hair, and almost transparent temples, on which veins 
 like small dark snakes stood out. Under bushy eyebrows 
 blazed a pair of eyes that looked fierce with vitality, and an in- 
 telligence that was so penetrating as to be almost alarming. 
 Another was by a follower of Bocklin, and showed an old 
 ruddy Italian mansion Svtanding alone at the edge of a foaming 
 sea, which rolled over sands fringed by the noble trees of a 
 pinewood. A terrace with immense cypresses faced the white 
 waves, over which seabirds were wheeling. And upon the red 
 and crumbling w'all of the terrace leaned the figure of a woman 
 in a black dress, gazing out towards the horizon, from which 
 a storm was coming. Beneath this landscape was written In 
 gold letters: "Donna guarclando il mare." A third picture 
 was a portrait by Carolus-Duran of Dolores, in a gray and 
 gold dress, with a white Pomeranian dog nestled on the floor 
 against her skirt. It had been painted very soon after she 
 was married, and showed a face in which there was a wistful 
 mystery, but in which there was also hope. A Persian carpet, 
 in which many faint colors blended, covered the floor, and the 
 furniture was skillfully disposed to make the room, despite its 
 large size, look thoroughly cozy and inhabited. There were 
 several big azaleas blooming in Oriental jars, the air was 
 scented with roses, and, a rare thing in Rome, a great many 
 books were to be seen, in low and in revolving bookcases, and 
 scattered over tables. On the hearth was burning a small, but 
 very red and glowing, wood fire. Before it Nero sat down 
 with a heavy, snuffling sigh, turning his back to his mistress 
 with complete disregard of the proprieties. 
 
 Dolores stood looking about her. The room w^as very silent. 
 Yet presently she seemed to be listening. For her face wore a 
 look of sad and strained attention, and at last became set and 
 rigid, like the face of one making a violent effort of the will 
 or of the imagination. She clasped her hands together with 
 the palms held outwards, and her arms straight down against 
 her body. 
 
 Nero sighed again, and snuffled w'ith determination. It 
 seemed he had a cold. He drew closer to the fire, still keep- 
 ing his back to his mistress. There was in his appearance at 
 this moment an extraordinary' look of dull yet concentrated 
 egoism. Dolores glanced towards him and unclasped her
 
 22 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 hands. And her face, no longer rigid, changed, melting into 
 wistfulness and then into an almost despairing sadness. She 
 went to the portrait of herself, stood before it for a moment, 
 then crossed to a sofa by the fire, took off her hat and veil, laid 
 them down beside her, and leaned back. And, with Nero, 
 who seemed selfishly unaware of her presence, she stared into 
 the red glow, as the woman in the landscape on the easel stared 
 across the sea over which a storm was approaching. 
 
 She was roused by the sound of the door by which she had 
 come in being shut. 
 
 ''Oh, is that you, Theo?" she said. 
 
 She turned round. A very tall and lean, but well-set-up 
 man was standing just at the threshold of the room, looking 
 at it with brilliant, and luminous, but rather sad hazel eyes. 
 He wore a moustache and a pointed beard just touched with 
 gray. His very well-formed head was covered closely with 
 straight hair in which also there were many gray threads. His 
 complexion was dark and browned as if, naturally swarthy, 
 it had been much exposed to the sun at some time of his life. 
 His thin artistic hands were brown too, and looked eager and 
 sensitive, and his features were regular, sharply cut, and not 
 large. There was something restless and fiery, something 
 willful and critical, in his appearance. He was obviously a 
 very intelligent man, and he looked a sincere one. He looked 
 also like a man who would be subject to changing moods, and 
 who was what is called highly strung. There was a certain 
 resemblance of type between him and Dolores. Both were 
 tall, slight, dark, expressive and sensitive looking. But there 
 were a softness, a wistfulness, and a mystery in her which were 
 lacking in the man who stood near the door. He was keenly 
 masculine. That was obvious. And it was equally obvious 
 that she was almost touchingly feminine. 
 
 '' It is you ! What are you doing there? " 
 
 She leaned one arm on the back of the sofa, still turning 
 round towards him. 
 
 " Looking at the room," replied her husband. 
 
 He had a very deep and melodious bass voice, that was both 
 strong and soft, and that always attracted people to him. 
 
 " It's beginning to look like your room," he added, coming 
 forward slowly till he could see the fire, and Nero seated be- 
 fore it. 
 
 An expression of distaste twisted his features as he perceived 
 the dog, but he made no allusion to him.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 23 
 
 " The first drawing-room, of course, doesn't exist as yet," 
 lie continued. 
 
 " No. We must work at it." 
 
 She stifled a sigh. 
 
 " They really are splendid rooms," said Sir Theodore. " We 
 couldn't have made a better choice. But they need very per- 
 fect arranging. Luckily you and I are no fools about such 
 matters, Doloretta. We'll have it all beautiful, but we'll have 
 it cozy, too." 
 
 He drew out a cigar case, opened it, and took out a large, 
 light-colored Havana. 
 
 " I've got time before dinner, haven't I? " 
 
 A clock chimed, 
 
 "Only seven. I suppose the Tribuna hasn't come yet?" 
 
 " I haven't seen it," said Dolores. 
 
 Her husband lighted his cigar. He was still standing. She, 
 "with a supple movement, almost like a child's, had drawn up 
 her feet on to the sofa, and was sitting half curled up among 
 the cushions. 
 
 *' Shall I ring and ask? " she added. 
 
 " No, don't bother." 
 
 He seemed to hesitate. Then he said : 
 
 " My room doesn't do at all yet." 
 
 And he sat down in an armchair and stretched out his vtry 
 long legs. He was six foot three, but he was a graceful man, 
 with a singular ease of movement, so that his unusual height 
 never struck people disagreeably. 
 
 " Are you glad to be out of the Grand Hotel ? " he contin- 
 ued, pulling at his cigar. 
 
 " I shall be when everything is quite right. But there is 
 always something dreadful in rooms that are not finished and 
 have not been lived in, especially when they are so large as 
 these." 
 
 " Keep to this one." 
 
 " Yes, but one feels the others on either side." 
 
 " Sensitive plant." 
 
 He said it kindly, almost tenderly, and for a moment the 
 lips of Dolores quivered. 
 
 " Women are always affected by the little things connected 
 with a house, I suppose," she said, with an effort at careless 
 detachment. 
 
 " So are men, if they're at all like me, especially when they're 
 out of harness."
 
 24 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 He sighed, and immediately afterwards Nero sighed too, by 
 the fire. 
 
 Sir Theodore looked irritated. 
 
 " They have more time to notice and feel all the little 
 things," he added, " when they are out of harness." 
 
 Dolores was gazing at him now, but he was not looking at 
 her. He was staring towards the fire. 
 
 " Aren't you accustomed yet to being out of harness, Theo? " 
 she said. "It's a year now." 
 
 " Yes, just a year since we came to Rome, free people. I'm 
 thankful to be here instead of up in the Northern snows. But 
 still — well, I wish I were in Vienna, Doloretta, as Ambassa- 
 dor. I confess that. You would have made a delicious am- 
 bassadress. I should have been proud of you." 
 
 "As an ambassadress?" 
 
 She spoke with an emphasis that attracted his attention. He 
 looked away from the fire, in which, perhaps, he had seen the 
 Embassy at Vienna, 
 
 "What is it, Doloretta?" 
 
 " Only that I can't help wishing I were Her Excellency," 
 she answered lightly. 
 
 He looked at her Intently. 
 
 " Were you ambitious too ? " he asked. " Somehow, I never 
 thought so. Were you really ambitious?" 
 
 "Why not? Isn't It natural I should be?" 
 
 " But then, what a secretive Gazelle you are!" 
 
 He drew his chair forward a little nearer to the sofa. 
 
 " Were you very vexed with me for retiring? " he said. 
 
 " I was very sorry you retired." 
 
 "For yourself?" 
 
 " I was sorry on all accounts. I didn't think you were the 
 sort of man who could be happily Idle." 
 
 " But I've got so many tastes, so many hobbies." 
 
 He paused. Dolores was silent. 
 
 "Haven't I?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Surely," he spoke with a certain pressure — " surely I could 
 fill up my time far better than the average man?" 
 
 " Are you happily idle then ? " 
 
 She on her side showed curiosity, and she leaned forward as 
 she put the question, 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "You are!"
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 25 
 
 " I'm free of a great many duties that were tiresome, that 
 bored me, that would have been increased had I been miade 
 an ambassador. You have no idea — but of course you have. 
 Even at Tangier we had enough social ennui, hadn't we?" 
 
 " Let us congratulate ourselves on our escape ! " 
 
 Since he did not choose to be frank, neither did she. Her 
 voice seemed to imply that. 
 
 " We can both pursue our hobbies ferociously," she added. 
 " I my music, my reading, j-ou your antiquity hunting and 
 your fox hunting, your motoring, your sketching, your Rus- 
 sian. You can write a play if you like. When we were at 
 Tangier you often said you wished you had time to try to write 
 a play " 
 
 She broke off. She was not a good hand at sarcasm, and vras 
 soon exhausted by an effort unnatural to her. 
 
 " When one has no time for things one longs to do them. 
 But when one has unlimited time one sometimes realizes one's 
 limitations unpleasantly. I have diplomatic gifts. But as to 
 becoming a writer of plays, or, in fact of anything else — now, 
 it's too late. At fifty one is formicd, if not deform.ed." 
 
 Perhaps her attempt at satire had turned him towards the 
 truth he had seemed anxious to avoid. For now he said, with 
 a new gravity: 
 
 " Doloretta, it is getting in here, into this apartment, that 
 has done it." 
 
 "Done what, Theo?" 
 
 " Made me understand what a deuce of a mistake I made in 
 resigning. As long as we were sur la branche, in hotels, m,ov- 
 ing, staying in other people's houses, I could deceive myself, 
 could pretend I was taking a holiday. But now we are set- 
 tled, or nearly settled, the truth appears, and it is naked as 
 Adam before the Fall. The very first night we slept in this 
 apartment I realized Avhat a fool I had been." 
 
 Dolores had wanted the truth. Now that she had got it she 
 looked troubled. 
 
 " Did you? " she said, and her voice was blank. 
 
 Her husband got up and stood by the fireplace, which was 
 deep and high, and was surm.ounted by a handsome stone man- 
 telpiece with columns, and a frieze of little dancing boys. 
 
 " Yes. It is in one's home that one knows the real truth of 
 one's life." 
 
 ''Is it?" 
 
 " But surelv vou. a woman, must know that better than I! "
 
 26 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 He leaned one arm against the frieze, and looked down on 
 her from his great height. And his eyes were very earnest as 
 he went on. 
 
 " Outside, one is taken by the world, one is deafened by 
 voices, blinded by the cloud of little things that sweep upon 
 one like locusts and blot out the reality in which one is. One 
 might be anywhere. One doesn't see. But in one's own home 
 one sees. And now we are at home." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " When you come to think of it, Doloretta, this is really the 
 first time since we've been married that we've been in our very 
 own home, chosen by ourselves, in a place we selected. For a 
 diplomatist is always on the move, and has to go where he is 
 sent, and get what house or flat he can." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Though Dolores was monosyllabic her eyes w^ere becoming 
 almost horribly eloquent as she looked up at her husband. In 
 their depths fear seemed to lurk. Yet they asked for more 
 truth. And it seemed that he saw only that demand and not 
 the fear behind it. For he continued : 
 
 "Ten years married and this really our first home! Our 
 •wn shell! It is no wonder, I suppose, that it comes upon me 
 almost as a shock." 
 
 " A shock — to be in your own home ! " 
 
 " The novelty of it. It certainly is a beautiful home in a 
 beautiful city, but still " 
 
 " Theo," she said, and her manner and voice had completely 
 changed, were now eager, almost nervously anxious. " You are 
 like me. You are feeling the unfinished rooms on either side. 
 That's what it is. For a man you are very sensitive. You 
 ought never to have come in here till everything was in per- 
 fect order. I oughtn't to have let you come. You have begun 
 with a wrong impression. You dear old Theo! " — she smiled, 
 raising her eyebrows a little — " you were always depressed — 
 don't you remember? — when we arrived in the new places 
 you were accredited to." 
 
 " Was I ? But I didn't say I was depressed now, Dolo- 
 retta." 
 
 " You are. And it was always so. I recollect perfectly well 
 how miserable you were the first few days at the Hague." 
 
 "Oh, the Hague!" 
 
 " And it was just the same at Tangier." 
 
 " No, there you're really wrong, Doloretta."
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 27 
 
 He spoke decisively, and looked at her with a new, keen 
 penetration. 
 
 " There you're bluffing," he said. 
 
 He came away from the fireplace. 
 
 " Bluffing! " she exclaimed, almost as if in anger. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 He sat down beside her on the sofa, after removing her hat 
 and veil, and putting them on a table close by. 
 
 " Why are you trying to blufiE? " 
 
 She looked down. Her long eyelashes showed against the 
 beautiful pallor of her face. Her husband noticed them, and 
 remembered how he had delighted in them when he first fell in 
 love with Dolores. It had perhaps been very absurd, but he 
 believed that he had first fallen in love with those long and 
 curling eyelashes. They had seemed to mean — what ? A 
 whole world of delicious, sensitive, shrinking, promising woman- 
 liness as they showed against the soft cheeks. They had touched 
 him, he remembered, in the innermost part of his nature; had 
 stirred within him a protective instinct that was acquisitive 
 and not wholly without brutality; they had filled him with the 
 mysterious longings of a complete man, longings that come 
 surely from God, and reach out towards God, and that make a 
 man glow with a splendid wonder at himself, at the stirring 
 of the strange living force which is his essence. 
 
 Now, as he looked at them, he still felt a tenderness, a pro- 
 tectiveness, but he felt also a sense of frustration that was cold 
 and almost terrible. 
 
 " What is the good of it ? " he said after a pause. 
 
 Dolores still looked down in silence, without moving. 
 
 " Come with me," said her husband, as if taking a sudden 
 resolution. 
 
 He stretched out his brown, eager-looking hand, and took 
 one of her hands, and got up. She obeyed his movement, and 
 he led her through the beautiful, but still partially chaotic 
 apartment, into the room that was to be his, the boudoir, the 
 great dining-room, the hall, into their immense bedroom and 
 the rooms for guests. In all, except in their bedroom and in 
 the room they had quitted, the furniture was not yet arranged. 
 In some the curtains were not yet hung nor the carpets laid 
 down. 
 
 "It's not ready! It's not in order, Theo!" Dolores kept 
 murmuring. "Wait a little! .You must give me time, 
 Theo!"
 
 23 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 He said nothing, only clasped her hand more tightly and led 
 her on. 
 
 " You oughtn't to have come in till everything was ready," 
 she said. " I always knew it. I always knew! " 
 
 At last they returned to her drawing-room. Sir Theodore 
 shut the door behind them. 
 
 "This room is ready, isn't it?" he said. "Isn't It, Dolo- 
 retta?" 
 
 " Yes," she answered. 
 
 " And Isn't It In just this room that one feels It most ? 
 Doesn't It cut into you most sharply, deeply, here? " 
 
 "Cut into you — what?" 
 
 For an instant there was the look almost of a supplicating 
 slave in her small face. 
 
 " The truth, that we are failures, you and I, Doloretta." 
 
 With an abrupt movement he sprang forward to the hearth 
 where Nero, who had taken no notice of their departure or 
 return, was still sitting In a humped position, looking egoistic 
 and dull, caught the dog up by the scruff of his neck, and held 
 him at arm's length towards Dolores. 
 
 '^ This is all we've got ! Does this make a home for a man? " 
 he said, almost with violence. 
 
 Nero struggled, writhed, coughed, blinked, and shed drops 
 of sticky moisture from his bulging eyes. 
 
 " Look at It ! All we've got, you and I, to make a home — 
 after ten years ! " 
 
 He dropped the now shrieking dog to the carpet. 
 
 " And each other, Theo? And our love? " almost whispered 
 Dolores. 
 
 Over her white face a flush, that was like a flush of shame, 
 had spread. Her husband stared at the carpet. 
 
 " Forgive me ! Forgive me ! " he said at last, slowly and 
 without looking at his wife. " But — I've been to Denzil's to- 
 day, and ..." 
 
 " I knew it! " said Dolores. " I knew It! " 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 Francis Denzil had been Sir Theodore's best man when he 
 and Dolores were married, and had himself been married six 
 weeks later to Edna Masslngham, a girl of whom It had been 
 often said by her friends and acquaintances, " Edha ought to
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 29 
 
 get a good husband. She would make such a perfect wife and 
 mother." She had now fulfilled her destiny. She had weeded 
 the man she loved and had become the mother of three children, 
 a boy and two girls. Sir Theodore was the eldest child's, the 
 boy's, godfather, and this adored firstborn had been called by 
 his name. 
 
 Francis Denzil, like Sir Theodore, had entered the diplo- 
 matic service, but, unlike his friend, he had remained in it, 
 and was now, at the age of forty, Councillor of the British 
 Embassy in Rome, after periods of service at Berlin, Paris, 
 Belgrade and other places. Although apparently a satisfactory, 
 and certainly a clever and industrious diplomatist, Denzil lacked, 
 or was thought by some to lack, more than one of the qualifi- 
 cations for complete success in the profession he had adopted. 
 He cared little for society, and was by nature what the English 
 sometimes call " a home bird." Simple and direct in manner 
 he was uncompromising in opinion. He v^as not supple or 
 adaptable, never pretended to care for anything he did not like, 
 however fashionable it might chance to be at the moment, and 
 was so honest and genuine that the socially insincere thought 
 him brusque. He hated cards, had given up dancing when he 
 married, and never dreamed of flirting with his neighbor's wife. 
 Although he did not wear glasses, and his gray eyes, set wide 
 apart in his large head, looked as if they saw very w'ell ail that 
 was going on around him, he was in reality short-sighted. This 
 fact, which was unknown to most people, caused him to stare 
 sometimes at those about him in a manner which disconcerted 
 them, and which had earned for him the name of " the basilisk.'* 
 In fulfilling what he regarded as his diplomatic duties he was 
 indefatigable, but he did not seem to consider that among them 
 was numbered the duty of being socially charming to those for 
 whom he cared nothing, or of whom he actively disapproved. 
 One fascinating woman, half Polish, half Sicilian, when the new 
 Councillor was once being discussed in her presence by a coterie 
 of Romans, had dismissed liim with five words of mingled 
 French and Italian, " C'est un Anglais, e hasta." 
 
 Mrs. Denzil was charming for both herself and her husband. 
 She had loved and married him for his strong honesty and his 
 absolute sincerity, and had ever since laid herself out to make 
 up for his social shortcomings, which she seldom hinted at to 
 him, and which she secretly adored. 
 
 She was not beautiful, and when beside a woman like Dolores 
 looked plain, but everybody thought her, and called her, a charm-
 
 30 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 Ing woman. On her mother's side she was Italian and she was 
 rather dark than fair, with a good figure, pretty hair, and grace- 
 ful movements. But her features were irregular and indefinite, 
 and she had one decided defect, a cast in the left eye. Some- 
 how — for cannot the charming woman achieve the miraculous 
 at will? — Mrs, Denzil became additionally attractive by reason 
 of this defective eye. It appealed, and not in vain, to the hearts 
 oi both women and men. It gave to her face a look of excep- 
 tional, and tenderly odd naturalness, as if she gazed at you like 
 that, de travers, because she knew you were really her friend 
 and wouldn't mind. It established a sort of confidential 
 relation with you, as a told secret may. Very few could re- 
 sist it, but of that fact Mrs. Denzil seemed quite unaware. 
 She had no self-consciousness, and lived genuinely for, and in, 
 others. 
 
 Denzil worshiped his wife and his children, but it is doubt- 
 ful whether he realized how much the former was perpetually 
 doing, without ostentation, to further his career. He was am- 
 bitious, and meant to rise to the top of his profession, and to be 
 a successful ambassador. And he knew that his brains and his 
 talents entitled him to succeed where others, far less clever than 
 himself, had managed to avoid failure. But, with his nature, 
 he could not perceive his shortcomings on the social side of life, 
 and therefore could not see clearly how his wife, without ever 
 acknowledging them, strove to cover them up. If he did a 
 brusque thing to some one she did something charming to the 
 same person. If he made a gaffe, as he occasionally did, she 
 acted the repentance which seldom dawned in his mind or heart. 
 If he, being short-sighted, passed some one y/hom he did not 
 specially approve of, and who had fallen among thieves, by on 
 the other side, she played the part of the good Samaritan and 
 was liberal with the oil and wine and the money for the land- 
 lord. 
 
 The Denzils were not very well of^ for people in diplomacy, 
 and therefore, having three angels, they were obliged to be 
 careful. And here again Mrs. Denzil did wonders without let- 
 ting them be known. She practised an economy that was as 
 secret as if it had been criminal. And this virtue in her was 
 the more gracious, because she was naturally open-handed. So 
 was her husband. But whereas he often gave way to his im- 
 pulse, and for that was praised and admired, Mrs. Denzil us- 
 ually did secret violence to hers, and, but for her charm and 
 clever privacy, might have been considered close and contriving.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 31 
 
 As it was she just escaped, and was only dubbed by a few Eng- 
 lish, " an admirable manager," and by some Italians " una 
 buona donna di casa." 
 
 She was always well though quietly dressed, and always per- 
 fectly coiffee; but no one ever saw her in a really expensive 
 gown, except perhaps now and then at a Court ball ; and she 
 had never worn a hat that cost as much as five pounds, unless 
 some relation had given it to her. 
 
 Of the three children who had increased and fortified the 
 Denzils' love, Theodore, the eldest, was eight years and some 
 months old, Iris was six, and Viola was three. Theodore re- 
 sembled his mother in one important respect. He was plain, 
 but so charming that no one ever thought coldly about his 
 looks, or " picked them to pieces." His little nose was not 
 very well formed, but it looked so innocent, and turned up 
 slightly above such a kind and trustful small mouth, and below 
 a pair of such sincere and friendly brown eyes, that most of the 
 boy Theo's friends would have been shocked and grieved had 
 it abruptly become Grecian. His hair was brown and quite 
 straight, and often hung down near his ej^es. He was ver>' 
 slight, a mere wisp of a boy, but agile, gentle but plucky, and 
 extremely considerate of the feelings of others. Indeed in a 
 child his thoughtfulness for those around him was almost un- 
 canny. It was, perhaps, this trait in her little son that Mrs. 
 Denzil most loved. As to his brains they were almost as good 
 as his heart. He was quick-witted, very ardent and imagi- 
 native, and full of fire. And he had a marked sense of what 
 was dramatic. 
 
 Iris was a serious child, short-sighted like her father, and 
 staring somewhat in his manner. She was kind but rather 
 deliberate, and liked to sum people up before she admitted 
 them within the golden circle of her confidence. When with 
 those she did not care about she sometimes had an air of boredom 
 that was comic. Her father called her " the female diploma- 
 tist," and declared that he often took her opinion when he was 
 doubtful about any point connected with foreign policy, and that 
 she always guided him aright. She was pretty and fair, rather 
 massive, and had a will of iron, which could, however, be made 
 almost as wax by music, to which she was fervently devoted. 
 As wax melts before a hot fire so would the iron will of Iris 
 melt before a tune. She always looked the picture of health, 
 and had never had a serious illness. 
 
 Little Viola was more like her brother, but she was less
 
 32 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 fiery and dramatic than he was, and occasionally indulged in 
 languors that seemed willful. iHer father said that she gave 
 herself airs, but he loved her airs. She had less will than 
 Iris, but more quickness of mind and more charm. By accom- 
 modating herself to people she attracted them to her, and estab- 
 lished an ascendancy over them, whereas Iris appeared to wish 
 for a worthy circle of friends who would suit themselves to 
 her without giving her trouble. Iris had something of the 
 judge in her composition, Viola much of the siren. 
 
 Of these three children, Theodore had been born in Paris, 
 Iris in Belgrade, Viola in Athens. Theodore already spoke 
 three languages — English, French, and Italian ; the last not 
 well. And he and his sisters were quite cosmopolitan. 
 
 Although Mrs. Denzil understood the art of dress, and was 
 full of natural charm, she was not a woman of m.uch knowledge, 
 and had something of the average Italian's carelessness and 
 ignorance in all matters connected with houses, their decora- 
 tion and arrangement. She did not put up white lace curtains 
 in front of her windows, and pin photographs and picture post- 
 cards on them, or set Japanese fans in the grate, but she had 
 little of that sense of the beauty and comfort desirable in living 
 rooms Vi^hich is characteristic of most modern Englishwomen 
 in her class of life. 
 
 Although her father had been an Englishman she was on the 
 whole more Italian than English, and she showed this in many 
 ways, among them in this lack of the English sense of household 
 coziness and beauty. She was careful to have a good cook, and 
 was never untidy. But she did not mind combinations of color 
 that would have rendered life hideous to Dolores, and an ar- 
 rangement of furniture so formal as to chill her to the bone. 
 Francis Denzil had better taste in these respects than his wife, 
 but he was the type of man who leaves these things to the 
 woman if he has one in his life. He always took Edna's advice 
 when they had to choose a new abode. And as he left to her 
 the engaging of servants, the selecting of clothes for the children, 
 and the leaving of cards, so he left to her the arrangement of 
 furniture, the placing of cushions, and the decoration of rooms. 
 Only in his own sitting-room did he allow himself a free hand. 
 And his free hand meant plenty of newspapers, books and cigars, 
 a very large writing-table, capacious chairs, and a window 
 thrown wide open. 
 
 Sir Theodore and Denzil had been friends from their youth, 
 although there was a difference of ten years in their ages.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 33 
 
 Their families lived in the same county, Worcestershire. The 
 fact that both had chosen the same profession had perhaps drawn 
 them more closely together. But it had also often put leagues 
 of space between them. Never since their respective marriages 
 had they been accredited to the same embassy. And so it had 
 chanced that till Sir Theodore retired the intercourse between 
 the friends and their wives had been rare, and had taken place in 
 England during periods of leave. 
 
 Dolores had never regretted this. She admired Edna Denzil's 
 character. She respected her. She even felt her charm and 
 liked her. But she wished to be far away from her. For Mrs. 
 Denzii was the fruitful and she was the barren vine. It tor- 
 tured Dolores to see the happy Denzii household, to return 
 from it to her own empty and silent interior. It tortured her 
 still more to knovv' that her husband saw it, compared the one 
 home with the other, compared his — the barren vine — with 
 his friend's vine that was fruitful. 
 
 Mrs. Denzii had the boy Theo, Iris and Viola. She, Dolores, 
 had — some dog. 
 
 When, a year ago, Sir Theodore had retired, he and his wife 
 had come to Rome for the winter, partly because Rome was a 
 delightful city to winter in, but partly also because Denzii was 
 Councillor of the British Embassy. Dolores had not liked to 
 resist her husband's suggestion that they should pass six months 
 in Rome. She was a very sensitive woman, but she was also, 
 despite her almost clinging femininity, a proud woman. And 
 she thought that jealousy was the most humiliating of the mental 
 and affectional afflictions of poor humanity. To feel jealousy 
 was to feel as if one were being rolled in the dust. To shov/ 
 jealousy! That was to summon the world to look at your 
 degradation. 
 
 So the Cannynges came to Rome and stayed in the Grand 
 Hotel for the winter. 
 
 From the first week of their arrival Dolores dated the be- 
 ginning for her of a period of secret misery, which seemed to 
 increase day by day till it held her in a cold grip that was 
 like a grip of iron. 
 
 Naturally Sir Theodore, now released from work, saw a 
 great deal of his friend, Denzii. Naturally he was often in 
 Denzil's flat in the Via Venti Settembre. And there he was 
 greeted by little voices, was made a slave by little tyrants. 
 There he found the family, which at the Grand Hotel was rep- 
 resented by Apache, a bull terrier, the predecessor of Nero.
 
 34 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 Sir Theodore was one of those men in whom the natural in- 
 stinct of man to reproduce his species was almost a passion. He 
 loved children, and, because of that, children loved him. They 
 went to him at once, as a puppy goes to a dog lover, with per- 
 fect confidence and almost in a hurry, intent on sympathy and 
 petting. And, of course, they got both. He understood chil- 
 dren. And he had meant with all his soul to have children of 
 his own. And Sir Theodore's meaning was no slight thing. 
 In his nature there was much intensity. Even his hands showed 
 that to the keen observer. He had Celtic and Latin blood in 
 his veins, Irish and Cornish strains, and French blood through 
 his mother. 
 
 Yet he did not marry till he was forty. 
 
 This delay was caused by his strong hold upon the genuine, 
 the central things of life. He was not a man who could marrj' 
 merely in order to have children. Perfect children such as he 
 desired, could only spring, he believed, from the strong love 
 of a man and a woman, must be the beautiful effect of a 
 beautiful cause. In his youth he loved and he loved tragically. 
 His fiancee M^as burnt to death at a Christmas-tree party three 
 weeks before the day fixed for his wedding. Fourteen years 
 passed by before he again lighted his torch at the sacred fire. 
 He met Dolores, then a mere girl, in Paris, where she was 
 passing a few weeks of the spring with her parents, and where 
 he was attached to the British Embassy. He fell deeply in 
 love with her. 
 
 Sir Theodore was one of those mercurial warm-blooded and 
 highly intelligent men who remain always young and ardent. 
 At thirty-nine he was more fascinating than most of the gay 
 youths who were dancing, flirting and proposing in Paris. He 
 completely captivated Dolores, and, when she was just under 
 twenty and he was just forty, they were married. Both thought 
 that they were entering a Paradise which was the anteroom to 
 Heaven. And for a time they dwelt in Paradise. But when 
 they sought to pass on they found that the door which opened to 
 the Denzils remained firmly closed against them. For a long 
 time they beat at that door. Then at last they recoiled. And 
 were they still in Paradise? Neither ever asked the other. 
 And their silence gradually became like a cloud which enveloped 
 them. 
 
 Never had it been broken until that evening when Sir Theo- 
 dore, returning from a visit to the Denzils where he had been 
 playing with the children, found Dolores alone with Nero in
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 35 
 
 their unfinished apartment. That evening the cloud was split 
 asunder as b)' lightning. 
 
 Such an outburst from her husband was unprecedented. Yet 
 it did not surprise Dolores. On the contrary, it seemed to her 
 inevitable. It seemed to her as if the previous winter they had 
 passed in Rome, as if the days of this subsequent autumn, had 
 been but a prolonged preparation for her husband's cry as he 
 held the writhing dog towards her. 
 
 For fourteen years Theo had foregone the chance of having 
 children because of his secret romance, had curbed his great 
 desire lest he should stumble blindly into the second best, which 
 is the shadow of love. Knowing the ardor of his temperament 
 Dolores knew what that period of waiting must have cost him. 
 
 And since then he had waited ten years. 
 
 So long as he had remained in diplomacy he had maintained a 
 strong hold on the zest and the glory of life. For he was a 
 man with ambition, and had a quick intellect as well as an 
 eager heart. Even when he had left the diplomatic service, in 
 a fit of irritation and disappointment brought on by his not 
 receiving the post at Vienna which he considered his due, he 
 had not seen quite clearly, perhaps, the failure of his life. But 
 Dolores had known that he would see it, that a day must come 
 when the last covering w^ould be stripped away and the naked 
 truth appear. She had been dreading the dawning of that day, 
 she had made desperate efforts to delay its arrival, had striven 
 to fill Theo's life, to occupy his mind, to entertain his intellect, 
 to find food for his attention. But when he was not with her, 
 and she knew he was at the Denzils', she felt the advance of 
 the moment she feared, and she tried to brave herself to en- 
 counter It. Women often know what must come when men 
 do not, and women who love deeply know best of all. Dolores 
 loved her husband deeply, and she had long realized what effect 
 the intercourse with the Denzils must have upon him. Never- 
 theless the egoism of his cry had cut her to the quick. 
 
 Her heart seemed to be laid bare, abruptly, ruthlessly. She 
 gazed at it and shuddered. And that vision had drawn from 
 her the murmur, almost a sigh, In which for a moment pride 
 was submerged by love. Then as her husband asked mechanic- 
 ally for forgiveness, and almost simultaneously seemed to seek 
 justification by his mention of the Denzils, Dolores spoke her 
 three words, took up her hat and veil, and went quietly out of 
 the mom. 
 
 " Forgive me ! Forgive me ! " Her husband's exclamation
 
 36 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 still rang in her ears. But she knew that what he was trying 
 to do in his heart was this: he was trying to forgive her for 
 never having borne him a child. 
 
 That was what ten years of devotion to her husband had 
 ended in. That was the reward of her love. 
 
 As she opened the door and came into their big bedroom — 
 new home of their m.arried life — she felt physically numb. 
 She put away the hat and veil, and remained standing in the 
 middle of the room. 
 
 After all, what difference could words make between Theo 
 and her? The silence had been speaking for years. 
 
 Dolores said that to herself. But she knevv^ that the words 
 just spoken had made an immense difference. Never again 
 could her relation with Theodore be exactly what it had been 
 until now. 
 
 A small sound made her start. She turned sharply and lis- 
 tened. She had shut the bedroom door behind her. The sound 
 had seemed to come from there. 
 
 After a pause it came again. And this time she knew what 
 it was. Nero was scratching at the door. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 That night the Cannynges were dining out with some English 
 friends in the Via Gregoriana, and they did not meet till the 
 carriage was at the door. When Sir Theodore came out of 
 his dressing-room, arranging a white silk handkerchief round 
 his dark throat, and carrying a soft black hat, Dolores met him 
 as if nothing had happened to disturb their usual relations. He 
 touched her shoulder gently. 
 
 " What a pretty cloak, Doloretta ! " he said. 
 
 "Do you think so?" 
 
 " One of the prettiest )'0u have ever had. You should alway? 
 wear the deep colors that one can look down into. They seem 
 to carry on your beauty, to complete a scheme. Nothing shal- 
 low belongs to you. I wonder whom we shall meet to-night." 
 
 He helped her carefully into the carriage. 
 
 So the long silence that, like a cloud, had lifted for a moment, 
 closed round them again. 
 
 Dolores had felt sure that it would be so. Her husband 
 was essentially well-bred. She had known, as she thought over 
 their situation while she was dressing, that when he was alone
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 37 
 
 and grew calm, he would consider his sudden outburst as a 
 lapse from his ideal of conduct. She had been almost certain 
 that he would try to atone for it. 
 
 As the carriage descended the hill to the Piazza she was 
 thankful she had married a subtle man. A blunderer might 
 have entered into apologies and explanations. She could not 
 have endured that. In her present condition of nerves she 
 must have unfastened the carriage door and jumped out had any 
 such probe been inserted into her wound. 
 
 But though in that moment Dolores was thankful, as she 
 entered once more into the silence, long afterwards, remem.ber- 
 ing that short drive over the pavements of Rome, she thought 
 it v/ould have been far better if she and Theo had acted at 
 that crisis in their lives as more vulgar, and less sensitive people 
 would probably have acted, if they had opened their hearts to 
 each other, had said and shown all that there was to be said 
 and shown. 
 
 But they had had to act according to their characters and 
 their traditions, she supposed. Their freedom had been as the 
 freedom of those animals in the open air menagerie at Ham- 
 burg, greater than that of the creatures in the cage, but how 
 far less than that of the creatures in the forest. She longed 
 to go away at once from Rome. If she had acted according 
 to impulse she Vv'ould have tried to persuade her husband to let 
 their apartment, and she would have taken him traveling over 
 the world to wonderful lands he had not yet seen. She would, 
 perhaps, have played a comedy, such as is easily played by the 
 clever, not too scrupulous woman, have pretended to break down 
 in health, and persuaded a doctor to order her away. But there 
 was a certain native sincerity in her character. It added to 
 her charm in the opinion of many people, among whom was her 
 husband. But it occasionally fought against her worldly in- 
 terests. She resigned herself to living in Rome, and resolved, 
 In that first moment of bitter contriving, to use her woman's 
 arts more earnestly to make Theo forget the truth which he 
 had so abruptly proclaimed, that their married life was a failure 
 because it had not been blessed by children. Next day she gave 
 Nero away, and she wrote a note to Lady Sarah asking her to 
 come and see the apartment in the Palazzo Barberini. 
 
 But Lady Sarah had been called to Naples by the illness of 
 a little Italian protegee there, whom she had found abandoned, 
 and on the edge of the life of the abyss, and whom she had set 
 up In business as a laundress. She wrote that sjie hoped to be
 
 38 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 back in Rome on the following Friday morning, and would 
 come in the afternoon of that day. Dolores, who was in that 
 condition of nervous excitement which demands imperiously 
 to be fed with action, was disproportionately disappointed, was 
 even absurd enough to feel almost angry with Lady Sarah. 
 And now that she knew the latter could not come before Friday 
 she realized that she had especially wanted, even needed, to 
 see her by Thursday, the day of Countess Boccara's dinner at 
 the Grand Hotel, However, there was nothing to be done. 
 She wrote fixing Friday afternoon for Lady Sarah's visit, and 
 then she set actively to work to get the apartment thoroughly 
 arranged and in perfect order. 
 
 Into this business she threw herself with an energy that was 
 almost feverish, and she involved Sir Theodore in it, too. That 
 was not difficult, for he was a man who really cared about 
 beauty in his home, and understood how it could be created. 
 And that desire of the gentleman within him to atone for his 
 lapse from his long silence persisted, and made him very gentle, 
 very gallant with Dolores, anxious to please, perhaps to comfort 
 her in the days that immediately followed that revelation of his 
 bitterness. 
 
 She thought he was really interested in all they were doing, 
 and her heart grew a little lighter, and she said to herself that 
 perhaps her fears had been exaggerated, her anxiety, almost 
 terror, about the future unfounded. But there is a sound in 
 a man's voice at certain moments that cannot be misinterpreted 
 by a woman — the sound of his inmost heart. Dolores had 
 heard it. She would never be able to forget it. 
 
 By Thursday morning the apartment had been transformed 
 and was, as Dolores expressed it, " livable," though there were 
 still many last touches to be added, and no doubt by degrees 
 Theo and she would pick up many beautiful things to make it 
 more attractive. So busy had they been that Sir Theodore had 
 apparently never found time to notice the disappearance of 
 Nero. At any rate he had never alluded to it. Dolores thought 
 at first that he was not aware that the dog had been got rid 
 of, then that he knew it but did not care to speak of it, for fear 
 of recalling that horrible evening. But on Thursday, when 
 they felt that they might rest from their labors, Sir Theodore 
 said: 
 
 "What's become of the Egoist, Doloretta?" 
 
 "The Egoist?" 
 
 "Nero!"
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 39 
 
 " I've given him away, to Etta Albano," she answered, look- 
 ing down. " She was longing to have him, and the servants 
 didn't like him. They said he was spoiling the furniture and 
 the curtains. I didn't want to have a fuss with new servants, 
 so I thought it best to get rid of him." 
 
 She spoke quite naturally, and her figure looked very calm 
 as she stood near one of the tall windows lit up by the bright 
 sun of the November morning. A tender, and yet a sad 
 look came into her husband's bright eyes, but he only said : 
 
 " I think you were wise, Doloretta. Let us look out for a 
 dog less rare and less conscious of his rarity; shall we? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't know, Theo. I think perhaps we'd better do 
 vv^ithout a dog at all. We'll see later. There's plenty of time. 
 And there's so much to do in Rome that really a dog might be 
 rather a nuisance here. You know how tiresome it was about 
 Apache at the Grand." 
 
 " Yes, but here we are at home. And I know you love dogs." 
 
 " I'm not sure that I do. But there's plenty of time to think 
 about it. By the way, did I tell you I've arranged to dine 
 with Madeleine Boccara to-night as you're going to the Em- 
 bassy." 
 
 Sir Theodore slightly twisted his face, rather as he had when, 
 coming in from the Denzils, he had seen Nero enthroned before 
 the fire. 
 
 "The little Boccara! Do you really like her Dolores?" 
 
 " Yes. She amuses me, and she's a kind little thing." 
 
 " I don't doubt it. Who's to be there? "' 
 
 *' She didn't tell me." 
 
 *' Not her husband, I imagine," said Sir Theodore, with a 
 light sarcasm. 
 
 " No, he is not coming." 
 
 "Poor Boccara! He's a fool and has never done a stroke 
 of honest work in his life. But I pity him." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Imagine a good honest normal, if stupid, man married to 
 a human being that lives solely for its diabolical waist." 
 
 "Its!" 
 
 " Oh, I speak advisedly. There's very little of the true she- 
 dom we men adore in the waist w^orshiper, who immolates — ■ 
 immolates on the unfragrant altar erected to the great god 
 Vanity." 
 
 " What does Madeleine Boccara immolate? " 
 
 " Dolores, you know as well as I do."
 
 40 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 Dolores slightly reddened and there was a moment of silence. 
 
 " Boccara's peccadilloes are many," Sir Theodore said at 
 last. " But if sins are ever forgiven I think his will be. He 
 shouldn't have gone to France for a wife." 
 
 There the conversation ended. 
 
 In the evening, just before Dolores went to dress, her hus- 
 band said to her: 
 
 " What do you say to asking the Denzils in to dine on Sunday 
 night to bless our roof-tree? " 
 
 He spoke as if half jocosely, to cover — she felt sure — a 
 note of doubt in his deep and melodious voice. 
 
 " Of course," she answered quickly, " I want them to see all 
 we have done." 
 
 She slightly hesitated. Then she added: 
 
 " Do you want to have them alone ? " 
 
 " Have you any one else In mind? " 
 
 " I only thought we might ask Lady Sarah Ides." 
 
 "Old Lady Sally? Of course! She's a good sort. Her 
 hat may be in the wrong, but her heart's in the right place. 
 iWe'll ask her blessing too." 
 
 " Thank you, Theo." 
 
 She went away rather slowly to dress. 
 
 Sir Theodore had started for the British Embassy some time 
 before Dolores was ready. His dinner was at eight. As she 
 came into the drawing-room instinctively she looked towards 
 the fire, and she found herself missing Nero. Now that the 
 apartment was finished, now that she was quite alone in it at 
 night, she had time to miss things. Perhaps, after all, she 
 would have to get another dog. The servant came to say the 
 carriage was at the door. 
 
 " I will come in five minutes," she said. 
 
 It was time to go. Yet she lingered. All day long a faint 
 disinclination to go to this dinner had beset her. With the 
 falling of darkness it had grown stronger. It was no longer 
 faint. Suppose she sent the carriage with a note to say she 
 felt ill, had a cold, a headache, and could not come? Madeleine 
 Boccara would be furious. But would that matter ver>' much ? 
 She went to the writing-table, sat down and took up a pen. 
 Leaning her elbow on the table, and keeping the pen in her 
 hand, she turned her little head and looked again towards the 
 hearth. If only there had been a dog sitting before it she 
 would have written that note, and stayed at home to-night. 
 But she had not the courage to remain quite alone. Denzil
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 41 
 
 would be dining at the Embassy. Perhaps Theo would go back 
 to the flat in the Via Venti Settembre after the dinner to smoke 
 a cigar. Perhaps he would go softly into certain rooms, to 
 look at three little sleepers, to listen to the soft and regular 
 breathing that stirred through the happy night three little in- 
 nocent bosoms. 
 
 Dolores dropped the pen, drew her cloak round her, and went 
 down to the carriage. 
 
 The little Countess was waiting for her in the white hall 
 surrounded by several people, nearly all of them Sicilians who 
 had come to spend part of the season in Rome, and who would 
 return to Palermo for the late spring. Her figure, encased 
 in a white and gold gown of some fragile material that fitted, 
 it seemed, rather closer than a skin, looked more astonishing 
 than ever. As, taking tiny steps, for her skirt was tied closely 
 in behind, and appeared to be persistently embracing her high 
 little heels, she came to meet Dolores, all the women in the room 
 regarded her waist, that marvelous waist to which her existence 
 was dedicated. Their faces showed concentrated Interest, com- 
 bined surely with reluctant admiration. One of them, a beauti- 
 ful dark woman, with heavy eyes, which looked full of sultry 
 and brooding things, as she gazed, put up her right hand to her 
 own waist, and, drawing herself up, stood very erect. Her 
 husband, a handsome Barone, with a keen and wandering eye, 
 was just coming into the room. She had given him a splendid 
 son, to bear his title in due time, and to carry on his line, but — 
 he had a keen and wandering eye. 
 
 " Cara" said Countess Boccara, holding the hand of Dolores 
 with gentle persistence, and looking at her face, her hair, her 
 jewels, her gown, with eyes that gathered knowledge with the 
 fearful celerity of the Frenchwoman. " I did not think you 
 would come to-night, so now I thank the Padre Eterno," 
 
 " But why should I not come? " said Dolores, feeling almost 
 guilty as she remembered her hesitation at the writing-table. 
 
 " I do not know. But I scarcely thought you would." 
 
 She let go the hand of Dolores. 
 
 " Are we dining with all these people? " Dolores asked, look- 
 ing towards the group of Sicilians. " I thought you said " 
 
 ** No, no. We are only four. A man for you and a man 
 for me. Ecco! Come, let us sit down." 
 
 " And who are our men ? " asked Dolores, when they were 
 ensconced, she in an armchair. Countess Boccara in a hard chair 
 on which she sat bolt upright."
 
 if2 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " Mine is Montebruno." 
 
 ** Do you mean Marchese Giorgio Montebruno who " 
 
 " Has only one mistress — the gaming table," interposed the 
 Countess. " Yes, it is he. Do you liice him? " 
 
 "I scarcely know him. And mine?" 
 
 "Guess!" 
 
 " I cannot." 
 
 " Whom of all the men in Rome would you like best to meet 
 to-night?" 
 
 Dolores slightly moved her slender shoulders, and her soft 
 lips looked faintly arrogant. 
 
 " Barring your beautiful husband," added the Countess with 
 malice. 
 
 " Why all this mystery about a mere man ? " asked Dolores 
 with serene indifiference. 
 
 Countess Boccara looked at her in silence for a minute. Then 
 she said : 
 
 " It is Cesare Carelli." 
 
 "Oh." 
 
 The unmeaning word was absolutely colorless as it came 
 from the lips of Dolores. 
 
 " Here he is," added the Countess. " And there is Monte- 
 bruno in the lobby." 
 
 A strongly built, but graceful man of about thirty was com- 
 ing quietly towards them, with the complete ease and lack of 
 self-consciousness characteristic of well-bred Italians. Neither 
 tall nor short he was intensely masculine in appearance. Some 
 men seem far more male than others, as some women seem far 
 more female than other women. An atmosphere of sex sur- 
 rounds them. Cesare Carelli was one of these almost violently 
 male men. Yet he often looked gentle and kind, was what 
 Italians call very " slmpai'ico'' and had not a trace of " swag- 
 ger " or of conscious conceit. His complexion was clear and 
 colorless. He had a round white forehead, a splendidly shaped 
 and small head, covered with black and curly hair which, 
 though cut very short, was so thick that it looked almost un- 
 natural, dense black eyebrows, and a pair of the shining and 
 intense black eyes which are seen so often in Rome ; eyes which 
 cannot look dull, cannot look inexpressive, but which, perhaps, 
 often seem to mean more than they really do mean, more of 
 passion, of melancholy, of violence or of reverie. He had a 
 rather large mouth closely shut when his face was in repose, 
 with splendid, not small, teeth, and a firmly modeled chin with
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 43 
 
 a cleft down the middle. In the shape of hh forehead and in 
 his eyes there was something that suggested intellectuality, yet 
 his face as a whole was the face of a man of action, who was 
 intelligent, rather than of a thinker or a student. He could 
 look very gay, even impudent, but often looked calm, with in- 
 tensity behind the calm. His figure was that of a very supple 
 and athletic man, and he wore clothes that had certainly been 
 cut in London. 
 
 As he came up he smiled with an air of content, and mechan- 
 ically sm.oothed his black moustache with a strong and well- 
 shaped hand, slightly browned by the sun. 
 
 He greeted the Countess in the usual Italian way, bending 
 and touching, or appearing to touch, her left hand with his lips 
 as he held it gently in his. Then he turned to Dolores and 
 saluted her in the same manner. 
 
 " Ben tornata/' he said, in a soft, but strong tenor voice. 
 
 " But I have been in Rome some time," said Dolores. 
 
 In excellent English he replied : 
 
 " I did not know it. I have been in the country, at my 
 father's place in Lombardy, and at the lakes." 
 
 At this moment the Countess's '' man," Montebruno, came 
 up. 
 
 He was much older than Cesare Carelli, and very much 
 plainer. Thin, with sloping shoulders, and a tall and bony 
 frame, he had a face that strongly resembled that of a weary 
 bloodhound, with bloodshot, strained eyes, and drooping, puck- 
 ered cheeks and lips. His domed forehead was covered with 
 lines, which kept moving when he talked, almost as if each one 
 were endowed with a separate and feverish life of its own. His 
 head v%-as partially bald, and he had large, yellowish white ears, 
 which always looked fatigued and pendulous. He had no hair 
 on his face. Despite his strange, and almiost repulsive appear- 
 ance he was aristocratic looking and dominating. In his ex- 
 pression there was that lurking sadness peculiar to men who 
 are the bond slaves to some vice, a sadness as of the soul con- 
 templating itself impotently within the dark shadow of its tem- 
 ple, 
 
 Montebruno was never known to smile, but he could make 
 others smile. He was a true fatalist, and would follow his 
 star to the dark or the devil. 
 
 Countess Boccara, who would probably have pined and died 
 if she had not been perpetually en vue, had engaged a table in 
 the middle of the restaurant, which could be raked by the
 
 44 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 glances of every one. Here her figure could be seen to the very 
 best advantage, while she nibbled at a sole and some pettts pais, 
 sipped some Vichy water, and entertained her guests, for whom 
 she had taken care to order a perfect little dinner. Mcnte- 
 bruno sat at her left hand, and contemplated her with his yellow 
 eyes which seldom changed In expression. He was a great 
 friend of the Countess, and indeed of nearly every smart woman 
 in Rome. Why exactly they found him attractive no one knew. 
 He could be amusing, but often was not. He never entertained, 
 being separated from his wife and forever in money difficulties. 
 He had the reputation of being inauvaise langue, and was ex- 
 tremely selfish. Nevertheless he had multitudes of friends. 
 Possibly his gambling feats, which had a European notoriety, 
 made a halo around him. To-night he seemed dreary. He be- 
 gan to eat his dinner with determination, but for a time said 
 very little, except when he criticized the food. Countess Boc- 
 cara did not appear at first to notice his depression. She rattled 
 on, keeping the conversation general; but presently she devoted 
 herself entirely to him. His voice was thin and harsh. She 
 lowered hers, and soon they were talking earnestly in under- 
 tones. For a moment she looked across to Dolores and Carelli 
 and said: 
 
 " He's explaining a S5'stem to me. I'm going to Monte Carlo 
 for Christmas." 
 
 Then she sipped her Vichy water, cast a quick glance round 
 the restaurant to see who was watching her, and again devoted 
 herself to Montebruno. 
 
 Dolores felt secretly ill at ease, but she was too much accus- 
 tomed to the world to show it. There was something in Monte- 
 bruno which she disliked, though she scarcely knew what it was. 
 Possibly it was his appearance which made her shrink from him. 
 When she looked away from him to Carelli she realized how 
 great is the dominion of a woman's eyes over her mind. 
 Carelli's face and figure, his strong, manly expression and com- 
 pletely natural manner, pleased nearly all women. His m.other 
 was English, and though in appearance he was thoroughly, even 
 strikingly Italian, the Latin temperament inherited from his 
 father was modified to a certain extent by the Anglo-Saxon 
 strain in his blood. Indeed Princess Carelli often said that Ce- 
 sare was more English than she was. A naturally indolent wo- 
 man, with none of the English sporting Instincts, after her mar- 
 riage she had rapidly become Italianized. Her languor, her 
 graceful Indifference had increased. She had soon given up vis-
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 45 
 
 king England, and never went further awaj* from Rome, or her 
 husband's country place, than Paris. Even her point of view 
 had become almost completely Italian. Upon moral questions 
 she had, or affected to have, the Roman outlook. And English 
 respectability and reserve — thought by most Italians to be 
 either a national hypocrisy, or a funny mannerism unsupported 
 by acts of abnegation — invariably, if brought to her notice, 
 drew from her some languidly cynical remark. With such a 
 mother, and with a father completely Roman, Cesare's con- 
 science could hardly be English. And it certainly was not. 
 Yet now and then he suggested the Englishman. A touch al- 
 most of bluffness fortified his grace. His ease of manner was 
 tempered by a passing hauteur. Or a cloud that had surely 
 floated from the other side of the Channel obscured for an in- 
 stant the shining fire of his eyes. 
 
 Dolores, who had known Carelli in Rome during the previous 
 winter, having met him out hunting and at many parties, and 
 vrho also knev/ his mother, liked these English suggestions. 
 Although she had never seen very much of Carelli she had felt 
 friendly towards him, had even felt a curious confidence in 
 him. But towards the close of the Roman season this confi- 
 dence had been disturbed, this friendly feeling had been not 
 destroyed but slightly shaken. For Carelli had come to knov/ 
 of Sir Theodore's assiduity In visiting the Denzils, and had 
 drau-n from it conclusions wholly Italian. And these conclu- 
 sions had led him to show to Dolores the fact that she meant 
 something to him that the other women In Rome did not mean. 
 He had said nothing. For the ordinary compliments considered 
 by Italians to be due to all charniing women of course did 
 not count. But — she knew. And he had intended her to 
 know. At first, though she had been surprised, she had not 
 really cared either way. She had been too indifferent, too en- 
 tirely free of all strong feeling for Carelli even to be angry for 
 more than a few minutes. But In the summer, during her ab- 
 sence from Rome with her husband, strangely this Indifference 
 had been replaced by an uneasiness, a definite anxiety, which 
 grew up. It seemed, miraculously within her, like a plant grow- 
 ing without roots. For she heard nothing of Carelli; had no 
 communication from him. He might be dead and she might not 
 know, would not be distressed If she did know. She said that 
 to herself, and could not account for her change In feeling about 
 him. Sometimes she almost felt as If, with the force of an 
 unusual strength, he flung influence upon her from afar. It
 
 46 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 was not that now she liked him better. All her povi'er of af- 
 fection was centered upon her husband, and she was not the sort 
 of woman who could ever have a mere physical caprice. 
 
 What troubled her was this. She gradually, in absence, be- 
 gan mysteriously to know that Carelli might have a certain 
 effect upon her life. Whence this knowledge came she could 
 not tell, and, for this reason, it infected her spirit with some- 
 thing that was almost akin to fear. When the little Countess 
 had asked her to dinner she had known at once it was to meet 
 Carelli. The Countess had gaiety instead of m.orals, loved in- 
 trigue, and quite light-heartedly amused herself by what she 
 called " causing crescendos." She delighted in mischievously 
 furthering a naughty love affair so long as it did not in any way 
 interfere with herself. Though vain she had no real tempera- 
 ment. That was why poor Boccara locked so depaysc, every 
 one said. And she rather liked Dolores. So she thought she 
 would cause a crescendo in the lives of Dolores and Cesare. 
 And now she talked in an under-voice to Montebruno, and 
 peacefully hoped for the worst. 
 
 " Of course you arc going to hunt again this season,'' said 
 Cesare. He was looking bold and strong, and health was en- 
 throned In the clear Roman pallor of his firm cheeks. " Can 
 I help you at all In picking up j'our horses? Why not come 
 out with the Bracclano staghounds as well as the foxhounds 
 this winter? Or are two da5's a week enough for you? '' 
 
 " Too much," said Dolores, holding firm to the abrupt re- 
 solve she had come to that dav at the Excelsior. 
 
 "Too much?" 
 
 Flis black eyes fixed themselves upon her, but their e:;pres- 
 sion did not alter. 
 
 " Yes, I am not going to hunt this season." 
 
 Cesare did not look surprised or annoyed. Without speak- 
 ing he continued to gaze at Dolores. And she, as If he had 
 put a question, continued: 
 
 " Moving Into our apartment has been very expensive. We 
 have had to do so much. So I must practise econom.y. And 
 hunting Is not economical, Is It? " 
 
 " Economy Is horrid," remarked Cesare, " especialh' in 
 Rome." 
 
 " But I have another reason," said Dolores, turning towards 
 him a little more. 
 
 " I thought you had." 
 
 " I don't think you could guess what It Is."
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 47 
 
 '■ I never even try to guess what are the reasons of ladies. 
 They are too mysterious." 
 
 " This winter I want to know more of the intellectual and 
 artistic side of Rome. It is all very well for Romans to hunt 
 and play bridge and dance all the time. They have seen every- 
 thing — ■ or if they haven't, they don't want to. But we for- 
 eigners — it is folly for us to come to Rome, and to live there 
 exactly as if we were in Cannes or Monte Carlo, or any other 
 gav place that has a banal season. Rome must be so wonder- 
 ful." 
 
 '' Must be! Don't you know its wonders? " 
 
 " Not really. But as we are going to settle down here more 
 or less I mean to know them." 
 
 *■ Will you let me help you?" 
 
 " I daresay you are a very good lead out hunting, but I don't 
 know whether you would be a good Cicerone. Besides, I have 
 one." 
 
 " Ah, your husband, no doubt! " 
 
 " Oh no." 
 
 Cesare's face slightly darkened and his eyes looked heavy 
 and morose. But he said nothing, only lifted his glass and 
 sipped his champagne. Then, putting his glass down, he re- 
 marked, with a stiffness that suggested England: 
 
 " Take care not to catch cold in the churches and museums. 
 They are dangerous in the winter-time." 
 
 '* And the cold in the Campagna when one is waiting about 
 for hounds to throw off? " 
 
 Suddenly Carelli's face became animated and his eyes shone. 
 
 ''Ah! The Campagna!" he said. 
 
 That was all ; but his eyes, his voice, the gesture he made, 
 told a history. 
 
 " And you," he added, " will you give up the Campagna for 
 the Catacombs, for the Grottos decorated with the bones of 
 dead Cappuccini ? " 
 
 He hesitated, gazing at her: then just as she was about to 
 speak, as if moved by something irresistible, he added : 
 
 " But perhaps the Cicerone of Rome is much cleverer, much 
 more entertaining, than the poor jackasses who love t'ne winds 
 and the spaces, and the sound of galloping hoofs across the grass. 
 Is it so?" 
 
 Dolores thought of Lady Sarah, with her blue gauze and 
 her toque pushed awry. 
 
 " Chi lo sa? You may have met her."
 
 48 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 "Her!" said Cesare. 
 
 There was something almost childish in the emphasis he put 
 on the word. 
 
 " Lady Sarah Ides." 
 
 " I have never met her. But what does that matter? I feel 
 that she will be a good Cicerone, quite perfect, one to be 
 trusted, and followed to the death or the Colosseum." 
 
 "What's that about the Colosseum?" interrupted the little 
 Countess. " It always interests me because I've never seen it. 
 I only know it by all the potins one hears about it from the 
 poor dears with introductions who are passing through Rome. 
 It is in casa to them every day." 
 
 She had apparently grasped Montebruno's " system," for she 
 now once more made conversation general. Montebruno, on 
 whom food and wine, extremely fastidious though he was about 
 both, never seemed to make any effect, and who was therefore 
 quite as likely to be amusing before dinner as he was to be dull 
 after it, had perhaps received a hint from the Countess that 
 she wished him to exert himself. For he now hazarded several 
 shots at the reputations of Rome. 
 
 It seemed that he had recently been in Paris, and had there 
 come across more than one pretty woman well known In Rome, 
 buying gowns which would not have been supplied had not long 
 standing accounts been settled just In the nick of time, that is 
 to say, just when the new modes were coming in. The settling 
 of these accounts gave Montebruno the opportunity for his shots. 
 For the husbands of the pretty women had not loosened their 
 purse strings. 
 
 The little Countess entered eagerly into the discussion of 
 the subject, which was one after her own heart. She never had 
 any compunction In showing her total lack of moral sense, and 
 equally complete lack of hypocrisy. She believed that all rea- 
 sonable human beings devoted their efforts to securing to them- 
 selves a good time, and directed the shafts of her Gallic Irony 
 against those only who endeavored to conceal those efforts and 
 pretend to anything else. 
 
 As Dolores listened to the conversation, in which she and 
 Cesare only took enough part to give the others the necessary 
 cues, she felt strangely Isolated In that deep love which she bore 
 to her husband. Such a love was surely more than unfashion- 
 able in Rome, it u-as almost ridiculous. Were she to fall in 
 love with Cesare Carelli nearly all the women she knew in Rome 
 would think her admirably normal, would even feel, perhaps, a
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 49 
 
 sort of sisterly sympathy with her. She would not be isolated 
 then. But, after ten years of married life at close quarters, to 
 be in love with her husband ! To be secretly tortured because 
 he liked to visit and play with another woman's children ! Who 
 would sympathize with such nonsense as that ? 
 
 Dolores had lived much and intimately in what is called the 
 great world, and was accustomed to the modern habit of speak- 
 ing frankly of all sorts of things which used not to be publicly 
 discussed in mixed companies. She knew that women whose 
 private lives v/ere impeccable were often the most startlingly 
 outspoken. Nevertheless this civilized brutality nearly always 
 grated upon her, because it gave her, despite her knowledge, a 
 stupid feeling as if almost every one who was any one was more 
 or less a " bad lot." Secretly she was sensitive enough to feel 
 as if speech and action were almost the same thing. And she 
 was a naturally pure-minded, though a clinging and passionate 
 woman. To-night, suddenly, while Countess Boccara chattered, 
 Montebruno fired at the human pigeons he carefully released 
 from his traps, and she and Cesare smiled and appeared to ap- 
 prove, she felt as if a cold wave flowed over her. She longed 
 to escape from society, and the prospect of the Roman season 
 alm.ost appalled her. Her inner emotional life rendered her 
 unfit for the life of her world. She knew that, and she felt 
 as if soon every one must know it. In his harsh thin voice 
 Montebruno pronounced a sarcasm at the expense of a well- 
 known woman, whose lover, faithful for many years, had sud- 
 denly shown a strong inclination to be freed from his bonds. 
 
 " She is surprised, not that he has stayed so long, but that he 
 wants to go now. But she has always been afflicted with an 
 insidious malady." 
 
 "What malady?" asked the Countess curiousl)^ 
 
 " The heart-paralysis called by some fidelity." 
 
 " Do you think fidelity a malady? " 
 
 All the lines in Montebruno's high forehead were busily at 
 work. 
 
 " The paralyzed body cannot m.ove from one room to another. 
 The paralyzed heart cannot move from one love to another. It 
 is condemned to one love as the paralyzed body is condemned 
 to one room." 
 
 " Then surely it is to be pitied?" said Dolores. 
 
 " There is not much room in life for pity," returned Monte- 
 bruno, fixing his bloodshot eyes upon her. 
 
 She shivered.
 
 50 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " Is there a draught where you are sitting, cara? " asked 
 Countess Boccara. 
 
 " I think there must be. But I don't know where it comes 
 from," she answered. 
 
 " Let us go and sit in the hall. We will have coffee and 
 smoke our cigarettes there." 
 
 She got up. 
 
 When they were in the hall she said to Montebruno: 
 
 " Do order the coffee, and you, Cesare, light your cigar. 
 Lady Cannynge and I are going to have five dreadful dull min- 
 utes all by ourselves, as the women do after dinners in England. 
 Come, cara, to be bored." 
 
 She led Dolores away to a little distance, and they sat down 
 on a sofa. Then she said confidentially: 
 
 " Did you notice that Carelli said nothing when Montebruno 
 was speaking about Anna Marsina and Paolo Cillia? " 
 
 " Yes. He didn't seem much interested." 
 
 " Montebruno is malicious. That is why he told us to-night 
 about the ending of that love. It v.-as all meant for Carelli." 
 
 "What has Carelli to do with it?" 
 
 " He has lately done what Cillia is trying to do." 
 
 The Countess's red-brown eyes were gazing at Dolores. 
 
 " I don't understand." 
 
 " You know that Carelli is thirty years old ? " 
 
 "Is he?" 
 
 " Just over thirty. And he has never married. The old 
 Princess found several people for him with excellent dots, and 
 two were quite passable looking into the bargain. But he would 
 not marry." 
 
 "Why should he?" 
 
 "It is usual in Italy, especially for an only son." 
 
 " Perhaps he was not in love," said Dolores, with a pur- 
 poseful vagueness, glancing about the big room. 
 
 She felt the Countess's small, but arbitrary hand on her arm. 
 
 "He was in love. That was wh3%" 
 
 "Really. How pretty Princess Bartoldi is! I think Si- 
 cilians " 
 
 " So do I. Carelli has belonged for twelve years, since he 
 was eighteen, to the Mancelli. And he has broken with her, 
 as Cillia wishes to break with Anna Marsina. All Rome knows 
 it." 
 
 The Countess's hand felt more arbitrary upon the arm of 
 Dolores.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 51 
 
 " What can be the reason, caraf I am full of curiosity." 
 
 " I am not. The complicated love affairs of Rome seem to 
 me very uninteresting," said Dolores, with a touch of genuine 
 disgust in her voice. But the Countess vi^as not to be put ofi 
 thus. 
 
 " In Rome such things do not happen without some good 
 reason, as they do In Paris," she went on. " The men here have 
 a certain tradition. Carelli must be deeply in love with an- 
 other woman, or he would never have bothered to break with 
 the Mancelli. A Roman does not easily get rid of a habit 
 which has lasted for twelve years." 
 
 " Very likely he intends to marry," said Dolores carelessly. 
 
 She longed almost fiercely to stop this conversation. But 
 she knew that any show of feeling by her would only rouse 
 the gayest suspicions in the breast of Countess Boccara. She 
 must " play up " to her frivolous friend. But how she longed 
 to be natural at that moment! 
 
 " You think it is that ! '" said the Countess quickly. 
 
 " I do not think about it. I only suggest that it may be 
 that." 
 
 " I v/onder if it is. Of course j^ou knew about the Mancelli 
 and Carelli — about their connection, I mean?" 
 
 " What does one not know, by hearsay, In Rome? " 
 
 " But you have seen them together out hunting ! " 
 
 " Is that so very strange? " 
 
 " The rupture happened in the summer, very soon after you 
 left Rome, cava." 
 
 Suddenly Dolores remembered the curious change which had 
 taken place within herself ; the passing of indifference towards 
 Carelli from her mind, the mysterious growth of uneasiness, 
 of anxiety within her. This change had taken place very soon 
 after she had left Rome for the summer. She had wondered 
 what could have caused It. Had it, could It have coincided 
 with this definite, even drastic, change made by Carelli in his 
 life? 
 
 The thought struck her almost like a missile. 
 
 '' So many things must have happened after we left Rome," 
 she said, slightly raising her eyebrows. This was a little trick 
 of hers, and It emphasized the wistfulness of her face, " But 
 look! " she added. " Princess Bartoldi wants you." 
 
 The pretty Sicilian Princess was forming her evening court. 
 Countess Boccara was about to respond to her eloquent gesture 
 of Invitation with one, equally eloquent, of regretful refusal,
 
 52 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 when she happened to perceive a tall Englishman, with yellow 
 moustaches, and handsome gray eyes drawing near to the circle. 
 
 " Do you want to join the crowd, cara? " she said. " Very 
 well — for a little while." 
 
 She beckoned to Montebruno and Carelli, who were stand- 
 ing a little way off looking about the room. 
 
 As she and Dolores went towards the Princess she whispered : 
 
 " Perhaps you are right, cara. Perhaps Carelli is going to 
 marry. But who can it be? " 
 
 Dolores shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 But as she saw the strained eyes of Montebruno fixed upon 
 her she shivered once more. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 Lady Sarah Ides^ who was as uncertain in regard to plans as 
 she was certain in regard to principles, remained, of course 
 unexpectedly, in Naples arranging for the future of her pro- 
 tegee until Saturday evening; but she telegraphed, in reply to a 
 message from Dolores, to promise that she would be in Rome 
 without fail for the blessing of the roof-tree on Sunday night. 
 And she duly appeared at the Barberini Palace a few minutes 
 before the Denzils, wearing a quite well cut black gown, which 
 she had somehow managed to put on all wrong. How so sim- 
 ple a gown could be wrongly put on, or in what exactly the 
 wrongness consisted, perhaps even a mannequin could hardly 
 have explained. But the least observant eye must have marked 
 the fact, and marked also that the black aigrette, which Lady 
 Sarah wore as a hair ornament, had been unerringly inserted in 
 the only place from which It could present a completely drunken 
 appearance to the social world. In one hand Lady Sarah car- 
 ried a small bag. This bag was merely a habit, like the blue 
 gauze and the toques. Exactly what it contained, besides a 
 pocket-handkerchief, few people knew. But every one who 
 knew Lady Sarah was aware that It was generally overfilled 
 with something. For It frequently burst open at unexpected 
 moments, as if the closely packed contents were surCocating, and 
 were determined at all costs to have air. And on these occa- 
 sions a handkerchief always appeared on the summit struggling 
 towards freedom. 
 
 When Lady Sarah was shown In Dolores was alone in the
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 53 
 
 second drawing-room standing before the "Donna guardando il 
 mare." Italian servants seldom announced visitors. Lady 
 Sarah had time to put her bag on a table, the bag had time to 
 burst open, and Lady Sarah to close it with mechanical deter- 
 mination, before Dolores looked around. 
 
 " Lady Sarah ! " 
 
 She came to greet her. 
 
 " Theo ought to be here. But he came in very late to dress. 
 What a beautifully miade gown ! But ..." 
 
 With a pretty air of gentle intimacy she did something to it 
 deftly, and added: 
 
 " I do love your hair. Will you let me put in your aigrette 
 where they are worn in Paris now? " 
 
 " But, my dear child, what does it matter ? Nobody looks 
 at me." 
 
 " Bend your head a little more. There! See what a differ- 
 ence!" She led Lady Sarah to a mirror. "Now you are 
 chic! " 
 
 No longer enveloped in veils Lady Sarah showed a charming 
 head, covered with silky hair, in color amber mingled with 
 white. She wore it loosely arranged, and it made a character- 
 istic frame for her blunt, but attractive features, and large, kind 
 gray eyes. She was sixty, but did not suggest any special age, 
 for sorrow had not robbed her of a very feminine buoyancy 
 that was an essential part of her. And though she was some- 
 times vague, she generally moved in a very personal atmosphere 
 of kindly animation, the animation which springs from the 
 center of the heart. 
 
 Now she put up her hand towards her head. 
 
 " No, no. You are not to touch it! " 
 
 Lady Sarah laughed. Then in her characteristic, veiled voice 
 she said : 
 
 " I shall never be chic. I never was as a young woman." 
 
 She sat down, with a carelessly supple movement, clasped 
 her hands round one lifted knee and looked about the big room. 
 
 "You have done it delightfully — just the right red and 
 green." 
 
 Her eyes came to the hearth. 
 
 " That's a delicious frieze. Those dear little boys are thrill- 
 ing with life. I can almost hear them shouting. But where 's 
 the wonderful doggie ? Is he banished when you have people ? " 
 
 " I've got rid of him." 
 
 " Alreadv? What a short rcisn."
 
 54 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " Theo didn't like him, couldn't bear him!" 
 
 Dolores sat down by Lady Sarah. With a sudden impetu- 
 osity she took her friend's hand, and said in a low voice and hur- 
 riedly: 
 
 " This is our first real home since we've been married. I 
 do want Theo to like it. I want him to get to love it. So I 
 mustn't have anything in it he dislikes. And such little things 
 make all the difference. Nero just spoilt everything here for 
 Theo. So he's gone and I won't have another dog. Lady 
 Sarah, you do like me, don't you? " 
 
 Lady Sarah impulsively clasped the hand that held hers with 
 both her hands. 
 
 " Then help me to make Theo's life happy here in Rome this 
 winter. Help me to make him forget that his career's at an 
 end, and he's out of harness. Do you know that this dinner 
 is to bless our roof-tree ? Theo said so. Of course it's a phrase. 
 But you — ask that it may be blessed ! " 
 
 Abruptly she released her hand from Lady Sarah's. 
 
 " Theo ! " she said, getting up. " Lady Sarah's been here 
 ten minutes." 
 
 Her voice had completely changed. It sounded gently chaff- 
 ing. 
 
 " Have you been curling vour hair, or — what a wonderful 
 flower!" 
 
 Sir Theodore was coming towards the hearth. In his but- 
 ton-hole he was wearing a small rose that was extraordinarily 
 beautiful. It was no longer a bud, yet scarcely a full flower. 
 Shyly it seemed to hover on the threshold of lovely life. In 
 shape it was exquisite, and in color it shaded from pale yellow, 
 to a deep orange hue, in which there seemed to be undernotes 
 of reddish brown. 
 
 Dolores put up her hand as if she were going to touch it 
 gently. Then, hesitating, she added : 
 
 " Where did you get it? " 
 
 Sir Theodore greeted Lady Sarah, turned towards his v/ife 
 and answered, with a tender ring in his deep voice: 
 
 " Little Theo gave it to me ' to be grand with ' to-night in 
 honor of this important occasion." 
 
 Dolores let her hand drop. 
 
 *' You know how delightfully fond children are of an oc- 
 casion, Lady Sally," Sir Theodore continued, standing by the 
 hearth, and looking down at the little rose; "how they leap 
 at an event, whether it's a Christmas stocking, or only Daisy
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 55 
 
 or Dickie made new by the mumps! Little Theo Denzil 
 leaped at this event, with a flower for his important godfather 
 who has got a home and is giving a feast in it." 
 
 And he touched the flower which Dolores had not touched. 
 
 " I wonder where the Denzils are," said Dolores. " Theo, 
 I believe you have been there and made them late ! " 
 
 She spoke lightly, smiling. 
 
 " I did look in to have a game with the children. They 
 were in great spirits to-night." He broke off as the door opened. 
 " Here come the father and mother! " 
 
 Mrs. Denzil came in rather quickly, followed by her husband, 
 went up to Dolores, and, putting her face near to the face of 
 the person she was speaking to — a habit of hers which was 
 rather engaging — begged her pardon for being late. 
 
 " I know, it was Theo's fault," said Dolores. " He kept 
 you by playing with the children." 
 
 She turned and shook hands with Denzil, who was looking 
 cordial in his stony way. 
 
 " Let us go in at once, and we will show you all the rooms 
 afterwards, if you really care to see them. Edna, you and I 
 must share your husband. We didn't ask another man. We 
 wanted to be quite en fatnille to-night." 
 
 " The way she said that won't be forgotten in Heaven," 
 thought Lady Sarah, as she pushed her aigrette slightly out of 
 its place and took Sir Theodore's arm. 
 
 Mrs. Denzil was a very happy woman, certainly one of the 
 happiest women in the world, and simply and charmingly she 
 showed it, diffusing about her an atmosphere of joy that had 
 something of the radiant quality of light. She was not bril- 
 liant and never tried to sparkle in words. But her heart 
 sparkled and drew people towards its rays. Denzil, too, was 
 happy, and was too strong and sincere, too completely him- 
 self, ever to dream of concealing it. But neither did he ever 
 obtrude his felicit}\ He and his wife were remarkably natural 
 people, and, being quite free from foolishness, never bored others 
 with their blessedness, and very seldom roused others to active 
 envy. To-night, being with genuine friends as they both sup- 
 posed, they were in the mood for delightful hours, and the 
 dinner began with spirit. Denzil was never a voluble man, but 
 he had plenty in his mind, and, therefore, plenty to say to those 
 who were congenial to him. Lady Sarah was very human and 
 responsive. And Sir Theodore talked well and was full of life, 
 even when he chanced to be sad. In depression he was never
 
 56 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 phlegmatic. The first part of the evening seemed to go gaily. 
 The cook proved to be a success, and everybody admired the 
 dining-room. And possibly as the evening began, so it might 
 have ended but for two reasons, each apparently trifling. 
 
 The first of these was the raising by Denzil of his glass in a 
 toast to his friends' happiness in their new home. He did not of 
 course make a speech, but at the end of dinner when dessert was 
 brought round, he looked, or rather stared about him with his 
 strangely expressionless eyes, and, speaking in a slightly hoarse 
 voice, said : 
 
 " Dolores — Theo, old boy — we wish you well here." 
 
 There was nothing in the words. But Denzil spoke with 
 such simple emphasis, and laid such an eloquent stress on the 
 penultimate word, and the gesture with vv'hich he lifted his 
 glass was so manly, and yet somehow so full of heart, that he 
 struck into the hearts of his companions. Each one felt that 
 here w-as the man who genuinely loved his friends, and with a 
 strong nature was willing all good things towards them. Even 
 the staring eyes and the slightly hoarse voice aided the im- 
 pression he made. 
 
 " Thank you, Francis," said Sir Theodore. 
 
 Dolores opened her lips, but closed them without speaking. 
 Lady Sarah and Edna Denzil echoed Denzil's " we wish you 
 well " smiling, and drank the toast. 
 
 And then for the first time during that evening there was 
 a pause, a silence which had in it something frigid. Sir Theo- 
 dore looked across the table at Dolores. She was looking down. 
 She was wearing a dress which was exactly the color of cigarette 
 smoke seen in bright sunshine. Her long slight neck, her little 
 dark head, her extraordinarily sensitive nostrils, the great curl- 
 ing lashes which showed against her still girlish cheeks, at that 
 moment seemed to her hushand to stand out from their environ- 
 ment tragically. Often he had thought that his wife was wist- 
 ful, was even mysterious looking. Now, for the first time, and 
 only for a moment, he thought that there was something ac- 
 tually tragic in her beauty, tragic even in her softness. The im- 
 pression he received was so painful that a wish, which was al- 
 most like a sword, that she would glance up cut through his 
 mind. Instantly she did glance up, and met his eyes. And he 
 found himself thinking: "What is she? What am I? Oh, 
 the curse — the curse of my ignorance, of the unceasing igno- 
 rance of us all ! " 
 
 " Theo," Dolores said. " I'm going to sin against Roman
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 57 
 
 etiquette. Stay and smoke with Francis, and we women will 
 have a talk together. I have been so busy lately that I have 
 seen nothing of Edna. Come in when you have had coffee, and 
 finish your cigars with us." 
 
 As she spoke she got up. 
 
 " Don't give Franzi one of your big cigars, please," said 
 Mrs. Denzil to Sir Theodore. 
 
 "Why not, Edna?" said Denzil plaintively. "You knew 
 they are the best cigars I ever get in Rome." 
 
 " He smokes too much. It makes him hoarse. I should 
 like my husband to be as melodious as yours, Dolores." 
 
 " It isn't smoking. I have caught a cold, the Roman sun- 
 set cold. I insist on a big cigar on such an occasion." 
 
 " Give it him then! " said Mrs. Denzil, smiling. 
 
 And she went out after Lady Sarah. 
 
 " Where is j'our new little dog, Dolores? " asked Mrs. Den- 
 zil, repeating Lady Sarah's question as the three women cam*. 
 into the drawing-room, " I haven't seen him yet." 
 
 " He was not a success. I've given him away." 
 
 Mrs. Denzil looked sincerely surprised. 
 
 " Vi will be awfully disappointed," she said. 
 
 She often used little bits of inoffensive slang in her English 
 which was spoken with a certain delicate precision that was 
 slightly foreign. 
 
 "Will she? But why?" 
 
 " She heard there was a live dog from China here, and has 
 been expecting to see a China dog, barking and walking. She 
 will be quite crushed when she finds it is not to be seen." 
 
 " Poor little Vi! Theo shouldn't have told her." 
 
 " Oh, your husband can't keep anything from the children. 
 They were longing to dine here to-night. He told them j'our 
 roof-tree was to be blessed, and they imagined extraordinary 
 ceremonies. Iris was describing them in bed to Marianna when 
 we came away. She thought a roof-tree was a Christmas-tree 
 growing among the chimneys, and that we v/ere going to climb 
 ladders after dinner for the blessing." 
 
 " Let us look at the roof-tree," said Lady Sarah. " I love 
 to be shown over houses. I want to see everything you have 
 done, Dolores." 
 
 " Very well. We won't wait for the others. Do 5fOu care 
 for this room, Edna? Do you think we have m.ade a success of 
 it?" 
 
 Mrs. Denzil looked hastily round.
 
 58 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " It seems to me delightful. I don't believe it could be 
 better." 
 
 She continued to look about, then added naively: 
 
 " But my verdict is all bosh, of course. I have no feeling 
 for decoration. Franzi says my taste is that of an Italian en- 
 gineer. You know the modern Italian has a passion for ma- 
 chinery and no sense of art at all. The only thing that really 
 furnishes a house for me is the people in it. I am not an artist. 
 If I am anything, I suppose I am a humanist." 
 
 Lady Sarah had moved away and was standing in front of the 
 picture of the villa by the sea. 
 
 ''What's that, Lady Sally?" asked Mrs. Denzil. 
 
 She went to stand by Lady Sarah, and put her face very near 
 to the picture. Then she sighed : 
 
 "Why, what is the matter? What a gust!" said Lady 
 Sarah, almost as if startled, and swaying round in her impulsive 
 way to look at her companion. 
 
 "' I couldn't live with that picture in my room." 
 
 "Why not?" said Dolores. 
 
 '' The loneliness of that poor thing would make me too sad. 
 She is longing for a companion, and only that black storm is 
 coming to her. It is one of the saddest pictures I ever saw. 
 There ought to be no sadness in art, I think." 
 
 " Then isn't art to reflect life? " said Lady Sarah. 
 
 She glanced at Dolores and regretted her question suddenly. 
 Still gazing at the canvas Mrs. Denzil answered : 
 
 " I daresay I talk nonsense. I only mean that I don't like 
 people deliberately to create sadness. I have been awfully for- 
 tunate. All my life I have been what children call as happy 
 as a king — which means much happier than a king. And 
 now I am perfectly contented. I hate to think how many poor 
 things are sad, and I don't want their sadness to be increased 
 by art." 
 
 " Perhaps some of them need the sorrow In art," Lady Sarah 
 answered, in her veiled, rather pathetic voice. " I go nearly 
 every day to look at the ' Pieta ' in St. Peter's. Dolores, won't 
 you show us the rooms ? " 
 
 Dolores replied by a gesture, and led them on, showing them 
 all that had been done, and listening to their comments. But 
 when they reached the door of her and Sir Theodore's bedroom 
 she hesitated. She felt an almost invincible reluctance to let 
 the happy woman — the fruitful vine — cross its threshold. All 
 the evening she had been secretly waging a combat, and now,
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 59 
 
 abruptly, the enemy within her seemed to gain in strength and 
 determination, to begin to get the upper hand. 
 
 " Our bedroom is in there, and Theo's dressing-room," she 
 said. " But I'm sure you've seen enough, Edna. I feel I've 
 been victimizing you. You don't bother much about all these 
 things — the trappings — I know. You — you have so much 
 else to fill up your life with." 
 
 " But I neglect the trappings far too much. I am a Philis- 
 tine." 
 
 She paused, then added: 
 
 *' I really am very much interested in seeing everything. But 
 perhaps you are sick of showing." 
 
 "No! No!" 
 
 Dolores opened the bedroom door. 
 
 " I must examine this Madonna," Lady Sarah exclaimed. 
 " Is it a very good copy of Luini, or what ? " 
 
 She was bending, and showed no intention of entering the 
 bedroom. 
 
 " Theo thinks it a genuine Luini." 
 
 The two women went into the bedroom together, leaving 
 Lady Sarah in the boudoir which adjoined. Directly they had 
 disappeared she ceased to be Interested in the Luini. Never- 
 theless she did not follow them. She picked up a book with 
 a very beautiful Florentine binding, and sank Into a great soft 
 armchair. Murmuring voices came to her for a little, then 
 ceased. Her friends had gone on into the further room. That 
 evening she felt clain^oyante, and, because of her clairvoyance, 
 melancholy. They had met to bless a roof-tree. In Sir Theo- 
 dore's phrase ; they had wished well, and genuinely, not formally. 
 But would their wishes, like the righteous man's prayer, avail ? 
 Lady Sarah had been smitten by terrible sorrows. She had 
 lost an adored husband after only three years of marriage, and 
 both her children, twin girls, one at the age of twelve, the other 
 at the age of seventeen. These girls had been lovely in appear- 
 ance and in character, as angelic as human beings can be, gay 
 and loving, serene in their innocence, yet thrilling with tlie 
 spring-tide of life. What they had been to their mother no one 
 but herself could realize. What change their withdrawal be- 
 hind the veil had wrought In her existence she had whispered 
 sometimes to God, and to the Mother of many sorrows, but 
 never yet to a living friend. She had been made, not marred, 
 by her misery, and she often felt as if it had enormously In- 
 creased her natural Intellicence.
 
 6o THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 She felt so to-night, when the voices of Dolores and of Edna 
 Denzil died away. 
 
 She was fond of Edna Denzil. Edna was very near to Lady 
 Sarah's ideal of what a good woman should be. But for Do- 
 lores she had what might be called a faiblesse. Dolores fas- 
 cinated her. And at any age a temperament like Lady Sarah's 
 must be subject to fascination. As a delicate mist half reveal- 
 ing, half concealing, a landscape charms the eyes of a painter, 
 Dolores charmed this middle-aged and highly sensitive 
 woman. But sometimes she put fear into Lady Sarah's still 
 glowing heart. To-night she did so. 
 
 When the voices sounded again in the distance, as the two 
 women were returning, Lady Sarah got up, and went alone to 
 the drawing-room of the sad picture. 
 
 She found the two men just coming into it from the dining- 
 room, still smoking their cigars. They looked as if they had 
 been having a good time together. Sir Theodore's face was 
 full of animation. Denzil's was not. He seldom looked full 
 of animation. But he had a robust air as of a man in strong 
 health, not In the least bucolic, clever, self-controlled, and stirred 
 by the current of a serenely flowing happiness. He was a quiet 
 man, not mercurial like his friend. Now, as he came In he 
 was smiling and brought with him an atmosphere of genuine 
 cordiality and contentment. 
 
 "All alone, Lady Sally?" he said. 
 
 He cleared his throat. 
 
 " Why have they deserted you? " 
 
 " They are just coming. I like wandering about beautiful 
 rooms by myself. And Dolores is showing your wife every- 
 thing. I can't help fastening on the special thing that appeals 
 to me and giving It too much time. That Is why I generally 
 sight-see alone. Here they are! " 
 
 The door had opened, but Instead of Dolores and Mrs. Denzil 
 the maestro di casa appeared showing In Cesare Carelll. 
 
 For a moment Sir Theodore looked surprised, but he did not 
 show surprise in his manner to this unexpected guest. He 
 shook Carelll by the hand cordially and said: 
 
 " It's very good of you to come and see us in our new abode. 
 Do you know Lady Sarah Ides ? " 
 
 Carelll did not, and bowed to Lady Sarah. 
 
 " My friend Denzil you know." 
 
 " Oh yes."
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 6i 
 
 " My wife will be here in a moment. She's showing Mrs. 
 Denzil the rooms. Have a cigar." 
 
 Carelli accepted one. 
 
 " I heard you were to be in casa to-night," he remarked, *' and 
 was very glad to know it, so that I might be one of the first to 
 wish 5'ou a long and happy life in Rome." 
 
 He spoke almost like a man wishing you a delightful visit to 
 his own house, with a touch of proud proprietorship. 
 
 " Thank you," said Sir Theodore. " Of all cities that I 
 have seen I feel most at home here. I always think of Rome 
 as a glorious and beautiful village. But you must understand 
 when I say that I mean because of its intimate charm, which no 
 other town possesses." 
 
 " I like to hear that," said Carelli, as if a splendidly kind 
 and sincere personality had been addressed to himself. " A 
 Roman likes to hear such sayings as that. There are some who 
 come here and only see faults, that our roads are uneven, per- 
 haps, or that we sometimes overload the mules. You are differ- 
 ent. Thank you." 
 
 His pride in his city was charming in its bold simplicity. 
 Denzil stared at him fixedly, and said slowly: 
 
 " I mustn't dare to speak of the Via Nomentana, eh? " 
 
 By his intonation an obsen'ant person could have learnt that 
 he liked Carelli. Most men did like him. He was certainly a 
 popular man in Rome. 
 
 "That!" exclaimed Carelli, "it is a quarry, one great 
 bunker — to use a simile of Acqua Santa! It is a shame to 
 Rome. Oh, we have much to do here yet. But we shall do it. 
 Give us time. We are a young nation, remember, in our vii- 
 lage." 
 
 " If Rome were all quarry and bunker I should like to be 
 driven off into it and left there," exclaimed Lady Sarah. 
 
 Suddenly Carelli felt quite interested in " la vecchiay He 
 made a movement, as if to sit down beside her, when Edna 
 Denzil came into the room with Dolores close behind. 
 
 Dolores was startled by the sight of Carelli. For a moment 
 she forgot that it is a common practice in Rome to pay calls 
 in the evening, and she thought that he had come for some 
 special reason, to make some announcement, give some excep- 
 tional piece of news. A moment later she knew that her sup- 
 position had been quite absurd, and v/ondcred how it could have 
 come into her mind. She had just passed through a few min-
 
 .62 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 utes of mental misery such as only women can understand and 
 suffer. While she had been showing Edna Denzil her beautiful 
 bedroom and the room beyond it, quietly discussing their ar- 
 rangement, drawing attention to the green damask bed cover- 
 ings, to the curtains which had come from a palace in Siena, 
 to a wonderful crucifix of ivory and lapis lazuli, which Sir 
 Theodore had bought from a rascally Greek priest in Jeru- 
 salem who had had no business to possess it, she had been look- 
 ing at her life, and had seen it like a thing that stands out ter- 
 ribly, more than distinctly, with unnatural fierceness, and then 
 shrivels in a fire. The words she uttered had seemed to scar 
 her lips with their bitter nullity. She believed that she had 
 shown nothing of her pain to Edna Denzil, and the effort to 
 conceal had made her feel almost hysterical. For a moment 
 the unexpected sight of Carelli threw her off her guard, and 
 conquered in her the long habit .of outward self-control acquired 
 by contact with the world. She stopped for an instant, and her 
 expressive face was marked by a look of almost alarmed inquirj'. 
 Then she came forward and greeted Carelli with her usual 
 ease of manner, while Denzil began talking to Lady Sarah, and 
 Sir Theodore and Mrs. Denzil sat down on a sofa at a little 
 distance. 
 
 Carelli had seen Dolores' astonishment and for the first time 
 wondered whether the Cannynges had meant to receive that 
 evening. But the Denzils were here, and " la vecch'm." Surely 
 it was all right? Still he felt slightly doubtful, and almost im- 
 mediately, he said to Dolores: 
 
 " I was told you were in casa to-night. Was it true? " 
 
 Dolores smiled. 
 
 " But you can see for yourself! We are here, with friends." 
 
 " But, forgive me, perhaps they have dined with you? " 
 ' " Yes." 
 
 " Were you expecting people to drop in after dinner to- 
 night?" 
 
 " But why do you ask? " 
 
 " I see. You were not." 
 
 He did not look troubled or ill at ease, but he added: 
 
 " I really ought to go. I had no idea." 
 
 " Theodore and I are delighted to welcome you." 
 
 " But I must explain my mistake." 
 
 He leaned forward, crossing one leg over the other, and rest- 
 ing one arm on his knee. 
 
 " Countess Boccara told me to-day that you were at home this
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 63 
 
 evening and that she meant to drop in. She even gave me a 
 rendezvous here." 
 
 " She probably mistook something I said. No doubt she will 
 turn up presently." 
 
 But the little Countess never came, and Dolores did not 
 really expect her. 
 
 A sense of relief had come to Dolores. She had been seized 
 almost with fear at the unexpected sight of Carelli. The ex- 
 planation he had just given showed her how absurd she had been, 
 what an unreasonable mental condition she had allowed herself 
 to fall into. And in relief she felt unusually cordial. 
 
 " I hope we shall see you here very often. Large rooms like 
 these are made for entertaining, and we mean to receive a good 
 deal." 
 
 She went on quickly to develop to Carelli a scheme for creat- 
 ing a salon in Rome. For since she had shown Edna Denzil 
 the rooms her floating and vague thoughts of making Theo's 
 life interesting had concentrated themselves, formed themselves 
 into that. Carelli listened with his black eyes fixed upon her. 
 Italians often stare without any intention of being rude. Do- 
 lores spoke of clever and intellectual men, of archaeologists, 
 writers, painters, musicians, even of actors. 
 
 " You are going to have them here at parties? " said Carelli. 
 
 " I wish to." 
 
 " With the Boccaras, the Monteverdis, Princess Merula, the 
 diplomatic set? " 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 She spoke almost defiantly. Had not Edna Denzil said that 
 evening that only people furnished rooms? Suddenly, divining 
 opposition, Dolores felt as if she cared for her scheme, as if it 
 were something of great moment in her life. 
 
 " That may be all very well in London, but it would never 
 do here in our Rome," said Carelli with conviction. 
 
 " How can you tell?" 
 
 *' It has been tried. An ambassadress tried it." 
 
 He mentioned a name once very well known in Rome. 
 
 " Mamma has often described to me what a terrible failure 
 it was. At first the archaeologists, writers, musicians — actors 
 there were none — 'were very pleased, and the princesses were 
 very much surprised and rather frightened. Some of them even 
 came in high dresses! Then the archaeologists and company 
 tried to be frivolous and the princesses to be profound. This 
 — mamma said — made the archaeologists quite hysterical and
 
 64 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 the princesses became bored. Finally the archaeologists were 
 red and angry, and the princesses — well, simply there were 
 none, not even in high dresses! So it ended! And the am- 
 bassadress took to charity — and parrots." 
 
 " I shall never take to parrots ! " 
 
 " Then }'0u will take to hunting again, and that will be ever 
 so much better." 
 
 He glanced across the room to the sofa where Sir Theodore 
 was sitting with Mrs. DenziL At that moment both of them 
 were looking very animated. Mrs. Denzil was telling Sir 
 Theodore an escapade of her children. He was listening and 
 sometimes breaking in. And he had that unmistakable expres- 
 sion of a man whose attention is completely grasped by the mat- 
 ter in hand. Carelli believed that Sir Theodore was in love 
 with Mrs. Denzil, and was probably, indeed almost certainly, 
 her lover. This was a perfectly natural conclusion for an Ital- 
 ian to draw from Sir Theodore's great intimacy with the Den- 
 zils and incessant visits to their house. It did not arise because 
 Carelli's mind was nasty but merely because it was Italian. 
 Why should a married man go perpetually to a Hat Inhabited 
 by a still young and charming woman If he Is not In love with 
 her? It would be waste of time. Denzil's attitude did not 
 trouble Carelli. He did not bother about It. He knew 
 how strangely blind or accommodating Roman husbands some- 
 times were, and he had paid occasional visits to London, and 
 stayed in English country houses during the shooting season. 
 There were husbands — and husbands, in England as well as 
 In Italy. 
 
 Now his eyes turned from the couple on the sofa to the face 
 of Dolores, and she read his thought In his eyes. 
 
 He did not understand the truth at all. Her confidence In 
 her intuition was in no wise affected by his misreading of the 
 situation, a misreading so characteristic of a man. But she 
 longed to put him right. And the strength of her longing 
 startled her. Why should she care what Carelli thought? 
 The sense of anxiety, almost of fear, which had assailed her so 
 mysteriously In the summer came upon her again. An influ- 
 ence touched her, like a finger laid upon her In the dark. And 
 something wltliln her recoiled. And something within her 
 waited, motionless. 
 
 " I am not going to hunt. I am tired of hunting. If I 
 cannot have a salon, at least I can get to know Interesting people 
 and have them here. They must come alone If the uninterest-
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 65 
 
 ing people are afraid to meet them. But, in spite of the am- 
 bassadress, I mean to try to mix them." 
 
 Out of her uneasiness she spoke almost with crossness. 
 
 " And you will ask me? " said Carelli, 
 
 " You ! Why not ? I shall invite nearly every one I know. 
 These rooms are large." 
 
 " And we are to furnish them for you? " 
 
 His quiet voice, in which there seemed to be a smile, made 
 Dolores realize that her nerves were playing serious tricks with 
 her to-night, and that she must not give way to them. She 
 knew she had been almost impolite. It was that thought of 
 Carelli's, that stupid belief of his about the two people on the 
 sofa opposite, which liad driven her into irritation. But now 
 that she recognized that fact she would not be betrayed by it 
 again. 
 
 " My friend, Mrs. Denzil, says it is only people who fur- 
 nish rooms," she remarked. 
 
 And she tried to throw cordiality into her voice as she said 
 the word " friend." 
 
 Carelli stared at Edna Denzil, who, yielding to her habit, 
 was putting her face near to Sir Theodore's while she talked 
 to him. He had little doubt that Sir Theodore had imposed 
 Mrs. Denzil's company on his hostess that night, and he consid- 
 ered that Sir Theodore was quite within his rights in doing so. 
 And Lady Cannynge was trying to carry the matter oft with a 
 high hand and to throw dust in his eyes. How could she feel 
 that Mrs. Denzil was her friend? But she had to make the 
 best of things, as so many wives have to in Rome and elsewhere. 
 Despite his strong feeling for Dolores he did not pity her very 
 much because of the fate he supposed to be hers. The Roman 
 tradition was against such pity, especially such pity in a man. 
 And Carelli was really Roman at heart, not English. He was 
 confronted, as he believed, by the very ordinary situation of an 
 unfaithful husband bringing the other woman to his wife's 
 house. If she was a woman of society, not discarded by 
 her husband, that was nothing out of the way. It was done 
 every day, not only in Rome but in many other cities. But 
 though Carelli did not specially pity Dolores, he was beginning 
 to love her, more than he had ever yet loved. And that fact 
 made the supposed situation of very vital consequence to 
 him. 
 
 " Interesting people?" he said, looking from Mrs. Denzil to 
 Sir Theodore.
 
 66 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 ** People one likes, whether they are interesting or not, I 
 suppose." 
 
 " Could you like some one who was uninteresting? " 
 
 "Why not? I don't think one's heart is always, or perhaps 
 even generally, led by one's brain." 
 
 " It is difficult for a man to know by what a woman's heart 
 is led." 
 
 " Besides," said Dolores, ignoring this remark, " the mere 
 fact of your caring for some one makes him, or her, interesting 
 to you. Everybody is interesting to somebody, but everybody 
 is not interesting to a company." 
 
 " To your salon ! " he rejoined, smiling and showing his 
 large even white teeth. " Do tell me, when you open your 
 salon, if I am permitted to come, in which set will you place 
 me? Shall I be expected by you to be interesting or only inter- 
 ested?" 
 
 He leaned forward. Though he was still smiling, his large 
 eyes looked almost seriously inquiring, as if he really wished to 
 know. And as he asked his question Dolores asked a question 
 of herself. Did she think Cesare Carelli an interesting man? 
 
 "You must be both," she replied, also smiling; and still ask- 
 ing that question of herself. " The linking of the two powers 
 makes the perfect man, socially speaking." 
 
 And then she drew Lady Sarah and Denzil into the conver- 
 sation. Mrs. Denzil and Sir Theodore also came nearer and 
 joined in. And for the last quarter of an hour before they 
 separated the conversation was general. 
 
 Nevertheless it was not really gay. Nor did it flow quite 
 easily. And the second reason why this evening of the blessing 
 of the roof-tree was not quite a success was supplied by the un- 
 expected presence of Carelli. 
 
 He infected Dolores with anxiety, and with something else, 
 irritation, caused by his misreading of her situation which she 
 divined. And what a hostess feels her guests, if they are few, 
 however faintly, however ignorantly, echo. 
 
 That festival of the blessing ended with two conversations. 
 One was in the red and green drawing-room between Sir Theo- 
 dore and Dolores, the other in the hired coupe in which the 
 Denzils were returning home to the Via-Venti Settembre. 
 
 When their guests were gone Sir Theodore stood by the 
 fire and stretched himself a little, as tall men often do when 
 they are relieved of some social burden. 
 
 " A pleasant evening — in patches, Doloretta," he said.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 67 
 
 " But, alas ! only in patches. Was it Lady Sally, or was it 
 some fault of mine, do you think? or was it Carelli coming 
 in? The Denzils I put out of this court of inquiry. I think 
 probably they were unconscious that all was not going like 
 a marriage bell." 
 
 His wife lifted her ej/ebrows. 
 
 " You don't think it went oi¥ well ? " 
 
 " Yes, but as I say — in patches. Now you and I ought to 
 manage things better than that with our experience and savoir 
 faire. Yet Lady Sally can't be responsible. She's a brick, 
 and a charming and intelligent brick into the bargain." 
 
 He pulled his pointed beard gently. 
 
 " I suppose it must have been Carelli. By the way, who 
 on earth could have told him the lie that we were in casa 
 to-night?" 
 
 " Rome is full of nonsensical rumors." 
 
 " If he stuck to his supposition he must have thought our 
 friends were somewhat reluctant in their coming." 
 
 He moved his lips two or three times sideways, causing 
 his beard to shift in a way that suggested an alert restlessness 
 and dissatisfaction. 
 
 " But who cares what he, or any one of those outside, 
 thinks?" 
 
 "What do you mean by 'those outside,' Theo?" 
 
 " All the crowd of Carellis outside our hearts and our lives, 
 Doloretta; those who are never coming in, the countless 
 multitudes who will never matter. Let us go, you to your 
 beauty sleep, I to a Russian novel, and forget our patchy 
 evening," 
 
 Dolores did not speak or move. She was looking into the 
 fire. 
 
 "Doloretta!" 
 
 "Yes, yes!" she said, turning, "let us forget our patchy 
 evening." 
 
 " And I will put this little rose into water. It is too lovely 
 to be allowed to fade before its time." 
 
 He drew little Theo's gift carefully out of his coat. 
 
 Meanwhile the Denzils' coupe was slowly mounting the hill 
 to the Via Venti Settembre. It was a narrow coupe, and, 
 as they sat in it, they touched each other. 
 
 " They're very cozily settled, old Theo and Dolores, aren't 
 they, Ed ? " said Denzil. 
 
 He cleared his throat.
 
 68 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " The cigar doesn't seem to have done my cold much good. 
 I believe you were right." 
 
 " You really do smoke rather too much, Franzi." 
 
 Denzil took hold of his v^^ife's hand, as if he were taking 
 hold of his own. 
 
 " I'll knock off one or two a day." 
 
 " I believe you ought to. Yes, they are cozily settled, and 
 it's a lovely apartment. But I don't want to be in it." 
 
 " No more do I. And yet it would really suit us better 
 than it suits them, because we are five to their two. Poor 
 old Theo! It is hard on him never having had a child. I 
 don't know that Dolores minds." 
 
 " If she did she would never say so." 
 
 " She's so fond of all sorts of things — dogs and horses, art, 
 music, furniture, I doubt if she's one of the women who need 
 children." 
 
 Mrs. Denzil thought she knew better, but she did not think 
 it necessary to say so. And she had something else that she 
 wanted to say to her other half, who held her hand as if it 
 were his own. 
 
 " Franzi, do you think Dolores really likes me? " 
 
 " Likes you ! Of course she does. Why, what greater 
 friends have we in the world than Theo and Dolores? I 
 was Theo's best man." 
 
 " Yes, but I wasn't. And Sir Theodore isn't Dolores." 
 
 " What can possibly have put it into 3^our head that 
 Dolores dislikes you ? " 
 
 " I didn't say that. I don't believe I am the sort of woman 
 to rouse active personal dislike in a woman so naturally sweet- 
 natured as Dolores. But to-night " 
 
 "Well, what was it?" 
 
 " Dolores was showing me over the apartment. When we 
 came to her bedroom, which is really quite lovely, a show 
 bedroom, the sort you and I could never endure, I don't be- 
 lieve she wished to let me into it. I know she didn't." 
 
 "Did you go into it?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Well then?" 
 
 " I didn't wish to show that I thought she wanted to keep 
 me out. And she didn't wish to show that was what she 
 wanted." 
 
 "Merciful Heavens! What subtleties! What hedging!"
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 69 
 
 " That is how women are, Franzi. So she asked me to go 
 in and I went in." 
 
 "And then what happened, you number one absurdity?" 
 
 *' She showed me everything. But how she hated my being 
 there!" 
 
 " Wasn't Lady Sally there too? " 
 
 " No, she was looking at a picture outside. You know, 
 Franzi, there are some women who hate to sleep in a room 
 with another woman, however intimate a friend she may be. 
 When she was showing me the bedroom Dolores was feeling 
 like one of those women — if she had to." 
 
 Denzil said nothing for a minute. He was accepting his 
 wife's intuition slowly. His mind was transmuting that fragile 
 thing, a woman's guess, into what was to stand to him as a 
 solid fact. 
 
 " I can't imagine anyone disliking you, Ed," he said at 
 length. "You never interfere with other women, do you? 
 You like them, which many of your sex don't, according to 
 their own account. You never go for a man, because I never 
 let you have the chance" — a hand squeezed his — " and there- 
 fore women who are robbers feel safe with you. Besides, Do- 
 lores is a sweet and gentle creature, isn't she? I always 
 thought so. After you I look upon her as one of the best 
 women I know." 
 
 " Say before me, and you wouldn't be out of the course." 
 
 " Take care — slang ! " 
 
 " That isn't slang. But all that has nothing to do with it." 
 
 " Hasn't it, mystifier?" 
 
 " Franzi, great happiness creates envy, and sometimes in 
 very sweet women. I begin to think that our happiness is 
 hurting Dolores." 
 
 " I can't see that." 
 
 " No, you old dear. But only I know how short-sighted 
 you are, and that's why you stare with those two eyes like two 
 stones, and frighten people." 
 
 " And even if you are right we can do nothing. We can't 
 help being happy ! " 
 
 "No, no! Grazie — grazic a Dio, we can't help being 
 happy ! " 
 
 They had reached the top of the hill. The rushing of 
 water in the fountain sounded in their ears. The spray almost 
 touched their cheeks through the open window of the carriage.
 
 70 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 And the horse trotted, as if in a hurry to reach the only earthly 
 Paradise — a happy home. 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 A FORTNIGHT bcforc Christmas Marchesa VerostI began her 
 " Thursdays " ; that is to say she was at home in the Palazzo 
 Antei from five to seven every Thursday afternoon. The 
 Marchesa w^as old but full of vitality, and still eagerly in- 
 terested in all that was going on in the world. Her three 
 daughters were all married. Her only son had found a for- 
 tune with a pretty wife attached to it in America. And her 
 jovial husband, who was a senator, a sportsman and a viveur, 
 at the age of seventy was still healthy enough to revel in the 
 follies of life. 
 
 Rome is full of the faithful, and Marchesa Verosti still com- 
 manded a large following of adherents, drawn chiefly from 
 the Quirinal and cosmopolitan worlds. Her father had been 
 a Roman, her mother an American from the South. From 
 her childhood she had spoken English fluently, and some of 
 the energy and swiftness of America, some of its freedom from 
 the prejudices which still prevail in the old lands of Europe, 
 mingled with her aristocratic Roman characteristics, and made 
 her an excellent hostess. So her Thursdays were always well 
 attended both by women and men, and those which fell before 
 Christmas were crowded by people eager to describe the events 
 of the villeggiatura and to hear the prospects for the winter. 
 
 On her first Thursday the Marchesa was assisted in receiv- 
 ing by two of her daughters. Countess Bennata and Countess 
 Elivei, small, graceful young Avomen, with blue-black hair and 
 likely dark eyes. They remained in the third drawing-room, 
 where tea was spread out on a huge round table. The Mar- 
 chesa sat in the room beyond, in the midst of red damask, bibe- 
 lots and flowers. 
 
 Like her daughters she was small. Unlike them she was 
 wizened, wrinkled, yellow and shrunken. Her shrewd and 
 inquisitive little face was flushed with paint, which only em- 
 phasized the color of her natural complexion. Her eyes 
 sparkled under tufted eyebrows, above which rose a high fore- 
 head, lightly dusted with powder, and surmounted by a festive- 
 looking black wig, the curls of which were threaded by a scar-
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 71 
 
 let riband of watered silk, with a fat hanging pearl attached 
 to it exactly in the middle of her head. 
 
 In Rome people arrive punctually, and by a quarter past 
 five the Marchesa's rooms were thronged. Most of the smart- 
 est and prettiest married women of the Quirinal set were there, 
 many girls on the eve of entering the world, and plenty of 
 men both middle-aged and young, among the latter numerous 
 diplomats attached to the various embassies. Two ambassa- 
 dors also looked in, and conversed amiably with the Marchesa, 
 and seriously with three or four Italian politicians, who turned 
 up for a short time, pretended to have tea, surveyed the debu- 
 tantes critically, spoke in corners — no doubt on affairs of 
 moment — and melted mysteriously away. 
 
 The general company discussed affairs important rather to 
 individuals, or to sections of fashionable humanity in Rome, 
 than to the country or the world at large. And three topics 
 seemed to be uppermost in minds and on lips ; a rupture, a new 
 hostess and what she was likely to do in the way of entertain- 
 ing during the coming season, and the immense losses of a 
 gambler. The rupture took first place in the conversations 
 of the smart married women. The girls were able to join in 
 when the new hostess was on the tapis. And there was scarcely 
 a man present who was not thoroughly interested in the losses 
 of the gambler. " The Mancelli " and Cesare Carelli were 
 the heroine and hero of the rupture; Dolores was the new hos- 
 tess; and the unfortunate gambler was Marchese Montebruno. 
 
 Rome was genuinely disturbed about Princess Mancelli. In 
 Italy husbands are very faithless, but lovers are very faithful. 
 Many a liaison becomes consecrated by usage in the eyes of a 
 world that is not greatly troubled by questions of strict moral- 
 ity, but which has a decided feeling for romance, and a strong 
 sense of the obligations of lovers. Such a liaison had been that 
 existing between Princess Mancelli and Cesare Carelli. Yet 
 the Princess was now forty-three and Carelli only just thirty, 
 and when the affair had begun Carelli had been a boy of but 
 eighteen. 
 
 In those early days, twelve years before, the Princess had 
 been severely blamed, and, for a short time, had been in danger 
 of losing her social prestige. People said, and thought, it was 
 a shame to break up the life of a boy and impair his freedom. 
 Many mothers were indignant on behalf of their budding 
 daughters; and Cesare's parents were furious, and made efforts 
 to detach their son from a woman they chose to call " old."
 
 72 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 Of course the Prince was an abominable husband. Every one 
 knew that. He was forever in Paris, living an " impossible " 
 life. From the first he had treated his wife atrociously, and after 
 remaining with her for a couple of years had practically de- 
 serted her. Nevertheless she had done very wrong in spoiling 
 the boy's life, and in keeping one of the best partis in Rome 
 from matrimony. 
 
 Why did Rome forgive her? Because she had great force 
 of will, was a grande dame, an accomplished mondaine, was 
 connected with several of the very greatest families of Italy, and 
 knew how to be determined with discretion. And she genu- 
 inely adored Carelli, and never looked at any one else. Rome 
 loves romance. And the longer it lasts the more Rome loves it. 
 So, as time passed on, Rome not only forgave Princess MancelH 
 for her lapse from virtue, but actually came to think of the 
 lapse itself as a sort of virtue — on the left hand; something 
 that must be expected to continue indefinitely and that must 
 not be interfered with. 
 
 The Princess and Carelli did not advertise their connection 
 unduly. The proprieties were scrupulously observed. But 
 Carelli generally happened to be where the Princess was. 
 Whenever she had a party he dropped in. In the hunting field 
 it was an understood thing that he was her lead. He was her 
 partner in every cotillon. And in the summer when she was in 
 Paris, in London, in Aix, at St. Moritz, Cadenabbia or Varese, 
 so was he, though not always in the same hotel. 
 
 But during the summer just over the Princess had gone to 
 Switzerland alone, and Carelli had remained in Italy with his 
 family. 
 
 Rome was distressed at such a change in the established order 
 of things. It could only mean a rupture. Who was the 
 
 woman 
 
 Names were whispered. But nobody really knew. The 
 Marchesa Verosti was among the most anxious to arrive at the 
 truth. Age had not withered her interest in the affairs of her 
 neighbors, and she eagerly sought among her many guests for 
 somebody who could inform her. 
 
 " There is the little Boccaral She may be able to tell us! " 
 she suddenly exclaimed, as she perceived the Countess, in a 
 very tight black velvet dress, with an immense plumed hat, 
 coming with tiny steps into the tea-room, and giving her left 
 hand, in a white kid glove, to man after man to be kissed. 
 
 " How extraordinary her waist is! " said Mrs. Melville Prin-
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 73 
 
 gle, a large woman, half American, half English, who was sit- 
 ting with the Marchesa. " I remember her in Paris when she 
 was sixteen, and she was one of the fattest and awkwardest 
 girls I ever saw. We always called her the Lyons dumpling." 
 
 "Madeleine!" cried the Marchesa, beckoning and nodding 
 till the fat pearl quivered in front of her wig. 
 
 In the distance the Countess blew a kiss to her hostess, made 
 a piteous face, and held up a tea-cup. 
 
 " Tea and lemon to make her more slender! " said the Mar- 
 chesa. 
 
 " What I can't understand is how all that starving doesn't 
 affect her face," said Mrs. Melville Pringle. " I tried it, and 
 got such a dragged look that I had to give it up and eat like 
 other people." 
 
 " You and I needn't bother, my dear," said the Marchesa 
 comfortably. " AVe are long past all that! Madeleine! Come 
 and sit down. How nice to see you again after all these 
 months. You know Mrs. Melville Pringle?" 
 
 The Countess nodded to that lady with an indifference that 
 bordered on insolence, and sat down on a straight chair. Never 
 yet had she been seen to sit in an armchair, or to lie down on a 
 sofa. 
 
 " You've been in Switzerland this summer, haven't you ? " 
 continued the Marchesa, earnestly. 
 
 " I was at Lucerne before I went to Aix." 
 
 "Lucerne! Did you see the MancelK! I heard she was 
 there." 
 
 " Lisetta — oh yes, she was at the National." 
 
 The Countess spoke carelessly, and glanced about the big 
 room to see how many m.en were looking at her. 
 
 " Was she alone? " 
 
 " She arrived alone and joined the Duke and Duchess de 
 Vaudoise, and some others, all French, I believe." 
 
 " I know the Duke and Duchess de Vaudoise," observed 
 Mrs. Melville Pringle weightily. 
 
 " Pourquoi pasf " asked the Countess, with impertinence. 
 
 Mrs. Melville Pringle bored her, and to those who bored 
 her she was merciless. When she could not cut them she 
 crushed them. 
 
 " Come here, Principe," she now called to an aristocratic 
 looking middle-aged man, who was moving cautiously forward 
 not far off. And she turned her shoulder to Mrs. Melville 
 Pringle who got up with a lowering glance.
 
 74 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " We always called her the Lyons dumpling in Paris, always. 
 She was so huge" Mrs. Melville Pringle murmured acridly 
 to the Marchesa. 
 
 Then she moved haughtily towards the tea-room. 
 
 " That woman's the greatest bore in Rome," exclaimed the 
 Countess as Prince Perreto came up and kissed her hand. " I 
 never discuss things before her. She repeats them to the wrong 
 people to make an effect and raises one up hosts of enemies. 
 What's all this about Montebruno?" 
 
 " He has lost everything," said the Prince, sitting down with 
 a sunny smile. 
 
 " Ah, Carlo ! " cooed the Countess, ** Carlo, buona sera! " 
 
 A handsome young man with tiny black moustaches obeyed 
 the coo, and sat down on her other side. 
 
 " Well, but that's nothing new," continued the Countess, 
 " Montebruno had lost everything before I came to Rome. Be- 
 sides he never had anything." 
 
 " He had all Teresa's dot," observed the Marchesa. 
 
 " Two million lire," said Perreto. 
 
 The young man's expressive eyes which till now had been 
 soft and melting, suddenly looked hard and greedy. 
 
 " That's nothing if one plays. I don't suppose it lasted Mon- 
 tebruno two seasons," said the Countess. 
 
 " Not nearly so long," observed the Prince, pressing his 
 hands together, then suddenly separating them. 
 
 The young man. Carlo Vitali, looked respectful. Monte- 
 bruno was greatly admired and looked up to by the aristocratic 
 youth of Rome on account of his notorious vice. 
 
 "Did he really lose two millions?" asked Vitali, in a soft 
 tenor voice, as who should say — " What a man ! " 
 
 " Before they'd been married a year," said the Prince 
 cheerily. 
 
 " Teresa always told me it was a year and a half," said 
 the Marchesa, moving her tufted eyebrows up and down. 
 
 "Poveretta!" said the Prince negligently. "That was to 
 defend Montebruno. She loves him desperately to this day, 
 and would never have been separated if it hadn't been for her 
 mother." 
 
 " The mother's a horrid hard woman," said the Countess. 
 " I can't bear her. She was always so down on Montebruno. 
 So uncharitable! What's Montebruno going to do?" 
 
 " Oh ! he will manage," said young Vitali, putting a monocle 
 over his left eye, and gazing at the Countess from top to toe,
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 75 
 
 then fixing his eyes on her waist. " Montebruno is a great 
 man. He can always find money." 
 
 " They say it's the Mancelli this time," said the Prince, with 
 a sh'ght smirk and a side glance at the Marchesa. 
 
 " The Mancelli! " said the Marchesa. 
 
 " Who has helped him out." 
 
 "But why should she?" 
 
 At this moment quite a stream of new arrivals claimed the 
 attention of the unfortunate Marchesa, who was forced to 
 bridle her curiosity, and to be amiable in frustration. 
 
 "Do you really believe it?" murmured the Countess. 
 
 " That's what they say," returned Perreto, with a lively air. 
 " It may be a potin." 
 
 "It's a very good one at any rate. Ah, my dear boy! 
 Where on earth have you been hiding all this time? Why 
 didn't you come to play bridge with us at the Teodoris yester- 
 day? Come and sit down and explain yourself!" 
 
 She added the Englishman with the gray eyes, who had 
 joined the circle around Princess Bartoldi after the little dinner 
 at the Grand Hotel, to her court. Till she had at least six 
 men sitting round her she was miserable and felt abandoned 
 by the world. 
 
 " I was at the Cannynges," said the Englishman, a young 
 attache from the British Embassy, called Hereward Arnold. 
 
 With a couple of nods to the other men he took a chair 
 exactly opposite to the Countess, at whom he gazed firmly. 
 
 " Ma die bella donna! Che donna simpatica! " exclaimed 
 Prince Perreto, throwing up his hands and making his voice 
 luscious. 
 
 Hereward Arnold turned and regarded him steadily, with- 
 out expression. 
 
 "Do you admire Dolores Cannynge?" the Countess asked 
 him. 
 
 Although somewhat impassive, Hereward Arnold was no 
 fool. He raised his shoulders. 
 
 " Does Lady Cannynge set up to be a beauty ? " he said. " I 
 wasn't aware of it." 
 
 "You don't admire her!" exclaimed the Countess. "Well, 
 I do. I think her the most beautiful person in Rome." 
 
 " Contessa mia!" protested young Vitali. "And you!" 
 
 He again looked at her waist and sighed gently. Then sit- 
 ting nearer to her, he murmured, with a sort of hot and open 
 sentimentality, which made Arnold twist contemptuous lips:
 
 76 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " There is only one really beautiful person in Rome." 
 
 " Then she is Lady Cannynge." 
 
 She smiled into his handsome eyes. 
 
 " Yes, yes, she is ! And Lady Cannynge is going to do great 
 things this season. What was it like yesterday?" she added, 
 turning towards Hereward Arnold. " I meant to come but 
 Leila Teodori made me play. So few of the women here play 
 really well, and she had Count Von Kreuz coming." 
 
 "Yes, what was it like?" echoed the Marchesa, suddenly 
 emerging from her duties as hostess. " Extraordinary I sup- 
 pose with this new idea of mixing people up like the presents 
 one draws in a charity tea." 
 
 " Oh, it was all right," said Arnold, remembering he was 
 a diplomat. " I couldn't stay very long." 
 
 " Were there any archaeologists ? " chirped the Countess. 
 
 " I believe there was one. But he was in the tea-room all 
 the time I was there, with Miss Hopetown. 
 
 " They tell me the Ambassador is determined she shall be 
 Venus in the tableaux at the German Embassy for the suffer- 
 ers from the Rhine inundations," said the Marchesa. 
 
 " The Hopetov/n girl ! " cried out the Countess, turning 
 sharply. '* But she is perfectly square. How can she wear 
 draperies? And who ever heard of a dark Venus?" 
 
 " She certainly will not be the Mother of Harmonia," mur- 
 mured Prince Perreto to Arnold, with a fine smile. 
 
 " She is as square as my jewel case," said the Countess. 
 
 An animation of temper lit up her face, almost as if with 
 a green light. 
 
 " She might do for Bellona — was it Bellona who had some- 
 thing to do with apple trees, in those times?" 
 
 She looked up at Vitali, who replied: 
 
 " Chi lo sa? " 
 
 " Or somebody of that kind, rustic and awkward. But as 
 for Venus! Why even Dolores Cannynge would be better, 
 though she looks almost like a Creole." 
 
 " And so the Cannynge is to do great things this season," 
 said Prince Perreto, to change the conversation. 
 
 " What is she going to do? " said a languid Roman princess, 
 with auburn hair, who came slowly up at that moment, and 
 stood leaning on an en tout cas with a beautiful jade handle. 
 
 " Have all the clever people at her parties as well as us," 
 snapped the Countess decisively.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 77 
 
 "Aren't we clever?" asked the Princess. 
 
 She looked vaguely at the floor, and moved the point of the 
 en tout cas gently to and fro. 
 
 The little Countess, who had the Frenchwoman's contempt 
 for slow wits, though she posed as a lovely little frivolity who 
 had become thoroughly Italianized, made a grimace at Here- 
 ward Arnold. 
 
 " Not as archaeologists and writers, Mimetta," she said 
 sharply. 
 
 " No? But in our way! " murmured the Princess, still look- 
 ing at the floor, and turning her fine profile towards the three 
 men. " Aren't we clever in our way? " 
 
 She glanced up at vacancy. 
 
 " There are so many ways," she almost whispered. 
 
 And she moved slowly towards the tea-room, gazing before 
 her, and holding her head slightly on one side. 
 
 " Since the Duca told Mimetta she looked like a Sphinx 
 she has become a bore numero un," said the Countess pettishly. 
 
 " What Duca? " asked Arnold. 
 
 " My dear boy ! when one says ' the Duca ' everyone knows, 
 or ought to know. Napoii Bella! " 
 
 Prince Perreto smiled and murmured something into the 
 Countess's ear. 
 
 " I know," she answered. " I was at Naples at the time. 
 It was very foolish of them both to manage so badly." 
 
 She looked round her, and said to the company generally; 
 
 " One thing they can do in France. They can manage their 
 afifairs better than they are managed here." 
 
 At that moment a very tall and clean-shaven man of about 
 thirty, an Italian, came up, bowed over the Marchesa's hand, 
 and said: 
 
 " Princess Mancelll is in the next room. She told me to 
 say she was coming In to you, but Countess Maria made her 
 stop and have tea first. Contessa bclla! " 
 
 He kissed Countess Boccara's hand with an air of profound 
 adoration, which almost amounted to passion. 
 
 " The Mancelll ! " exclaimed the Marchesa. 
 
 Again the fat pearl shook in the front of her wig, as if it 
 had become tremulous in sympathy with her excitement. 
 
 Her tufted eyebrows sprang up and down. 
 
 " I think I'll go into the tea-room. I will have a cup of 
 tea too."
 
 78 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 She got up, arranging the many rings on her rheumatic hands. 
 
 "How amusing if Carelli were to come!" she said, in a 
 happily, private, but audible voice to the Countess. 
 
 " Oh, Cesare never goes to an afternoon," said the little 
 Boccara. 
 
 " He came to one of mine once, with her." 
 
 The Marchesa walked into the tea-room. 
 
 " Sit down, Marcantonio," said the Countess. *' Oh, Barone, 
 are you back from Vienna. Come and tell us all about Kin- 
 sky's shoot." 
 
 She smiled sweetly on a fair and bald young man, who has- 
 tened to join her court. 
 
 Secretly she was longing to accompany the Marchesa into 
 the tea-room. 
 
 Every smart woman in Rome was at this moment keenly in- 
 terested in Princess Mancelli, who had not as yet appeared in 
 public since her return from the villeggiatura; and Countess 
 Boccara was as curious as a soubrette. But she did not choose 
 to show it just now. And she had five men sitting around her, 
 and admiring that waist for which she lived. 
 
 Near the tea-table, sipping a cup of tea and nibbling a tiny 
 cake covered with pink sugar, the Marchesa found Princess 
 Mancelli, standing in a group of women. 
 
 Lisetta Mancelli, born Lisetta Torquemara, the child of 
 Prince Torquemara and Anna, eldest daughter of Lord Ardran, 
 an Irish peer, was a grande amoureuse and a finished woman 
 of the world. She had within her depths of pride, but she 
 seldom showed them, depths of passion which only Cesare Ca- 
 relli had sounded, depths of the devouring and flame-like jeal- 
 ousy which is the shadow of such pride and such passion as 
 hers. Before all things she was dominating. Everyone felt 
 her Influence. When she came into any room, however 
 crowded, she made people conscious that she, a personality, was 
 there. Girls who aspired to success in the world made of her 
 a fetish. She was their ideal mondaine, and they worshiped 
 her from afar, for she would not be bothered with girls at 
 close quarters. The married women of Rome for years had 
 looked upon her as perhaps the leader in all things connected 
 with the worldly life. As a woman of the world and a great 
 lady she had a reputation that went beyond the borders of 
 Italy. Men, both old and young, sporting and intellectual, 
 arrives and aspiring, were delighted, and even grateful, if she 
 allowed them to be in her special set.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 79 
 
 Nevertheless she had failed to hold her husband, and now it 
 was whispered everywhere had been deserted by her lover. 
 
 Was there then some broken link in the chain of her influ- 
 ence, some secret weakness or failure in her character, which 
 only those discovered whom she allowed to draw near to her 
 real self, or whom she deliberately drew to her by a conscious 
 exertion of the will? If there was, no sign of it was dis- 
 coverable in her face. 
 
 The first impression of her was that she was full of subtle- 
 ties, and that impression grew. She was not a beauty. She 
 was an elegante with certain physical attractions for men ; a 
 perfect figure of the voluptuous type, not exceptionally tall, 
 extraordinarily expressive and beautiful hands and wrists, a 
 lovely skin, eyes not specially large but so bright and so fiery 
 that they startled, sometimes troubled, those who for the first 
 time suffered their gaze, clouds of dark hair that looked vic- 
 toriously vital, like the hair of a Victory dancing in despite of 
 all the opposition of the Heavens and the Winds. And she 
 was more than perfectly self-possessed. There was something 
 in her expression and manner quietly defiant of opinion, with- 
 out hardness, as if her inner self knew so absolutely that it 
 could not be changed, must remain forever just what it was, 
 that it was unable even to try to hide its knowledge from a 
 w^orld that asks wax from us on which it may set its crude and 
 its various impressions. 
 
 Of this woman, at this moment, all Rome was beginning to 
 whisper not triumphs but humiliation. Of course she knew 
 it. No living woman knew her Rome better than did Lisetta 
 Mancelli". Long ago, by being her unyielding self she had 
 nearly suffered the last condemnation of Rome. She had 
 known what she risked when she seized on the youth and the 
 fire of Cesare Carelli. But she had needed them and she had 
 taken them. And she had lived to see the hands of Rome — 
 her Rome! — almost piously raised as in blessing above her 
 head and the head of her lover. Now she saw those hands 
 wavering, as if, in surprised horror, Rome began to suspect 
 there was no longer any one to bless. 
 
 And she looked very piercing and serene as she now faced 
 Rome for the first time since the rumored rupture. 
 
 It was characteristic of her that she allowed herself at such 
 a moment to be surrounded not by men but by women. She 
 was not a coward. If pain had to be, she was of the kind 
 that goes to meet it. As yet she was ignorant who the woman
 
 8o THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 was who had displaced her from the heart of her lover. She 
 had been told by the one man, the only person to whom she 
 had spoken of her catastrophe, who the woman was. She had 
 been told that the woman was Dolores. But she held herself 
 ignorant. For in such matters she did not believe in the intui- 
 tions of men, and she had not convinced herself of the truth of 
 what she had been told. On the contrary she had some suspicion 
 that what Cesare had done was probably a prelude to some 
 project of marriage. His mother and father had perhaps at 
 last persuaded him to seek a wife, and, unlike many Roman 
 men, he had thought it honorable first to end what had been 
 almost like a marriage, only much more passionate and romantic. 
 
 She stood among ruins, with the dust of their fall rising like 
 a cloud about her, and sipped her tea in the midst of the group 
 of women, which her hostess now eagerly joined. 
 
 Although to men Princess Mancelli often seemed exquisitely 
 feminine, to some women she showed a side of her character 
 that, to them, seemed almost masculine, and that half-aiarmed 
 while it subjugated them. She was clever, and intellectual, 
 and there were times when she intimated a contempt of gossip 
 that resembled -a man's. And in her nature there was also a 
 love of sport not often found in Roman women. They some- 
 times appear to like a sport if it is fashionable. Princess Man- 
 celli liked sport for its own sake. She had been known to go 
 duck shooting in the Pontine marshes. And she was a hard 
 rider to hounds. 
 
 As the Marchesa came up the Princess was talking of the 
 sporting side of the winter season in Rome, and the Marchesa 
 caught the word " pity," spoken with a touch of smiling con- 
 tempt. 
 
 "What is a pity, Lisetta?" she asked, greeting the Prin- 
 cess with the warmth of an ardent curiosity. 
 
 The Princess looked round her to the group of women with 
 her strangely piercing eyes. 
 
 *' I was only saying it was a pity so few of the Roman 
 women go out with the hounds. Without the Americans and 
 the Austrians, and two or three English — such as Lady Can- 
 nynge — there would be no women at all who really follow, and 
 who aren't afraid of the obstacles." 
 
 " You are talking about hunting ! " said the Marchesa, with 
 obvious disappointment. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 The Princess put down her tea-cup.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 8i 
 
 " Remember I have been away from Rome for a long time, 
 and have lost our habit of gossip. But I shall soon find it 
 again no doubt." 
 
 " You talk of the Englishwomen hunting in Rome," observed 
 Donna Alice Metardi, a very young American recently married 
 to a Roman. " And Lady Cannynge. Well, I can tell you 
 Lady Cannynge's just tired of it. She's not buying any horses 
 this season." 
 
 " Isn't she ? " said the Princess, with indifference. " That 
 Is one woman the less in our little band then. But why is she 
 giving it up? " 
 
 " She says it's too expensive." 
 
 " But her husband has come Into any amount of money," 
 said the Marchesa. " That is why he retired from the diplo- 
 matic service before he became an ambassador. She was 
 furious about it. She wanted to be ' Her Excellency.' " 
 
 " Well, that's what she says." 
 
 " But what we want is never too expensive," said the Prin- 
 cess negligently. 
 
 Donna Alice's New England face expanded in a smile. 
 
 "That's so!" 
 
 " Perhaps Lady Cannynge can't do the two things at once," 
 observed a pretty Dutchwoman, who was sitting near the tea- 
 table placidly and listening to the talic.. 
 
 "What two things, Madame de Heder?" asked the Mar- 
 chesa. 
 
 " Hunting and lion hunting. Lady Cannynge is getting to 
 know all the interesting people we never meet ; the archaeolo- 
 gists, the historians, the young painters, the musicians; that world 
 we don't touch, except perhaps with the tips of our fingers once 
 or twice in a season — when we want to get something out of 
 it. For beneficenza of course! Ca va sans dire I" 
 
 Calmly the Dutchwoman looked round her with her light 
 and sincere eyes, in which there was a flicker of satire. 
 
 " Perhaps the cultivation of that world leaves Lady Can- 
 nynge no time for hunting," she concluded rather drily. 
 
 " I hear the Cannynges' apartment is lovely," said Princess 
 jMancelli. " No doubt she wants to show it to every one." 
 
 "Well, but — to archaeologists and historians!" exclaimed 
 the Marchesa, who had a holy horror of antiquities, which in- 
 deed were the only things that seemed thoroughly objectionable 
 to her in her beloved Rome. 
 
 " Bettina, cara, I know a historian here in Rome who has
 
 82 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 more feeling for beauty, and more sense of romance, than all 
 we women put together have," said Princess Mancelli. 
 
 Suddenly her eyes became fiery, and her dark face filled with 
 expression. 
 
 " We commit a great mistake in ignoring so much that makes 
 our Rome grand and unique. 1 have always thought so," she 
 added. " And so Lady Cannynge is going to give us, Romans, 
 a lead, and not in the hunting field! " 
 
 There was a sound of pride in her low voice as she said 
 the last words. 
 
 Many Romans secretly resent the possessive manners and ac- 
 tions of the English and Americans who swarm in the streets 
 of Rome, who own many of the finest houses and apartments, 
 give the most elaborate parties, and permeate society, perhaps 
 sometimes rather aggressively. Princess Mancelli was one of 
 these Romans. As a rule she concealed the fact. For she 
 knew her world, and knew what it was wise to conceal from 
 it. To-day, suddenly a flame leapt up within her and shot out 
 towards Dolores. For a moment Dolores bore the sins of a 
 multitude of forestieri in the mind of this Roman lady, for 
 a moment she deserved punishment for them all. 
 
 And yet not long ago Princess Mancelli had listened calmly, 
 almost incredulously, to a statement of Montebruno's involving 
 Dolores Cannynge. Despite her apparent serenity the mental 
 atmosphere in which she found herself was having a cumulative 
 efitect upon her. She knew what all these women were think- 
 ing about as they stood around her. And though her complete 
 self-possession dominated them, and to a casual spectator it 
 would have seemed as if she was the ruling spirit among them, 
 she felt all the time like one grasping rags in the frantic en- 
 deavor to cover her nakedness. 
 
 At this moment, unable to endure a longer suspension of her 
 curiosity although it was mitigated by five men, Coun- 
 tess Boccara stepped slowly into the tea-room followed by her 
 train. 
 
 She and the Princess disliked each other, for woman's rea- 
 sons. The position of the Princess in Rome irritated the Coun- 
 tess, who wished to be not only the smartest, but also the most 
 influential, woman in their small, but very complex, and cosmo- 
 politan, world. Unfortunately, though she was an ultra-smart 
 woman she was not a great lady. And whenever she was 
 where Princess Mancelli was somehow she was subtly made to 
 feel it. In supreme elegance there is something mental which
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 83 
 
 is lacking in supreme smartness. The Princess was supremely 
 elegant, the Countess was only supremely smart. Behind her 
 the Princess had the greatness of aristocratic Rome, and the 
 solid traditions of aristocratic England. Whereas the Countess, 
 behind her, had only the wealth and the business capacity of 
 successful commercial France, her father having been an im- 
 mensely rich Lyons silk merchant. 
 
 Therefore she disliked the Mancelli. And the Princess 
 disliked her, for her pretensions, for her numerous small af- 
 fectations, which grated upon the essentially unaffected, though 
 exceedingly secretive, nature which is characteristic of the aris- 
 tocratic Roman, and perhaps because of the great success of 
 her smartness. 
 
 Nevertheless the two women were very intimate acquaint- 
 ances, played bridge together, sat in the same box very often 
 at the opera, and continually dined in each other's apartments. 
 
 Pourquoif 
 
 " Pourquoi pas? " As the Countess would probably have 
 said. 
 
 "Lisetta! This is our Rome indeed now you are back to 
 lead us," she dropped out languidly in Italian, as she came 
 up. " We other cosmopolitans we can never really lead in 
 Rome, even if we seem to. I always say that. We are too 
 essentially modern. We have not within us that deep — silly 
 people call it stagnant — seriousness which belongs to every 
 true Roman." 
 
 Her voice and manner were threaded with delicate malice, 
 as the Marchesa's wig was threaded with the riband of watered 
 silk. ^ 
 
 Princess Mancelli looked quietly at the little Boccara. 
 
 " Our Rome ! " she said. 
 
 Then she turned carelessly to Prince Perreto, and began to 
 speak to him about a new book on the eternal, but eternally 
 interesting, subject of the Risorgimenio. 
 
 But Countess Boccara had plenty of spirit — some called it 
 impudence — and almost immediately she glided into their con- 
 versation, and with remarkable adroitness succeeded in leading 
 it from Garibaldi and Cavour, from Caprera and Marsala, back 
 to the modern Rome and United Italy which, with Paris, Monte 
 Carlo, and two or three other places with Casinos, were all 
 the world to her. 
 
 "You are hunting this season, of course, Lisetta?" she said, 
 soon.
 
 «4 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 "But, of course!" said the Princess. "When have I not 
 hunted? Baron Gino has picked up two capital hunters for 
 me, both of them Irish bred." 
 
 " I shall look out for you at the meet on Thursday," said 
 the Countess. " I am going to motor out with the Palacci." 
 
 She paused, then, looking straight into the Princess's piercing 
 eyes, she added : 
 
 " It will be your first day out this season, won't it?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " You are sure to enjoy it. The meet is at the Divino 
 J more." 
 
 She dropped her eyes, and turned to speak to Hereward Ar- 
 nold. As she did so she saw Dolores in the distance coming 
 slowly towards the tea-room. 
 
 "There is that perfectly sweet Lady Cannynge!" said 
 Donna Alice Metardi, who was a worshiper of Dolores. 
 
 An Englishwoman, who was just putting down a tea-cup, 
 remarked : 
 
 " She has a very sweet face. But I must say lately I think 
 she's gone of^. She's beginning to look rather hard about the 
 mouth." 
 
 " Hard! Lady Cannynge! Oh no! She's ever so sweet! " 
 protested Donna Alice, almost as if personally attacked. 
 
 " Well, I think she's getting to look hard," returned the 
 Englishwoman ; an inflexible banker's wife called Mrs. Craw- 
 bridge, who was severely spending the winter in Rome. 
 
 Countess Boccara darted an almost cruelly searching glance 
 at Dolores, who came up at this moment and began to greet 
 her acquaintances. 
 
 She realized at once that Mrs. Crawbridge was right. There 
 was a slight, but definite, change in the " most beautiful per- 
 son in Rome." The wistfulness and the mystery were still in 
 the eyes and on the lips. But there was also something fixed 
 and cold in the small face, a numbness that vaguely altered it, 
 as the touch of frost alters a landscape. 
 
 Dolores greeted the Marchesa and Countess Boccara, then 
 turned to Princess Mancelli. 
 
 " I heard you had just come back to Rome," she said. " My 
 husband and I have been here for ages. W'^e arrived in Octo- 
 ber to see about our new apartment." 
 
 " I hear it is quite lovely," said the Princess. 
 
 She held the hand of Dolores for perhaps a brief instant 
 longer than was usual.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 85 
 
 " My husband thinks it is all right. And he is very diffi- 
 cult to please, in that way." 
 
 " And in all other ways ? " asked the Princess lightly. 
 
 A smile played about her lips, but her eyes looked unsmiling. 
 
 "The other ways?" 
 
 " Men are so exigent as a rule — aren't they?" 
 
 There was a hint almost of malice in the voice. Why she 
 scarcely knew; It immediately roused in Dolores a defensive 
 feeling that was fiery. 
 
 " Perhaps they are. But my husband isn't," she said. 
 
 The Princess turned away to speak to an old Senator who 
 was one of her devout admirers. 
 
 " That woman's in love with her husband ! " she thought. 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 One afternoon, just before Christmas, Denzll came in from 
 the Embassy after a busy day's work, and found his wife 
 dressed to go out. The children were taking an airing in the 
 Borghese gardens, but would doubtless very soon return home. 
 For the hour of twilight was not far off, and they were always 
 hungry at tea-time. 
 
 "Hullo, Ed! Where are you off to?" said Denzil, in a 
 husky voice. 
 
 He came close to his wife, and, staring at her, he added: 
 
 *' What a smart hat, you worldly creature ! " 
 
 "I made it myself. Doesn't it look expensive? And how 
 it would be despised if all the women I am going to meet this 
 afternoon knew what it cost! " 
 
 " And how much was that? " 
 
 *' Never mind, you old Franzi. Such knowledge is not for 
 men." 
 
 He lowered his rather bull-like head, she raised hers simul- 
 taneously, and a kiss was. One could hardly say they kissed, 
 so natural, so unthought about, so inevitable seemed the meet- 
 ing of their lips. 
 
 " Where are you going, Ed ? " asked Denzil. ** Must you be 
 off at once? " 
 
 " Do you want me? " 
 
 " I thought I would have a cigar, and that you might enjoy 
 a half-hour of ecstasy by sitting near me and watching me 
 smoke it."
 
 86 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " Franzi, how could that be ecstasy? " 
 
 " I didn't smoke even one yesterday, and I've had a lot of 
 work. I feel as if I must. Besides, honestly I don't believe 
 the smoking has anything to do with my voice. Burton, the 
 American Naval fellow who's just come here, is twice as hoarse 
 as I am. And he never smokes at all. It seems to be a sort 
 of epidemic going about Rome, due to all this dust from the 
 building operations." 
 
 "Well, I don't want to be a brute. But let it be one of 
 those teeny light-colored ones." 
 
 " Right you are." 
 
 Denzil took his wife by the arm, and they went down the 
 broad passage to his study. 
 
 It was the coziest room in the flat except the nursery, and 
 at this moment it was, as Denzil sometimes said, " flavored 
 with nursery," for a small, but very finished gollywog belong- 
 ing to Viola was seated in Denzil's special armchair, looking 
 askance at the books and papers, and a Teddy bear lay on its 
 back near the hearth with its head reposing on the last Literary 
 Supplement of the Times. 
 
 Neither husband nor wife made any remark on these tenants. 
 Mrs. Denzil sat down on a worn sofa which was placed at right 
 angles to the fireplace, and Denzil, after carefully cutting, 
 lighting, and drawing at a small and pale cigar, went over to 
 his chair, very gently moved the gollywog into one of its 
 angles, and then took his seat beside it with a comfortable 
 sigh of satisfaction. 
 
 "What a blessing a cigar is!" he said, crossing his feet. 
 I don't know how I got through yesterday without one, Ed. 
 Only my holy fear of you kept me straight. But to-day I must 
 have sinned whatever your wrath." 
 
 "Why to-day, Franzi?" 
 
 " Because I have been bothered a bit.'* 
 
 He pulled happily at the little cigar, and watched the smoke 
 go up in the room where the light was growing vague as the 
 afternoon wore on towards the twilight. 
 
 " Has something gone off the rails? " 
 
 Mrs. Denzil leaned against the arm of the sofa, looking 
 towards her husband. Her voice was very quiet and even. 
 But she felt sure Franzi had been making a gaffe. 
 
 " Oh, it's nothing of importance. Only it seems I've put 
 a silly woman out." 
 
 " Of course! " said Mrs. Denzil's mind, while her voice said 
 "Have you?"
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 87 
 
 " You know when we had that Embassy dinner for the Prince 
 and Princess " — he mentioned the names of two English royal- 
 ties — " and there was all that row about the Tomtit being 
 sent in by mistake with a mere Mrs." 
 
 The Tomtit was the ambassador who represented one of the 
 great powers in Rome. 
 
 " Of course I do. But it is all right. The Tomtit him- 
 self was laughing about it with me only yesterday at the 
 Wolkonskys," 
 
 "Yes, the Tomtit's got over it. But that isn't the point." 
 
 Mrs. Denzil quietly lit a cigarette. What had the dear old 
 blunderer been up to now? It was she who had made the 
 ambassador laugh. But now there were other consequences of 
 the affair to be dealt with. 
 
 " No? " she said, dropping the match. 
 
 " It is the mere Mrs. who is up in arms." 
 
 "Mrs. Slingsby?" 
 
 "Yes. I didn't know It was she who had been palmed off 
 on the ambassador — at least I had utterly forgotten if I ever 
 did know — and so I told her the whole story at the Bul- 
 garian minister's lunch." 
 
 "Franzi!" 
 
 " I know ! I told her the Tomtit had said it was an af- 
 front to his emperor his being sent in at an official dinner in 
 honor of English royalties with a nobody, and being expected 
 to walk in behind one of his own secretaries." 
 
 " You said that to Mrs. Slingsby ! " 
 
 " Well, Ed, I was treating her as a real pal, and I hadn't 
 the faintest idea " 
 
 "Dear old boy, when do you have — in such matters?" 
 
 " It seems she's cut up awfully rough about the whole busi- 
 ness, and been complaining about it to Lady Gervase. This 
 sort of thing is the nuisance of diplomacy, Ed. All this social 
 rubbish, all this everlasting fuss about precedence, is unworthy 
 of any one with a genuine mind. And yet one has to bother 
 about it because people are so tiresome and petty." 
 
 " And so Mrs. Slingsby 's been complaining! " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "What did she say?" 
 
 " Heaven knows. But the ambassador spoke about it to me. 
 He was rather put out about something. There have been two 
 or three other little mistakes lately, it seems. They are as 
 particular about etiquette here as they are in Vienna. If old 
 Theo had got Vienna he'd have had a terrible time."
 
 88 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 Mrs. Denzil knew that Sir Theodore was quite incapable of 
 making such social mistakes as those committed by her husband. 
 But she did not say so. She was thinking busily. 
 
 " I shall probably meet Kitty Slingsby this afternoon," she 
 said presently. 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 " At the Cannynges." 
 
 *' Is that where you are going in the hat ? " 
 
 "Yes. Why don't j'ou come too?" 
 
 " No, Ed, not even Dolores and Theo could tempt me to 
 show up in the afternoon. Do you know I begin to pity Theo." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Always people in the house. A man can't like it. A man 
 wants his home to be his own. He likes to have some privacy 
 in it, some peace." 
 
 As he spoke he glanced about the room, then at his wife, 
 and heaved a slight sigh of satisfaction at the calm of their 
 interior. 
 
 " Dolores is getting together some very interesting people, 
 I believe," observed Mrs. Denzil mildly. 
 
 "I daresay she is. But it's everlasting: especially in the 
 afternoon when every man likes to be free," 
 
 " Theodore isn't obliged to be always there, I suppose." 
 
 " Of course not. But there always seems to be some special 
 interesting bore he must meet coute que coute. Oh, Ed, how 
 delightful it is to put one's feet in one's fender, and to know 
 that not a single interesting person will get inside one's door 
 for a good twenty-four hours at the very least ! " 
 
 She laughed happily. 
 
 " You and I were born to be fogies, Franzi." 
 
 " Thank God for it." 
 
 " Let's try to be diplomatic fogies, eh ? Shall we ? " 
 
 "Wasp! Would you plant a sting in vour faithful hus- 
 band?" 
 
 He touched her hand, 
 
 " But seriously Ed, I can't think what's come to Dolores 
 lately. She used to be so simple and natural. And now she 
 seems to be perpetually straining to be something she isn't, 
 aiming at wit, superficial brilliance, and all the rubbish the 
 real women — women like you — never bother about. Surely 
 you must have noticed it." 
 
 " She wants to make Theodore's life interesting and amusing." 
 
 "Theo's!"
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 89 
 
 " Now that he has nothing special to do." 
 
 " You think she does it all for Theo? " 
 
 " I expect so." 
 
 " Then she forgets, or doesn't know, that at bottom old 
 Theo's just a primitive man with a longing for the primitive 
 things. He's got more world-varnish than I have, but he's no 
 more worldly, in the accepted sense of the term, than I am. 
 What he really likes is just to drop in here and smoke a cigar 
 with me, talk over things quietly, and have a good romp with 
 the children. He'd do it every day if Dolores didn't cram 
 their rooms with the intellectual salt of the earth. But as it 
 is he comes much seldomer than he used to. Haven't you no- 
 ticed it?" 
 
 " Now they're settling down perhaps they're getting to 
 twig " 
 
 "Slang!" 
 
 " They may be getting to know people more intimately." 
 
 " Whom have they got to-day ? " 
 
 " I don't know. But there's to be music, I believe. Franzi! " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " I suppose there really is a good chance of your getting 
 Munich eventually, after what Sir Allan told you in London." 
 
 " Remember, it's a dead secret! Even old Theo knows noth- 
 ing. Yes, there should be a good chance." 
 
 As he spoke Denzil's rather inexpressive face showed a cer- 
 tain brightness, almost an eagerness. 
 
 " Let's be careful not to spoil it." 
 
 " Now, what are you up to, Ed ? " 
 
 " Well, Kitty Slingsby's a great pal " 
 
 "Pal!" 
 
 " Friend — friend of Sir Allan's. And she's a cousin of 
 the minister." 
 
 "For Foreign Affairs! By Jove, so she is! I'd forgotten 
 all about that." 
 
 " The more you remember the more likely you are to get 
 Munich, I guess." 
 
 She made the remark seem light and casual by the little 
 Americanism with which she closed it. She got up from the 
 sofa. 
 
 "I must go. Have you any message for Kitty Slingsby?" 
 
 " Say I am overwhelmed with contrition, Ed. The truth is 
 all these silly outside things, the social things that mean noth- 
 ing really, never hold me for a moment. The genuine busi-
 
 90 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 ness of diplomacy, foreign affairs, the intricate relations between 
 our country and the rest of the nations, the undercurrents of 
 political opinion and political intrigue — that's a man's busi- 
 ness, that and anything to do with his home. But " — suddenly 
 he pulled up with a laugh — " no, I won't defend myself. The 
 fact is I'm too English, right through all the grain. And there 
 is a touch of the barbarian in every true and thorough Anglo- 
 Saxon, I suppose." 
 
 He took hold of hi? wife's hand and drew her down towards 
 him. 
 
 " Be Latin for me, as you know how to be, Ed, with Mrs. 
 Slingsby to-day," he said, with a very unusual flash of percep- 
 tion of his wife's part in his diplomatic career. 
 
 She put her face against his for an instant, looked in a glass, 
 settled the wonderful hat with a light and intelligent touch, 
 and went out of the room smiling. 
 
 She loved to be at work for Franzi. But she feared Kitty 
 Slingsby would be more difficult to deal with than the am- 
 bassador whose nickname was Tomtit. 
 
 Left alone Denzil lay back in his great armchair. The 
 window was open behind him, but there was a small fire, and 
 the room was pleasantly warm. The little cigar was not yet 
 smoked out. He husbanded it with a cherishing care. As the 
 evening drew on the light from the flames grew in value and 
 beauty, made him think for an instant of winter evenings in 
 England. At any moment he might hear the voices of the re- 
 turning children, hear their feet running down the passage, 
 their small hands feeling at the handle of the door. He forgot 
 all about Mrs, Slingsby and his maladroitness. The good of 
 life took hold upon him, the sane beauty and glory of God's 
 great gift. Easily, too easily perhaps, he had accepted all his 
 happiness, treating it as men treat the air, breathing it in and 
 seldom or never thinking about it. Now, for a little while, the 
 looked back, and then, being still young — is not a man with a 
 career still young at forty? — he looked forward. And in the 
 foreground of both prospects there was happiness. Indeed the 
 future glowed with an even clearer radiance than the past. 
 For if he was promoted to Munich, as seemed probable, in no 
 very long time he would be a minister, and his own master 
 under Government. And from minister some day he would 
 no doubt take the great step to the rank of ambassador. His 
 thought switched off that track and went to his friend, Theo- 
 dore. Always Denzil had regretted his friend's retirement, but
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 91 
 
 never so much as this evening, when his own prospect widened 
 and his own life seemed very good. Poor old Theo ! What a 
 mistake he had made in retiring! Such a clever diplomat to 
 be so impulsive in a personal matter! It was all over for him, 
 and it was all beginning for Francis Denzil! In his happiness 
 Denzil found room for sympathy with his friend. Indeed, at 
 that moment he felt, as many another good man has felt, as if 
 his happiness were a strong light by means of which he saw 
 clearly into the heart of another. Denzil's affections were not 
 very widely distributed. They were concentrated and very 
 strong. He loved Sir Theodore with a certain fine reserve, 
 with a certain close-fibred strength. And as he sat by the fire 
 resting, and finishing his cigar, he wished with a very unusual 
 vehemence that " old Theo " had not his luck, he would not 
 have parted with that for anything, but as much luck as he had. 
 
 He heard a step in the passage, a knock at his door. 
 
 " Avant'i! ■" he said huskily. 
 
 He cleared his throat. 
 
 The door opened and Sir Theodore came m. 
 
 " Theo ! I was just thinking about you, but as to expecting 
 you to-day — well ! " 
 
 He held out his hand without getting up. Sir Theodore 
 grasped it, turned and shut the door. 
 
 "Are the children still out?" he asked, coming up to the 
 fire. 
 
 " Yes. They're unusually late to-day. So you've fled ! You 
 couldn't stand any more of it?" 
 
 Sir Theodore looked down at his friend with a hint of sur- 
 prise in eyes and bearing. 
 
 "Fled — from what?" 
 
 " The Barbcrini music combined with hats. Ed has just 
 gone to listen to the former and add a remarkable monster Zo 
 the latter." 
 
 " I'd forgotten all about It." 
 
 Sir Theodore looked almost startled and then decidedly 
 vexed. 
 
 " What a bore ! " he added. 
 
 He took out his watch and glanced at It. 
 
 " I ought to go at once." 
 
 He kept the watch In his hand for a moment. Denzil stared 
 up at him. Denzil had just finished the cigar, and now, re- 
 luctantly, let the end of It fall into the fender. He longed 
 to light another, and to see his friend sit down In the big
 
 92 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 chair near his and light up too. But he did not say so. He 
 only stared with his short-sighted eyes. 
 
 Sir Theodore put the watch back slowly into his pocket. 
 
 " The music is going to be good, Franzi," he said, moving 
 his chin so that his pointed beard shifted sideways. " And 
 you've finished your cigar." 
 
 "Ehu!" 
 
 There was a pause. Then Denzil said: 
 
 " Very much regrets that a previous engagement! " 
 
 " What previous engagement? " 
 
 " A domestic one, Theo. I've seen nothing of the brats to- 
 day." 
 
 " But they're not in." 
 
 " They will be directly." 
 
 " Directly your door shuts behind me, no doubt," said Sir 
 Theodore. 
 
 His deep bass voice sounded almost harsh for an Instant. 
 
 Still Denzil did not ask him to stay. He was very loyal 
 to Dolores. She was the wife of his friend and a sweet 
 woman. 
 
 Sir Theodore turned, bent down, and warmed his hands at 
 the fire. Denzil sat silent. Again by the light of his own 
 happiness he saw into the dark places of his friend's apparently 
 fortunate life. 
 
 Suddenly Sir Theodore straightened himself up and wheeled 
 round. 
 
 " I must stay a few minutes," he said. " I genuinely for- 
 got about this affair at home." 
 
 Even as he spoke the last tv/o words he seemed to feel that 
 they were full of irony, and he added : 
 
 " If one can call an apartment in a palace that doesn't be- 
 long to one, haunted by strangers a home. Francis, let me 
 have one of those little cigars of yours. That won't take me 
 long to smoke, and I can jump into a fiacre afterwards. It's 
 no distance. I should be late anyhow." 
 
 Denzil handed his friend the cigar box in silence; then, as 
 Sir Theodore took one and cut it, he stared into the box, hesi- 
 tated, and said slowly with a half smile: 
 
 " I didn't promise I wouldn't." 
 
 "Wouldn't what?" 
 
 " Smoke two, but " 
 
 Sir Theodore made a dive at the box, took out a cigar, 
 clipped it, gave it to Denzil, lit a match.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 93 
 
 " Stick it into your mouth." 
 
 Denzil, with a pretense of reluctance, as if overborne, obeyed, 
 Sir Theodore held the match to the cigar, then sat down in an 
 armchair, stretched out his long legs, and breathed out a deep 
 and fervent "Thank God!" And in silence the two friends 
 smoked. 
 
 " I absolutely need this," Sir Theodore said at last. 
 
 " I daresay you do," rejoined Denzil. 
 
 " The fact is, Francis, that when a man gets to my age, if 
 he honestly is a man, society can't be much more than a dis- 
 traction to him. It may have become a habit, it may be a 
 duty " 
 
 " A damned diplomatic duty," groaned Denzil from his 
 heart, 
 
 " Which you neglect, my son ! But it can no longer be an 
 excitement, or a pleasure with any very keen edge. Now, if 
 you and I had new hats to display " 
 
 " Basta! Basta!" 
 
 They joined in a laugh. 
 
 " And yet I hate to hurt Doloretta's feelings," Sir Theodore 
 said. 
 
 He was grave again. 
 
 "Directly I've finished this," — he took the cigar from his 
 mouth, looked at it with affection, then put it between his lips 
 once more. 
 
 " Ed sa3's you have some very interesting people." 
 
 "Do we?" 
 
 " That's something anyhow," remarked Denzil. 
 
 He might criticise Dolores gently to his wife, but never to 
 her husband. 
 
 " Then why don't you come of tener to meet them ? " 
 
 *' You know how many duty dinners one has. And I am 
 a bear. I can't help it. The worst of it is I hate sitting up, 
 and never want the spectators to pitch me a bun. So even as 
 a bear I'm a failure." 
 
 He sent up a ring of smoke and followed it with his eyes. 
 
 " Francis, this does me good," exclaimed Sir Theodore, sit- 
 ting lower in his chair and stretching out his legs still further. 
 " If only Doloretta could smoke cigars! Her activity has be- 
 come terrific lately. They say Rome induces languor. That's 
 one of the many lies." 
 
 " You're active enough yourself." 
 
 " I used to think so. Doloretta has shown me my flaccid
 
 94 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 laziness. She's at it from morning till night. She never seems 
 to tire." 
 
 " Shows she's well," said Denzil laconically. 
 
 Sir Theodore glanced with his keen bright eyes at his 
 friend. There was a reserve between them. He felt it, and 
 at this moment he had a longing to be unreserved. Yet he 
 knew well how honorable a mutual reserve can be, even be- 
 tween the most intimate friends. Some one has said that his 
 silences make the great gentleman. Sir Theodore thought of 
 that at this moment. And he changed the conversation. 
 
 " I don't like the look of things in the Balkans," he said. 
 " D'you remember the apergu I once gave you of Ferdinand's 
 character? " 
 
 " I should think I do. It showed the lining." 
 
 " I believe I was right. Of course I had special means of 
 judging during the short time I was at Sofia. I wonder how 
 they are going to handle things at Vienna." 
 
 The sound of the last word seemed to startle him, although 
 he had spoken it. And now the outburst came. In this mat- 
 ter at least reserve was not necessary. He must have the re- 
 lief of frankness in some direction. 
 
 " Francis, what a fool, what a damned fool I was to get out 
 of the service! " he exclaimed. 
 
 " You were," Denzil said soberly. 
 
 " The devil enters into us at times. That's certain. But 
 that all my training should go for nothing! I can say that in 
 my career I never made a gaffe " 
 
 " Wish I could ! " muttered Denzil, thinking of Mrs. 
 Slingsby. 
 
 " And to go and ruin the whole thing In a moment of tem- 
 per. For that was what it was. I lost my temper and threw 
 the whole thing away. After Stockholm I was bound to get 
 an embassy. I ought to have had Vienna of course. But 
 still — we human wretches act instinctively sometimes, and 
 the instinct may chance to be wrong. But never, after what 
 I've done myself, could I blame the poor sinner by instinct 
 who, in a moment of madness, call i^ impulse if you like, puts 
 the rope round his neck, pulls it, and pheugh ! " 
 
 He made a gesture. Denzil seemed to see some one dangling. 
 
 " It was a tremendous mistake. I was thinking about it 
 to-day just before you came." 
 
 " Were you? A strong man would reconcile himself, I sup- 
 pose. Of course he would. But I can't. It seems I am a
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 95 
 
 weakling;. That's not a pleasant thought for a man either." 
 
 He allowed a profound melancholy to appear in his face. 
 
 " I've never thought you a weak man," said Denzil slowly. 
 
 " The most real moral strength, however, certainly Is to be 
 able to endure without grumbling inevitable catastrophe." 
 
 " You're right. You're right." 
 
 *' I'm thoroughly ashamed that I haven't got it, and that I 
 can't get it. The least I ought to do is to pay for my folly 
 with a good face." 
 
 " I suppose that is so. One doesn't want to be a bad loser," 
 said Denzil very quietly and impersonally. 
 
 "You wouldn't be that!" his friend said, with a strong 
 conviction. 
 
 " Chi lo saf " 
 
 " You couldn't be. You wouldn't know how." 
 
 " No credit to me then. But I haven't an idea. I haven't 
 been tested. I've had a wonderful run of luck." 
 
 " And you deserve it, and Edna deserves it." 
 
 "Ah, she does." 
 
 " I treated Doloretta badly, too, by resigning without a word 
 to her. Do you know, Francis, I sometimes think all this al- 
 most unnatural energy of hers comes partly from disappoint- 
 ment. She may have been secretly much more ambitious than 
 I ever supposed. She would have made a perfect ambassadress. 
 Sometimes I think — it may be absurd — that she's trying tG 
 play the role this winter without — but no, she wouldn't do 
 that. And yet, really, we might almost be in an embassy 
 with all the people who come and go. But it's my fault. A 
 woman must do something. She can't sit forever in empty 
 rooms. And if we go out we must return civilities. Besides, 
 we've taken such a big apartment. I often wish to Heaven 
 we hadn't." 
 
 He gazed gloomily into the fire, and for a moment there 
 was silence. Then looking up he added : 
 
 " I'd rather be here a thousand times." 
 
 " My dear chap, this does very well Indeed, but It's a hole 
 in comparison with your glorious rooms." 
 
 "A hole! Well, it's a homely hole," said Sir Theodore, 
 with conviction. 
 
 His cigar was finished. Reluctantly he moved In his chair, 
 putting his hands on Its leather arms. 
 
 " I suppose I ought to go now and give Doloretta a helping 
 hand with the hats, eh? "
 
 96 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " I suppose so." 
 
 Sir Theodore was about to get up when a new atmosphere 
 invaded the flat in the Via Venti Settembre. Uneven jumping, 
 pattering and toddling steps were heard, and small high voices 
 raised in a conversation so animated that a misanthrope might 
 have been moved to misname it a row. Sir Theodore sprang 
 up with quite youthful agility. 
 
 "Hush, Francis! Don't let 'em know!" he whispered. 
 
 And moving lightly across the room he glided, almost melo- 
 dramatically, behind one of the window curtains, just as there 
 came a battering of little fists upon the door. 
 
 Denzil, who had snatched up a book, after a pause replied: 
 
 "Come in!" 
 
 But there was no immediate entry. Broken whisperings, 
 apparently of a hortatory nature, took the place of the former 
 joyous intercourse. To these was presently added a peculiar 
 sound as of what Denzil called " scrabbling " — but very fur- 
 tive scrabbling — upon the door. Then the handle moved 
 slightly. The hortatory whisperings became more sibilant, and 
 were replied to by audible breathings. The handle was mo- 
 tionless; then there was more scrabbling, it moved again, shook, 
 but did not turn. During these mysterious processes Denzil's 
 usually stony face had become strangely expressive, as he sat 
 holding his book upside down and staring towards the door. 
 He was not exactly smiling, but a soft humanity that was almost 
 like a light, illuminated, changing, his features, and especially 
 his prominent almost bull-like forehead. The effect was as 
 if the soul of the father woke and set love, as a light may be 
 set in a window, in the face of the man. 
 
 Suddenly there was a sliding tattoo as of booted feet on the 
 door, followed by a bump, and a small cry. 
 
 Denzil sprang up and went quickly to open the door, while 
 Sir Theodore stuck an anxious head out from behind the win- 
 dow curtain. 
 
 " Now then, Vi, it's all right ! You're not a bit hurt ! " ex- 
 claimed Denzil. 
 
 The door was open. Sir Theodore quickly withdrew, like 
 a man in a farce, and a group of three small children was re- 
 vealed; one on its face and almost in the attitude of swim- 
 ming, with a convulsive back; the second, a boy in a sailor 
 suit, bent almost double in the eager endeavor to reverse the 
 swimmer ; the third, a girl, firmly planted, with a rosy face that 
 looked almost stern, staring fixedly at the other two in a ju- 
 dicial attitude.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 97 
 
 " She wanted to do it herself, so I lifted her. Iris helped," 
 exclaimed the boy, raising a flushed face. 
 
 " I helped," remarked the judicial child, as if giving con- 
 firmatory evidence. 
 
 " But she squirmed too much," added the boy. 
 
 " She did squirm," Iris supplied. 
 
 By this time the unfortunate one vi^as right side up in her 
 father's arms, revealing an extremely small and pretty oval 
 face, twisted with distress and outraged importance, and red, 
 except for the tiny nose, from which, perhaps, the blood had 
 been momentarily driven by the inflexible resistance to it of the 
 floor. This tiny nose was unnaturally white. The sight of it 
 roused all Denzil's tenderness. He did not know Viola was 
 his pet, but nevertheless she was. And now he kissed the 
 poor nose as he bore its owner to the armchair. 
 
 "It's all right, Vi. Look! Here's Augustus been sitting 
 beside me all this time watching the door." 
 
 He lifted the gollywog from its angle, and placed it in the 
 maternal arms which mechanically opened to receive it. 
 
 " He is pleased you've come back and nearly opened the door 
 yourself." 
 
 Viola looked at the gollywog. Her small face was still 
 working, but already the nose was resuming its natural com- 
 plexion, and a certain inquiry appeared in her eyes. It was 
 obvious that her mind was beginning to occupy itself with the 
 sensations of Augustus. 
 
 " Is he pleased ? " she lisped. 
 
 "Of course he is!" said small Theo, who was planted on 
 the hearthrug, his mobile face as eloquently expressive of anx- 
 iety for his little sister's condition as if he were assisting at the 
 crisis of some dangerous illness. " Look how he's smiling! " 
 
 His thick dark hair fell over his forehead as he bent down 
 and turned upwards the face of Augustus, which certainly wore 
 a grotesque smile. 
 
 " He's almost laughing." 
 
 " Is he? " murmured Viola, looking sideways at her brother, 
 and then very earnestly at her father. 
 
 " Yes," pronounced Iris. 
 
 " Yes, Vi," added Denzil firmly. 
 
 The matter was settled, and suddenly with a gesture and 
 look of coaxing abnegation, such as only a little child Is capable 
 of, Viola hid her face against Denzil's shoulder as if to con- 
 ceal the naughty fact that she was becoming quite happy again. 
 
 All this Sir Theodore watched from behind the curtain.
 
 98 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 Denzil had forgotten about him. He could see that. How 
 natural that was ! how your children must teach you to forget ! 
 When the little Viola hid her face, that was beginning to smile, 
 against her father, Sir Theodore felt a sensation of yearning 
 that was like a surgeon's knife exploring both body and soul. 
 Why, why could he not have Denzil's joy? Was he never to 
 possess the only gift he really longed for? 
 
 At this moment, for the first time, he contemplated the pos- 
 sibility of being unfaithful to Dolores. 
 
 Conversation of a highly animated kind was now joined upon 
 the hearthrug. The fact of Augustus's pleasure had appar- 
 ently been fully established to the satisfaction of Viola, who 
 saw in that remarkable smile new meanings all of a nature 
 complimentary to herself. She felt herself a source of pleasure, 
 even of exultant admiration. And forgetting with the facility 
 of extreme youth that she had failed to open the door, she 
 began to revel, with Augustus, in the fact that she had nearly 
 succeeded in opening it. " I couldn't open the door " was 
 turned into " I nearly opened the door myself ! " and all was 
 well. 
 
 " But why are you so late home, brats? Isn't it past your 
 time for ♦•ea?" exclaimed Denzil at length. 
 
 " Marianna allowed us to go home for a little with Boris 
 and Anutschka," explained Theo. " They was on the Pincio." 
 
 " Were on the Pincio," 
 
 " Were," — he corrected himself with great earnestness, 
 
 " Did you have tea with them ? " 
 
 " No, and we are hungry now." 
 
 " I want to eat," said Iris weightily. 
 
 She paused, seemed to reflect, and added firmly: 
 
 " I want to drink, too." 
 
 "I wants to dwink!" came a little gentle voice from Den- 
 zil's waistcoat. 
 
 " Come along! I'll come and have tea with you." 
 
 Denzil got up with Viola in his arms, and suddenly recol- 
 lected old Theo behind the curtain. 
 
 " By Jove! " he exclaimed, pausing. 
 
 "What's it?" cried little Theo. 
 
 He was as sharp as a needle. Now he cast a quick glance 
 round, following his father's eyes. 
 
 "There's a bulge! I see a bulge!" he cried out. "It's 
 Uncle Theo!" 
 
 He darted at the curtain, and laid hold of the bulge with
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 99 
 
 ardent hands. The bulge set up a powerful bass shout. Little 
 Theo shrieked, little Viola shrieked; even Iris, like a judge, 
 left the Bench and condescended to a joyous surprised squeal. 
 
 "Come out, Uncle Theo! Come out!" yelled little Theo, 
 always going for the bulge, which writhed as if in agony under 
 his imperative hands. " Look, Iris, look, Vi, how I'm makin' 
 Uncle Theo squirm!" 
 
 Denzil shook with laughter, and Viola opened her mouth, 
 and held it wide open, while her ej^es almost fell out of her 
 head as they watched these truly Olympic games. 
 
 With a roar Sir Theodore burst from behind the curtain. 
 The children fled screaming with laughter. He pursued them, 
 caught them, held them fast. The music and the hats in the 
 Barberini Palace were forgotten. A joyous procession marched 
 in strict time down the passage to tea in the nursery with 
 Marianna. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 Early in the New Year, when the " season " of Rome was 
 about to set in, Dolores heard a rumor that startled her from 
 the lips of Princess Mancelli. 
 
 Dolores and the Princess had till now never been anything 
 more to each other than slight acquaintances, not specially in- 
 terested in each other, and meeting only in the hunting field 
 and in general society. But with this New Year had come 
 reasons why their relations must be changed. Now to the 
 Princess Dolores offered a problem that had to be studied and 
 disposed of. And to Dolores the Princess appeared in an at- 
 mosphere of passion and sorrow, wicked no doubt, and even 
 humiliating, but nevertheless arresting. 
 
 The Princess's call to pride had been successful, and only 
 two persons had witnessed something of the bitter truth of her 
 nature; of her outraged vanity of a fascinating woman, her 
 despair of a loving woman, her restless and gnawing misery of 
 a sensual woman. These two persons were men. One was 
 Cesare ' Carelli, the other Montebruno. To the rest of the 
 world the Princess was an enigma. People of course made 
 statements, circulated rumors, and told downright lies about 
 her and her feelings. But if divinatory they were uninformed, 
 and their strenuous efforts to arrive at truth by rushing along 
 the pathway of falsehood availed them nothing. The Princess
 
 lOO THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 was far too clever, or too indifferent to deny. She went about 
 as usual, or perhaps even more than she usually did, and did not 
 forget one of her normal occupations. And her piercing eyes 
 were forever on the watch. She meant to find out for herself 
 whether there was any truth in what Montebruno had said. 
 She had told herself that it was not true, and when she had 
 done so she had not been trying to throw dust in her own eyes. 
 But a jealous woman may deny that a thing is a hundred 
 times without ceasing to watch for it, may say that she be- 
 lieves In another woman even to herself without ceasing se- 
 cretly to distrust her. 
 
 The fact that Montebruno had asserted that Cesare was at- 
 tracted by Dolores Cannynge had made Dolores new to Prin- 
 cess Mancelli. Hitherto Dolores had been one of the crowd 
 of forestieri that invaded Rome in the winter, to make it 
 gay and banal, " like a second-rate watering-place," as the 
 Princess sometimes almost bitterly said to her Roman inti- 
 mates. Now Dolores stood out from the crowd. And the 
 Princess felt impelled to draw nearer to her. 
 
 One or two recent circumstances had made Princess Man- 
 cell! uneasy. The hunting season had provided a great sur- 
 prise for Rome. It was announced in La Tribuna that 
 Cesare Carelli had sold his hunters and would not be seen in 
 the field. As he always hunted both with the foxhounds and 
 with Marchese Casati's staghounds, and as hunting was noto- 
 riously principal pleasure, his friends had some reason to be 
 astonished. But very soon the cause of his defection was 
 rumored. He had been Princess Mancelli's " lead," and since 
 the change in their relations he did not care to be in her com- 
 pany. She stuck to her hunting, so he gave up his. It was 
 very simple. 
 
 To the Princess's subtle mind it seemed almost too simple. 
 She knew Cesare's passion for hunting, a passion with two 
 strains in it, man's normal and brutal joy in the chase, and a 
 Roman's adoration of his campagna. There was romance in 
 Cesare's hunting. Had she not shared it once? It was in 
 the field that she had first fallen in love with the handsome 
 boy whose fate she had ruthlessly grasped with her experi- 
 enced hands. No one in Rome knew, as she knew, what the 
 resignation of this pleasure must mean to Cesare. 
 
 Lady Cannynge had given up hunting also. Montebruno 
 had assured the Princess that Cesare had intended to hunt, and 
 had repeated to her the conversation at the Countess Boccara's
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE loi 
 
 dinner, when Dolores announced that she would not go out 
 with the hounds that winter. Cesare's decision, he said, must 
 have been prompted by Lady Cannynge's. Although he had 
 been explaining a gambling system to the little Boccara it 
 seemed he had missed little of Cesare's talk with his companion. 
 Princess Mancelli began to wonder whether Lady Cannynge 
 was a cleverer woman than she had supposed, whether beneath 
 the mask of wistful sincerity was concealed an aptitude for 
 subterranean intrigue. 
 
 Although Princess Mancelli 'was more brilliant, and far 
 more subtle, than Cesare, she shared most of his Italian preju- 
 dices, and even more markedly than he had the Italian point 
 of view. When she became interested in Lady Cannynge she 
 began to examine, as much as she could, into the state of things 
 in the Cannynge menage. And she very soon knew of Sir 
 Theodore's perpetual visits to the Denzils. On these visits 
 she put exactly the same construction as did Cesare. She won- 
 dered very much what Lady Cannynge thought of them, and 
 longed to find out. If, as she believed. Lady Cannynge loved 
 her husband, she must be suffering keenly. But possibly the 
 Cannynge menage was one of those cynical unions, common 
 enough in certain circles of society, in which the only real link 
 is a mutual hypocrisy designed to deceive the world. Possibly 
 Lady Cannynge, like Sir Theodore, had her " little distrac- 
 tions." 
 
 Then the Princess's mind went to Cesare, and she was as- 
 sailed by doubts. 
 
 About this time fate put into her possession a means of ap- 
 plying a test to Dolores. At the British Embassy she chanced 
 to overhear Francis Denzil make this remark in a low voice to 
 his wife: " I wonder if Munich has a climate that is good for 
 young children." Mrs. Denzil merely looked at her husband 
 with raised eyebrows, and Princess Mancelli spoke to Here- 
 ward Arnold about hunting. Early the next morning she sent 
 Dolores a note asking her to come in that afternoon to meet a 
 few people en intimite. And then she forgot to invite the few 
 people. 
 
 The Princess lived in the Palazzo Urbino on Monte Savello, 
 not far frcm the ancient Ghetto of Rome. To reach it Dolo- 
 res had to drive through a section of the old and mj-sterious 
 part of the city. She had of course often done this before. 
 
 Nevertheless, on this occasion — she did not know why — 
 she seemed to be aware of old Rome as she had never yet been
 
 102 'IHE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 aware of it, to be struck by it with a sad force, to drav/ the 
 impression of it into her very soul. 
 
 It was rather late in the day when she left the Barberini 
 Palace in an open victoria. All day there had been scirocco, 
 and it still persisted. The sickly wind that blew through the 
 streets had not fallen with the approach of evening. The fad- 
 ing away of the light made the warmth that prevailed through 
 the city seem more than ever unnatural in this season of 
 winter. Dolores loved heat, but this heat repelled, almost 
 frightened her. She had known tin's sensation akin to fear 
 more than once on winter days of scirocco. Almost imme- 
 diately after she had started she began to wish that instead of 
 driving in an open carriage she had shut herself up in the 
 motor. But she had wanted to get some air. She had imag- 
 ined it would refresh her. That was a mistake. 
 
 How sad Rome seemed to her just then, mysteriously sad! 
 People were filling the streets, as they always do towards 
 evening. The pavements were thronged with pedestrians. At 
 every moment the horns of motors sounded. By the Via Tri- 
 tone the carriage descended into the Corso Umberto Primo 
 and followed it for some distance. Here the crowd was im- 
 mense, and the lines of carriages and motors could only move 
 on slowly. Now and then in some spacious car Dolores caught 
 sight of a face she knew, of gazing eyes, a smart hat, a bunch 
 of carnations or lilac; beauty in her moving and scented room 
 watching to see whether she was being watched. The men on 
 the pavements stared and made their comments. Tourists and 
 citizens pushed their way towards the Caffe Aragno which many 
 Italians use almiost as a club. Young giris promenaded with 
 their mothers, looking modestly down, yet not altogether un- 
 happily conscious that they were being closely and constantly 
 regarded by the many students who passed slowly by, and by 
 the old and the youthful flaneurs who never miss their even- 
 ing Corso. Boys cried papers, and here and there old seated 
 women, with wrinkled and apathetic faces, sold them. And 
 over and through all this crowd, up the narrow and famous 
 street with its tall houses and ancient palaces, its brilliantly 
 lighted shops, its restaurants and cafes, the warm and un- 
 natural wind went gustily, intrusive and depressing. Never 
 had any panorama of humanity, moving amid lights and the 
 sounds of traffic, seemed so artificial to Dolores as did the 
 panorama of the Corso that evening. But presently the car- 
 riage turned aside, and for a brief space traversed another
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 103 
 
 world, old, dark, mysterious and sad on this windy evening, but 
 sad with a dignity, a romance, that demanded reverence rather 
 than pity. Very brief was this glimpse of old Rome which 
 Dolores had. It was almost as if, in passing through a room, 
 she glanced at two or three wonderful etchings. A corner of 
 a dark palace towering towards the sky where the night was 
 unfolding her dusky garments and trailing them over the world; 
 huge barred windows; an immense arch gaping to show the 
 shadows of a court-j^ard, with faint silhouettes of growing 
 things; a splash of yellow light from a porter's lodge falling 
 on a spray of water; more barred windows and towering blocks 
 of stone; a church with a sleeping beggar huddled on its de- 
 serted steps; gaunt houses of poor people with fiat facades 
 stained with innumerable shades of yellow, orange, browns, 
 grays; an antiquity shop with dusky draperies pinned and nailed 
 at the jambs of its doors, scraps of pottery showing strange 
 pallors, a bronze faun dancing in semi-darkness. And the warm 
 and gusty wind penetrated everywhere, and the dull roll of 
 traffic on uneven pavements, and the cries of humanity, sounded 
 always. By the light of a guttering candle Dolores saw the 
 keeper of the antiquity shop bending and speaking to a woman 
 wrapped in a shawl. Their colloquy seemed mysterious, al- 
 miost terrible. They moved and vanished among dim shapes 
 cf furniture and hanging antique lamps. 
 
 The carriage turned into the Via di Monte Savello out of a 
 sort of market-place, now empty, and suddenly the wheels were 
 crunching on gravel, and the sound of a fountain for an instant 
 saluted, then died away from the ears of Dolores. Trees were 
 around her instead of houses. She had passed unexpectedly 
 into one of the small but aristocratic gardens of Rome. As 
 the carriage drew up under a colonnade she heard the creaking 
 of a palm in the wind. She shivered. And it seemed to her 
 as if it was the sad warmth which made her shiver. In imag- 
 ination she still savv^ the antiquary and the woman wrapped in 
 a shawl vanishing among the half-seen furniture and the an- 
 tique hanging lamps, going into dusty darkness. Would they 
 ever return, see the sun ? They seemed to her symbolic sliapes, 
 horribly expressive, horribly suggestive of the fates of the many 
 who go down into blackness. 
 
 How absurd she was this evening! The sadness of Rome 
 obsessed her. 
 
 There was no porter. The footman got down and rang a 
 bell on the left of the entrance, where there was a door stained
 
 104 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 black. After a long pause he rang a second time. Two or 
 three minutes passed; then the door was slightly opened, and 
 the lined dark face of a very sad and distinguished looking old 
 gentleman appeared, lit up by the ray from a candle. The 
 footman asked for the Principessa Mancelli. 
 
 " She lives on the first floor," said the old gentleman, in a 
 hollow voice. " This is Prince Urbino's apartment." 
 
 He closed the door. It was the Prince himself. 
 
 As Dolores mounted the broad flight of stone steps which 
 led to the first floor of the palace she longed to be among peo- 
 ple in brilliantly lighted rooms, and when the maestro di casa 
 showed her in she listened expectantly for the murmur of 
 voices. But she heard no sound as she walked forward through 
 drawing-room after drawing-room, till she came into a smaller 
 boudoir, with a splendid antique blue and gold ceiling. Here 
 tea was laid. But there was no one. 
 
 She was surprised, and wondered If she had mistaken the 
 day as she sat down on a sofa to wait. 
 
 The room was skillfully broken up, and very handsomely 
 furnished. It was not cozy in the English sense, but for the 
 room of an Italian it was very comfortable, and even suggested 
 a woman who was fond of luxury. The colors in it were dim 
 and soft, deep reds and warm red-browns. There was a great 
 deal of very dark wood, that seemed to hold a wonderful bloom 
 of hoary age. There were high bureau-like writing-tables, 
 piled with photographs and books. Heavy vases of Oriental 
 china were lifted up on stands shaped like columns. The sofas 
 were deep and low, with immense cushions scattered over them. 
 Some of the chairs were tall, with arms made of straps of mag- 
 nificent old leather attached to uprights of oak carved with the 
 heads of lions. Electric lights were concealed in torch-like 
 contrivances of finely wrought but heavy ironwork. Nearly 
 everything in the room w^as on a rather large scale. There 
 were corners, half hidden by damask screens, into which people 
 might retire and be lost in a warm dimness. 
 
 A door, concealed by a red hanging, opened and the Princess 
 came towards Dolores, holding out her hands in greeting. She 
 had a magnificent carriage, a magnificent, yet quite simple, way 
 of walking, such as is still characteristic of high-bred Roman 
 ladies, and is inimitable. It is a movement which looks al- 
 most imperial, yet not trampling or arrogant. 
 
 '' Ben venuta! " she said, with a delightfully warm and un- 
 studied cordiality.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 105 
 
 "Then you did expect me! I was afraid for a moment I 
 had mistaken the day." 
 
 " Because there is as yet no one? " 
 
 The Princess sat down in front of the tea-table. 
 
 " Benedetto! " she called. 
 
 The old maestro di casa reappeared, and the Princess 
 speaking to him with familiarity, almost as to a friend of years 
 with whom no ceremony was necessary, asked him to alter the 
 lighting of the room. As he went about from one tall torch 
 to another, turning lights off and on, he spoke to the Princess 
 in Italian and she replied 
 
 " Bene cost," she said at last. 
 
 The old man — he looked like an old gentleman — went 
 away through the vista of empty drawing-rooms, satisfied ap- 
 parently that he would not be wanted again, and the Princess 
 poured out tea. 
 
 " We h^-e had bad luck to-day," she said. " I only asked 
 three or four, and they couldn't come. The beautiful Ve- 
 rona " 
 
 "Oh, how I admire her!" said Dolores. "To me she al- 
 most incarnates Rome." 
 
 "How much more to us Romans! She had gone to Cis- 
 terna for the night. Maria Carpacci is playing bridge at the 
 Austrian Embass5% But one or two men will drop in pres- 
 ently. Meanwhile I cannot be sorry. V/hen do I get a little 
 talk with you ? — a real talk, I mean ? " 
 
 " Very seldom," said Dolores. 
 
 She felt a sudden slight thrill of something that was almost 
 suspicious, and wondered whether the Princess had really in- 
 vited any one to meet her. 
 
 " In Rome one seldom gets much beyond acquaintanceship," 
 she added. " Unless one plays bridge." 
 
 "^Why don't you play?" 
 
 " I can, of course. But I don't care much about it." 
 
 " No? I play a great deal. Bridge has one supreme merit." 
 
 "What is that?'' 
 
 " It takes possession of the mind. While one is playing one 
 is absorbed and can think of nothing else." 
 
 Dolores looked at the Princess in silence. For a moment 
 the latter had surely been oft her guard, and had spoken out 
 of her heart. Perhaps she realized this for she added, rather 
 quickly: 
 
 " It obliges one to collect the wandering thoughts, to con-
 
 io6 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 centrate. And without concentration we can do nothing worth 
 doing, be nothing worth being. Isn't it so? " 
 
 " I daresay it is. But I think lots of people are concentrated 
 on things that are very absurd." 
 
 The Princess smiled, rather cynically. 
 
 "Of course they are, poor things! Your friend the little 
 Boccara, for instance, thinks only of her waist. Still, one 
 must say that she achieves her object. She has the smallest 
 waist in Rome. And what more can any woman want?" 
 
 "Do you despise women?" 
 
 " I ! But I am a woman ! Would you have me despise 
 myself?" 
 
 " I think a good many of us " 
 
 Dolores stopped. 
 
 " You are quite right, and I agree with you," said the Prin- 
 cess, laughing. 
 
 Dolores laughed too, but without any genuine mirth. 
 
 " I do not apologize," she said. " I feel with you It is un- 
 necessary. Let us hope men are as secretly modest in regard 
 to themselves as you and I seem to be." 
 
 " They are not, believe me." 
 
 Sitting alone with this Roman lady Dolores felt almost like 
 a child, and oddly Inexperienced. She was conscious of being 
 In an atmosphere of power. Beneath the apparently uncon- 
 scious cordiality of the Princess she divined subtlety, and some- 
 thing else, that she surely did not possess. She could not per- 
 haps have said exactly what it was, but she knew it was some- 
 thing strong, vital and not cold. She felt both .attracted by, 
 and repelled by, this woman; keenly Interested in her and yet 
 unwilling to draw very near to her. All the time that she sat 
 with the Princess Cesare Carelli hovered, like a shade, on the 
 threshold of her mind. She disliked thinking of Cesare while 
 she was with the Princess. As she was not at all prurient- 
 minded such a thought, which was a link, distressed her In- 
 terior purity. Yet she could not banish It, and she felt as If 
 the Princess must be aware of It. 
 
 And while Dolores was mentally linking the Princess with 
 Cesare the Princess was mentally linking him with her visitor. 
 Could what Montebruno had said be true? Now that she was 
 Isolated with Lady Cannynge the Princess felt almost sternly 
 conscious of the power of her own nature. This gentle woman 
 was certainly not wax. The firmly closed lips showed that. 
 But neither was she granite. And was not she, Lisetta Man-
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 107 
 
 celll, granite? Yet perhaps that very softness might draw a 
 man away! She could seem soft, could be passionately tender, 
 yielding with the almost desperate abandon great natures de- 
 velop in love. But she was conscious that she had within her 
 much of the strong fiber of the ruler. The woman facing her 
 was surely born to yield, and to be cherished, sheltered, per- 
 haps worshiped by strength. 
 
 As these thoughts slipped through the Princess's mind she 
 was invaded by a cold sensation of impotence. 
 
 If only she knew whether Montebruno had got at the truth, 
 or a part of the truth! 
 
 " And we do not want them to be modest. The modest 
 man is the last man to triumph over a woman. And we long 
 to be triumphed over," she said. 
 
 ''Do you?" 
 
 As the Princess considered the softness of Dolores so Dolo- 
 res considered the seductive energy so apparent in her hostess. 
 And she found it difficult to Imagine the greatest failure in life 
 emerging in withered blackness from such a soil. 
 
 "Why not?" asked the Princess. 
 
 " Somehow I cannot Imagine any one, or anything, triumph- 
 ing over you," said Dolores, slowly and apparently with great 
 sincerity. 
 
 " That is a compliment which I appreciate. But Is it al- 
 wa^'^s wise to judge by the physique? " 
 
 "But was I doing that?" 
 
 " Weren't you ? " 
 
 As she spoke the Princess leaned slowly forward on the sofa 
 towards the tea-table. The maestro di casa had manipulated 
 the lights until no strong ray fell upon his mistress, as she was 
 placed while he was in the room. 
 
 Now, however, she deliberately entered the circle of radi- 
 ance that was produced by a lamp on the left of Dolores; 
 moved, perhaps, by an impulse not free from morbidity. 
 
 " I think you were," she added. 
 
 Both these women were secretly being prompted by a com- 
 mon desire, and both were being kept back from any open 
 attempt at its gratification by a furtively warning voice. Nov/ 
 Dolores looked at her hostess for a moment in silence, and as 
 she looked, in despite of herself, she thought with intensity cf 
 that rumored past which Cesare Carelll had shared. 
 
 " Have I judged wrongly then," she said at last. 
 
 "Why not? I am the Roman type. And that type often
 
 io8 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 looks more conquering than it is. The great days of Rome 
 are long past you mu?t remember." 
 
 "And the Risar^imentof" 
 
 The face of the Princess softened strangely. Her eyes lost 
 their piercing quality, and for a moment regarded Dolores 
 with almost a melting look. Then the sweetness died out of 
 them, and she answered : 
 
 " Do you believe in Resurrection? I don't know that I do. 
 But I'm quite sure that nothing rises again exactly as it for- 
 merly was. And as to the new Rome — well ! " 
 
 She leaned back, spreading out her exquisite hands In a ges- 
 ture that seemed to ward otf from her something that sought 
 to approach. And Dolores had the feeling that as she with- 
 drew her face at that moment from the circle of light, so she 
 withdrew her real self, retiring into the darkness. From out 
 of this darkness she said: 
 
 " We were talking of bridge just now. I was playing last 
 night at the British Embassy and heard a good deal of em- 
 bassy gossip." 
 
 "Did you? Anything amusing? " 
 
 The voice of Dolores suddenly sounded almost sharply alert. 
 
 " It seems young Myles-Anson is desperately in love with 
 Mrs. Tooms, the American widow beloved of Count Boccara." 
 
 "Poor boy!" 
 
 The alertness was gone from the voice. 
 
 " He even takes the youngest child out roller-skating while 
 the mamma is at the Excelsior gazing — well, not into space. 
 No Italian would do that." 
 
 " Do you admire or condemn such a proof of affection? " 
 
 " Frankly I don't admire it at all. I think it servile in a 
 man." 
 
 " A boy." 
 
 " At twenty-three! Our boys are men long before that age." 
 
 She said this with a strong decisiveness, as if almost de- 
 fiantly stating a fact that cannot be controverted, but that 
 may not be readily accepted. 
 
 " By the way, I met that good domesticated Denzil at the 
 Embassy," she added. " How delightfully English he is! You 
 don't mind my saying that ? " 
 
 " Of course not. Yes, Francis Denzil is very English." 
 
 " I should think he might be very much liked by South 
 Germans." 
 
 "By South Germans?"
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 109 
 
 " On account of his directness and simplicity of manner." 
 
 " I daresaj\ -But I don't quite see what South Germans 
 have to do with the question of Tvlr, Denzil's character." 
 
 " I mean if he goes to Munich." 
 
 "To Munich! Mr. Denzil!" 
 
 There was a startled sound in the voice of Dolores. 
 
 " Mr. Denzil is going to Munich? " 
 
 Princess Mancelli seemed to hesitate. She put out her hand 
 and moved the china in front of her, looking down. Then 
 she said : 
 
 " I'm afraid I've behaved as they say Mr. Denzil does some- 
 times. I'm afraid I've made a gaffe." 
 
 Dolores had had time to regain the outward self-control 
 which she felt she had lost for a moment. She was frightened 
 by the violent shock of joy which the unexpected words of her 
 hostess had given her. She felt almost as if she had just been 
 stabbed by joy, and longed to put out her hand to her breast 
 as if to cover a wound. But she succeeded in looking and 
 seeming quite calm, perhaps almost exaggeratedly calm, as she 
 said, not without languor: 
 
 "A gaffe? But why? Rumors of this sort are always 
 floating about Rome." 
 
 "You had heard nothing of it?" 
 
 " Nothing at all. I don't think it can be true." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " If it were I think I must have heard of it." 
 
 " Perhaps it is a diplomatic secret." 
 
 Dolores wondered very much from whom the Princess had 
 heard it, but she did not choose to ask. 
 
 " Is Mr. Denzil to be made a minister then? " she said. " At 
 least, is that the rumor? " 
 
 " I understand so." 
 
 The Princess leaned slightly forward. 
 
 "I suppose it is nearly time, isn't it? And quite between 
 ourselves, I suspect your Embassy people wouldn't be altogether 
 sorry to get Mr. Denzil out of Rome." 
 
 " But why? He's very clever." 
 
 " Oh well " — often when the Princess was asked a direct 
 question the secretiveness characteristic of the Roman race took 
 possession of her. "There may have been little things — I 
 don't know. Does he always get on with the other diplomats? 
 I had an idea there had been some fuss with a certain ambas-
 
 no THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 Dolores, like every one else, had heard of the Tomtit affair. 
 
 " There was," she said. 
 
 "Well then?" 
 
 There was a pause. Then Dolores repeated, " I think I 
 must have heard it. My husband knows the Denzils so well." 
 
 Not by the sound of her voice, but by the turn of her phrase, 
 the Princess knew that Dolores was jealous of the Denzils. 
 
 " Yes, of course you are very intimate with them," she re- 
 plied, including Dolores with a touch of delicate malice. 
 " Still things often get out in Rome without any definite reve- 
 lations by the persons most interested. And besides — forgive 
 me! I don't think the English are especially clever at keeping 
 their secrets." 
 
 She spoke lightly, smiling. 
 
 " Don't you? But we are said to be so reserved." 
 
 " So you often are, in manner. But it wants more than 
 mere manner to keep a secret fast." 
 
 " A famous American once told me he thought the English 
 the subtlest nation in Europe, the cleverest in diplomacy, and 
 the most insincere in public affairs." 
 
 " Certainly you have generally got what you wanted. And 
 that is perhaps the greatest test of ability in life." 
 
 " To get and — to keep," murmured Dolores. 
 
 She really said this to herself, and almost unconsciously. But 
 it touched the Princess on the raw. 
 
 " You English know how to keep. Nobody doubts that," 
 she said. 
 
 She longed to speak fiercely so she spoke quietly, and as she 
 looked at Dolores she strove deliberately to veil the fire in her 
 eyes. At this moment she hated Dolores, because Dolores had 
 hurt her, and she longed to strike back. But though her secret 
 anger partially submerged her intelligence it did not affect her 
 native caution. She was inclined now to believe ill of her 
 visitor, to believe that Dolores was perhaps une petite chatte, 
 whose sharp claws were generally padded with velvet, but who 
 was capable of playing a double part, of both stroking and 
 wounding. But she only allowed herself a light irony, as she 
 added: 
 
 " And perhaps your American was right. Perhaps you are 
 past masters and mistresses in that art." 
 
 ;] What art?" 
 
 " Perhaps you know how to jouer le monde far better than 
 we Latins do, despite our apparent suppleness of mind."
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE iii 
 
 She was going to say more, but she stopped. She was sit- 
 ting with her face turned towards the vista of drawing-rooms, 
 and at this moment she saw detach itself from the farthest 
 gloom the short square-built figure of a man walking slowly, 
 almost meditatively, towards her. 
 
 " Here comes some one who may be able to tell us, if he 
 chooses." 
 
 Dolores turned her head. 
 
 "Who?" she asked. 
 
 " Pacci," said the Princess. 
 
 Still walking slowly and meditatively the square-built figure 
 approached, and entered the room where the tv/o women sat, 
 with a tread that sounded heavily even upon the thick carpet 
 which covered the whole of the floor. 
 
 " Pacci, buona sera" said the Princess. 
 
 As she said it, as she held out her hand to the newcomer, 
 she was changed. To Dolores she seemed suddenly to becom.e 
 more foreign, more definitely Italian, and gentler. Something 
 that was almost like tenderness appeared in her dark face. 
 It was obvious to Dolores that the man who now very seriously, 
 and almost heavily, bowed over the outstretched hand, was re- 
 garded with affection by the Princess. 
 
 Giosue Pacci was a man well known in, ytt not really well 
 known by, Rome. He was a Roman, and not an aristocrat, 
 yet he had conquered a position in the aristocratic world. Such 
 an achievement is rare in Rome, where the middle-class never 
 mixes in society with the aristocratic class. Perhaps it had 
 been accomplished partly by the curious power of indifference. 
 Pacci was indifferent to social distinctions. Indeed he scarcely 
 seemed to know what they were. He was erudite and lived 
 often in dreams. And he did not mind dreaming in public, 
 at dinners and at receptions. He was quite unworldly. Com- 
 pleteness often has an almost mysterious attraction, especially 
 for the incomplete. The thoroughness of Pacci's indifference 
 and unworldliness had certainly made an impression upon the 
 worldly Rome. And Pacci combined these rare qualities with 
 great kindness of heart and great romance of spirit. 
 
 He was probably the most really romantic person in all 
 Rome, but not in connection with human beings. He had 
 a deep and a strong passion for beauty, but often scarcely 
 knew whehter he was being talked to by a lovely or a plain 
 woman. 
 
 Nature was his mistress, and all the old and inanimate glories
 
 112 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 and beauties of the world. He planted flowers to mark the 
 sites of buried temples, and a dead city meant more to him 
 than any woman laid out for burial, with lighted candles about 
 her, and mourners praying for the peace of her soul. 
 
 He bowed very low, almost with a simple reverence, over the 
 Princess's hand, till his short, thick, black beard was pressed 
 against his broad chest. Then, lifting himself up, he looked 
 with his small almost childlike blue-gray eyes at Dolores. 
 
 " Surely you know Lady Cannynge, Pacci ! " 
 
 " No, only my husband, I think," Dolores said, giving him 
 her hand. 
 
 Pie took it, bowed again, and sat down with the air of a 
 child well satisfied to find itself at home. 
 
 "Shall we ask him?" inquired the Princess of Dolores, as 
 she handed to Pacci a plate of long and sticky dainties, made of 
 pastry and currant jam. 
 
 She did not offer him tea. He never took it. 
 
 " I don't think Signor Pacci would give us an answer to 
 such a question," said Dolores. 
 
 Pacci began to eat one of the pastry cakes with relish. 
 
 He did not look interested. Nor did he ask what the ques- 
 tion was. And his gentle indifference fascinated Dolores. 
 
 "Let us find out," rejoined the Princess. "Pacci! — 
 Pacci!'' 
 
 Pacci looked up. 
 
 " Ebbene!" he observed, in a muffled voice. 
 
 " Now, we are going to talk English." 
 
 " Very well," he said calmly, speaking English with an ex- 
 traordinary accent which no system of spelling could convey 
 to the mind. 
 
 " We wish you to tell us whether you consider the Anglo- 
 Saxon or the Latin race the most subtle." 
 
 Pacci looked at the room, not at his companions. He had 
 finished the pastr}^ 
 
 "Subtle," he said — "and by that — you mean?" 
 
 He paused. 
 
 " Well, we were speaking of being subtle in the sense of 
 being able to deceive others, to ]ouer le monde." 
 
 Pacci looked thoughtful and grave. 
 
 " Those who deceive easily in small things are usually shal- 
 low-brained," he said, " like the curious and the gossips. You 
 remember Nietzsche's Ear big as a man — in Zarathustra, 
 perched on a slender stalk, its homunculus, with a small en-
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 113 
 
 vious countenance. And against the stalk dangled a bloated 
 soullet — shallow-brained ! Shallow-brained ! And shallow- 
 souled!" 
 
 His curiously muffled voice, which sometimes sounded like 
 the voice of a child, seemed to stray among the words vaguely. 
 It was wandering almost as the voice of a stream, and at mo- 
 ments was so withdrawn that it nearly disappeared. 
 
 " Arabs love to trick those about them in trifling matters, 
 but very seldom do they bring any great matter to a satisfactory 
 conclusion. The Chinese — as we know from 11 Tao di Loot- 
 sen, or * Road of Virtue,' written by the philosopher Laotse 
 some five hundred years before Christ " 
 
 Dolores began to smile. 
 
 " Never mind Chinese philosophers, caro Pacci," interrupted 
 the Princess at this point. " Leave them to their bird's-nest 
 soup. You are with women, try to remember. Consider us 
 among the number of the shallow-brained, if you like, but tell 
 us whether the English or the Italian is the subtler nation." 
 
 " IMacchiavelli," m.urmured Pacci, " Fourteen sixty-nine — 
 fifteen twenty-seven — Voltaire — sixteen ninety-four — seven- 
 teen seventy-eight — " 
 
 " Pacci, you are vaguer than ever to-day. I am sure Vol- 
 taire was never an Englishman at any time in his varied and 
 tumultuous career." 
 
 For the first time Pacci looked steadily at her. 
 
 *' I was going to England, Principessa." 
 
 " By way of France ! Then I beg your pardon. But never 
 mind historical personages. Be modern, Pacci, for once, and 
 look at the nations as they are to-day." 
 
 Pacci held out his hand for another of the sticky cakes which 
 he specially loved. 
 
 "And the sexes, Principessa?" he said, still in his extra- 
 ordinary English which was as a new language invented by 
 himself. "The sexes?" 
 
 " We know about them. Women are much more subtle than 
 men." 
 
 Pacci slowly shook his head. 
 
 "You think not?" asked Dolores. 
 
 All this time she had been listening intently. The entrance 
 of this unusual man had brought to her a strange feeling of 
 calm, as if she became conscious of the profound repose of in- 
 animate things in the immense spaces of the world. 
 
 " Men — ■ men are the deceivers. I am not taking it from
 
 114 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 Weininger — a genius with germs of madness. Look into his- 
 tory " 
 
 " We shall do nothing of the kind, my dear Pacci," said the 
 Princess with velvety firmness. " Nothing of the kind." 
 
 She turned towards Dolores. 
 
 " Pacci is ahvays like this," she said, talking about her guest 
 as if he were not there. " You ask for an opinion and he 
 tries to give you a history of mankind. We had better give it 
 up. You must have your cup of milk, Pacci." 
 
 She poured some milk into a tea-cup, put in three lumps of 
 sugar, and handed it to him. 
 
 The mental atmosphere in the room was completely changed 
 since Paeci's entrance. Subtly, without doing anything, he 
 had for the moment united the two women who had been, who 
 would be again, very far apart. They were now feeling alike. 
 They were feeling maternal. Pacci sipped his milk, with al- 
 most as much relish as a baby displays when the tube of its 
 bottle is introduced into its O of a mouth. Then, setting 
 down the cup, he remarked : 
 
 " I have been all day in the Campagna." 
 
 "What have you been doing there? 
 
 " Walking alone — with scirocco 1 " 
 
 His eyes became full of reverie. As she regarded him the 
 Princess had again the soft look in the eyes which transformed 
 5ier usually rather imperious, though often seductive face. This 
 look simplified her appearance wonderfull)^ 
 
 " Lo so — lo so!" she said. 
 
 For a moment there was a silence. In It Dolores thought 
 of Cesare Carelli, and of his almost violent love for the strange 
 and exquisite country in the midst of which lies Rome; Rome 
 with its history of glory, and crime, and decadence and ruin: 
 Rome with its secrets, its kisses, its knife thrusts and its tears; 
 Rome with its new aspirations, its lures for the gold-bug and 
 the women who scatter, its charms and its banalities of a second- 
 rate watering-place: Rome with its palace where dwells, so 
 millions believe, the Holy Spirit of God ; Rome with its poor 
 little Dolores, and her trouble of a woman, Vv'hlch seemed to 
 her sometimes as great as the world. 
 
 In that moment of silence Dolores, through the silent woman 
 and man she was with, began for the first time faintly to real- 
 ize the wonder of the Campagna, whose shepherds decreed 
 Rome, to think of it almost as one thinks of a great personality. 
 
 " Tieniti puro nella quiete. Non lasciarti turbare dalla tern-
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 115 
 
 pesia. Piu che tu sentirai di essere uorno piu ii assomigUerai 
 agll Dei." 
 
 It was the voice of Pacci, speaking to himself, as he had 
 spoken to himself through the long day in the gray Campag^na, 
 where towards sunset the isolated pine-trees had floated like 
 mysterious vessels for a moment on the breast of a golden sea. 
 
 "Tieniti puro nella quiete — nella quiete." 
 
 As Dolores went away, and was lost in the vista of faintly 
 lit rooms, the Princess said to her companion : 
 
 " Pacci, I want you to tell me. What do you think of that 
 lady, of Lady Cannynge ? " 
 
 Pacci looked rather distressed. Evidently he did not think 
 almost anything, either good or bad. 
 
 " She is not — I believe — a disturbing influence," he dropped 
 out at length. " At least — not to-day. Yesterday — to- 
 morrow — chi lo sa? " 
 
 "Yes, but didn't you get any im.pression as to her nature?" 
 
 It was seldom that with her spoilt Pacci the Princess was so 
 persistent. 
 
 " Nero undoubtedly had a dual nature. Once when I was 
 at Sublaqueum with Anticelli " 
 
 The Princess lay back on her sofa and closed her eyes. 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 As Dolores slowly descended the staircase of the Palazzo 
 Urbino she was still, so it seemed to her, almost mysteriously 
 aware of Pacci. The personality of this short and bearded man, 
 who loved sticky cakes and sugared milk, had enfolded the 
 suspicions, the miseries, the secret hostility and the misunder- 
 standing of the Princess Mancelli and herself with its peculiar 
 and beautiful calm and simplicity, almost as the Campagna 
 enfolds the cries, the crimes, and the sorrows of Rome with its 
 strange and romantic tranquillity. But when she emerged from 
 the palace, and saw the misty darkness of the starless sky above 
 her, she forgot Giosue Pacci. As she drove back through old 
 Rome she was conscious that she was a different woman from 
 the Dolores who had so sadly, so almost fearfully, regarded 
 the mysterious city but a little while before. She knew it 
 when she again passed the antiquary's shop. By the faint light 
 of an old lamp she saw the owner seated, leaning forward, in
 
 ii6 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 a large chair, surrounded by shapes and silhouettes of mysteries. 
 But she thought of him now as a comfortable citizen, resting 
 after the successful labors of the day. The warm wind still 
 blew gustily through the narrow and tortuous streets, but it 
 was no longer unnatural and sickly; it was just the scirocco 
 that sometimes comes to Italy, and that soon gives place to the 
 tonic and blithe Tramontana. 
 
 Perhaps the Denzils were going to leave Rome ! Only now 
 she knew how much she had been suffering. She grasped at 
 relief and would not question it during the drive home. But 
 when she came into their apartment, and saw her husband read- 
 ing under a shaded electric light, she felt uncertainty within 
 her and knew she must lay it to rest if possible. 
 
 " How late you are, Doloretta! " 
 
 Sir Theodore laid down his book on his knee and pulled his 
 pointed beard once. Another book lay open on a small table 
 beside him. Dolores went to him and took the volume up. 
 
 " Gogol! " she said. "And you are reading it in the orig- 
 inal!" 
 
 " Trying to with the translation at hand." 
 
 " You must have got on splendidly." 
 
 " One has a lot of time here. But where have you been, 
 and why do you look so animated ? " 
 
 He gazed up at her, and his eyes were bright with a genuine 
 curiosity. 
 
 " I don't know when I've seen you look so full of life," he 
 added, almost with suspicion. 
 
 A faint embarrassment clouded the face of Dolores. 
 
 She turned away and sat down. 
 
 " I've only been having tea with Princess Mancelli." 
 
 Sir Theodore looked rather surprised, and not altogether 
 pleasantly surprised. 
 
 " A tea party, I suppose? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " I didn't know the Princess and you were so friendly." 
 
 " Friendly ! She asked me and I thought I would go. She 
 had invited some people, I believe. But none came except, at 
 the end, Commendatore Pacci." 
 
 " Pacci ! The historian ! " 
 
 Sir Theodore's keen face softened. 
 
 " He's a good little fellow. Could you get anything out 
 of him?" 
 
 " Not very much — that is in words. But "
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 117 
 
 She hesitated. She hardly cared to say to any one how strong 
 and peculiar had been Pacci's influence in the Princess's draw- 
 ing-room. 
 
 " I know. His silence is pervasive and means very much." 
 
 " You know him, Theo, don't you? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Try to bring him here." 
 
 " Another lion for your salon." 
 
 There was a touch of slight sarcasm in his voice. Dolores 
 faintly reddened. Could not Theo see that it was for him she 
 was trying to make their home interesting, attractive? Could 
 he not see that all she was doing was being done for him? A 
 sort of despair seized her at the blindness of men. But she 
 shook it off as she thought of the news of that day. 
 
 "Is he a lion?" 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 *' Well, I was thinking of him only as an unusual man." 
 
 " He is, very unusual. He's a small man, but he makes 
 small things seem nothings by his interior greatness." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "You felt that?" 
 
 She was rather startled by his emphasis, by the way he moved, 
 leaning towards her, and she felt immediately inclined to shrink 
 back into reserve. 
 
 " I was taking it from you, Theo. I scarcely know Signer 
 Pacci. But I tiiink I should like to." 
 
 " Very well, Doloretta. I will try to get him here." 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 " And how was the Princess? " 
 
 " Very pleasant." 
 
 " She is of the ancient Roman breed at heart, I believe," 
 said Sir Theodore rather thoughtfully, " not a woman to be 
 trifled with." 
 
 If he was thinking about the Princess's connection with 
 Carelli he did not say so. 
 
 " Oh, by the way," said Dolores, as if suddenly remember- 
 ing something. " The Princess surprised me very much by 
 one thing she told me. I don't think it can be true." 
 
 "What was it?" 
 
 " It was about the Denzils." 
 
 " The Denzils! " said Sir Theodore. 
 
 With a quick movement he lifted the book from his knees 
 and laid it on the table beside him.
 
 i:8 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 "What about the Denzils?" he added. 
 
 " The Princess said she had heard that Francis won't stay 
 here much longer, that he is probably going to Munich as 
 minister. Do you think there can be anything in it? Surely 
 we must have heard of it. But perhaps you have heard of it? " 
 
 "Francis — going to Munich!" said Theodore. "Absurd! 
 What will they say next? " 
 
 " You mean that you know it isn't true? " 
 
 " Of course it isn't true. I've never heard a word of it." 
 
 "Well, but " 
 
 " My dear Doloretta, ask j^ourself, does any one in Rome 
 know Francis as I do? " 
 
 His deep voice sounded almost angry. She looked at him, 
 ?.nd it seemed to her she saw resentment shining in his eyes. 
 
 " Can you conceive Francis telling such a thing to Princess 
 Mancelli before he told it to me?" he continued. "Let us 
 be reasonable, even in Rome." 
 
 " But, Theo — I never said " 
 
 " No, no ! But you evidently thought It possible." 
 
 Scarcely ever before had Dolores heard him speak to her 
 with such almost sharp irritation. 
 
 " Of course if it had really been settled Francis would have 
 told you before any one. He always puts you first, and he is 
 such a loyal friend," she said. 
 
 Sir Theodore made no answer. He pulled at his beard, and 
 stared before him for a moment. Then he got up from his 
 chair. 
 
 " We're dining at home to-night," he said. " Do you mind 
 saying half-past eight instead of eight for dinner? " 
 
 " Of course not." 
 
 " Did the Princess say hov/ she had heard this absurd 
 rumor? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Did she appear to believe it?" 
 
 " I think she did." 
 
 Sir Theodore uttered a half-muffled exclamation of con- 
 temptuous impatience and went out of the room. 
 
 Dolores knew very well where he was going. He was going 
 to the flat in the Via Vcnti Settembre to find out the truth — 
 and for her, for her, as well as for himself. 
 
 She rang the bell and put off dinner till half-past eight. 
 Then she went to her bedroom, took off her hat and veil, and 
 her jacket, and returned to the drawing-room, to wait for
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 119 
 
 Theo's return. She took up the volume of Gogol he had been 
 studying, and sat down where he bad been sitting. She felt 
 highly nervous and restless, but she forced herself to sit still. 
 Opposite to her was the Lenbach portrait of the old man with 
 the heavily veined face and the piercingly intelligent eyes. To- 
 night those eyes seemed to be full of a malicious scrutiny as 
 they regarded her. The original of the portrait was long since 
 dead, and Dolores knew it. Nevertheless she felt as if his 
 acute mind, somewhere, must know all that was passing 
 through hers this evening, all of agitation, desire, opposition, 
 and fear. 
 
 How she wished, prayed, that what Princess Mancelli had 
 said about Denzil being removed to Munich might be true! 
 And yet something within her fought against that wish, strove 
 to prevent that prayer. For she loved Theo and hated to see 
 him suffer, even though his suffering was necessary if she were 
 to be relieved of her burden. And what a heavy, almost crush- 
 ing burden it had been! Then she was selfish, she forgot to 
 pity Theo, and again she prayed that the Denzils might go 
 away, soon, very soon. 
 
 It was just striking eight o'clock when Sir Theodore re- 
 entered the room. Dolores cast a swift glance at his face and 
 knew. 
 
 " Have vou been out, Theo? It is nearly time to dress." 
 
 " Eight o'clock." 
 
 He looked mechanically towards the clock. Its delicate 
 chime died away. 
 
 " Yes, I have been out." 
 
 He came up to the hearth. She thought he looked almost 
 defiant, and his voice was unusually hard as he continued: 
 
 " I've been to the flat to ask Francis whether there was any 
 truth in that report about Munich. Edna was away at Fras- 
 cati for the night with her mother." 
 
 There was a deliberate carelessness in his way of speaking. 
 
 " V/as Francis in ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "And is there any truth in the report 2" 
 
 *' It seems there is." 
 
 There was a pause. Then Dolores said:* 
 
 " How very odd of Francis not to let you know." 
 
 " Old Francis can keep a thing dark even from his friend." 
 
 He stood looking straight before him at the frieze of the 
 dancing boys. Then, turning, he said :
 
 120 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " Princess Mancelli gave you no hint at all as to how she 
 knew about this — this project?" 
 
 " None at all. She said she had been playing bridge at the 
 British Embassy." 
 
 " She certainly can't have heard of it there. The reason I 
 ask is that Francis seemed — in fact he was — very much sur- 
 prised and disgusted at the thing having got out. Nobody 
 knew it, except, of course, Edna, according to him." 
 
 "Nobody!" 
 
 *' Except the two or three in the inner circle who would 
 never dream of talking. Not that the matter's of particular 
 importance. But Francis didn't wish anything said till the 
 affair was settled." 
 
 "And isn't it settled?" 
 
 Again he glanced at her almost with suspicion. But she 
 managed to look quite unconcerned, controlling her eyes though 
 she had perhaps not controlled her voice. 
 
 " I think Francis will go to Munich." 
 
 As he spoke gloom overspread his face. For a moment he 
 had been thinking of his wife, observing her, perhaps wonder- 
 ing about her. Now he was concentrated on himself. 
 
 " They will be a great loss to Rome," Dolores said. 
 
 Why she said anything so weak, so banal, so impotent, she 
 did not know. Without any volition of hers it seemed as if 
 the words fell out of her mouth preposterously. 
 
 " I don't know about Rome. They will be a terrible loss 
 to us." 
 
 There were lines now in his dark forehead, above which the 
 thick, silvered hair lay straightly, almost In slabs. 
 
 " Francis is my oldest friend. I can drop In on him when 
 I like, talk to him as I can talk to no man." 
 
 " I know. Francis Is such a good fellow." 
 
 There was real sympathy in her voice now. Never had she 
 been secretly jealous of Denzil. Lately indeed she had seen 
 In him a human barricade against a threatening danger. Again 
 and again when she had been attacked by the cruel weapons 
 of jealousy the thought of Denzil had been as a shield which 
 she had held before her, and which had defended her. How 
 could she be genuinely jealous of Edna Denzil when Denzil 
 was always there to be adored by his wife and to be loved and 
 respected by his friend? If Denzil were not there! Dolores 
 had sometimes imagined a great change — Denzil removed. 
 And then her mind had shuddered. Emerging from the
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 121 
 
 spell of that imagination she had felt almost as if she loved 
 Denzil simply because he existed, and could make her feel by 
 his mere existence the absurdity of her jealousy. 
 
 " If he goes, Rome will seem very different to me," said Sir 
 Theodore, with a sort of deep almost morose melancholy that 
 Dolores had never before seen in him. 
 
 " I know, I know. But, Theo, remember that it is only 
 quite lately you have had Francis near you. For years " 
 
 "My dear Doloretta! I had my work then. Do remem- 
 ber that! And besides, I hadn't formed the habit of dropping 
 in perpetually on Francis. Perhaps you don't realize how 
 much habit — especially happy habit — means to a man of my 
 age. I don't know how I shall get on in Rome without 
 Francis." 
 
 Francis! Francis! Francis! Why did he not say the 
 truth? Why did he not say Francis, Edna, the children? 
 That was what he meant. That was why he showed such 
 unusual emotion. Again jealousy burned at the heart of Dolo- 
 res. Her secret uncontrollable joy died. It was blighted by 
 the words, more by the manner of her husband ; and yet her 
 feeling of misery, of impotence, and of tacit rejection was com- 
 plicated by a sensation of genuine and almost maternal pity for 
 the sorrow of the man she loved. She longed to put her arm 
 round her husband's neck, to kiss him, to say "I know! I 
 know! But I'm here. Can't I make up? Let me try, and 
 oh, Theo, let me — let me succeed! " How useless that would 
 be. Her quick imagination had visualized the situation, and 
 had seen her husband gently — oh yes, he would do it gently — 
 take her arm from his neck with a patient air; the patient air 
 of the superior being whose complex feelings are being com- 
 pletely misunderstood by the being who is inferior. 
 
 "What did we come to settle in Rome for?" continued Sir 
 Theodore, "if not to be within reach of Francis and Edna?" 
 
 " People are alwaj-s being changed about in diplomacy." 
 
 With all her will Dolores strove to speak naturally, quietly, 
 impersonally. 
 
 " Of course. And I can only wish this advancement for 
 Francis. I do wish it. But the chances were that he would 
 remain on here very much longer. He is very happy in Rome. 
 He's still young. There was plenty of time. And Edna likes 
 being near to her mother who is permanently settled, remem- 
 ber, at Frascati. Still, of course, all Francis's friends ought 
 to wish that he may get this step. Munich, too! "
 
 122 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 Dolores knew that he was brooding at this moment on the 
 abrupt ending of his own diplomatic career. He put both his 
 hands on the stone of the high mantelpiece, taking hold of the 
 columns. His chin dropped a little. For an instant he looked 
 almost old. 
 
 " What a selfish brute I am ! " he exclaimed, lifting his 
 head and letting go of the stone. 
 
 For a moment Dolores was tricked into believing that he 
 was going to say something tender, unselfish to her, something 
 that would show a consciousness on his part of her bitter pain 
 of the woman — left out. But he added, " I ought to rejoice 
 in this prospect for Francis, and I simply can't. My own loss 
 dominates me. Well ! " 
 
 With a gesture which seemed to indicate profound self-con- 
 tempt, but which had absolutely no reference to his wife, which 
 might, indeed, have been made by a man entirely alone, he ab- 
 ruptly went out of the room. 
 
 Dolores clenched her thin hands, pressed her lips together 
 and, after a moment of stillness, during which she was mentally 
 staring at herself in her life, as one might stare through a 
 window at a woman abandoned beginning to starve in an un- 
 furnished room, she went away to dress for the tete-a-tete din- 
 ner with Theo. 
 
 How plainly, how brutally almost, Theo was beginning to 
 show her his feelings. Formerly either he had felt differently, 
 or he had been far more reticent, far more careful. Perhaps 
 since that outburst over Nero he had been conscious of a sense 
 of release. It was true that the silence had closed again, that 
 Theo had never restated the truth of their married life. But 
 had he not been more openly indifferent in action? Was he 
 not becoming gradually careless, almost cruel in his behavior? 
 Was not his perpetual intercourse with the Denzils blunting 
 his native delicacy? 
 
 At this moment the pride of Dolores was up in arms, and 
 she began almost to hate Edna Denzil. 
 
 " My own loss dominates me! " 
 
 She had pitied Theo, she had felt tender over him. But now 
 she knew a sensation very strange to her, of hardness. She had 
 met hard women in her life and had alwaj^s secretly shrunk 
 from them. They had seemed to her unsexed beings. Now she 
 began to understand them. They were women who had suf- 
 fered. They had the right to be hard, bitterly merciless. In 
 Marchesa Verosti's drawing-room the attentive ej'es of women
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 123 
 
 had detected a development in Dolores of which she herself was 
 only conscious at this moment. And almost immediately she 
 recoiled from that consciousness. The softness within her loved 
 itself, did not want to be hurt by change. She clung to the new 
 knowledge that the Denzils were going away from Rome. Once 
 they were gone Theo would be released from what was becom- 
 ing a thraldom, and she would be released from an obsession 
 of jealousy that must otherwise ruin lier life. 
 
 But all would soon be well. The Denzils were going away 
 from Rome. Resolutely she hugged that thought. She dared 
 at that moment to rely on life. 
 
 Sir Theodore made no further allusion to the Denzils and 
 Munich that evening. At dinner he carefully and kindly 
 " made " conversation to Dolores. 
 
 They had come to that, to the " making " of conversation. 
 
 She felt as if she saw the first stones of a wall, very low as 
 yet, but solid, between them. 
 
 But the Denzils were going away, and then all would be as 
 it had been. That condition of things was imperfect. For 
 there was the terrible gap in their married life caused by child- 
 lessness. But now, looking back, it seemed to Dolores as if 
 she and Theo had been wonderfully happy in the days before 
 they came to live in Rome. 
 
 Once the Denzils were gone they would renew that happiness. 
 For she loved Theo, and she believed, indeed she felt sure that 
 he still loved her; not as he had once loved her, in eager hope, 
 in a glorious expectation, but nevertheless as he loved no other 
 woman. 
 
 And that was true, despite the traitorous thought which had 
 come into his mind at twilight, when he saw the little Viola 
 nestle her face that was beginning to smile against her father's 
 shoulder. 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 Three weeks later a tall, clean-shaven, middle-aged man, with 
 a rubicund, but rather sad face, and snow-white hair, was open- 
 ing a letter received by that morning's post at his solitary 
 breakfast-table in a house in Cavendish Square, London. The 
 letter was from Lady Sarah Ides, and the middle-aged man v/as 
 her brother-in-law, Doctor Mervyn Ides, one of the best known
 
 124 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 throat specialists in England. In years gone by, before he had 
 devoted himself exclusively to the treatment of the throat, Doc- 
 tor Ides had been a general practitioner among the English 
 colony in Rome, and, like most people, had succumbed to the 
 spell of the city of fountains. Perhaps he would never have fol- 
 low^ed his real bent, and established himself in gloomy London, 
 perhaps he would have been kept forever by the fascina- 
 tion of Italy, and been contented in comparative obscurity, if 
 it had not been for a great sorrow which overtook him in Rome. 
 He fell deeply in love with one of his patients, a young girl 
 belonging to a great Italian family, and she fell in love with 
 him. Her parents would not consent to their marriage, forbade 
 Doctor Ides to come to the house, and in a very short time 
 married their daughter to a dissipated young Neapolitan, with 
 a title and a fortune which he was rapidly gambling away. So 
 the doctor was still a bachelor, his hair was prematurely white, 
 and he w^orked, as some of his colleagues half enviously said, 
 " like one possessed by a devil." But he had never forgotten 
 Rome, and his few months of romance lit by a girl's dark eyes. 
 And even now, In his middle age, he could never think of Rome 
 without a thrill at the heart which made him feel strangely 
 young; a thrill in which the remembrance of Intense joy was 
 united with the remembrance of sorrow not less Intense. 
 
 On this morning he had to go out at ten o'clock to perform 
 a difficult operation. He looked at his watch, as he laid down 
 Lady Sarah's letter. Then he ate a bit of toast. Then he 
 took up the letter once more. And as he re-read it he dreamed. 
 And In his dream he walked beneath tall pine trees, and down cy- 
 press avenues. And he heard the music that was to him as 
 no other music, the soft song of the fountains of Rome rising 
 up in the golden summer, when Italy at noonday sleeps under 
 a rapture of blue. 
 
 He was going to take a short holiday. His sister-in-law 
 pressed him to spend it with her In Rome. 
 
 Since he had left Italy, after his sorrow, he had never had 
 the courage to obey his longing and to return to It ; perhaps he 
 would not have had the courage now, but for a trifling cir- 
 cumstance which occurred as he left his house to perform the 
 operation. In the fog two Italians were passing by with a 
 piano organ. When they saw the doctor they stopped, and 
 smiling began to play. And the tune they played was one which 
 he had perpetually heard In the streets of Rome. 
 
 He paused by his motor car and listened. Then he gave
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 125 
 
 the Italians a shilling, got into his car, and drove away to 
 the nursing home in Henrietta Street where his patient was 
 anxiously waiting for him. He had decided to " take his cour- 
 age in both hands," and to spend his holiday in Rome. The 
 dark-eyed girl was the mother of a family now, and probably no 
 longer slim and intense, with a glance to wake up all the 
 sleeping romance and desire of a man. And his hair was white! 
 iWhy should he not go to Rome. 
 
 Not many mornings later he saw the acqueducts against the 
 pale sunshine of dawn in the Campagna, the shepherds in their 
 sheepskins and heavy cloaks, with their white dogs beside them, 
 staring at the passing train, the snow-crowned Sabine moun- 
 tains. As he walked across the Piazza delle Terme to the 
 Grand Hotel he heard the song of the fountain. And he said 
 to himself the word which still meant to him how much more 
 than any other word — " Rome! Rome! " 
 
 Lady Sarah and he were great friends. Each knew of, and 
 comprehended, the sorrows bravely borne of the other. The 
 doctor had no intention of going into society during his short 
 stay in Italy. He meant to spend his time quietly, seeing once 
 more some of the many things he had cared about in former 
 days, and in the companionship of his sister-in-law, and two 
 or three old Italian acquaintances. The panorama of the 
 gaiety and social life of the city would be spread out before 
 him each evening in the restaurant and hall of the Grand Hotel, 
 if he chose to go down to look at it. If he did not choose 
 he could go off in morning clothes and dine with Lady Sarah 
 at a certain restaurant in the Via della Croce, where the food 
 was excellent though the floor was sanded, and where an old 
 waiter, with the manners of an affectionate ambassador, dealt 
 tenderly with every whim. 
 
 On his first evening in Rome he invited Lady Sarah to dine 
 with him at the Grand. 
 
 She was not specially fond of Rome's two smart hotels, the 
 Grand and the Excelsior, but, nevertheless, she was not averse 
 from having now and then what she called " a peep at the twenti- 
 eth century," and as this particular peep was to be shared by 
 her brother-in-law, she felt certain she would enjoy it. 
 
 " Would you believe it, Sarah, if I told you I feel almost 
 nervous?" said Doctor Ides, as they sat down at their table 
 against the wall. " Fifteen years since I was here, you know. 
 And even perpetual glaring down humanity's throats hasn't 
 quite killed the romance in me."
 
 126 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 He unfolded his napkin. As he did so the band struck up 
 a cake-walk. Fie wrinkled his forehead. 
 
 " I'm a little afraid," he confessed. 
 
 He looked round over the throng of diners. 
 
 " No one I know, except — is that Princess Mancelli? Yes, 
 it must be, and still very attractive. Her eves are unmistak- 
 able." 
 
 "In that curious red gown! Yes, It Is she. If you're 
 afraid of Rome, Alervyn, you ought to do as I do." 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 " Live chiefly in the by-ways. I very seldom come here." 
 
 " Too much cake-walk about it? " 
 
 " For me. I heard a sm.art 5'oung married Englishwoman 
 the other day saying to a Roman — ' You have come on out 
 here. If you keep it up, in three or four years people will be 
 as ready to come to Rome in spring as they are to go to Monte 
 Carlo.' " 
 
 " And what was the reply? " 
 
 "Madame^ croyez tnoi^ nous coinmenqons a peine!" 
 
 The doctor sighed. 
 
 " Yet you advised me to come." 
 
 " I'm afraid I was a little bit selfish, Mervyn." 
 
 His face softened. 
 
 " And besides Rome can be so many things," continued Lady 
 Sarah. " To you and me it will never be Monte Carlo. And 
 we shall not be here when the world becomes one vast casino 
 and factory rolled into one. Rome is adorable still, and glori- 
 ous, and touching and intimate still. And then there is always 
 the Campagna." 
 
 " Pacci's cabbage patch," as I heard a Yankee once call it. 
 Is Pacci just the same as ever? " 
 
 "Just as deep, and just as incoherent — not In mind of 
 course. I met him three days ago." 
 
 "On the Via Collatina? Or under one of the Fede cy- 
 presses ? " 
 
 " In a drawing-room In Palazzo Barberinl." 
 
 "Not playing the lion who is roared after?" 
 
 " Not playing anything. Drinking his milk and sugar, and 
 musing on Ciriaco d'Ancona, Bhagavad-Gita, and goodness 
 knows what besides, as he did when you felt pulses and looked 
 at tongues from Porta Pinciana to Monte Savello." 
 
 " Thank Heaven I can enjoy Rome in peace now. This Is 
 the first time I have ever had a holidav here."
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 127 
 
 More people came in and made their way to their tables, 
 consciously, while those already seated stared at them in the 
 peculiarly savage way of which only the highly civilized have 
 the secret. 
 
 " Do you know many? " asked the doctor of Lady Sarah. 
 
 She glanced round the big white room. 
 
 " A few — and more by sight." 
 
 " Who's the man sitting next to Princess Manceili ? " 
 
 " I don't know him, or who he is." 
 
 " He looks as if he had been steadily and powerfully squeezed, 
 until all the kindly juices of humanity had run out of him. And 
 now he is as dry as a peau de chagrin/' 
 
 " Yes, there is something almost alarming in his appearance." 
 
 At this moment Montebruno, for it was he, slovvly turned 
 his strange eyes upon Lady Sarah and the doctor. 
 
 " He felt we were speaking of him," observed the latter. 
 " He's evidently preserved something sensitive, one spark per- 
 haps in the midst of the ashes." 
 
 " It's a terrible face." said Lady Sarah. 
 
 Princess Manceili spoke to Montebruno who ceased from 
 regarding them. 
 
 " Have you noticed, when watching a crowd like this, how 
 the sad faces outnumber the happy ones? " said the doctor. 
 
 " I think we see by our own light. If it's a flickering taper 
 it gives everything a ghastly look." 
 
 "And yours, Sally?" 
 
 " It's inclined to flicker, but I try to keep it steady and 
 bright." 
 
 " I'm sure you do. But I don't know that I quite agree 
 with your definition of human observation. A doctor at any 
 rate ought to train himself till he possesses the seeing eye." 
 
 " That perceives what is, you mean, -vithout being influenced 
 by his own temperament and predispoc:!tion? Well, Mervyn, 
 I'll grant you this: I believe if you and I v/ere obliged to de- 
 duce the characters and circumstances of these people about us 
 from their faces you would be right in more cases than I." 
 
 "Well, but — woman's intuition?" 
 
 She smiled. 
 
 " I would back myself against most men. But you spend 
 your days in summing people up, and I think you were born 
 clear-sighted. My Dick always said so." 
 
 " Dick thought too much of me." 
 
 " I wish he had lived to see vour successes."
 
 128 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 The music ceased for a moment, and the pecuh'ar roar — it 
 was more than a hum — of talking humanity seemed suddenly 
 to spread through the restaurant like a percolating tide. 
 
 " Here's a big party coming in! " said the doctor, who was 
 amused by the show, though, as he watched it, he felt very far 
 away from the Rome he had known and loved. 
 
 Almost in the middle of the restaurant, and not far from 
 them, was a great oval table decorated with masses of daffodils, 
 among which were concealed electric lights covered with pale 
 yellow silk. A stream of people flowed in towards it, talking 
 and smiling, and nodding to acquaintances as they passed slowly 
 between the tables. 
 
 Two or three of them greeted Lady Sarah. They arranged 
 themselves round the daffodils, forming a human chain, it 
 seemed, to imprison the spring, lest it should lightly laugh and 
 evade them. 
 
 "Who are they all?" asked the doctor, "The face of that 
 very tall man seems familiar to me." 
 
 " He's Sir Theodore Cannynge." 
 
 " To be sure. I attended him once when he was an attache 
 at the British Embassy here. Is his wife there? " 
 
 Lady Sarah pointed out Dolores. Doctor Ides looked at her 
 but made no comment. The giver of the dinner was Countess 
 Boccara, who had let her mischievous temperament have its 
 fling. She had gathered together the Cannynges, the Denzils, 
 Cesare Carelli, his mother. Princess Carelli; two striking, but 
 rather startling women who had recently come over to conquer 
 Rome from Monte Video, and who were reported to be richer 
 than the richest heiresses of the United States, but who un- 
 luckily were married ; three or four smart young Italian aris- 
 tocrats of highly inflammatory temperament, especially when 
 exotic good looks were framed in a golden aureole ; her husband, 
 and a Scotch woman, whom she thought as absurd as a wild 
 boar, but whose granite-like beauty he professed to admire. 
 And at the last moment — why, perhaps, she herself hardly 
 knew — she had added Giosue Pacci to her caravansary. She 
 had met him at the Cannynges. Perhaps she thought him dif- 
 ferent enough from her usual intimates to be chic when in their 
 midst, like the touch of black that makes of an ordinary colored 
 gown a " creation." 
 
 Why Pacci had accepted her invitation she could not con- 
 ceive. But in our dreams do we not accept all manner of pre- 
 posterous propositions ?
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 129 
 
 " Pace! in that galere!" murmured Doctor Ides, perceiving 
 the historian who was gazing at the pageant of daffodils with 
 his innocent looking eyes. "And this is the Risorgimento! " 
 
 " If you want to understand it still more completely," said 
 Lady Sarah, smiling good-humoredly, yet speaking with a touch 
 of satire, " you should go to-morrow morning to the Sala 
 Pichetti." 
 
 " What happens there, Sally? " 
 
 " Princes and senators tumble down. They are all learning 
 to skate on rollers. Later on there are going to be roller skat- 
 ing parties in some of the old palaces." 
 
 " Autres temps, autres moeurs!" said the doctor, taking 
 refuge in a platitude. " Suppress me, Sally, if I become bro- 
 mide." 
 
 He devoted himself to his dinner. 
 
 After a moment he said : " The daffodil party interests me." 
 
 " Does it? Just now you spoke of seeing many sad faces in 
 such places as this. Can you pick me out the two faces of 
 perfectly happy people in the daffodil party? There are two." 
 
 "Perfectly happy?" said Doctor Ides, with a gentle in- 
 credulity. 
 
 " It seems impossible. And yet I really believe I am not 
 exaggerating." 
 
 Doctor Ides looked slowly round the circle of talking people. 
 
 " Pacci perhaps is Number One." 
 
 "Oh, Pacci! I had forgotten him. He may be perfectly 
 happy, but I cannot judge of him. He is too evasive for me." 
 
 " There are two others ! " 
 
 After a minute or two he said : 
 
 "That lady in green and white, perhaps?" 
 
 " Yes, she is one. Edna Denzil, is her name. Now — the 
 other?" 
 
 There was a long pause. Then Doctor Ides said : 
 
 " I cannot find him." 
 
 " How do you know it is a man ? " 
 
 " Because it is obviously not any one of the women." 
 
 "And the little lady in yellow?" said Lady Sarah, indicat- 
 ing Countess Boccara. 
 
 " No woman can be perfectly happy with such a waist. It 
 is physiologically impossible. Which man is it? One of those 
 Italian youths, no doubt. But which? " 
 
 " It is that man with the big forehead," said Lady Sarah, 
 drau'ing her brother-in-law's attention to Francis Denzil.
 
 130 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 Doctor Ides looked steadily at Denzil. 
 
 " Are you astonished ? " asked Ladv Sarah at length. 
 
 "Who is he?" 
 
 " The husband of the perfectly happy woman." 
 
 "H'm!" 
 
 The doctor continued to look at Denzil fixedly. Apparently 
 the happy man interested him. As he did not speak Lady 
 Sarah went on talking, and gave him a brief but very sympa- 
 thetic sketch of the Denzil menage. 
 
 " And now, to crown everything," she concluded, " he is 
 going to Munich as Minister. It was made public yesterday. 
 And he is only about forty." 
 
 Again there was a silence. Then Doctor Ides said : 
 
 " Why does he put his lips so close to the faces of the women 
 on each side of him? They surely can't both be deaf." 
 
 " Oh no. That is only because he's had a bad cold. It 
 has almost taken away his voice." 
 
 The doctor withdrew his eyes from Denzil and fL^ed them 
 upon his sister-in-law. 
 
 " Colds are going about in Rome this year," she added. 
 
 " Ah ! " said the doctor. 
 
 " What is the matter, Mervyn ? " 
 
 " Nothing, Sally." 
 
 He paused, then, as if speaking with a slight effort, and 
 not quite naturally, he continued: 
 
 " It was always so. When the spring comes in, Rome greets 
 her with a sneeze. That sneeze at least is not banished amid 
 all the changes. What do you think of this plat? I ordered 
 it specially. Can you guess what it has in it? " 
 
 " There seems a suggestion — it is as if a fairy oyster had 
 glided by when it was being cooked." 
 
 " And had been persuaded to join the company of ingredi- 
 ents. You might have been an epicure, Sally. You have a 
 sensitive palate." 
 
 The doctor kept up the conversation, but it had ceased to 
 be quite intimate, quite easy going. Lady Sarah wondered why 
 the sight of Francis Denzil had affected her brother-in-law's 
 spirits. The two men were not even acquaintances. But per- 
 haps she was astray. Perhaps Denzil had nothing to do with 
 the abrupt depression which she divined beneath the doctor's 
 now rather unusual animation. 
 
 When they had finished dinner he said: 
 
 " Shall we have coffee in the hall ! "
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 131 
 
 " I never take it. I'm afraid of lying awake at night." 
 
 He looked at her with sympathy. 
 
 " I know. The besieging memories. But to-night I must 
 have it. And we can look at the crowd. I believe I have the 
 boy in me still. It quite amuses me." 
 
 " Let us go and take up a good position." 
 
 They went out, and sat down at a little table in the hall, 
 on the left just below the steps. The Doctor ordered his 
 coffee and lit a cigar. 
 
 " This is holiday-making indeed," he said, leaning back In 
 his deep armchair. " But I am so unaccustomed to holidays 
 that I haven't quite got into the right frame of mind yet. I 
 don't feel desultory enough." 
 
 " Wait till you've had a day in the Campagna." 
 
 " I'll get a motor, Sally. We'll go to Caprerola, or by 
 Albano and Velletri to beautiful Ninfa, with its tower above 
 the water, and on to Sermoneta. What do you say ? " 
 
 " I should love it." 
 
 Since they had left the dining-room he had returned to his 
 former manner. Nevertheless Lady Sarah had a conviction 
 that he was on the watch, that his mind was working on a line 
 of thought not connected with what he was saying. 
 
 A little woman in a tight mauve gown, and wearing an 
 immense black hat, with a panache of mauve feathers which 
 mounted towards the ceiling, as if desirous of translation, ap- 
 peared at the top of the steps followed by two stout men, 
 obviously Jews. Very slowly, walking from the hips, and look- 
 ing insolent and dull, she descended and moved, like one in a 
 procession, to a table not far off. 
 
 "Grand Marnier!" she observed to one of the men, as if 
 speaking to a slave. 
 
 Then sitting down, and drawing the tail of her gown around 
 her feet, she became absolutely expressionless and remained 
 silent. 
 
 " Difficult to believe there Is a soul beneath that hat! " said 
 the doctor. " Here comes the Mancelli ! What a difference! " 
 
 " Between the hat and the Grande Dame." 
 
 The Princess passed, without seeing them. She was talking 
 to Montebruno, and some Russians who belonged to her party. 
 She put up one hand to the velvet strap which covered her 
 white shoulder, and gesticulated with the other, which held a 
 small painted fan. 
 
 " How beautifully she walks! " said the doctor. " After all
 
 132 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 these j'ears I remember her way of walking. She Is a wonder- 
 fully attractive woman, though, of course, she has aged. And 
 her expression has changed a good deal, I think." 
 
 " Has it? In what way? " 
 
 " It seems to me full of disillusion. She used to look like 
 a conqueror, but a very thoroughbred one." 
 
 Over the bright rose-colored carpet there was a rustle of 
 trailing gowns. Groups formed about the many tables. 
 Women, sheathed in their clothes, with their hair arranged in 
 heavy masses that looked like caps pulled down over their ears 
 as if to shield them from frost-bite, gazed into the eyes of the 
 men who accompanied them, searching for admiration, comment, 
 the discriminating praise of the ardent masculine stare. Two 
 old men, with white beards, sat down to a game of ecarte in a 
 corner. As they examined their cards, with pursed lips they 
 pushed up their big cigars, looking at the same time wily and 
 morose. An immensely stout Grerman lady, with a topknot of 
 straw-colored hair, that seemed to be trained over a hidden 
 mushroom, uttered a loud " es ist wirklich ganz wunderschon '* 
 to a red-necked man, whose head was the color of ash, as she 
 threw complacent glances around her. A large group of South 
 Americans, with lustrous, unmeaning eyes, and complexions 
 touched with yellow, looked like perfectly self-possessed exiles 
 as they stared at all these people, whose names even were un- 
 known to them. Then they glanced at their own fine jewels, 
 elaborate gowns, and sparkling rings, and spoke together in 
 Spanish. One of them said, in a loud and yet sleepy voice: 
 
 " A^o hay que decir, hijita; mas hermosas son las ChUenas." 
 
 A Persian from the Ministry in the Via Varese looked at 
 her with secretive eyes, as he went by towards the outer hall, 
 walking gently and quickly in his patent leather shoes. Pres- 
 ently a crowd of men, nearly all of them elderly and expres- 
 sive, some very old and almost tragically thoughtful-looking, ap- 
 peared at the top of the steps, where they stood for a minute 
 talking together, and glancing down at the butterflies whose 
 bright eyes were turned curiously towards them. A murmur 
 of: "The Belgian Mission! Martizelli has been giving a din- 
 ner for them ! " went through the room, as the gray and white- 
 haired diplomats, courtiers, politicians and litterateurs rather 
 hesitatingly descended and made their way to a great circle of 
 empty chairs arranged round a circle of coffee-cups and liqueur 
 glasses. They sat down, perhaps with the intention of dis- 
 cussing great affairs. But the presence of the butterflies evi-
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 133 
 
 dently distracted them not a little. They looked distrait, and 
 yet intent, almost like boys gazing through the bars of a grille 
 into a garden of Paradise. When they had finished their coffee 
 two or three of them got up vaguely. Others followed their 
 example. 
 
 A handsome young under-secretary spoke into the ear of 
 one of them, a very old bald-headed man, who nodded em- 
 phatically in response. The secretary took him gently by the 
 arm, led him up to a beautiful Roman and presented him. 
 Then the spell v/as broken, and the butterflies came into their 
 own. White-haired and wrinkled distinction, learning, and 
 pov/er devoted themselves to the service of charm, and the two 
 vanities of the intellect and of the epidermis — or was it really 
 of the soul ? — softly flattered each other. 
 
 " The daffodils are the last to come," said the doctor. 
 
 " Do you care to know any of them, Mervyn ? " asked Lady 
 Sarah. 
 
 She looked at him with a certain open curiosity. Perhaps 
 it was that look which determined him to say: 
 
 " Yes, Sally. If you have an opportunity you might intro- 
 duce me to the happy man." 
 
 She thought she detected a nuance of almost sad irony in 
 his voice as he spoke the final words. 
 
 " Do you mean that you doubt " she began. 
 
 " No, no. But, if you want another bromide, remember the 
 
 saying, ' Call thou no man happy till ' " he broke ofi, 
 
 *' Ah! here they come! " he said. 
 
 A table close to where they were sitting had been kept for 
 the Countess Boccara's party, which now came down the steps 
 and mingled v/ith groups in the immediate vicinity. 
 
 Countess Boccara was in gay spirits. Only that morning 
 her dressm.aker had informed her that her waist was still shrink- 
 ing. Seventeen inches seemed to be almost within her reach 
 and her mischievous dinner had been a success. She knew well 
 that everybody had been talking about her, and it. And the 
 Mancelli had been sitting just opposite to Cesare, who had 
 been placed beside Lady Cannynge. Neither the Princess nor 
 Cesare had shown a trace of embarrassment, but the Countess 
 had a comfortable and thorough knowledge of her sex. She 
 knew very well what " Cara Lisetta " must have been feeling. 
 As to Cesare, she was obliged to confess to herself that she did 
 not quite understand him. So far this season he had not made 
 himself conspicuous with Lady Cannynge or with any one else.
 
 134 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 Since the day of her little dinner for the most beautiful per- 
 son in Rome she was not aware of any crescendo. And at this 
 moment Cesare was sitting down by one of the sultry-looking 
 women from Monte Video, while Lady Cannynge was talking 
 to the " old lady who knows Rome." Countess Boccara ac- 
 knowledged to herself that the old lady managed to look quite 
 passable, even rather distinguished, in the evening. The mix- 
 ture of amber and white in her curiously arranged, or disar- 
 ranged, hair was certainly novel and effective. But why 
 should Dolores Cannynge ? 
 
 At this point in the Countess's reflections she was encircled 
 by young men and began to think of herself. 
 
 Meanwhile Lady Sarah had introduced her brother-in-law to 
 the Cannynges and the Denzils. Sir Theodore remembered 
 him at once, and kept him for a few minutes in a conversation 
 that took them back to " the old daj'S " of a few years ago. 
 Then Lady Sarah deliberately broke in, and engaged Sir Theo- 
 dore's attention. Denzil was close to the doctor, and at the 
 moment was speaking to no one. A waiter came up with a 
 pile of cigar boxes on a salver and lifted the lid of the box on 
 the top of the pile, displaying a row of fat yellow-brown Ha- 
 vanas. Denzil stared at them for a moment, then shook his 
 head. The waiter was about to open another box when Den- 
 zil said almost in a whisper: 
 
 " Pas de cigares! " 
 
 They were standing. There were two armchairs close to 
 them. As he spoke the doctor sat down and Denzil 
 followed his example, while the waiter went off, gliding 
 with a practiced agility among the multitudes of people and 
 tables. 
 
 In some hidden place near the top of the steps a newly ar- 
 rived Hungarian orchestra began to play. One violin soared 
 above the rest, delivering with passionate sentiment a melody 
 that suggested a nature ravaged by love. Many heads turned 
 towards the stairs, and many conversations ceased for a moment. 
 
 A feminine voice said : 
 
 " How delightful ! Some one's given SchizzI a bottle of 
 champagne. He's beginning really to play. Don't you feel 
 how it goes to the spine?" 
 
 " I'm afraid I generally smoke too much," Denzil said, in 
 reply to the doctor's question. 
 
 He pressed his feet on the carpet and moved his chair close 
 to the doctor's.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 135 
 
 " You must forgive my croaking, I've caught a cold and it's 
 settled in my throat." 
 
 " A nuisance! " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 He leaned to the doctor to make himself heard. 
 
 " I shall get off to Frascati for a change in three days. It's 
 extraordinary air up there. It ought to blow all this hoarse- 
 ness away. I should go to-morrow, but my little son has his 
 birthday on Thursday, and we are going to have festivities." 
 
 He smiled, losing his fixed look. 
 
 "How old is he?" 
 
 " On Thursday he will be nine." 
 
 " At that period of life birthdays are almost terrific occa- 
 sions. You haven't seen a doctor for your cold ? " 
 
 " Oh no. It wasn't worth while." 
 
 "You hate us probably. Is that it?" 
 
 " I have no reason to hate doctors." 
 
 " Perhaps you know very little about us! " 
 
 " I must confess I've been lucky so far. Since I was a 
 brat I've never known what it was to feel an ache or pain. By 
 Jove, I wish I could have a cigar," 
 
 The waiter with the pile of boxes was again passing not 
 far off. 
 
 " Doctor," Denzil added, huskily, " will you allow me to 
 call you in ? " 
 
 The waiter stopped before a party of Americans. 
 
 "As a throat specialist or as a general practitioner?" asked 
 Doctor Ides. 
 
 " A throat specialist. Are you one? " 
 
 " To be sure." 
 
 " All the better then. Won't you give me permission to 
 smoke to-night? If you do, my dragon of a wife can't say a 
 word." 
 
 " You can have a cigar," 
 
 "Capital!" 
 
 Denzil held up his hand to summon the waiter. 
 
 " But on one condition," added the doctor. 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " That you let me examine your throat and prescribe for 
 you to-morrow morning. I've come out here for a holiday. 
 But I may be able to do something for you — possibly." 
 
 Denzil turned slightly in his chair, and looked very hard at 
 the doctor.
 
 136 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " It is very kind of you to bother about me," he said, al- 
 most in a whisper. " My throat seems to be quite giving out 
 to-night." 
 
 " Come to the hotel at half-past ten to-morrow, and I'll 
 have a look at you." 
 
 " I will, if you really think " 
 
 " And oblige me by not telling any one you are coming to 
 see me professionally, not even your wife. You see with all 
 this crowd in Rome there may be some others who are hoarse. 
 My name is pretty well known as a throat doctor among 
 Americans as well as English. And I'm here to take a holi- 
 day, as I told you." 
 
 " I won't say a word. It's very good of you." 
 
 " Not at all. Now enjoy your cigar." 
 
 " I really believe Schizzi must have had two bottles of 
 champagne," said the female voice which had spoken of the 
 effect of Hungarian music upon the human spine. " I never 
 heard him play with such meaning before. It's too lovely and 
 affecting. It makes one want I don't know what! " 
 
 Cesare's black eyes turned from the phenomena from Monte 
 Video and fixed themselves on Dolores. Denzil looked straight 
 before him. The glance of the doctor traveled from the happy 
 man to his wife, the perfectly happy woman. In the distance, 
 athwart the crowd of chattering and laughing people. Prin- 
 cess Mancelli, who had turned her head, as if carelessly watch- 
 ing the pageant about which she was lightly talking to a mem- 
 ber of the Belgian Mission, saw the man who had been her 
 lover gazing at Lady Cannynge. Montebruno, slowly moving 
 his blood-shot eyes, looked from one woman to another, from 
 one man to another, with his strange and unchanging melan- 
 choly. 
 
 Edna Denzil watched her Franzi. She saw the cigar. But 
 she was not shocked. She thought: ''Dear old Franzi! Let 
 him have his little pleasure to-night." 
 
 And Schizzi, inspired perhaps by champagne, played on. 
 He had come out from his hiding-place now, and he stood near 
 the top of the steps leaning towards the little world just below 
 him. With the wand of his music he touclied it. And som.e 
 of its dreams, that till then had been as the mist that drifts 
 over dew, trembled into a fragile being. And some of its hopes 
 awoke, and some of its bitter regrets, and some of its mysteri- 
 ous apprehensions, and some of its definite fears. Behind many 
 of the masks could be seen for a moment, like a shadow, a
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 137 
 
 face that was surely the face of truth, in many of the eyes a 
 light that was surely a reflection of a marvelous light at a 
 distance. 
 
 Giosue PaccI looked round him slowly, and murmured to 
 himself the words of Leonardo da Vinci: 
 
 " Piu e grande la sensibllita, piu e forte il dolore. Grande 
 Martire ! Grande Martire ! " 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 The next morning, without saying a word to his wife, Denzil 
 went to the Grand Hotel and asked for Doctor Mervyn Ides. 
 It was half-past ten, and he was shown up at once into the 
 doctor's sitting-room, which was flooded with sunshine, and gay 
 with flowers arranged by Lady Sarah, who was happy to have 
 someone to look after and think about. As Denzil entered at 
 one door Doctor Ides came in from his bedroom by another, 
 smiling. 
 
 " You are a punctual man," he said, holding out his hand. 
 " Now let me have a look at your throat and see if I can get rid 
 of this hoarseness." 
 
 " If you can banish it, or diminish it by Thursday," Denzil 
 almost whispered, " I shall be very grateful to you. I want to 
 be up to the mark on my boy's birthday." 
 
 "Thursday! To be sure! Sit down in this chair, will 
 you?" 
 
 The doctor went to close the window. 
 
 Meanwhile in a certain flat in the Via Venti Settembre ex- 
 citement was rising in a crescendo such as might have satisfied 
 even the Countess Boccara. The day after to-morrow Theo 
 was to be nine! This fact, and the circumstances which were 
 to glorify it, obsessed the three children. They thought of, 
 spoke of, lived for, nothing else. Theo was full of the legiti- 
 mate pride of one who by length of days is entitled to tribute. 
 His little sisters' souls danced with proud pleasure in the 
 generous power of giving. In two days Theo was to sit in a 
 special chair, dressed in a new, and very grown-up suit, and to 
 be reverently approached by his father and mother, Marianna, 
 Concetta, and themselves — a tribe of parcel carriers. In 
 fancy they already beheld his astonished delight at the results 
 of their cogitations, and long and secret perambulations of the
 
 138 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 Rome that is occupied by shops. The time lagged, yet not a 
 moment was without its thrill. In the most deadly mystery, 
 and with elaborate precautions, parcels were tied up only to be 
 untied. Iris inflexibly kept the kitchen door while Viola was 
 initiated into the rites connected with the preparation of a 
 birthday cake. Then the tiny Viola, with a puny attempt at 
 warrior-like fierceness, stood on guard, judiciously flanked by 
 Marianna, while Iris stirred a mess which Concetta, the cook, 
 faithfully promised, on the head of her mamma, a lady with a 
 heavy moustache who kept a species of wine-shop in Trastevere, 
 would eventually stand firm wrapped in a mantle of glittering 
 sugar. Theo was a happy, yet at moments envious exile, per- 
 petually being put out of rooms, and firmly excluded from par- 
 ticipation in extraordinary proceedings closely connected with 
 himself. He was " not to see," he was to turn his head " the 
 other way." If he emerged unexpectedly into the passage he 
 was greeted with shrieks of protest, and a dropping of objects 
 the nature of which he strove hard to determine by the sound 
 of their impact with the floor. If he went innocently towards 
 a corner a cry of " you mustn't go there, Theo ! " w^arned him 
 of presences whose identity only Thursday must reveal to him. 
 He suffered delicious pangs. 
 
 Fortunately he had matters of the gravest Importance on 
 hand himself, which left him but little time to concentrate on 
 his martyrdom. He was preparing a surprise for his father, 
 with the careful assistance of his mother as coach. 
 
 Mrs. Denzil was not fond of *' showing off " her children, 
 but she believed in developing any budding talents little human 
 beings displayed. Theo, at this time, gave evidence of a dra- 
 matic instinct unusual in a child of his age. He had a good 
 memory, and enjoyed learning bits of Shakespeare and short 
 poems by heart, and was not ashamed to repeat them with a 
 boyish attempt at giving them what he supposed to be their real 
 emotional value. Till now his hearers had been fit but few 
 — his mother, sisters, Marianna, and once or twice Signor 
 Carpi, an Italian teacher who gave him lessons in rudimentary 
 Latin. 
 
 Denzil had heard of these efforts, with a smile. But Edna, 
 who believed in an aim, had held in check the perhaps faint 
 curiosity of her husband, with a reiterated " some day when 
 Theo's come on more! " And this same " some day " had been 
 put before Theo as a goal to be won by effort. Now it had 
 been secretly settled between Theo and his mother that the goal
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 139 
 
 should be won on his birthday, and the two pieces chosen for 
 the great occasion were being anxiously prepared behind closed 
 doors. One was the speech by the King at the beginning 
 of the third act of Shakespeare's King Henry the Fifth: 
 "Once more into the breach, dear friends, once more"; the 
 other Tennyson's " Crossing the Bar," which was one of Edna's 
 favorite poems. These were not to be repeated in the evening, 
 when there was to be a party of the children's friends, but 
 in the intimacy of the family circle after the present-giving, 
 before the cutting of the birthday cake. 
 
 So Theo studied as if his life depended upon it, and had his 
 important reason for keeping people out of rooms and telling 
 them not to listen. The Shakespeare he had taken to with 
 all his soul. Although he was so courteous and considerate 
 of others, anything fiery and pugnacious woke up in him some- 
 thing responsive, that set his blood leaping and lit up his brown 
 eyes. But the Tenn}-son had at first knocked at his door and 
 had but a feeble answer. 
 
 On the morning when Denzil visited Doctor Ides, Edna and 
 little Theo were closeted together. The Shakespeare speech 
 was delivered with intense earnestness, and passed with a 
 " Capital ! Father will be surprised ! " But when " Crossing 
 the Bar " had been spoken, Edna sat for a minute in silence. 
 She thought that perhaps she had made a mistake in choosing it 
 for a boy of nine to recite. She had yielded to her own prefer- 
 ence without thinking enough of Theo. Patriotism roused up 
 the male in her son, but death perhaps only confused him. For 
 a moment she rebuked herself, and considered whether it would 
 not perhaps be best to be content with the Shakespeare, and to 
 let the Tennyson go. 
 
 "What's the matter, mums? Don't I do it right?" said 
 Theo anxiously. 
 
 His mother looked up at him. 
 
 " Not so well as the other." 
 
 " Let me try again." He clenched his hands, and his lower 
 jaw trembled slightly. " I will get it, but it is difficult." 
 
 " I expect you don't quite understand it." 
 
 The question rising in her mind was, " Do I wish him to 
 understand it? " 
 
 " Wait a moment, Theo! " she added. 
 
 He stood, gazing at her with his bright and eager eyes, full 
 of confidence in her power and will to help him. After a 
 pause she continued :
 
 140 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " It's like this. When we are small we want a lot of help 
 from people. Viola is smaller than j^ou, and wants more help 
 than 3'OU do." 
 
 " I should rather think she does, mums! " Theo interpolated, 
 with a conviction that sounded almost injured. 
 
 " But however big and however old we get we always need 
 help, every one of us, I do, father does, for instance." 
 
 "Does father?" 
 
 " Yes. We need the pilot. Ships, you know, must have a 
 pilot to bring them safe into port, some one who understands 
 the currents, the channel, where the sandbanks are, and where 
 there's deep good water that will take the ship safely. We 
 all make a voyage through life. But that isn't everything. 
 When we grow old certainly, and it may be long before that, 
 we have to make another voyage. We don't live down here 
 forever." 
 
 " I see! " interjected Theo gravely. 
 
 " And when the moment comes to start — well, we do want a 
 helping hand then, most awfully." 
 
 "I should think so!" said Theo, still with solemnity but 
 without any fear. 
 
 " We can't take any one or anything with us. We just have 
 to nip off alone. But across the bar there'll be some one to look 
 after us, take charge of us, guide us across the water to the 
 port we're bound for. You know who that is ! " 
 
 "Is it God?" 
 
 " That's what we believe, and that's what Tennyson believed 
 when he wrote this piece. He was an old man then, but you 
 see he wanted the helping hand, just as I should, or father 
 would, if we had to be off." 
 
 Theo stood in silence for a minute. Then he said, 
 
 " I sav, mums ! " 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " I do jolly Vv^ell hope none of us'll have to go for ever so 
 ions." 
 
 "So do I!" 
 
 Mrs. Denzil was not highly imaginative, she was very happy 
 and she spoke quite seriously, even earnestly; but she was 
 governed by a feeling, unreasonable enough yet very prevalent 
 in the ranks of the happy, a feeling that things must last as 
 they were with her. As the miserable and unfortunate feel 
 dedicated to distress, so do the joyous feel dedicated to joy. 
 Edna Denzil was conscious of a warm sensation of safety, and
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 141 
 
 of trust in the Great Someone outside, beyond, who had the 
 power to surround her with blessed security. 
 
 " Now, Theo, old boy, try again! " she added. " And think 
 of what we've been talking about, that even a man like father 
 becomes almost as little Viola in the moment of crossing the 
 bar. Think of what he needs, and what he believes he will 
 have." 
 
 " It says ' I know,' mums! " observed Theo, with a question- 
 ing look in his eyes. 
 
 " What he knows he will have," his mother corrected her- 
 self. 
 
 And Theo tried again and did very much better. 
 
 In the Denzil household they lunched at half-past twelve, 
 but that day, when the half-hour struck, Denzil had not re- 
 turned. Edna waited ten minutes, wondering a little what had 
 become of her husband. She was just getting up to go alone 
 into the dining-room, supposing that he must have been detained 
 by some sudden business at the Embassy when there was a ring 
 at the bell. In a moment Beppo, the manservant, came in with 
 a note. It was from Denzil. 
 
 " Dearest Ed, — I shan't be back for lunch — kept by 
 some business. I'm sorry I couldn't let you know sooner. 
 Blessings on you and the brats. 
 
 Yr Franzi." 
 
 Edna held this note very close to her face, then took it away 
 and looked at Beppo, who stood near the door, with a calmly 
 serious expression on his rather large and much-shaved coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 " Who brought it, Beppo? " 
 
 " Carlino, signora," 
 
 Carlino was a page in Sir Theodore's service. 
 
 " Davvero! You can bring in lunch." 
 
 Again she held the note near to her eyes. 
 
 " How awfully illegible dear old Franzi is getting," she 
 thought, as she examined his " blessings on you and the brats," 
 
 Beppo left the room, with his sharp turn on the heels and 
 slightly strutting gait, but she did not follow him immediately. 
 She knew not why, but as she gazed at her husband's downward 
 tending scrawl, and smudgy signature, a peculiar and almost 
 fierce tenderness filled her heart. Suddenly her imagination 
 awoke, and the meaning of possession and the meaning of loss
 
 142 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 sprang up quivering in her mind. Her conversation with little 
 Theo came to her memory and her comfortable " So do I ! " 
 in response to his boyish expression of hope. How sluggish 
 she had been then! Franzi and the brats! What would life 
 be without them? What would she be if they were to cross 
 the bar before her, without her? 
 
 " Lunch is ready, signora," observed Beppo, putting in his 
 head. 
 
 Edna Denzil started. 
 
 " I'm coming." 
 
 She went slowly to the dining-room carrying her husband's 
 scrawl in her hand. And she propped it up against a pepper- 
 pot and looked at it while she ate. 
 
 That morning Sir Theodore went out riding with the French 
 Ambassador and saw some flying at Centocelle. The weather 
 was brilliant, the horses were in great spirits. A good gallop, 
 and the sight of a man winging his way towards the Alban 
 mountains, while the swarthy carrettieri dei Ccstelli in the wine 
 carts stared from their hooded rooms with half-contemptuous, 
 half-indignant eyes, then lay down to sleep again on their 
 cloaks and their sacks, had put Sir Theodore into unusually 
 good-humor. He was still young enough, and still healthy 
 enough, to know the sheer joy of the body, just now and then 
 in a favorable hour, to be dominated by it, and to snap his 
 fingers at the melancholy claims of the mind and the soul. 
 Such an hour he had just had in the Campagna, and as he 
 walked lightly to his library he hummed the delicious tune of 
 a Viennese waltz, without thinking, as so often, " I lost 
 Vienna." Feeling pleasantly inclined for a few minutes of 
 rest, he sat down in a big chair, stretched out his hand, and 
 laid hold of the nearest book. It chanced to be Tolstoy's 
 Cossacks, and he opened it at the chapter where Uncle 
 Jeroshka takes Olyenin for his first hunting expedition in the 
 forest of the Caucasus. As he read he seemed to see the dew 
 lying on the herbage, to smell the low-lying smoke from the 
 chimneys of the village, to hear the bark of the eager dogs, 
 and the hunter's invocation, "To the father and the son! " as 
 the gun was lifted to the shoulder and the finger found the 
 trigger. And again an unusually vital sense of the joie de vivre 
 beset him. It was almost as if a wind from, some desert place, 
 or some rolling ocean, blew on his face, calling him from 
 meditation, and books, and the absurdities of society, to a life 
 stinging with blood and strong with action.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 143 
 
 A knock on the door recalled him. 
 
 " Avanti! " he said. 
 
 Carlino, the page, entered. He was a very small boy, with 
 a close cropped head, sensitive features, and honest, but rather 
 anxious dark eves. Standing by the door he said, 
 
 "II Signor benzili!" 
 
 "Signor Denzil?" 
 
 " Sissignore." 
 
 " Bring him at once, Carlino." 
 
 " Sissignore." 
 
 "What an anxious expression that little chap has!" thought 
 Sir Theodore, not for the first time, as Carlino disappeared. 
 
 In a moment he returned with Denzil coming slowly behind 
 him. 
 
 " Good morning, Francis. Stop to lunch, won't you? It's 
 nearly time." 
 
 Denzil gave his hand and gripped Sir Theodore's, and there 
 was a sort of fierceness in his grasp which almost startled his 
 friend. 
 
 " If I stay I must write a note to Ed." 
 
 " Of course. Carlino will take It. Write it here." 
 
 Carlino remained by the door, gazing at Signor Denzill, 
 while Denzil let himself down into the revolving chair In front 
 of the writing table. 
 
 " Francis, my boy, your voice Is shocking this morning," 
 added Sir Theodore. " You really must be treated and knock 
 off all smoking for a time. I agree with Edna, and I shan't 
 tempt you any more." 
 
 " No," said Denzil, huskily. 
 
 He leaned his left temple against his left hand, took a pen, 
 and drew a sheet of note-paper towards him. Then he stared 
 at his friend, and added, almost In a whisper, 
 
 " I'm going to be treated." 
 
 Bending very low over the table he began to write. He 
 changed the position of his left hand, holding the fingers tightly 
 against his forehead and the thumb outstretched against his 
 cheek. The fingers made for the moment a sort of penthouse 
 shield above his ej'es. Sir Theodore looked at him narrowly, 
 then looked away. 
 
 " Is there anything up with Francis? " he thought. 
 
 His mind went to the Munich appointment. Surely nothing 
 could have gone wrong In connection with that. He dismissed 
 the Idea as absurd. Probably there had been some business at
 
 144 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 the Embassy which had wearied Francis, or worried him. 
 Lunch, a talk, a — no, not a smoke! — would put him rij^ht. 
 
 Denzil thrust his note unevenly into an envelope, tried to 
 close it, failed ; then with an odd deliberation took the paper 
 out, smoothed it with care, adjusted it neatly in the envelope, 
 shut, addressed, and held the envelope out to Carlino, who 
 approached with staring eyes to receive it. As soon as he had 
 gone out Denzil, leaning forward in his chair against the writ- 
 ing-table, with his arms lying upon it, turned his head towards 
 Sir Theodore, and said: 
 
 " Theo, come here, will j^ou! " 
 
 Sir Theodore came. 
 
 "What is it? What's up with you, Francis?" 
 
 " Sit down." 
 
 Sir Theodore sat down in a chair beside his friend. Denzil 
 leaned forward for a moment, staring down at the blotting- 
 pad across which his arms were laid. 
 
 " What the deuce can be the matter? " thought Sir Theodore. 
 
 An unpleasant conviction that it was something serious, des- 
 perately serious, took hold on him. Denzil looked up. 
 
 " Theo, I've come here to tell you something." 
 
 Again he stared down at the blotting-paper, on which was 
 the pattern of his note to his wife. 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 *' Ed is not to know — till after Thursday." 
 
 " What is it? Nothing bad, I hope? " 
 
 Sir Theodore drew his chair closer to his friend. 
 
 "It's pretty bad — for me, and Ed, and the — my — the 
 brats." 
 
 Sir Theodore laid a hand on Denzil's arm. 
 
 "What is it, Francis?" 
 
 Denzil put up his hand and took hold of his throat, and 
 kept his hand there. 
 
 " Something seriously wrong there, Francis? " 
 
 Denzil nodded. 
 
 " Good God ! But — not — not the worst ? " 
 
 " The worst," whispered Denzil. 
 
 Sir Theodore sprang up and turned away. 
 
 " No, no! " he muttered. " No, no! I'm not going to be- 
 lieve that ! " 
 
 He went towards the window, stood still for a moment and 
 came back. 
 
 " How can you know? " he asked, with an odd roughness in
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 145 
 
 his manner, and an almost threatening sound in his deep voice. 
 
 "Ides!" said Denzil. 
 
 "Mervyn Ides?" 
 
 Sir Theodore felt something cold run through him, almost 
 like a quick trickle of icy water. 
 
 "You've been to Mervyn Ides? This morning?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " He examined you ? " 
 
 "Yes. It's — cancer of the larynx." 
 
 There was a long silence. Sir Theodore broke it by say- 
 ing: 
 
 " What is Ides going to do ? " 
 
 "Operate — Friday morning." 
 
 Again the silence fell. At length Denzil said: 
 
 " Ed's not to know till Thursday's over." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Theo's birthday." 
 
 " Oh, Francis — Francis ! " 
 
 Sir Theodore's face worked. 
 
 "But you can't — it's impossible! No, Francis — ^no!'* 
 
 " One last day with the brats happy." 
 
 " Oh, Francis, old chap! " 
 
 Sir Theodore put one arm almost awkwardly round his 
 friend's shoulder, took it swiftly away and went out of the 
 room. As he shut the door he came upon Dolores. She had 
 just returned from a walk with Lady Sarah on the Pincio. 
 
 " Doloretta! " he exclaimed. 
 
 "Theo!" she gazed into his face. "Oh, Theo! What is 
 it?" 
 
 He made an effort so painful that it seemed to drive the 
 blood away from his heart. 
 
 "Nothing. Been walking?" 
 
 " With Lady Sarah." 
 
 " I've had a gallop. Savioa was flying. Old Leonardo 
 ought to have been there to see him — right away to the Alban 
 mountains." 
 
 He turned and went back into the library. 
 
 " Francis," he said. " May Doloretta know?" 
 
 " Before Ed ! " 
 
 " He'll save you. Ides will save you. He's the best man 
 there is. You've long years before you." 
 
 "Without a larynx?" 
 
 *' But — the operation is for complete removal ? "
 
 146 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " I don't know yet." 
 
 Sir Theodore sat heavily down. 
 
 Outside in the distance a Japanese gong sounded deh'cately. 
 
 " What are we going to do? " said Sir Theodore. 
 
 The gong meant that lunch was ready. Dolores would be 
 waiting. At any moment she might come into the room with a 
 " Theo, aren't you coming? " 
 
 " I'll have lunch," whispered Denzil, getting up from the 
 writing-table. 
 
 " With us? With Doloretta? " 
 
 " It's the only thing. To keep on, stick to the every-day 
 matters, catch hold of all I can." 
 
 " Of me," said Sir Theodore. 
 
 He drew Denzil's arm through his and they left the room 
 together. 
 
 " Doloretta will guess there is something," Sir Theodore 
 said in a low, uneven voice, as they stood in the next room. 
 
 "Tell her my throat's a bit sore then. Afterwards — we'll 
 talk about Friday — I m.ust consult you." 
 
 They found Dolores in the farther room. 
 
 She greeted Denzil with gentle cordiality. She felt for him 
 almost an affection now that she knew he was going away to 
 Munich. No one living rejoiced at his " step " as she did. 
 But she kept this fact to herself. 
 
 " I've been buying a present for little Theo," she said, as 
 they went into the dining-room. 
 
 " Good of you! " said Denzil. 
 
 She looked round. 
 
 "Your throat! " she said. "You really must do something 
 for it." 
 
 " I'm going to. It is rather sore. What did you get to 
 spoil Theo with? " 
 
 " A whip. Yesterday I saw him proudly on a pony in the 
 Borghese. He's got quite a good seat already. How he'll en- 
 joy himself in the Englische Garten at Munich." 
 
 Sir Theodore frowned. 
 
 Dolores changed the conversation. She had not meant to 
 upset her husband. Doubtless he was thinking of the lonely 
 Rome when the Denzils were gone. But though she quickly 
 brought up another topic, her lips tightened for a moment, and 
 an almost hard look came into her face. 
 
 But when the Denzils were gone, v/hen they were safely 
 away, she would make Theo forget the hours in the Via Venti
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 147 
 
 Settembre. Somehow she would teach him to forget. She would 
 find the means. Does not love give women almost miraculous 
 resources? She would win him back to her. Once those chil- 
 dren and their mother were gone she would reconcile Theo to a 
 charming, intellectual, cultivated life in which children would 
 not be missed. How many middle-aged men there were who 
 were quite contented in such a life ! And surely a man can 
 forget in time his dearest desire if only it is not provoked per- 
 petually by the contemplation of another's possession of that 
 which he lacks. Hitherto, as Dolores knew, her efforts had 
 been in vain. The interesting people, the salon, bibelots, pic- 
 tures, books, horses, hobbies — nothing had been of any avail. 
 But — once the Denzils were gone! Once they were gone! 
 Ah! how swiftly then would she smooth away the frown from 
 Theo's forehead. 
 
 She softened again, melted as she caught at this hope with 
 resolute hands. And, irresistibly impelled to be specially cor- 
 dial to Denzil, she put forth her soft and sweet powers of a 
 very sensitive and feminine woman, quite unselfconsciously, 
 acting indeed impulsively out of the promptings of her heart. 
 iWhen she had unexpectedly met her husband before lunch 
 she had at once seen that something unusual had occurred, 
 throwing him into an unusual condition. Her quick woman's 
 curiosity had been roused. Now she flung it away carelessly, 
 intent on her own breath of life. But the two men were almost 
 startled by her gust of sweetness and even of tenderness. Den- 
 zil stared across at his friend. Surely, in that moment of ab- 
 sence, Theo had not given Dolores a hint of his desperate need. 
 And Sir Theodore looked at his wife, wondering whether some 
 intuition of the dreadful truth — which had almost stunned him, 
 and which now made the hour unnatural, like an hour ticked 
 out by a clock in some frightful dream — had turned her heart 
 towards Francis, made him new in her eyes, as men become to 
 sweet women when their powers fail them, and the child in 
 them appears stretching hands for succor to the earthly Provi- 
 dence of their sex. 
 
 " Would it be best to get her to tell Ed ? " 
 
 The thought shot through Denzil's mind. 
 
 " One woman to another ! " 
 
 Instinctively he had rejected Theo's abrupt suggestion to tell 
 Dolores of the tragedy under which he was now striving with 
 a sort of benumbed effort, sickening and lethargic, but persist- 
 ent, not to bend, cower, sink down. Heats and chills v.-ere
 
 148 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 shooting through his body. His eyelids and hands tingled at 
 moments, and he felt as if only by an exhausting effort of the 
 will he prevented perspiration from breaking out upon him. 
 In the Grand Hotel he had received the truth with a calm 
 which had amazed himself, though not Doctor Ides. When 
 things had been talked over between him and the doctor he 
 had got away with a quiet that was like serenity. In the hall 
 of the hotel he had met two ladies whom he knew, and one of 
 his own colleagues. He had been able to speak to them, to 
 smile at some joke. He had said a word to the hall porter. 
 As he v/ent away he had looked at the fountain, the beggars 
 lounging beside It, a yellow motor passing driven by a young 
 red-haired man with a monocle. 
 
 " Well, here it is! " something like that he had said to him- 
 self, as he crossed the road, hearing the diminishing hoot of 
 the yellow motor. " Here it is shut close in my throat what 
 thousands of men and women quail at the very thought of! 
 The mystery to solve which multitudes of scientific men are 
 giving all the working hours of their lives! The horror which 
 has cost the existences ol animals innumerable — uselessly ! I 
 carry It along with me now as I walk, part of me, just up 
 here, close to the air and the sun and that blue. And none of 
 these people know. And though I know, here I am walking 
 as strongly as usual, feeling no sharp pain, just a bit hoarse and 
 voiceless, but able to do my work, to be about, to look exactly 
 as usual. There goes that Russian chap, Karovsky! gives me 
 his usual smiling wag of the head, like a jolly child. If he had 
 time he'd come up and talk to me about Gorki, and never know. 
 Say ' Je vous ai dit que vous fumez trop ' — and then more 
 Gorki. Every instant I pass people. Lots of them look at me. 
 But not one knows. Not one even suspects what I am, what 
 I am carrying along with me." 
 
 He had even been conscious of a faint sensation of irony that 
 was not unpleasant to him, when he saw a dandified Italian 
 youth stare at his tie, In which v/as a curious old paste pin given 
 to him by Edna. 
 
 " Does he think he can see It?" he had thought. 
 
 And at that moment he had felt as if a dreadful smile had 
 slipped over his face. Surely a sort of still madness had taken 
 him just at first. It was like lunacy to feel so calm, to be able 
 to think of other people's, strangers', feelings In such a moment, 
 to find amusement even in the thought of their ignorance of 
 the thing he knew. He had descended the hill which leads to
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 149 
 
 the Palazzo Barberini quite comfortably, enjoying the warmth 
 of the sun on his back. But when he had entered the palace, 
 when he had seen Carlino at the well-known door, when he 
 had heard Sir Theodore's " Stop to lunch, won't you ? " above 
 all when he had written the note to his wife, " It " had begun 
 to stand over him. So it seemed to him. He was down in a 
 pit and It was towering above him. With every moment now 
 It seemed to grow, enveloping everything about him. Theo, 
 his old and tried friend, was in its shadow and utterly changed. 
 Dolores too was different. He heard all that she said, knew 
 exactly what it meant, was able to answer, and break in huskily, 
 was conscious of her animation, and peculiarly, warmly kind 
 manner. And yet she seemed at moments to be a gabbling and 
 shrieking monkey, with eyes and paws intent on his throat. He 
 began to wonder, with a coldness of the innermost fear, whether 
 he was going to play the coward. Never had he thought to do 
 that. All his traditions were against that. Even Edna surely 
 would disown him If he "funked." He — the real he hidden 
 somewhere within him, like a red spark in a mass of black peat — 
 would disown himself. Nevertheless he felt as if something 
 was beginning to shiver within him, to open lips in order to let 
 out shrieks of protest, to search violently for a way of escape, 
 to clamor for safety, careless of the eyes or ears of any one liv- 
 ing. He wanted to strike that thing down at once. Its de- 
 struction was a necessity. But he felt its strength, its power, 
 its recklessness of opinion, Its Independence of everything except 
 its growing terror and rebellion. How was he going to domi- 
 nate it? It was as if he held a dreadful live secret in the cage 
 of his hands, and felt it struggling to get away, to burst its 
 prison, to show itself to every one. 
 
 If it did that! 
 
 He began to be afraid of his own fear. 
 
 " One woman to another! " 
 
 He stared at Dolores. Why was she being so almost ten- 
 derly kind to him to-day? But, no, he must tell Ed himself, 
 when the moment came. 
 
 Sir Theodore scarcely said a word. His understanding of 
 the meaning of what Denzil had just told him was with every 
 moment becoming more terribly complete. In the library he 
 had known little of it. But now — his beautiful room had be- 
 come frightful to him. Every object his eyes rested upon 
 looked stark, as if it had been stripped of that which had for- 
 merly made it attractive, or beautiful, and now appeared in a
 
 I50 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 native dreadfulness, like a skeleton deprived of the flesh that 
 once made it a body ; every object, except Dolores. 
 
 Couldn't she help? 
 
 Almost for the first time in his life, perhaps for the first 
 time, he thought of her for a moment as shelter. 
 
 When they got up from lunch he said to her: 
 
 " What are you going to do, Doloretta? " 
 
 " Rest a little. And then I meant to practise those things 
 of Ravel's. Do you want me ? " 
 
 She laid a sort of gentle stress on the last words, and her 
 gazelle-like eyes became full of a melting wistfulness. 
 
 " Francis and I have got to have a talk. And then — well, 
 I shall know where to find you." 
 
 " And Francis too," she said. 
 
 Again Denzil stared at her, Vv-ondering. 
 
 When the two men were in the library again Sir Theodore 
 grasped his friend's hand quickly. 
 
 " Francis! " he said, " I'm beginning to " 
 
 He dropped Denzil's hand. 
 
 " Why do such things come upon us? " he exclaimed. 
 
 His voice was harsh and bitter. 
 
 " Never on you, Theo — let's hope." 
 
 Sir Theodore looked at his friend. He wanted to be able 
 to say, with truth, "Rather on me than you!" thinking of 
 Denzil's life and his ; ambition still to be gratified, perfect home 
 happiness, children, the mother who was the wife — the ended 
 career, the childless hearth. But his soul was saying, " Rather 
 you than me." And, even in that moment, he was unable to 
 imagine such a catastrophe occurring to himself. 
 
 " Francis — sit down." 
 
 A manservant brought in coffee. When he had gone Denzii 
 said: 
 
 " You must come very close to me." 
 
 Sir Theodore came. 
 
 " I must try to arrange things, not to forget anything that 
 concerns — them." 
 
 " Ides can do anything. He's marvelous. He can do what 
 no other surgeon can do. He'll save you." 
 
 " Perhaps, at any rate, for a time. I trust him thoroughly. 
 But let me speak about arrangements." 
 
 Sir Theodore marveled at the apparent serenity of his friend. 
 It seemed to him incredible. Yet there it was. He did not 
 thoroughly realize that Denzil, with a sort of almost dull fixity
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 151 
 
 of purpose, was trying to fasten his mind upon things, to grip 
 subjects with his thoughts, to dodge his demon. 
 
 " Give me time! I'll assert myself if only I can gain a little 
 time!" 
 
 It was a sort of dumb prayer thrust up to whatever had set 
 It in his throat. 
 
 " I'll be true to myself and tradition — only help me through 
 this bit of time, just this bit I'm in now. I'm hard pressed 
 just now. Give me a hand over this rough piece of ground, 
 and I won't fall. I'll stand and face it." 
 
 " I've made my will, of course. There's not very much to 
 leave " 
 
 And so on, almost in a whisper. And as the whispering con- 
 tinued Sir Theodore began at last fully to grasp the whole 
 meaning of the matter. Francis was — perhaps, he clung on 
 to that perhaps — going to disappear. Edna might soon be a 
 widow, the little ones, the brats, fatherless, and he without his 
 friend. He looked at Francis. The truth seemed incredible. 
 There was no change in Francis's appearance. He did not 
 look ill. Only the whispering sounds betrayed his condition. 
 A wave of intense sympathy went through Sir Theodore, a 
 fierce desire to be potent. 
 
 " Will you, Theo ? Will you look after them — if it comes 
 to that?" 
 
 *' Can't you see that I will ? " 
 
 " Yes. You know my ideas about how a boy should be 
 
 brought up. The little girls " he stopped. "Ed knows 
 
 better than we do all they need. But Theo will want a man 
 to see to him. May I constitute you his guardian in case of 
 the worst?" 
 
 " Francis, I " he looked at the tall windows for a mo- 
 ment. ** Francis, put everything, everything j^ou care to into 
 my hands. My life is pretty empty now. If — well, it may 
 be much emptier presently, though God grant not. Fill it up 
 for me as much as you can with duties that will be of some use 
 and benefit to them. I love them. That's all I need to say." 
 
 " That says everything. That's what I wanted." 
 
 Presently Denzil whispered: 
 
 " That seems all, as regards their future." 
 
 There was a long silence between the two friends. At last 
 Sir Theodore broke it by saying: 
 
 " You can't keep it to yourself till Thursday is over, you 
 can't."
 
 152 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " I am going to. Ides knows that, and agrees." 
 
 " You can't do it." 
 
 " Doing it will help me tremendously. It's something to 
 grip on to, live for." 
 
 "But Edna — she must find out. She is so one with you, 
 Francis. And women have an almost mystical knowledge of 
 things sometimes." 
 
 His mind was fixed entirely on Edna Denzil as he said that. 
 
 " And the shock to her. She will have no time to prepare. 
 She will lose these days." 
 
 " Lose! Gain them, if I hold out. Two more happy days." 
 
 " But to have to face Friday instantly! " 
 
 " I believe it's better. I know she'll forgive me for doing 
 it. Tell her — and all the brats are looking forward to for 
 Thursday must go. I couldn't ask a woman to help through 
 with it, knowing. Even Ed couldn't come up to the scratch. 
 No." 
 
 *' I must go and see Ides." 
 
 " I wish you would." 
 
 Sir Theodore cleared his throat raspingly twice, then sud- 
 denly cursed himself for having done it. An acute pang of 
 neuralgia seemed to impale his brain. 
 
 " Where — where is the operation going to take place? " he 
 got out. 
 
 " I don't know yet. There has been no time to think. I 
 daresay Ides " 
 
 " It must take place here," Sir Theodore said, with sharp 
 decisiveness. 
 
 " No, Theo." 
 
 " It must." 
 
 " I couldn't — Dolores ! Think of her 1 " 
 
 At that moment the distant sound of a piano was audible. 
 Sir Theodore turned his head and listened for a moment. Dolo- 
 res was practising an elusive and ultra-modern etude, compli- 
 cated, difficult, and full of elaborate delicacies. Heard in such 
 a moment, and in the presence of his friend, it produced upon 
 Sir Theodore an effect that surprised himself. 
 
 "Dolores!" he said, and his big voice was resonant with 
 feeling. " It will do her good to look things in the face I Vou 
 have to go through — that ! And can't she endure that it 
 should happen in her apartment? Is she to be afraid of the 
 interruption in our two useless cotton-wool lives? What? Is 
 it such a tragedy to keep the piano silent for a few daj^s, to go
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 153 
 
 quietly, not to receive interesting people and gossip over the 
 tea-cups? I do think of Doloretta, and I say that she and I 
 will help you through, Francis, and help Edna through — she 
 and I!" 
 
 In the silence the sound of the piano was again audible in the 
 room. Denzii leaned forward. 
 
 " Theo, don't wrong Dolores!" he whispered. 
 
 "No, no! Perhaps • — ■ — " Sir Theodore got up. "Such a 
 thing as this casts a man loose from his moorings." 
 
 Denzii got up too. 
 
 "You're not going, Francis?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Where to?" 
 
 " Home." 
 
 Sir Theodore gazed at him. 
 
 "You're ready to face Edna?" 
 
 " I think so. I must begin on something. I can't " 
 
 " I know. I know. But — if Ides consents to the opera- 
 tion taking place here I must have 5'our permission to tell Dolo- 
 retta." 
 
 "Before Ed knows! That is another reason against its 
 taking place here." 
 
 " It can't be done in your flat, because of the children." 
 
 " I think the Anglo-American hospital " 
 
 " Francis, if Ides consents, let us give you a home to go 
 through it in. It's bad enough. With us — here — at least 
 you'll feel, and Edna will feel, you're with those who care. I 
 have a horror of nursing-homes. And we have so much use- 
 less space," 
 
 He stopped. 
 
 " Ides shall decide," he added. 
 
 "Yes, Ides will know best. But — anyhow — thank you, 
 old fellow. I shan't forget all that " 
 
 He broke off. Like a stab there seemed driven into him the 
 thought: 
 
 " How much longer shall I be able to remember anything? " 
 
 " Shall we see Doloretta for a moment? or would you rather 
 not?" 
 
 Denzii hesitated. 
 
 " I should like to say good-bye to her." 
 
 " And then shall I walk back with you ? " 
 
 " I think I must go alone. I — I want to get ready." 
 
 " I know, I know."
 
 154 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 A crushing sense of human impotence came down on Sir 
 Theodore. 
 
 " If I could help ! " he thought. 
 
 For an instant he felt like a man suddenly deprived of his 
 arms, and beset by the instinctive desire to stretch them out to 
 one in sore need of affection. And again he said to himself: 
 
 "Couldn't Doloretta help?" 
 
 " Come, Francis! " he said. 
 
 Gently he took Denzil by the arm and led him out of the 
 room. How strange, how almost terrible, because unnatural, 
 it seemed that Denzil walked with his usual firmness of a 
 strong and athletic man! 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 Denzil only stayed two or three minutes wath Dolores, who 
 stopped her practising, and sat on the music seat with one hand 
 resting on the keys while she talked to him. Just as he was 
 going away she said: 
 
 " I had a note from Edna. Do you really wish me to come 
 to the first ceremony on Thursday? Of course, Theo's a god- 
 father. That is different. I'm going to look in on the chil- 
 dren in the evening. But Edna has invited me to the present- 
 giving too." 
 
 " Oh, do come and present the whip," said Denzil in a 
 whisper. 
 
 Those were his last words to Dolores. Sir Theodore went 
 to let his friend out. When he came back Dolores was still 
 at the piano, but she was not playing. Directly her husband 
 was in the room she said: 
 
 " Theo, what is the matter with Francis? " 
 
 "The matter! " said Sir Theodore, startled. 
 
 " Yes. I don't mean his cold. But perhaps I am indiscreet 
 to ask. Never mind." 
 
 She arranged the music on the piano stand, turning back 
 some leaves. 
 
 " This Ravel is fearfully difficult. Most of these modern 
 composers are. And even when one has mastered their works, 
 I don't knovv' — the result often seems unsatisfactory." 
 
 " lis allumaient bien leur petite lanterne," quoted Sir Theo- 
 dore, trying to seem interested and to smile. " Seulement
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 155 
 
 c'etait comme celle des vers luisants. * Elle ne rechauffait rien 
 et eclairait a peine.' Rolland is not far from the mark." 
 
 " No, perhaps not." 
 
 He stood by the piano, looking down on her from his great 
 height. He was dreading the moment when she v/ould begin 
 to play again. Music, any music, at that moment would be 
 like an outrage in the room Denzil had just left. Dolores 
 could not know that, yet she evidently hesitated to begin play- 
 ing. As her husband said nothing more, however, she lifted her 
 hands, and was just going to strike the keys when he bent sud- 
 denly and took them in his. 
 
 " Don't play any more to-day, Doloretta! " 
 
 " Of course not if 5^ou don't wish it." 
 
 " Just for to-day." 
 
 "There's nothing wrong with the children?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 Something in her eyes, and perhaps something in his heart, 
 made him long to be sincere with Dolores at this moment. 
 
 " But there is something," he said. " I want to tell you 
 what it is. But it is not my secret." 
 
 " I see. I'm afraid it's very sad. But I don't wish to know 
 it." 
 
 He let go of her hands, and she gently shut up the piano, and 
 put away the music. This done, she hesitated. She did not 
 know what she was going to do since she was not going to 
 practise. 
 
 " Have you anything to do this afternoon, Theo? " she asked. 
 
 " Yes. I'm going to see Doctor Ides." 
 
 " Lady Sarah's brother-in-law 1 " 
 
 " I knew him ages ago when he was practising here and I 
 was a Secretary of Embass3% He's an interesting fellow. We 
 must get him here while he's in Rome." 
 
 He saw by her eyes that she had immediately connected Doc- 
 tor Ides with the thing he had not told her, and he felt as if it 
 was his strong desire to tell it to her which made her so almost 
 uncannily intelligent at that moment. 
 
 " Yes. I should like to know him. Well, I will write some 
 letters." 
 
 She went slowly to the writing-table, sat down, took a pen, 
 and began to write. Sir Theodore looked for a moment at the 
 delicate line of her long neck, with the soft dark hair against 
 its whiteness, and at her beautiful little head bent over the writ- 
 ing-table. She at least was not suffering, was not doomed.
 
 156 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 What it must be to stand by and watch a gentle woman suffer 
 horribly! 
 
 And then suddenly Edna Denzil rose up before him. And 
 her face was happy. Never had he seen her look unhappy. 
 What was before them all? Like Denzil he felt that he must 
 get a grip on the things of the day, concentrate himself on the 
 moment. Ides! He must go and see Ides. 
 
 He went out of the room without speaking again to Dolores, 
 and the last sound that he heard before he shut the door was 
 the slow scratching of her pen on the notepaper she was cov- 
 ering. 
 
 Doctor Ides was in the hotel. Through the glass door Sir 
 Theodore saw him, sitting alone reading the Times in a quiet 
 corner of the big hall in which Schizzi had played. He was 
 wearing gold-rimraed ej'eglasses, and his fresh-colored, clean- 
 shaven face looked very serious and rather impassive as he read. 
 But Sir Theodore's eyes fixed themselves on his hands. They 
 were both holding the paper, large, well-shaped, powerful, and 
 yet delicate-looking hands, pink in color, with oval finger-tips. 
 Would they be able to save Francis? 
 
 Doctor Ides looked up suddenly over his eyeglasses, wrinkling 
 his high forehead and slightly turning his head without moving 
 his body. He laid down the Times when he saw Sir Theodore. 
 
 " Denzil's been with me, Doctor Ides." 
 
 Sir Theodore felt the touch of the doctor's hand, dry, cool, 
 surely restorative. The doctor drew up an armchair deliber- 
 ately for his visitor. 
 
 " I knew he was going to tell you," he said, in his quiet, al- 
 most lazy voice. 
 
 He took off his eyeglasses and laid them down on the Times. 
 
 " It's a bad business? " 
 
 " Very bad. I was afraid, when I met him last night after 
 dinner." 
 
 " But surely hoarseness " 
 
 " It wasn't that only." 
 
 " And to me he looks so well and strong. It seems almost 
 incredible." 
 
 " Yes, yes. I shall do all that can be done." 
 
 "Have you — is there a good hope of saving him? He's 
 got a wife, little children. He's just been appointed to Mu- 
 nich." 
 
 " I doubt very much whether he'll be able to take up that 
 appointment."
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 157 
 
 "But 
 
 " I hope to save his life." 
 
 " Isn't there a great danger of pneumonia after such an 
 operation ? " 
 
 " Not to my patients." 
 
 " But shock to the system? " 
 
 *' Any shock to the system will not depend on the opening 
 of the larynx, but on the manipulations required in it." 
 
 " And — excision ? " 
 
 " It may be necessary. I'm speaking to you with absolute 
 frankness, as I did to him. In my long experience I have 
 found that with most patients perfect sincerity is the wisest 
 policy, even speaking medically. It creates that splendid bond 
 between doctor and patient, trust. There may be cases where 
 one must hold back the truth. Mr. Denzil's is not one of 
 them." 
 
 " You are right. But about his poor wife? " 
 
 " We talked that over. I offered to go home with him to 
 her and to help through with the telling. But he is set upon 
 having certain birthday festivities first." 
 
 " Is it right? Is it fair to her? " 
 
 Doctor Ides lifted his eyeglasses, held them between tv/o of 
 his fingers for a moment, laid them down again. 
 
 " She gains — perhaps — a couple of days of happiness." 
 
 "Perhaps?" 
 
 " Many women are not easy to deceive, some cannot be de- 
 ceived." 
 
 " But is it right even to try? " 
 
 " My position was this. I was obliged to pronounce a ter- 
 rible verdict. He took it, as so many do, with what seemed 
 almost inhuman calmness. But he claimed two days. In his 
 condition, from my point of view, there is little reason why he 
 should not have them. I explained matters medically. He 
 stuck to those two days. I did not consider it within my prov- 
 ince to enter into his domestic relations. I said so. And there 
 it ended." 
 
 " It would have to end there, of course. But I know his 
 wife so well." 
 
 Sir Theodore studied the carpet for a minute or two. Then, 
 leaving that subject, he broached his plan that the operation 
 should take place in the Palazzo Barberini. 
 
 " If — which God forbid — he has to cl:e, let it be in the 
 home of those who care for him at least," he said. *' I know
 
 158 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 all the advantages of hospitals and nursing-homes. Everything 
 ready, everything foreseen and arranged for. There is the 
 Anglo-American hospital here. I've been over it. It's splen- 
 didly managed. But — well, Doctor Ides, this is a matter of 
 sentiment with me. I'm not ashamed to confess it. Denzil is 
 my best friend. Let him bring his trouble to me. I will do 
 the best for him I can. I know, of course, the question of ex- 
 pense arises. If he lives he and I will arrange it between us. 
 If he dies — please rem.ember it's solely my affair. I'm better 
 off at present than he is. Nurses, everything that can be 
 wanted. You shall come and do what you like in my apart- 
 ment, tear anything down, turn anything out, strip walls, floors; 
 nothing matters but Francis." 
 
 " Did you mention this idea to him?" 
 
 " Yes. Of course he began about a nursing-home. But '* 
 
 Sir Theodore laid a twitching brown hand on Doctor Ides* 
 sleeve — " I know him, and in his heart he was longing that it 
 should be in my home. His wife too — how she will wish it, 
 when she knows ! " 
 
 " I should prefer the nursing-homie." 
 
 " Do you absolutely veto the other idea? " 
 
 After a pause, during which Doctor Ides sat with his blue 
 eyes fixed on Sir Theodore, he said: 
 
 " No."^ 
 
 Impulsively Sir Theodore got up. 
 
 " Come and see my apartment and give any directions you 
 like. You are master in it." 
 
 The doctor took up his eyeglasses, and followed Sir Theo- 
 dore's example. When he had found his soft gray hat, and 
 they were going out through the revolving door, he said: 
 
 "Palazzo Barberini, is it?" 
 
 "Yes."^ 
 
 " If it is to be there, keep it absolutely quiet beforehand. 
 You know how fussy people are about everything that happens 
 in a buildinsf they inhabit, however immense it is." 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 Abruptly the thought of Dolores came to him. All this time 
 he had not remembered her. 
 
 " My wife ! " he said. " She is at home this afternoon. She 
 will have to know." 
 
 " But haven't you talked over your suggestion with her? " 
 
 " No. She knows nothing. Denzil lunched with us to-day. 
 But he did not tell her."
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 159 
 
 ■" Well, if the operation is arranged to take place in your 
 apartment, she must be told. Perhaps she will not wish it." 
 
 The doctor sent a glance at his companion. 
 
 " She will be ready to do anything that can help Denzil 
 through. She is very fond of him. And already she suspects 
 something. She asked me after lunch what was the matter 
 with him to-day." 
 
 " I daresay we shall have Mrs. Denzil doing that too," ob- 
 served Doctor Ides quietly. 
 
 " I don't know. I think Francis — Denzil I mean — meant 
 to get himself absolutely in hand. And he's a strong man," 
 
 " I respect him for the way he took it. But we specialists 
 learn to respect a great many of our patients." 
 
 The doctor sighed. 
 
 " That is a compensation for certain disillusions," he added, 
 as if to cover the sigh. 
 
 " I often wonder how a great surgeon can endure his life," 
 said Sir Theodore. *' Working, as he must, perpetually in the 
 midst of desperate human anxiety." 
 
 " He learns to dismiss his cases from his mind directly his 
 patients are beyond his sight, to shut them out sharply till the 
 time comes to work for them." 
 
 "Can you do that?" 
 
 " As a rule, yes. Years ago I found that unless I could 
 manage to do it I should simply have to give up practising as 
 a throat specialist." 
 
 " Do you mean that this afternoon, for instance, you could 
 go, say, for an expedition in the Campagna and enjoy it?" 
 
 *' I daresay I could. One thing my profession teaches. It 
 teaches a man to face life, and death, not only for himself but 
 for others, with cool nerve, with steady eyes." 
 
 He lifted up one hand. 
 
 *' This hand must never tremble, Sir Theodore. I have to 
 bear that in mind. But the fact that a surgeon must possess 
 complete self-control does not exclude the possibility of his pos- 
 sessing a certain amount — " the doctor put a faintly ironic 
 stress on the last two words — "of human sympathy. I know 
 personally what throat trouble Is. I was once thought to be 
 dying of a disease of the throat mvself." 
 
 "You!" 
 
 " Yes, throat consumption. For nearly a year I was away 
 on the Cotswold Hills and never once spoke." 
 
 " Do you really mean that you did not utter one word? "
 
 i6o THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " Not one," returned the doctor in his lazy voice. 
 
 At this moment they reached the entrance to the garden in 
 front of the Palazzo Barberini. 
 
 " What's to be done about my wife?" said Sir Theodore as 
 they turned in. 
 
 " Perhaps she will have gone out." 
 
 "If she hasn't? The truth is that Denzil evidently thinks 
 Mrs. Denzil should not be kept in ignorance and my wife 
 know." 
 
 " Lady Cannynge certainly will have to know if the opera- 
 tion is to take place in her apartment." 
 
 " Perhaps I needn't tell her till I have seen Denzil again, 
 and explained. Then he can decide whether it would not be 
 best to tell his wife at once." 
 
 They were at the foot of the big stone staircase. 
 
 " He will not tell Mrs. Denzil till after Thursday's festiv- 
 ity," said Doctor Ides. " You can take my word for that." 
 
 "And can he come in on the very day of the operation? " 
 
 " It is not desirable, and I told him so. But in the special 
 circumstances, and as it only means a few minutes by motor, I 
 will permit it at his urgent desire." 
 
 As the doctor said the last words there was the sound of de- 
 scending light feet on the stone, and Edna Denzil came round 
 the angle of the staircase upon the two men. When she saw 
 them she stopped. 
 
 "Oh, Theodore!" 
 
 She held out her hand to Doctor Ides, with the charming, 
 slight smile which came so naturally to her rather pale lips, 
 turning them up a little at the corners. 
 
 " I've been up to see Dolores for a moment. I thought it 
 just possible I might find Franzi here too. But he's gone. 
 That doesn't matter. What I wanted was to make sure Dolo- 
 res would come to the present-giving as well as to the children's 
 festa on Thursday." 
 
 She put her face near to Doctor Ides'. 
 
 " It's only my little son's birthday. But we're in quite a 
 turmoil over it, a happy turmoil bien entendu. I rather en- 
 courage a fuss on such occasions. Don't you think I'm right? 
 Children do so revel in a fuss. But it must be only now and 
 then." 
 
 " It does them good," said Doctor Ides. " A happy fuss 
 acts as a tonic." 
 
 " Doesn't it? If you can stand seeing the effect of the tonic,
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE i6i 
 
 we shall be very happy to welcome you on Thursday evening. 
 Lady Sarah is coming. But don't reply. Just see whether you 
 feel inclined, or not, when Thursday arrives. Oh, Theodore! " 
 — she turned to him quickly — "what's the exact thing in rid- 
 ing gaiters for a boy? I can't find out from Franzi because I 
 missed him coming here. And I'm on my way to the Corso 
 now. Do forgive me, Doctor Ides! " 
 
 She descended a step or two with Sir Theodore, and held a 
 brief colloquy with him. 
 
 "Brown, of course! Yes — flexible. I know the exact 
 thing now. Thank j'ou, Theodore." 
 
 She looked back at Doctor Ides from below. He noticed 
 the cast in her eye and thought, as nearly all men did, how at- 
 tractive it was. 
 
 " When my old Franzi fails me I always come to Sir Theo- 
 dore. He has an instinct about children. Forgive me, please,, 
 for stopping you and interrupting your serious talk with my 
 little son's gaiters. But he does think them of such supreme 
 importance." 
 
 " I'm going to tell my wife, Doctor," Sir Theodore said, al- 
 most sternly, when Mrs. Denzil had gone. " It can't be 
 helped whether Denzil wishes it or not. Mrs. Denzil will for- 
 give it because of the reason — our getting things ready to — 
 
 for Friday here. And besides " His face was drawn and 
 
 working. 
 
 " Besides my wife already knows something is wrong, and 
 she will see — the truth is best." 
 
 " Yes, I believe so."^ 
 
 Sir Theodore put his key into the door. He was angry with 
 himself for what he considered his lack of self-control. It 
 seemed that he had not learnt, like Doctor Ides, to face death 
 for others. His warm affection for Edna Denzil and the chil- 
 dren tortured him. He felt like a coward — for them, and he 
 felt guilty of insincerity towards one transparently sincere. 
 This last feeling had really decided him to be frank with Dolo- 
 res at once. He needed, almost physically, that outburst. 
 
 " You shall see the bedrooms and decide what is best," he 
 said, as he let the doctor in. " Remember you have only 
 to sav. Nothing will be inconvenient, nothing will be Impos- 
 sible." 
 
 They passed through the sitting-rooms without finding Dolo- 
 res, and presently stood before the door of her and Sir Theo- 
 dore's bedroom, in front of the picture attributed to Luini.
 
 i62 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " My wife is probably here. I'll just see," said Sir Theo- 
 dore. 
 
 Doctor Ides put on his eyeglasses and examined the picture 
 carefully. 
 
 " Dolores!" 
 
 Sir Theodore tapped. 
 
 " Are you here?" 
 
 " Yes, come in, Theo! " answered a voice from within. 
 
 " One minute, Doctor! " 
 
 Sir Theodore went into the room and shut the door. 
 
 Dolores was standing before a long mirror let into the door 
 which divided the bedroom from Sir Theodore's dressing-room, 
 trying on hats. With her was a short, stout and almost un- 
 naturally swarthy woman, with a heavy nose, and large, but 
 sunken eyes, who was standing up, gesticulating, and talking in 
 the loud and ugly voice so often to be heard among the lower 
 classes in Italy. Upon the floor was a number of large card- 
 board boxes, some open and some not. Three hats were ranged 
 on chairs. One lay on the damask covering of one of the beds. 
 Dolores had just put on a fifth, pale yellow in color with yellow 
 plumes, on her dark little head, and still had her hands raised 
 holding it when her husband came in. Not turning she looked 
 at him In the mirror and said : 
 
 " You can help me, Theo, if you have a moment. Do you 
 think yellow becoming to ? " 
 
 Her voice died away. She turned round to look into the 
 living face at whose reflection she had been gazing. 
 
 "Ma, caro signore, I keep telling the signora that in all 
 Rome — and may the Madonna send me sorrow if I say the 
 thing that is untrue — in all Rome there is not a princi- 
 pessa " 
 
 The strident voice broke of^, then feebly added, with a note 
 as of protest, " ma, caro signore! " and broke off again. 
 
 " Dolores, get rid of all this. I want to speak to you." 
 
 There was an almost fiercely ironical sound in his voice, which 
 Dolores had never before heard in it. She lifted the yellow hat 
 from her head and handed it to the fat woman, whose features 
 looked heavy with sulky indignation. 
 
 " Another day! " she said, with a gesture towards one of the 
 boxes. 
 
 " I am to com.e again, signora? " 
 
 The voice grated in the room. 
 
 "Yes." Dolores glanced at her husband. "Sh!"
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 163 
 
 The woman began to collect the hats, casting side glances of 
 sluttish condemnation at the tall man who had dared thus to 
 break into woman's province, and scatter pleasures and gains 
 to the winds with a look and a sentence she had not understood. 
 Sir Theodore stood waiting in silence till at length she had 
 finished, and was stringing her boxes together preparatory to 
 departure. 
 
 " When shall I " 
 
 " I'll let you know." 
 
 " Buon gio7-no / ■" 
 
 She did not get out a " signora." 
 
 " Buon giorno" said Dolores. 
 
 The fat woman got away immersed in cardboard and 
 waddling sideways, with the tail of her black gown leaping 
 behind her, and her large hips swinging fiercely, with a sort of 
 surging motion. When at last she was gone, Dolores looked 
 at her husband. And her big eyes were a question. But though' 
 they were alone he did not reply to it. His pointed beard 
 shifted as he moved his lips, which were pressed tightly to- 
 gether. He looked at and away from his wife, two or three 
 times, and it seemed to Dolores that in his glance there was a 
 sort of deadly appraisement, such as might be in the glance of 
 a cruel, or hostile, stranger. 
 
 At last he opened his lips. 
 
 " I'm sorry to interrupt you," he began. 
 
 "What does it matter? It was only hats," she said rather 
 wearily, and in a little voice almost like a child's. 
 
 *' But I'd already interrupted your practising. You will think 
 
 I have nothing to do but to play the curmudgeon. But " 
 
 he hesitated. " But the fact is. Doctor Ides is here, and " 
 
 "Doctor Ides!" she said, no longer in a child's voice. 
 "Theolareyouill?" 
 
 She was beside him almost before he knew she was going to 
 move. 
 
 " No, perfectly well. But I want you to come and see Doc- 
 tor Ides." 
 
 She gazed at him. 
 
 "Who is ill? \\niat is it? What is the matter? Do you 
 think — surely you don't imagine there is anything wrong with 
 me?" 
 
 Her small face had suddenly become full of suspicion. 
 
 " Of course not. But come with me and speak to Doctor 
 Ides."
 
 i64 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 He opened the door. 
 
 "Where is he?" 
 
 Dolores came from the bedroom, and found the doctor before 
 the Luinl. She held out her hand, with an evident effort to 
 conceal her surprise at findinfi him there. 
 
 " I'm so glad you have come. Is my husband show^ing you 
 the apartment ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I suppose we have got rather a show bedroom, perhaps. 
 You were coming to see it? Did Lady Sarah tell vou about 
 it?J' 
 
 " Doctor Ides has a special purpose in coming here, Dolo- 
 retta," interrupted Sir Theodore. 
 
 Directly they were with this calm elderly man, with the quiet 
 blue eyes, and the quiet pink hands, Sir Theodore felt able to 
 tell the truth to Dolores. 
 
 "Yes? Shan't we go somewhere and sit down?" 
 
 " Let us come in here," said her husband. 
 
 She led the way into the great bedroom, and the two men 
 followed. 
 
 Sir Theodore shut the door. 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 Dolores spoke to Doctor Ides. She sat down on the damask 
 of her low bed and took hold of the carved wooden rail. 
 
 " May I sit down ? " asked the doctor. 
 
 He took a chair. 
 
 " Your husband has a proposition to lay before you. I am 
 concerned in it. So he brought me here." 
 
 " Doloretta, you know how bad Francis's voice has been for 
 some time ? " 
 
 She turned towards him, leaning her other hand on the bed, 
 /which creaked slightly. 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 She stopped. In a moment she had grasped the truth which 
 had so far eluded her. 
 
 " Francis is ill ! His throat ! " 
 
 " Yes, that's it." 
 
 "Very ill?" 
 
 Her glance traveled swiftly to the doctor. He was sur- 
 prised by the ardent light which shone in her eyes, and could 
 not interpret its meaning. 
 
 " I'm sorry to say Mr. Denzil is in a very dangerous con- 
 dition."
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 165 
 
 " What are you going to do ? Why did you wish to go 
 through the apartment?" 
 
 " I shall have to operate on Mr. Denzil's throat next Friday. 
 Your husband wanted to consult you as to whether it is feasible 
 for the operation to take place here." 
 
 "Here!" 
 
 She lifted the hand that had rested on the bed and indicated 
 the room. 
 
 " Doloretta, I felt sure you would agree with me that we 
 could give Francis a shelter in his great trouble," began Sir 
 Theodore hastily, and with a sort of strong decisive earnest- 
 ness quite different from his manner hitherto. " It is a matter 
 of life or death, and " 
 
 " No, no," she interrupted him. " You don't understand,. 
 Theo. Wait a moment, please," 
 
 She got up gently from the bed and walked across the room, 
 drawing down her eyebrows and knitting her brows. The doc- 
 tor watched her, and took no notice of Sir Theodore. She 
 turned just where there was an armchair, and sat down in it^ 
 with her thin arms on her knees, leaning very much forward. 
 
 " Is it a matter of life or death? " she asked Doctor Ides. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 *' On — Friday! " she said, in a low voice. 
 
 Sir Theodore was still standing. 
 
 " Francis wishes to be at little Theo's birthday festivities,"" 
 he said. 
 
 " Edna — she doesn't know. No, she doesn't know." 
 
 " Nobody knows but ourselves, and Francis, of course." 
 
 " He is not going to tell Edna?" 
 
 *' Not till after Thursday." 
 
 She looked at the two men, and neither of them could under- 
 stand what was passing through her mind. But her face seemed 
 to both of them to hold for a moment an expression of severity 
 v/hich made her look suddenly older. 
 
 " Poor " she paused, then added, " Francis! " 
 
 "Would you consent to the operation taking place here?" 
 said Doctor Ides. 
 
 " Y>s, oh yes." 
 
 The look of severity left her face as she spoke, and there 
 was a new eagerness that was almost violent in her voice. Sir 
 Theodore moved, turning towards Doctor Ides. 
 
 " Ah! " he said. 
 
 But the intonation of his voice conveyed a " There ! That's
 
 i66 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 the woman who's mj^ wife!" as clearly as words could have 
 done. 
 
 " Doctor Ides," Dolores added. " You will save him? You 
 won't let him die? " 
 
 Suddenly she seemed to realize the absurdity of such appeals 
 to a great surgeon, and she added quietly: 
 
 " Tell us what to do. Which room, or rooms, will you need? 
 How ought they to be prepared? All our servants, except my 
 maid, are Italians. But I will see to everything. You need 
 not be afraid that your orders \von't be carried out. There will 
 be a nurse, I suppose?" 
 
 " Yes, I shall have to get a trained nurse. If it were in 
 London I should need a skilled assistant to stay within call for 
 the first twenty-four hours. But I will take his place here." 
 
 " And if I can do anything you have only to tell me. Per- 
 haps I don't look very strong, but I am. I've got more re- 
 sisting power than any one would suppose." 
 
 As Dolores said the last words a look of almost hard de- 
 fiance crossed her small face, and her eyes shone with determina- 
 tion. 
 
 "Come, come, Doctor!" she added, getting up swiftly. 
 "You haven't seen all the rooms. I'll show them to you — 
 everything. We've lots of space and air. And we'll take 
 care of him here — won't we, Theo? — as he could never be 
 taken care of among strangers. We'll help you to save him. 
 Doctor. We'll help you to save him." 
 
 She was transformed. The languid, exotic looking woman 
 was gone. Energy, decision, almost feverish determination were 
 alive, and showed In her. Sir Theodore thought of the hats, 
 the woman before the mirror with uplifted hands. He heard 
 the rather dawdling, almost plaintive " You can help me, Theo. 
 Do you think j'cllow becoming?" And he mar/eled — and 
 was thankful. 
 
 He was proud of Dolores at that moment. 
 
 Perhaps he would have marveled more an hour later had 
 he seen his wife. She lay stretched on the damask of her bed, 
 the bedroom door locked. Her head was not on the pil- 
 lows, but was on the same level as her feet. Her hands grasped 
 the bed-clothes under the damask covering. And she was cry- 
 ing with a sort of desperation, and sobbing. Her tall, slim 
 body was shaken by convulsive shudders. In her attitude, and 
 in the sounds that came from her, there was expressed not only 
 despair, but also a sort of rage.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 167 
 
 Before Sir Theodore went away with Doctor Ides he had 
 been for a few minutes alone with his wife. Touched and de- 
 lighted by her energy, decision, unselfishness — as he supposed 
 — and deep anxiety for Francis, and longing for sympathy, 
 he had unburdened his heart. He had spoken with unreserve 
 of his interview with Francis, and of Francis's wishes in case of 
 his death. 
 
 " Francis is not going to die," she had said ; " Doctor Ides, 
 you and I — we won't let Francis die." 
 
 Then, after an instant of silence, she had added: 
 
 " Do you believe in faith healing?" 
 
 " This is a case for surgery." 
 
 " And after the operation? " 
 
 "Afterwards? Do you think 1" 
 
 " I'll tell you to-night, when we are quiet, what we can do 
 for Francis." 
 
 Then Sir Theodore had gone away with Doctor Ides, and 
 Dolores had gone to her room to weep. 
 
 Faith! Where was it? Had she faith who had talked of it 
 with such quiet conviction but a moment ago? 
 
 Destiny! Destiny! That was the terrible word which en- 
 veloped her mind like a great cloud as she lay and wept. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 Thursday came and Edna Denzil had not penetrated the secret 
 of her husband. She w^as, however, getting really anxious 
 about the condition of his throat, and had spoken about 
 it to him more than once. 
 
 " You're right, Ed," he had answered. " I'm going to at- 
 tend to it directly Theo's birthday is over. Meanwhile I've 
 given up smoking." 
 
 That had satisfied her for the moment, and during the two 
 days before the birthday the mother in her had ascendancy 
 over the wife. Denzil saw that, realized how it helped him, 
 and was thankful. The three children reigned and were joyous 
 as never before. Their only grievance — and they thought of 
 it but little, being far too exultantly active — was that " Uncle 
 Thco " was not to be seen. Sir Theodore dared not go to 
 the Via Venti Settembre. He had none of Denzil's facial im- 
 passiveness, and could not trust himself in the presence of Edna.
 
 i68 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 On the birthday he would make a mighty effort, and carry 
 things through somehow. There would be bustle, excitement. 
 Other people would be there. But he must keep away till 
 then. He threw himself with a sort of sick energy into the 
 arrangements made necessary in the apartment by the operation 
 on Friday. But in all these it was Dolores who took the lead, 
 under the direction of Doctor Ides. Sir Theodore was aston- 
 ished by her practical sense, her coolness and her activity. Al- 
 though, till now, she had had but little experience of illness, 
 she behaved as one fearlessly exercising talents long perfected 
 by familiarity. 
 
 " Your wife's a remarkably practical and energetic woman," 
 Doctor Ides said to Sir Theodore. 
 
 Dolores remarkably practical 1 Yet it was true. No doubt 
 the hidden woman was coming out in the charming woman of 
 the world, that woman who seems like a delicate flower, or a 
 delicious butterfly, till she is given the opportunity to mother 
 a man in his moment of need. Sir Theodore learnt a new re- 
 spect for his wife, almost a new love for her. He had not sus- 
 pected that she was so deeply attached to the Denzils as her 
 present conduct seemed to show. But with his new respect for 
 her there had come also a new sense of her mystery. He felt 
 sometimes that though he had lived with Dolores for ten years, 
 she escaped him, whether voluntarily or involuntarily he could 
 not decide. Now and then, since the moment when she had 
 been told of Denzil's condition, Sir Theodore had been con- 
 scious of an almost cold peculiarity in her demeanor, which 
 troubled him vaguely even though he was dominated, was almost 
 obsessed, by his grief for his friend. Specially strange to him 
 had she seemed on the night after Doctor Ides's first visit to the 
 Palazzi Barberini. 
 
 Sir Theodore had been with Doctor Ides at the Grand Hotel 
 after dinner, and returned to the palace rather late. Almost 
 directly he had let himself in he heard the voice of Dolores 
 calling in the distance: 
 
 "Theo! Theo!" 
 
 " I am coming ! " he answered. 
 
 "Theo! Theo! " repeated the voice insistently. 
 
 Hastily he shut the front door, put down his hat, and went 
 towards the sound. 
 
 He was feeling tired, strung up, on the edge of his nerves, 
 and terribly depressed. He would have been glad to see no 
 one just then. Solitude was almost a necessity to his over-
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 169 
 
 wrought mind. He found Dolores in a dressing-gown wa'ting 
 for him in the doorwa}' of a small sitting-room which they sel- 
 dom used, and which was called the moss-room on account of the 
 moss-green color of its hangings, its carpet and its furniture. 
 
 " Come In here for a minute, Theo, please," she said. " I 
 heard your key." 
 
 " From here ! " he exclaimed in sheer amazement. 
 
 She nodded. He noticed that the darkness under her eyes 
 looked rather more pronounced than usual, and that her lips 
 were dry and colorless, but oddly decisive. 
 
 " I said I would tell you to-night, when we were quiet, what 
 we could do to help Francis. Sit down here by me." 
 
 She sat down on a small sofa. Sir Theodore sat by her. 
 
 " It doesn't matter whether you believe in what you are going 
 to do, or not," she said, speaking fast and quietly. " Each 
 night, from now — without telling Francis anything about it, 
 that is essential — before falling asleep you must do this. 
 Speak to your sub-conscious mind, as if you were addressing a 
 person, and order it during your sleeping hours to concentrate 
 all its energies upon Francis, continuously suggesting to his 
 sub-conscious mind that he will have the strength to recover 
 rapidly from the operation, that no complication can possibly 
 intervene, and that he will certainly get well. I am going to 
 do the same." 
 
 " Do you believe In the efficacy of such a proceeding? " 
 
 " Certainly I do. A well-known scientific man in the United 
 States applied this mental process in one hundred cases of illness, 
 and in not one case did it fail to effect the cure of the patient. 
 But you must not tell Francis what we are doing." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " Because he might doubt Its being any good and set up 
 auto-suggestion antagonistic to us. You will do what I 
 suggest? " 
 
 "But If I doubt " 
 
 "That doesn't matter — will you do It? Do you wish 
 Francis to get well?" 
 
 " Doloretta! are you mad? " 
 
 " Not at all," she said, still In the curiously Inflexible manner 
 which he had noticed in her during the whole conversation. 
 " But if you do sincerely wish Francis to get well, as I do, 
 you will not leave any m.eans untried to help him, even if it 
 seems to you absurd. V/ell ? " 
 
 " I certainly will do what j'ou suggest."
 
 I70 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " Every night till Francis is on the road to complete re- 
 covery? " 
 
 " Complete " he checked himself. " Yes," he said. 
 
 " Begin to-night. Speak as if you were speaking to a per- 
 son who had the power to work what is called a miracle." 
 
 She got up from the little green sofa and left him. 
 
 He sat for some time alone in the small room, thinking 
 vaguely of the mystery of mind, of life, of sex, of death, of the 
 mystery of unity and separation. And this faith healing! How 
 strangely Doloretta was coming out, like a creature of resource, 
 practical, and almost mystical, out of a strange and dark seclu- 
 sion! Francis — would not he be almost amazed if he knew 
 how her energies — energies her husband had not suspected in 
 her — 'Were being concentrated upon him? But was there not 
 an odd coldness, something almost hard, in her way of setting 
 to work? 
 
 When Sir Theodore went to bed Dolores was apparently 
 asleep. As soon as he had lain down he obeyed her directions. 
 He issued the command to his sub-conscious mind to occupy 
 itself solely with the ill man during his sleep. Was the sub- 
 conscious mind in haste to carry out the order? Sir Theodore 
 expected to be for a long time awake, perhaps scarcely to sleep 
 at all. The next morning he was aware that he had become 
 unconscious almost immediately after obeying the direction of 
 Dolores. Surely this fact was of good omen. He spoke of it 
 to her. 
 
 " The great thing is for us to have complete faith in Francis's 
 recovery," she answered. 
 
 " But you said it didn't matter " 
 
 " Because it is better to begin without faith than not to 
 begin at all." 
 
 "Have you complete faith in Francis's recovery?" said Sir 
 Theodore, looking narrowly at his wife with his bright and 
 searching eyes. 
 
 " I have, Theo," she answered steadily. " Francis is going 
 to get well." 
 
 Many times before the Thursday morning Sir Theodore re- 
 peated those words to himself, and seldom without a lurking 
 wonder connected with Dolores. 
 
 His waking on Thursday was one of the most painful ex- 
 periences of his life. 
 
 Dolores was already up. As he opened his eyes he saw her 
 at the far end of the big room taking a handkerchief out of a
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 171 
 
 drawer. He did not move. She bent down almost to the floor 
 and did something. The handkerchief disappeared. Then she 
 went to a bureau, opened it, and took from it a whip, her pres- 
 ent for h'ttle Theo. She stood still, looking at the whip. He 
 saw the long curling eyelashes against her white cheek. She 
 drew the whip two or three times through her fingers, as if 
 meditatively, took some tissue paper, carefully wrapped the whip 
 up in it, enclosed the tissue paper in brown paper, and tied the 
 whole parcel with narrow brown ribbon. As her husband 
 watched, at first vaguely then gradually with the complete un- 
 derstanding of entire wakefulness, he hated the truth of that 
 day with a deadly hatred. 
 
 How would Edna bear the telling? What was to be done 
 about the children? Were they to know nothing? Was every- 
 thing to be kept from them until, perhaps, their father was 
 dead? 
 
 Dolores went out of the room. He felt sure she was going 
 to the room where on the morrow the operation was to take 
 place. She had left her gift lying on the bureau. Little Theo's 
 birthday ! 
 
 Sir Theodore got out of bed quickly. As soon as he was 
 on his feet he felt a certain alleviation of his misery and dread. 
 He went swiftly to his dressing-room and took a cold bath, 
 turned on the shower bath and stood under it for two or three 
 minutes. When he was dressed he wrapped up his present for 
 little Theo, a small gold watch with the boy's initials engraved 
 on it. 
 
 The giving of the presents was to take place at half-past ten. 
 At half-past nine Doctor Ides called at the palace. He had 
 engaged the nurse. She was an Irish girl called Ida Jennings. 
 Now he brought her with him. Dolores was with them for 
 a short time. When she came away from the interview Sir 
 Theodore said to her: 
 
 " Will Edna ever be able to forgive Francis for this?" 
 
 " How can I know? " she answered. 
 
 "Think! Could you forgive it?" 
 
 " I think I could forgive anything that was done simply and 
 solely out of love for me. I wonder if the carriage is here. 
 The nurse seems very nice. I don't think she is going to be 
 diflficult. Have you got your present for Theo?" 
 
 She began quickly to draw on her gloves. They were white. 
 She was dressed in a pale blue-green gown. As he glanced at 
 I'.cr critically Sir Theodore wished she had put on something
 
 172 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 darker. He thought she looked like a woman who was going to 
 a wedding. 
 
 "Do you likelt, Theo?" 
 
 " It's a prett}^ color." 
 
 "But you don't like it?" 
 I was only thinking that perhaps something rather 
 
 darker' 
 
 " This is a festa" she interrupted. 
 
 " I know. But — think of to-morrow." 
 
 She put her hand on his arm. 
 
 " Francis is going to get well. Remember that." 
 
 Her fingers closed on his arm tightly. 
 
 " Help Francis, as I am helping him, by knowing that it is 
 all right, that he is going to recover." 
 
 " Have you said so to Doctor Ides? " 
 
 " Doctor Ides is a surgeon. He helps w^ith the knife. We 
 must help with our souls. There are many instruments." 
 
 " The carriage is at the door, signora," said Carlino, coming 
 in with his anxious look. 
 
 Sir Theodore put little Theo's watch in his pocket. 
 
 "Come, Doloretta!" he said. 
 
 " The nerve of women ! " he thought. " Why, she's got a 
 will that I never suspected. She shames me. Can she have one 
 of those strange instincts peculiar to women that tells her Fran- 
 cis will recover ? " 
 
 He resolved to let Dolores carry him with her. He re- 
 solved if possible to give himself to her belief as a swimmer 
 gives himself to a wave. Perhaps she knew. He looked into 
 her dark eyes, searching in them for some strange truth con- 
 nected with the Denzils. She lowered her heavy lids. 
 
 "There's Carelli!" said Sir Theodore, as the carriage was 
 passing the Ministry of Finance. 
 
 Dolores looked up, and saw Cesare Carelli mounted on a 
 big-boned roan mare, bred in Ireland, and very clever over 
 stone walls. He had hunted her the previous season. He took 
 off his hat with a slight smile, showing for an instant his round 
 white forehead, and thick curly black hair. His steady and 
 shining eyes gazed gravely at the husband and wafe under his 
 dense brows, seeming almost to contradict his faintly smiling 
 lips. The mare plunged violently, switching to and fro her 
 short, broad tail, and looking sideways with her large eyes, 
 shifty and very feminine. A tram passed and hid mare and 
 rider.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 173 
 
 " How strong and well the fellow looks ! " said Sir Theodore, 
 almost as if with condemnation. " He's kept a horse or two 
 though he isn't hunting." 
 
 " I daresay he will hunt again." 
 
 ** When a certain lady gives it up, perhaps," said Sir Theo- 
 dore. Then, with a sigh, he changed the conversation. The 
 sight of the strong, square-shouldered and lithe j'oung fellow 
 mounted on the big clever-looking mare had oppressed him. 
 All these healthy lives — and his friend. 
 
 " Now for it ! " he muttered, as the carnage drew up before 
 the house in which the Denzils lived. 
 
 "It's Uncle Theo!"^ 
 
 There was a shrill pipe from somewhere above. Sir Theo- 
 dore looked up quickly, and saw the rosy face of Iris at a 
 window, no longer judicial, but melted by excitement into a 
 countenance that might appropriately have belonged to a suc- 
 cessful plaintiff who had just been awarded enormous damages. 
 The head of little Theo joined hers with a cry, and Vi, looking 
 roguishly demure, and twisting her tiny nose, was visible for 
 an instant in the background, uplifted in the large arms of 
 the ample Marianna, who nodded and smiled at the visitors 
 with the unselfconscious warmth and intimacy of a valued Ital- 
 ian domestic. 
 
 Sir Theodore waved his hand. And as he made the lively 
 gesture he also made a determined effort, and forced himself 
 out of the black region of sorrowful apprehension. 
 
 "Those children!" he said. 
 
 He turned to his wife, who was now going up the steps into 
 the house. 
 
 "It can't be! It shan't be!" he said. " Doloretta, I be- 
 live you are right. I will believe you know. Francis will 
 never be the same again. That's impossible. But he will re- 
 cover. He will live." 
 
 " Send that to him," she answered ; " send it to-night, when 
 you're asleep." 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 To the present-giving the only people invited from outside, 
 besides Dolores and Sir Theodore, were Lady Sarah Ides, who 
 was devoted to the children, Signor Carpi, little Theo's Italian 
 teacher, and Cavaliere Giuseppe Erdardi, dei Marchesi di
 
 174 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 Villaserena. The presence of this latter was due to Theos in- 
 sistent petitions which on such an occasion his parents were 
 unable to resist. It had been promised to Theo that as soon 
 as he was nine he should be allowed to begin fencing lessons. 
 Signor Erdardi was one of the best known fencing masters in 
 Rome. Denzil had practised with him, and had selected him 
 to teach Theo, who, having been taken to his school to see his 
 youngest pupils at work, had on the spot conceived an almost 
 awful devotion for the square-built, bright-eyed, short-bearded, 
 and iron muscled Sicilian, whose " Giii seduto! Glii! Giii!" 
 rang through the great bare room, and whose play with the 
 foils filled the boy with a respect that sent a sort of heat, like a 
 flush, through all his small bodj^ 
 
 " I want the Cavaliere on my birthday, mums," he had said, 
 growing rather red, but looking at his mother firmly. 
 
 " Cavaliere Erdardi ? " she had answered, in surprise. " Do 
 you mean with all the children ? " 
 
 " No, mums. How could he come with a lot of squits? I 
 want him for my presents in the morning, when we're 'ultimate** 
 
 It was evident that Theo intended to confer upon the Cava- 
 liere the highest token possible of his respect, to show that he 
 set him quite apart from all the other fencing masters and 
 gentlemen of Rome. 
 
 Denzil, when he was informed of the proposition, smiled 
 and handed it on to the Cavaliere, who very seriously, and with 
 every observance of strict etiquette, accepted it. 
 
 He had arrived before the Cannynges, dressed in a long 
 frock-coat, and carrying in his sinewy and broad-fingered hand 
 a neatly folded pair of yellow kid gloves, and was engaging 
 Denzil in conversation, while the children, in another room, 
 watched for the rest of their expected visitors. Theo would 
 have remained stolidly with the men, attentive to the tremendous 
 pronouncements of great truths by the lips of his deity, had 
 not his loyal heart feared to cast a seeming slight upon Uncle 
 Theo if he omitted a welcome from the window. 
 
 Edna Denzil was busy tying up a last parcel and giving one 
 or two directions to the servants. But as the children fell 
 upon Sir Theodore, after more quietly and formally greeting 
 Dolores, she came in smiling and happy, joyous in the chil- 
 dren's joy. 
 
 " Dolores, I am glad you let me persuade you," she said. 
 " It would not have been half a family festa v»nthout you." 
 
 She gently took the hands of Dolores in both of hers. Sud-
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE i75 
 
 denly Dolores bent down, and, with an unreserve seldom shown 
 in public by one woman towards another, gave Edna a soft, and 
 rather long kiss, not on her lips, but on her cheek near her 
 hair. And almost as part of the kiss she breathed an " Oh, 
 Edna!" 
 
 " Indeed I mean it," said Edna, surprised but touched. For 
 Dolores had never before shown such genuine and intimate 
 feeling tov/ards her. Approaching her face closer to that of 
 Dolores, with her peering mannerism, she saw tears in her 
 friend's eyes. Was Dolores thinking of her empty home ? Edna 
 believed she was, and was filled with & new tenderness towards 
 her. 
 
 " The children think just as I do, I know," she said. " Theo 
 is quite puffed up by pride at j'our caring to come. After the 
 presents he's going to do — " she almost whispered — "a little 
 recitation to surprise Francis; a bit of Shakespeare and ' Cross- 
 ing the Bar!'" 
 
 " ' Crossing the Bar! ' " said Dolores. 
 
 "Yes, Tennyson's. Don't you like it?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Perhaps you think it's not very suitable to a child." 
 
 " Yes, yes, that's it," Dolores said hastily. " Don't let him 
 say that, Edna, to-day. Don't let him say ' Crossing the Bar.' " 
 
 " Oh, but it's too late to change now. And he has learnt 
 to say it not at all badly. Here's Lady Sally." 
 
 Lady Sarah cam.e in with her characteristic impulsive move- 
 ment, as unselfconscious and, for the moment, almost as buoy- 
 ant as a wave. She knew nothing. With a wnde gesture, 
 that only one who had been a mother could have made, she took 
 possession of the children for a greeting, then, all disarranged, 
 with hanging veil and floating scarf, her bag bursting open in 
 her hand and showering out its contents, she turned to the 
 grown-ups, quite secondary, and proud of it, to-day. In the 
 pleasant tumult caused by her entiy the protest of Dolores was 
 swallowed up, and as if it had never been. But Sir Theodore, 
 rendered almost cruelly alive by the circumstances in which he 
 was involved, had overheard it in the midst of his give-and-take 
 with the children, and had longed to second it. The irony of 
 Edna's choice must be surely unbearable to Denzil. Yet how 
 to make a diversion? 
 
 There was a bustle over the contents of Lady Sarah's bag, 
 which nearly ended in minor tragedy ; for Theo, in his ardor 
 of politeness, got hold of his own dropped present, and had
 
 176 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 difficulty in not feeling that it was something in the form of 
 an animal's head. He bravel}- tried to trick his intelligence, 
 and, as he handed the parcel back to Lad}' Sarah, said earnestly: 
 
 " I haven't felt what it is, I haven't really. It only seemed 
 a tiny little bit like something's head with ears." 
 
 " Sumping's head ! " piped Viola, with staring eyes. 
 
 "What's head?" demanded Iris almost sternly. 
 
 " Come, Iris, would you like me to play you a tune?" said 
 Dolores, knowing the weakness of Iris, and anxious to make a 
 diversion. 
 
 For she felt that Denzil was coming towards the room though 
 she did not see him. And she dreaded unspeakably to see him, 
 and, still more, feared her own dread. 
 
 " He is going to recover. He is going to recover," she kept 
 repeating to herself, as she sat down before the piano, with 
 Iris standing at her side, and gazing intently at her. 
 
 "Why do you look like that?" 
 
 A firm voice startled her. It came from Iris. 
 
 "Like what, you little inquisitor?" she asked, calling up 
 a quick smile to her lips. 
 
 " As if you wanted to make somebody go and do something 
 " — and he didn't want." 
 
 " What shall I play to stop her? " 
 
 The thought rushed through the mind of Dolores, and, with- 
 out consciously knowing what she was going to play, she began 
 the Barcarolle from the Contes d'Hoffmann. Instantly the 
 countenance of Iris changed, " went to pieces," as Lady Sarah 
 expressed it, melting into a honeyed expression of lax pleasure, 
 and almost weak gentleness, that was comic in its abrupt aban- 
 don. She drew closer and closer to Dolores, looking from the 
 player's face to her hands, and back again, and again, twisting 
 and pouting lips that seemed to be savoring some delicious bon- 
 bon, and slowly shifting her left leg in a languid exercise that al- 
 most grotesquely indicated complete subjection. Soon she was 
 nestled against the player, as if she needed to feel one with 
 Dolores, and that she had something to do wnih. the production 
 of the sounds that subdued her to rapture. She sighed. The 
 leg was never still. Dolores felt large eyes fixed adoringly upon 
 Ijer. Striving to give herself wholly to the task, she played the 
 sugary and luscious melody more rhythmically, with more pro- 
 nounced and swaying languor, looking down at her long fingers. 
 
 But suddenly she felt that Denzil was entering the room. 
 
 She had not seen him since she had known of his fate. He
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 177 
 
 had of course been told of her knowledge of it. How would 
 they greet one another? Iris pressed more closely against her. 
 If only the child would lower those staring and worshiping 
 eyes! If only Edna would leave the room! If only 
 
 "No! No!" 
 
 Iris was protesting as the music faded. 
 
 "But, Iris " 
 
 " No, no! I want some more." 
 
 " But it's time for the presents, I expect." 
 
 Denzil was beside her. She turned on the seat and felt his 
 hand on hers, and heard his whispering voice saying: 
 
 " Iris is a tyrant to a player like you." 
 
 It was over — the meeting. She got up, saying to herself: 
 
 "You are going to recover! You are going to recover!" 
 
 She did not look into Denzil's face as she answered lightly: 
 
 " She must come to the Barberini. I will play to her for 
 an hour. I seldom get such an audience." 
 
 " Here's Signor Carpi! " 
 
 The master, big, mercurial, with turned up moustaches and 
 ever-moving hands, came in with a laugh, as if determined to 
 show he was nothing of a pedagogue when pleasure was in the 
 wind. Little Theo, feeling himself the host, ran to salute him 
 and set him at his ease in this gracious company. 
 
 "We're all here now!" was the cry. 
 
 And a sudden hush descended upon the gathering. In it 
 Dolores stole her first glance at Denzil, and started. He 
 looked, she thought, exactly as usual, calm, rather impassive, 
 strongly sincere, bull-like still. What had she expected? 
 
 "Come along, children!" said Edna gaily. "Show us the 
 waj'' to the room. Franzi, a^ou take charge of Vi. It's your 
 day, Theo. You lead us off." 
 
 " Yes, mums." 
 
 Theo looked round with solemn excitement. His eyes rested 
 on his hero, the Cavaliere, who was standing bolt upright with 
 his arms at his sides, the yellow gloves firmly held in his left 
 hand. Then he glanced hesitatingly at his mother. 
 
 " Ought I to — < — " he began, almost in a w4iisper, and drew 
 in his under lip. 
 
 " Lead the way with the Cavaliere," said Edna quickly. 
 
 " Prego, Cavaliere!" she added, with a gesture. 
 
 The Cavaliere looked much surprised, but he submitted V\-ith 
 a formal bow, to this extraordinary infringement of the rules 
 of etiquette; and, moving with a bold suppleness which ne\er
 
 178 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 deserted him, stepped forward, while Theo kept close at his 
 side endeavoring, with eyes fastened on his legs, to emulate 
 his glorious bearing and deportment. 
 
 The dining-room had been set apart for the function. The 
 table was pushed up against the wall at one end, and on it 
 in glory stood the birthday cake, miraculously firm, as it seemed 
 to Iris and Viola who had stirred it. Wine, vermouth and 
 lemonade in jugs, with many glasses flanked it. At the other 
 end of the rather long room was placed the " birthday chair," 
 one of the large upright chairs with straight arms, covered with 
 red damask, which are so often to be seen in Roman drawing- 
 rooms. Beside it was a table. In front of it were some chairs 
 carelessly arranged for the present-givers. Edna wanted the 
 little affair to seem an important function to the children, but 
 she did not wish it to be formal. If it were, the brats would 
 be chilled and the grown-ups would be bored. 
 
 " Come, Lady Sally! Where are you going to sit? Dolores, 
 do you know Signor Carpi? He's turning Theo into a classic 
 at express speed. My own child stumps me over gerunds and 
 supines. But I am perfect in mensa. Don't laugh, Signor 
 Carpi. Vi, sit by father close to the table. You have to begin. 
 Have you got it ready?" 
 
 " Yes," whispered Viola, slightly drooping her head and 
 blushing, as she gazed at a small parcel, carefully wrapped in 
 silver paper, which she was holding tightly with both hands. 
 
 She nestled against Denzil. 
 
 "Will he like it?" she murmured earnestly. 
 
 Anxiety was beginning to wake in her. Denzil put his arm 
 round her. 
 
 " Tremendously," he answered. 
 
 " Oh, my little ones! " he thought. 
 
 He stared before him. Little Theo had now taken his seat 
 on the red damask chair with a sort of modest pride, trying not 
 to look too expectant, but quivering with anticipation. His 
 brown hair fell over his brow. He was dressed in a new suit, 
 with trousers, an Eton jacket, an Eton collar and a small black 
 tie. This suit emphasized his slimness. He was a mere wisp 
 of a boy, though not short for his age. But he was a wisp full 
 of fire, which glowed through his happy innocence, and seemed 
 fed by it. Even the Cavaliere, searcher of the hearts of men 
 though he was — " character comes out when a man puts on the 
 mask In my school ! " was a favorite saying of his — even he 
 obsen^ed his future pupil with a favorable, though instinctively
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 179 
 
 appraising eye, and by a slight nod indicated that he was satis- 
 fied with his bearing. 
 
 There was a rustle. The servants came in, smiling and 
 quite unembarrassed, behind the assembly of chairs, greeted by 
 eager nods from the hero of the day, who then held on to the 
 arms of his throne, and tried not to stare at Viola's little parcel. 
 
 " Now then, Vi ! " whispered her father, making one of 
 those strange efforts which teach a man he has greatness, as 
 well as smallness, within him, some of the resources of the divine 
 as well as the frailties of the human being. 
 
 " You come too! " 
 
 Denzil took her minute hand and got up. And the touch 
 of that tiny hand in that moment felt to him like the touch of 
 life, and of all that a man clings to in this world. 
 
 Viola's present was a pocket-book, and had an immense suc- 
 cess, all applauding vigorously when its red morocco beauties 
 emerged from the silver paper, led and incited thereto by Lady 
 Sarah, who threw herself into the spirit of the occasion with 
 a soft exuberance that might have induced the stars to dance 
 in their courses. Her genial and heartfelt gaiety seemed to 
 undulate in waves through the room, and to set everybody and 
 everything floating contentedly loose from all moorings of or- 
 dinary life. She helped Denzil as he had not thought it pos- 
 sible he could be helped through the ordeal. It was as if she 
 knew, and let loose a torrent of pure and sparkling humanity 
 that was irresistible even by agony of the soul. Dolores in 
 that hour came really to love her. And Sir Theodore blessed 
 the instinct which had led the Denzils to invite her on that 
 day. But even her influence lay numb when the moment ar- 
 rived which Dolores had been dreading ever since her conversa- 
 tion with Edna. 
 
 The table by the red damask chair was completely covered 
 at last. The gold watch of Sir Theodore ticked in the shadow 
 of the bulldog's head, with an inkstand instead of a brain, 
 which Lady Sarah had flung upon the floor at her joyous entry. 
 The whip of Dolores was curled in a sporting manner round 
 Edna's pair of ideal riding gaiters. A rather gaudy pin, repre- 
 senting the British flag, the tribute of Signor Carpi, defied 
 battle and breeze in Theo's necktie. A fencing mask given 
 by the Cavaliere reposed upon an illustrated Shakespeare " from 
 your loving father." Iris's selection, an air-gun, pointed its 
 muzzle at the company. And little gifts from the servants, 
 with " make-weights " from Edna, boxes of chocolates, and sev-
 
 i8o THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 eral handsome presents from relations and friends at a distance, 
 completed a brave show, which filled Theo's heart with inex- 
 pressible pride and pleasure, and affection for all humanity. 
 It seemed that the whole world was devoted to him, and thank- 
 ful to see him nine. In return he loved the whole world. 
 
 Denzil, under the impression that the ceremony was now at 
 an end, got up. " Shall we cut the cake? " he whispered. 
 
 " One moment, Franzi ! " said Edna. " We have a little 
 surprise for you." 
 
 Dolores began to arrange the veil on her hat. 
 
 " A surprise ? " 
 
 Denzil was still on his feet. 
 
 ''What a frightful cold he has!" Lady Sarah thought, with 
 com.passion. " I really must get Mervyn to see him." 
 
 For a moment her mind glanced away to the Grand Hotel 
 and the " perfectly happy man," She looked again at Denzil 
 and the animation died out of her lined and blunt-featured face, 
 which immediately showed the strong impress of intimate sor- 
 row. 
 
 " Yes," said Edna. 
 
 Then speaking to the company generally, she added: 
 
 " Theo is going to speak two short pieces which he's been 
 studying up for to-day, as a surprise for his father. 1 thought 
 you wouldn't mind hearing them, perhaps. The first is the 
 speech of King Henry the Fifth, ' Once more into the breach.* 
 The second is Tennyson's ' Crossing the Bar.' " 
 
 Denzil sat down quietly and turned his eyes towards his 
 little son. He took hold of Viola's hand. Meanwhile Edna 
 was speaking in Italian to the Cavaliere and Signor Carpi, who 
 comprehended not one word of English, and was giving them 
 some idea of the drift of the two recitations. 
 
 " Lo capisco! Lo capisco!^* Signor Carpi kept exclaiming, 
 wagging his large head, and making faces of keen intelligence. 
 
 The Cavaliere listened with grave attention, and the air of 
 a man entering a province till now wholly unknown to him, 
 but into which he goes fearlessly, and with the full intention 
 of bearing himself in a thoroughly suitable manner. 
 
 " Si ! — Si ! " he said, and again, " Si ! — Si ! " 
 
 And he drew himself up a little more, squared his large 
 shoulders, placed his gloves on his left knee, and directed his 
 bright and unswerving eyes towards the red damask chair. The 
 servants listened also while their mistress spoke. And they 
 whispered to each other.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE i8i 
 
 "Look at the signorlno! He stands Just like a little 
 soldier!" 
 
 At a sign from his mother Theo had got up from his chair. 
 He looked extremely serious, though very boyish, anxious, deeply 
 anxious to do well, but not self-conscious. He glanced at his 
 father, then gazed for a moment at the Cavaliere. 
 
 " Gill! G'lii!" muttered the Cavaliere in his beard, mechanic- 
 ally repeating the phrase he was perpetually using to his 
 pupils, '' Giu seduto! Giu seduto!" 
 
 Theo did not hear the words, but he felt that the Cavaliere 
 was testing him, was weighing him in the balance, and he re- 
 solved to strain every nerve to succeed. It did not matter to 
 him that the Cavaliere knew no English. The speech was mar- 
 tial — • and for Theo the Cavaliere incarnated in his short, square 
 and supple person all that there was, or ever had been, of manly 
 and daring virtues. He gave out the speech with astonishing 
 fire for a child, and at the close made an effect such a? he 
 had never made during the rehearsals with his mother. Edna 
 was surprised and delighted. Lady Sarah had tears in her eyes. 
 And both Signor Carpi and the Cavaliere were evidently im- 
 pressed. All Italians love an energetic delivery and abhor what 
 is cold and unimpassioned. Signor Carpi broke into a tempest 
 of bravos, beating his large hands energetically together, and 
 making approving motions with his head. And the Cavaliere 
 uttered a sonorous "Bene! Bene! Benissimo," which caused 
 ■drops of perspiration to break out on Theo's brow. The serv- 
 ants in the background clapped and ejaculated. Iris and Viola 
 were in transports of delight. But Denzil, for whom the 
 whole thing had been prepared, made no demonstration. When 
 the last lines: 
 
 "The game's a foot: 
 Follow your spirit; and upon this charge 
 Cry 'God for Harry! England! and Saint George!'" 
 
 had been said, he leaned forward a little, staring at his boy 
 with an intentness that would have astonished Theo had he 
 noticed it. He lifted his hands twice and dropped them. Then 
 he once more took possession of Viola, sat back and gazed 
 straight before him, as Theo prepared to recite " Crossing the 
 Bar." Neither Dolores nor Sir Theodore had joined in the 
 applause. Edna noticed that, and feared lest they perhaps hated 
 recitations by a child, even on such an occasion. Her hus- 
 band's silence she thought she understood. It was caused, she
 
 i82 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 believed, by pleasure, and perhaps by fatherly pride, carefully 
 restrained in typical British fashion. But she began to be a 
 little anxious about the Cannynges, and to wish she had omitted 
 Tennyson's poem from the programme. However, it was too 
 late to change anything now. Theo was beginning. 
 
 When he finished Edna was confirmed in her suspicion that 
 her choice had been a mistake, despite Theo's success with the 
 poem after her explanation at the rehearsal. The boy, car- 
 ried away by the presence of the Cavaliere — Mars in a frock- 
 coat — by the excitement of life and its joys, which he was at 
 that very moment experiencing, and by the strong effort which 
 he had just made to be patriotic, and even pugnacious, could 
 not enter into the spirit of " Crossing the Bar." The wine of 
 life was bursting out of the winepress. To-morrow he would 
 put on his new leggings, would crack his new whip as he be- 
 strode his pony. To-morrow he would solemnly assume mask 
 and gloves, and stand up, rapier in hand, before the Cavaliere. 
 Try as he would he could not realize the need of the pilot, 
 the helplessness that overtakes even the strongest man in the 
 hour of transition from life to the unknown. So he said the 
 words clearly, earnestly, but not what most people would have 
 called " movingly." 
 
 And just because of that he moved Denzil to the core of the 
 soul. The boy did not understand death. 
 
 " He won't understand mine! " thought the father. *' None 
 of my children will understand. If I disappear they must soon 
 forget me in the joys of life. I oughn't even to wish them to 
 remember, to be a little sad because of me." 
 
 And an extraordinary sensation of bitterness, and even of 
 humiliation, went through him. He tried to strive against it, 
 as against a strong tide. But he felt that he went down before 
 it, that it flowed over him, that for the moment it engulfed him. 
 
 There was a stir in the room. Vi pulled at her father's 
 hand. People spoke. Little Theo was coming away from his 
 red damask chair. Denzil roused himself, put his hand on his 
 boy's shoulder. But he did not say anything. He only kept 
 his hand there for a long moment, while Theo looked eagerly 
 at him. 
 
 And so that strange ordeal, prepared ignorantly by the human 
 being who loved him best in the world, passed as everything 
 passes. 
 
 The Cannynges drove away from the festa in silence. 
 
 Dolores had learnt to know herself in the last hour, and
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 183 
 
 she was frightened. She faced strange, and surely dreadful 
 possibilities in herself. Had her husband ever suspected them: 
 when thej^ sat in the moss-room, for instance, or when she was 
 putting on her gloves to go out that morning? 
 
 When the late afternoon came she said to him: 
 
 " I'm very sorry, Theo, but I can't go to the Denzils again 
 to-day." 
 
 " But — not for the children's party?" 
 
 " I can't, I simply can't." 
 
 There was a little break in her voice. Sir Theodore looked 
 down. 
 
 " It's pretty hard to have to go," he said. " For any one 
 who knows. But if Francis can go through with it " 
 
 " Francis is " 
 
 The tears came and prevented her from continuing. 
 
 " You must go without me, Theo," she said. In a moment. 
 
 Then she left him quickly. 
 
 A solitary evening was before her. She did not expect Sir 
 Theodore to come back before half-past nine, or ten. There 
 was to be a supper for the children, and the few grown-up 
 people who would be there w'ould make that a substitute for 
 dinner. In honor of little Theo's great age several big chil- 
 dren had been invited. He had called them " squits," but 
 that term was only intended to define their status as compared 
 with the status of the Cavaliere. Vi, no doubt, would go to 
 bed earl}^ But the guests would stay certainly till nine o'clock, 
 and probably till later. 
 
 Dolores ordered her dinner to be brought in to her on a tray. 
 When she had finished it she sat alone wondering how Francis 
 Denzil would get through the evening. Now that she had seen 
 Francis's and Edna's " interior " on a great domestic occasion, 
 Dolores had, as it were, returned to her humanity, had dis- 
 carded for the moment her warped self. Far, very far, she 
 had deviated from her true womanhood under the stress of a 
 private trouble. So she believed now, as she sat alone, and 
 recalled how Edna's cheek had felt under her kissing lips. 
 
 Presently she remembered that Nurse Jennings, the Irish 
 girl whom she had seen for the first time that day, was sleep- 
 ing in the apartment. 
 
 " I wonder what Nurse Jennings is doing? " Dolores thought. 
 " I'll go and see." 
 
 But first she summoned a servant and Inquired where the 
 nurse was. The man replied that the " signorina " had finished
 
 i84 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 supper and had gone to her bedroom. Dolores went to knock 
 at the door. 
 
 " Yes ? " said a soft voice. 
 
 " May I come In for a minute? " 
 
 The door opened. 
 
 " Oh, Lady Cannynge, is it you? Do you want me? " 
 
 " I'm alone. May I come and sit with you for a few 
 minutes? " 
 
 " Oh, do please come in." 
 
 The nurse was a tall, rather buxom, and radiantly strong- 
 looking girl of perhaps twenty-five years of age, with Irish blue 
 eyes, and reddish-brown hair. She had a beautiful complexion 
 but was freckled. Her expression was honest, straight, not at 
 ail ignorant. Her manner was self-reliant. Dolores — she 
 knew not why — felt rather shy as she looked at her. 
 
 "Were you reading?" she said, seeing an open book lying 
 on a table to which a chair had been drawn up. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 The nurse closed the door. 
 
 "What is It? May I look?" asked Dolores. 
 
 She took the book up. It was Handy Andy, by Samuel 
 Lover. She put it down, hesitated, then sat on the chair. 
 Nurse Jennings sat down composedly opposite to her. 
 
 " I hadn't read it for years," she observed. " But I re- 
 membered laughing over It till I nearly cried. I came upon it 
 at Miss Wilson's in the Piazza di Spagna." 
 
 " I've never read it. Do tell me — are you happy in your 
 profession? " 
 
 " Yes. Why not, Lady Cannynge ? " 
 
 " It seems to me such a terrible vocation." 
 
 "Terrible! " said the nurse, getting suddenly red under her 
 freckles, and setting her big lips together. 
 
 " I mean terrible for you. Of course it is a splendid and 
 beneficent profession, and people are thankful to those who 
 enter it. But for j'ou, personally! " 
 
 "Oh, I see!" said Nurse Jennings, relaxing. "But no, I 
 like it. Otherwise I wouldn't stay in it." 
 
 She looked steadily at Lady Cannynge with her firm eyes 
 full of knowledge and unashamed. 
 
 " You will marry, I think, and give it up presently." 
 
 The nurse reddened slightly. 
 
 " Who's to know? But I like nursing. But are you worry- 
 ing about to-morrow? "
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 185 
 
 Dolores hesitated. She had a longing to open her heart to 
 this girl, whom she had seen that day for the first time. She 
 was not going to do it, but she must talk to her, know her a 
 little better. The fact that she was a nurse seemed just then 
 to help Dolores. 
 
 " Yes, I am." 
 
 "That's no good, is it?" 
 
 " Don't you ever worry ? " 
 
 " Very seldom. I'm generally too busy." 
 
 " And yet I suppose you see a great deal of tragedy." 
 
 *' I do now. I used to take maternity cases when first I 
 began. But lately I've had a lot of bad operations. Many 
 patients recover though. I set those oil against the ones who 
 don't. I try to look at It that way." 
 
 "I'm afraid I never could. But — I want you to tell me 
 something." 
 
 " Certainly, Lady Cannynge." 
 
 " Do you believe in faith healing?" 
 
 " Oh, dear! " exclaimed Nurse Jennings, with a sudden access 
 of brogue, " You don't mean that you're one of those Christian 
 Scientists? If you'd been in the hospitals like me, you couldn't 
 do with them at all." 
 
 " I'm not one. All I want to know Is this. Do you think 
 the steady belief that some one who Is dangerously ill is going 
 to get well helps them — him or her — to get well?" 
 
 " Oh, I daresay It does no harm. But I'm one that believes 
 In clever surgeons." 
 
 "What do you think of Doctor Ides?" 
 
 " He's a marvel. Did you hear how he got the shawl-pin 
 out of that woman at Richmond with Briinlngs' telescopic tube 
 and the forceps ? " 
 
 She drew up her chair and launched forth, with Irish volu- 
 bility, into the relation of a series of wonderful " cases." She 
 was still relating and explaining when a distant clock In the 
 apartment struck loudly ten. Dolores got up, as if almost 
 startled. 
 
 " It's ten." 
 
 " Dear me ! Is it really ? " 
 
 " My husband ought to be back directly." 
 
 She held out her hand. 
 
 " You've done me good." 
 
 "Have I, Lady Cannynge? How?" 
 
 " By telling me of the marvels of science, and by — I don't
 
 i86 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 know. But if I am ever ill I think I should like to have you 
 to nurse me." 
 
 Nurse Jennings beamed. 
 
 " I should be very glad to come, I'm sure. But don't be 
 111. And if you ever are, don't be ' thought over.' " 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 ^ " No," said Dolores. " But — I think faith helps. Good- 
 night, Nurse." 
 
 Half an hour afterwards, when she was still sitting up, she 
 heard a footstep. It must be Theo's. She was seized by a 
 sickening sensation of nervousness as she looked towards the 
 doorway by which he would probably come in. What would 
 he have to tell her? Did Edna know now? 
 
 "How will it affect Edna's feelings towards me?" 
 
 Swiftly Dolores strove to put herself imaginatively in the 
 place of Edna, to put Edna in her place. It seemed to her 
 that she succeeded in that effort, and again she was afraid of 
 herself. 
 
 Sir Theodore, coming in slowly two or three minutes after 
 she had heard the footsteps, found her sitting upright, and 
 staring towards him. 
 
 "Still up! "he said. 
 
 " Yes. I couldn't go to bed till you came. Besides it is 
 not very late." 
 
 " No." 
 
 She felt sure that he wished she had gone to bed, perhaps 
 that she Vv^as asleep. But to-night she could not govern herself 
 by his desires. 
 
 " The children? Did they stay very long? " 
 
 *' Till about nine." 
 
 " Only till then ! Then you stayed on after they had gone? " 
 
 *' Yes, for a little. Francis wished it." 
 
 " Theo, sit down for a minute." 
 
 Reluctantly, she thought, he obeyed her. 
 
 " Aren't j^ou going to bed? " he asked. 
 
 "Soon. Does — does Edna know?" 
 
 " Yes," he answered. 
 
 A.nd he sat with his head drooped a little forward, staring 
 before him. There was a long silence. 
 
 " Tell me," Dolores said at last. " I know you — you hate 
 it, Theo, but I must know. I think I have a — it is natural, 
 after all we have done together to get ready for to-morrow, 
 that I should wish to know."
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 187 
 
 " Yes, I daresay. What is it you wish me to tell you? " 
 
 " How — how did Edna bear it? " 
 
 Sir Theodore turned in his chair and lifted his eyes. 
 
 " Doloretta, it was like this." 
 
 He took her hand and held it, and it was hot within his. 
 
 ** How hot your hand is! " he said, surprised. " You haven't 
 got fever? " 
 
 " No, no. I am perfectly well. Tell me." 
 
 " There's very little to tell. The party — I suppose it went 
 off well. The children enjoyed it, I suppose. I scarcely knew 
 what I was doing. But we played, danced, pulled crackers, 
 acted charades, dumb-crambo. Yes, I believe they were quite 
 happy. They must have been. At last they began to go. Vi 
 was already in bed. I thought of going then. But Francis 
 stopped me. We were left alone, Edna, he and I. I didn't 
 know what he wanted, what he meant to do. ' Stay here! ' he 
 said. His voice was nearly gone. ' Come, Ed, you must be 
 tired. Say good-night to Theodore. I'll come back in a min- 
 ute and ' his voice quite went. I saw Edna look at him 
 
 then in a new way. It was at that moment that she suddenly 
 knew something was coming upon her, I think. But she only 
 came to me and said, ' good-night,' and w^ent away w-ith him." 
 
 Theodore stopped speaking for a minute. 
 
 " I don't know how long he was away — Francis. It seemed 
 to me a ver>' long time. However, at last he came back. I 
 didn't look at him. He just said, ' It's all right. She sends 
 her love — blessings for all you've done, and this for Dolores.' " 
 
 Dolores moved. 
 
 " I meant — to give it to you to-morrow morning," said Sir 
 Theodore. 
 
 He drew a note from the pocket of his coat and gave It to 
 Dolores. She opened It and read, In Edna Denzil's large hand- 
 writing: 
 
 "Thank you, dear Dolores, for all 3^ou are doing for 
 my Franzi. Edna." 
 
 Dolores sat still for a long time looking towards the waiting. 
 But she only saw it faintly. There were tears between her 
 and it. 
 
 "I couldn't have done that!" she was saying to herself. 
 "No, I couldn't have done that!"
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 Very early on the morrow Dolores and Sir Theodore had a 
 brief, but anxious consultation. Francis Denzil and Edna 
 were expected at the Palazzo Barberini at half-past nine. And 
 as the time for their arrival drew near the Cannynges had ab- 
 ruptly realized Edna's position, and their own in regard to her, 
 now that she knew the truth. It might be almost intolerable 
 to her to feel herself a guest, to have to meet even the closest 
 friends, in such a moment of emotion and dread. 
 
 " We ought to have thought of it sooner," Dolores said. 
 We ought — at any rate I ought to have left the apartment. 
 It should belong to Edna. She ought to be mistress here, dur- 
 ing these days." 
 
 " Perhaps it would have been better. I have had no time to 
 think of that. There has been so much," said Sir Theodore 
 anxiously. 
 
 "Shall I go now?" 
 
 "Go! Whereto?" 
 
 " To a hotel." 
 
 " But you can't go alone. And I hardly like " 
 
 He hesitated. He felt that he must remain, that if he left 
 the palace, even from scrupulously delicate motives, it would 
 seem like a desertion of his friend. 
 
 " Theo," Dolores said, with decision. " In an hour like 
 this we can be frank, you and I. It is you who are the great 
 friend, it is you whom the Denzils love." 
 
 "But " 
 
 " No, no. I came into their lives because of you. That is 
 whv I think It best for me to go. But you must stay; I see 
 that." 
 
 " That will seem very strange, I think. Edna may not un- 
 derstand." 
 
 " Such a thing won't trouble her in such a moment. Let 
 me go." 
 
 She got up, as if with the intention of making immediate 
 preparations for departure. 
 
 "It will be much more delicate," she said. "And Edna 
 has always treated me perfectly." 
 
 She thought of that note which she had not destroyed. " I 
 shall leave a letter for her, of course." 
 
 She was about to go away, but her husband stopped her.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 189 
 
 " I don't like this idea," he said. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " I don't like your going away while I remain here." 
 
 "But " 
 
 " No, Doloretta. That really can't be. You have — it is 
 you who have supervised, arranged " 
 
 "What has that to do with it?" she interrupted. 
 
 " A great deal, everything almost. You have been wonder- 
 ful. I didn't know " 
 
 " Please don't bother about all that, Theo," she said, rather 
 coldly. " Any woman naturally superintends things in her 
 own home." 
 
 " Stay in your home. I feel I must stay. If I went it 
 would seem almost like a desertion of Francis." 
 
 " That is just what I think now." 
 
 " And j'ou must stay too. You need not see Edna. You 
 can remain in your own room. And if Edna feels equal to 
 seeing j'ou, asks for you, then you will be here. I feel pretty 
 sure she will wish to see j-ou. She has such a warm heart, such 
 a great sense of gratitude. I know she will never forget how 
 readv vou were " 
 
 " Oh, please don't, Theo ! " 
 
 He was silent. 
 
 " Very well. I suppose I had better stay. But it must be 
 as if I were not here, please, unless Edna strongly insists on 
 seeing me." 
 
 " I believe she will." 
 
 " Theo, women understand each other much better than men 
 ever understand them. I don't think Edna can really wish to 
 see me at such a time. Therefore please try to manage so tliat 
 I am not seen. Then I shall not mind so much having staj^ed 
 on here." 
 
 She went out of the room. 
 
 Sir Theodore wondered at the mixture of deep emotion, of 
 practical energy, of feverish anxiety, and of almost petulant 
 irritability which she had shown during the last difficult days 
 and just now. But he had little time to dwell on the mental 
 condition of his wife. The thing was settled. They were to 
 remain in the apartment, both of them. There was an end of 
 that. Francis — from this moment till the operation was over, 
 he must think only of Francis! 
 
 Dolores went to speak to her friend, Nurse Jennings. The 
 nurse greeted her with a cheerful, confident smile.
 
 I90 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " Do you wish to see the room ? " she asked. 
 
 " No, not now. You have found the servants ready and 
 willing; to do everj'thing necessary, to get anything that is 
 wanted immediately?" 
 
 " Oh yes, indeed. I know how to manage with anj'body." 
 
 " Then I will go. I am going to shut myself up in my room 
 so as to be quite out of the way till — till it is over." 
 
 Nurse Jennings smiled again. 
 
 " Now don't worry, Lady Cannynge," she said. 
 
 *' I am not going to." 
 
 To herself Dolores was still repeating, " He is going to re- 
 cover. He is going to recover." 
 
 She went away to her bedroom, shut herself in, and took up 
 a book. It was La Guerre et la Pa'ix of Tolstoy. Sir 
 Theodore must have laid it down in the bedroom with its com- 
 panion volume in Russian. He was going on with his study of 
 Russian. " To what end ? " often he asked himself that. But 
 he continued to study, as he continued to fill up his empty hours 
 with other occupations, for which he felt little enthusiasm. 
 
 Dolores, opening the volume near the end, began to read 
 deliberately, carefully. She had chanced upon the passage in 
 which the author describes the change that came upon Natasha 
 when Pierre had made her the mother of a family. Dolores 
 had read the book, and well remembered the exquisite charm 
 and attraction of Natasha as an unmarried girl. Now, as she 
 forced herself to read it again, she thought " And that is what 
 motherhood does to some women! That is what it might do 
 to me! " It seemed to her that Natasha, the mother, was al- 
 most ugly, almost repellant, compared with Natasha the girl, 
 who sang, danced, loved, and always with grace, almost always 
 with a sort of mystery, the mystery of the elusive, and yet ve- 
 hem.ent girlhood. Did motherhood mean a sinking down into 
 a sort of slough of materialism? There was something almost 
 indecent in Natasha, the mother. 
 
 '' Should I become like that, if ?" thought Dolores. 
 
 She sat with one hand on the page and mused. 
 
 " And would Theo love nie more — like that? " 
 
 She heard a door shut in the distance. 
 
 "But Edna — she is not like that. Is she?" 
 
 And she began to compare herself with Edna Denzil, care- 
 fully, almost coldly. Was Edna more, or less, charming, as 
 the mother of a family than she had been before the children 
 came? Certainly she still had charm. Dolores knew that, and
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 191 
 
 was strictly fair in acknowledging it. But did that charm pro- 
 ceed from her motherhood, or did it persist in spite of that? 
 Girl, wife, mother — Edna was always charming. And — as 
 widow? 
 
 " How hateful I am, how hateful, and how false to my own 
 determination! Francis will recover, he will recover!" 
 
 There was a knock on the door. Dolores started up. 
 
 Sir Theodore opened the door. He looked as if under the 
 brown of his complexion he had become dreadfully pale. 
 
 " They have come, Dolores." 
 
 "They?" 
 
 ** Francis and Edna." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 His quick eyes saw the book. 
 
 " You are reading! " he said. 
 
 " I was trying to. It is better than sitting and thinking of 
 dreadful things." 
 
 " I see — yes. But — they both wish to see you at once." 
 
 "Oh, but " 
 
 " You cannot refuse. They both wish It — Edna too." 
 
 " Of course I will come." 
 
 Filled with a sort of heavy dread, almost like that of a child, 
 Dolores followed her husband. 
 
 Edna Denzil and Francis were alone In a room next to that 
 In which the operation was to take place. They were sitting 
 side by side on a sofa when the Cannynges came in. Directly 
 Dolores saw them she felt as if some horrible core, hard, abom- 
 inable, even diseased perhaps, in her heart melted. And this 
 happened even before she had looked into their faces. The sight 
 of their two bodies, leaning a little towards each other, bend- 
 ing a little, was enough. Poor bodies, that love so much, joined 
 in the mystery of the flesh! But when she looked into Edna's 
 face, then she suffered indeed, and was moved in the very 
 depths of that womanhood which acknowledges itself part of a 
 great company of sisters. For Edna Denzil was changed. 
 
 Never a pretty woman, but nearly alwa3's a radiant woman, 
 the shock she had endured had withered the charm that was 
 made, perhaps, out of sunbeams. Her irregular features, no 
 longer lighted up, seemed to thrust forward into notice their 
 plainness. The defect in her eye was become a blemish now 
 that the sweet light of joy had gone out of her eyes. To the 
 casual observer she would have looked a meager, plain, and 
 even perhaps unattractive woman at that moment. Dolores
 
 192 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 saw it, realized it all. But at that moment she felt as if she 
 was in Edna's heart, and almost as if that heart were her own. 
 And she went to Edna, put both arms about her, and kissed her. 
 And as she did so she heard Edna's voice whispering against 
 her shoulder, " Thank you — for everything." She held the 
 hand of Francis in hers for a moment. Perhaps he said some- 
 thing. She did not know. But she heard herself saying to 
 him: 
 
 " I shall pray for you, Francis. I shall pray for you." 
 
 Voices were audible in the next room. A door opened. 
 
 "Edna, what do you wish to do while — while it is going 
 on?" Dolores said quickly. 
 
 " I will sit here v.'ithin reach." 
 
 " Shall I ? No, you won't want me." 
 
 " Thank j^ou, Dolores." 
 
 Dolores kissed her again, clasped the arm of Francis, and 
 went away. 
 
 She returned to her bedroom, shut and locked the door, knelt 
 down and began to pray. 
 
 " Not for my sake, but for Edna's sake! " 
 
 She repeated these words in her prayer again and again, with 
 a perseverance that became at last almost monotonous. 
 
 " For Edna and the children ! For Edna and the chil- 
 dren!" 
 
 Bright circles formed before her shut eyes against which 
 her hands were pressed. She knelt thus for a long time. But 
 presently she ceased from prayer. It seemed to her that a de- 
 cision had been come to — far off, that it was irrevocable, and 
 that therefore it was useless for her to pray any longer. She 
 did not know what this decision was. It might be in conform- 
 ance with her intense, her alm.ost desperate desire, or not. In 
 either case further supplication could avail nothing. After- 
 wards she often wondered why such a strange idea had come to 
 her, and, still more, why she had entertained it so unhesitat- 
 ingly, with such absolute confidence. She felt that she simply 
 knew. Yet she did not rise from her knees. She had no de- 
 sire to move, and so she remained as she was. 
 
 When at length she did move her eyes ached from contact 
 with her pressing hands. How long had she been kneeling? 
 She looked at her watch. 
 
 It was eleven. Flad the doctors begun their dreadful task 
 punctually? She wondered. And she wondered what Theo 
 was doing, where he was. Probably he was sitting with Edna
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 193 
 
 in that room close to where Francis was being saved, or not 
 saved. 
 
 Again Dolores took up La Guerre et la Paix. She read 
 it steadily for twenty minutes, without emotion. It meant 
 scarcely anything to her. Nevertheless she did not miss a word, 
 and she knew what she was reading about. Her head was 
 quite clear, her nerves were surely quite steady. The feeling 
 that a certain matter was decided brought a sort of solace to 
 her. 
 
 But where was Theo? What was he doing all this time? 
 Presently this question recurred to her mind, persisted in it, and 
 began to make her feel restless. She laid her book down, and 
 sat for some time doing nothing. There was not a sound to 
 be heard in the apartment. She got up, went to the door, and 
 softly unlocked it. There was no reason now why it should be 
 locked. She did not open the door, but returned to her chair, 
 sat down and waited. 
 
 While she was on her knees the time had passed like a flash. 
 Now it dragged. Why did not some one come? Surely the 
 operation must be over. Perhaps every one had forgotten about 
 her. Perhaps no one would think of coming to tell her the re- 
 sult. But Theo — surely he would come. He knew where 
 she was. 
 
 He did not come. No one came. And at last Dolores got 
 up and went to the door. She partially opened it, held it, and 
 listened. Then she opened it wide, went out, and, walking 
 gently, made her way to the room where she had left Edna. 
 The door of this room was shut. She waited outside of it for 
 a minute. Noav that she was so near the chamber in which the 
 fate of Francis was being decided, she felt more strongly than 
 ever before the mystery and the terror that had taken posses- 
 sion so abruptly of her home, and of those who were in it. 
 
 At last she made up her mind not to hesitate any longer. 
 And she opened the door and looked into the room. She saw 
 Edna Denzil and her husband in it. They were sitting still, 
 unnaturally still as it seemed to Dolores. Edna was facing 
 her in a chair close to the door which communicated with the 
 room in which Denzil, the doctors and the nurse were. Sir 
 Theodore had his back turned towards her. Neither of them 
 was doing anything. And though Edna v.-as exactly opposite 
 to Dolores, as the latter looked in at the door, she saw nothing. 
 For her eyes were shut. Dolores knew, as she gazed at her for 
 a brief instant, that Edna needed darkness just then because the
 
 194 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 cloud was upon her Franzi. She was waiting till he opened 
 his eyes again on the world. How strange, how altered, how 
 almost dead she looked in her sightless immobility! And how 
 strangely motionless Theo was! Dolores had not known that 
 a live and conscious human being could remain so absolutely 
 without movement. 
 
 She drew the door towards her, did not quite shut it, and 
 went back to her bedroom. Not very long afterwards Sir 
 Theodore tapped and entered. Dolores looked at him without 
 speaking. 
 
 " It is all over," he said. 
 
 Dolores got up. 
 
 " All over! " she said, coming slowly towards him. 
 
 " The operation I mean." 
 
 He sent her a strange, it seemed to her almost a terrible, 
 look, as if he suspected her of something. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " He has recovered consciousness. Edna Is in the room with 
 him." 
 
 " Yes," repeated Dolores. 
 
 Sir Theodore began to walk about the large room. 
 
 " I have been sitting with Edna all the time," he said. " I 
 felt that I could not leave her alone. Do you think I was 
 right?" 
 
 " Quite right." 
 
 " I believe, I hope, it was some comfort to her. She must 
 have known I was sharing her frightful anxiety." 
 
 He was opposite to the large dressing-table which was cov- 
 ered with boxes and bottles of cut glass. He stood still, picked 
 up a bottle, looked at it, put it down. 
 
 " You were here? " he asked. 
 
 He did not wait for a reply, but took up another bottle and 
 pulled out the stopper. 
 
 " There is nothing so hideous as waiting," he continued. 
 *' Nothing. Anything is better than suspense." He put the 
 stopper back. " But of course we can't know yet." He with- 
 drew the stopper. " He has regained consciousness, and the 
 operation has been successful in that the — the trouble has been 
 taken away. But of course " He took out his handker- 
 chief and poured some eau-de-Cologne on it. 
 
 Dolores was sure that he did not know what he was doing. 
 He put the handkerchief into his pocket, put the stopper into 
 the bottle, set the bottle down, and piclied up a powder-box.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 195 
 
 "Ides will be able to tell us something directly — perhaps. 
 
 I don't think " He removed the lid of the powder-box. 
 
 "What made you say 'all over!' like that, Doloretta, just 
 now? Did you think — did you suppose that ?" 
 
 " I only wanted to know exactly what j^ou meant." 
 
 He put the lid back, and turned round to her. 
 
 *' Have you done what you intended doing all this time?" 
 
 ** Do you mean ? " 
 
 *' You remember what you said about faith healing." 
 
 " Last night I did it." 
 
 " Let us go on — let us go on. I am sure that Francis will 
 recover." 
 
 " I have been praying that he may." 
 
 " Praying, but " 
 
 He was about to say that to pray that something may happen 
 shows a doubt as to whether it is going to happen. But he did 
 not finish his sentence. 
 
 " I wonder whether prayer is of any good except to those 
 who pray," he said. " Do you really suppose — you, Dolo- 
 retta — that a petition to God from you, or let us say from 
 me, could possibly lead to any change in the fate of Francis? 
 If he were destined to die, do you believe we, by our prayers, 
 could cause that decision, if it is a decision, to be changed?" 
 
 " Not now," she answered. 
 
 Sir Theodore came away from the dressing-table. 
 
 " Not now! What do you mean by that?" he asked, look- 
 ing down into her eyes. 
 
 " While I was praying — after some time — there came to 
 me the conviction, it seemed like knowledge, that the matter of 
 Francis's living, or dying, had been decided Irrevocably." 
 
 ** That was only a fancy, of course." 
 
 " Perhaps. But I could not pray any more." 
 
 "And that other thing? The exertion of the mind, of the 
 will?" 
 
 " Theo, I've done all I can. And I feel that to try to do 
 anything more would be utterly useless." 
 
 He said nothing for a minute. Her words, or perhaps some- 
 thing in her manner, had evidently made upon him a painful 
 impression, against which, she thought, he was trying to strug- 
 gle. At last he said: 
 
 " All these things are out of our hands. Very little — " 
 his voice became suddenly bitter — "is in our hands. We are 
 pigmies filled with the desire to be giants, or even gods."
 
 196 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 " But have you any feeling as to what may be going to hap- 
 pen, one way or the other?" 
 
 Dolores remembered the hour when she had lain upon her 
 bed and wept. Then she had felt almost as if she knew what 
 would follow the operation. Afterwards she had combated 
 that feeling, and had surely slain it. She had willed that it 
 should be proved absurd. And now? 
 
 *' No," she answered. " I feel quite in the dark. We can 
 only wait." 
 
 " And hope for the best." 
 
 She said nothing. Her mind w^as incapable Just then either 
 of hope or of active fear. Sir Theodore put his hands into 
 the pockets of his dark blue serge jacket. He had suddenly 
 become aware of his own restlessness. 
 
 " And hope for the best ! " he repeated earnestly. 
 
 *' Have you seen Dr. Ides?" 
 
 " Only for an instant." 
 
 "I suppose I couldn't see Nurse Jennings?" 
 
 "I don't know. Presently!" 
 
 " I like that Irish girl." 
 
 "How freckled she is!" 
 
 " Is she? " Dolores said. 
 
 " I don't mean to say she's bad looking." 
 
 " It's a face I should be very glad to have by me if I were 
 very ill." 
 
 " She's an excellent nurse, I believe. I'll go now and learn 
 how things are." 
 
 He went to the door. 
 
 "What are you going to do, Doloretta?" he said as he was 
 about to go away. " Wouldn't it be best if you went out and 
 got some air? You look very pale." 
 
 "When am I anything else?" 
 
 "There are different kinds of paleness. But just as you 
 like. I daresay you feel you would rather be on the spot, as 
 I do." 
 
 He withdrew his hands from his jacket pockets, plunged 
 them In again, and went out. 
 
 The news of the dangerous illness of the Councillor of the 
 British Embassy spread rapidly through Roman society, and 
 caused great astonishment.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 197 
 
 " But I saw him out only the day before yesterday, looking 
 as well as ever he did in his life! " 
 
 " Most extraordinary thing to keep it so quiet ! " 
 
 "But there was a party at the Denzils only yesterday! I 
 know it, because my children were there." 
 
 " Even his own ambassador knew nothing till a few hours 
 before the operation." 
 
 " He always smoked too much, poor chap!" 
 
 Such remarks were made in the English and American sets. 
 In Italian circles a great deal of attention was devoted to the 
 fact that the operation upon Denzil had taken place in the Pa- 
 lazzo Barberini. This was generally condemned, and univer- 
 sally thought to be an extraordinary circumstance. Princess 
 Mancelli did not say anything against it, but she could not 
 understand the matter. If Sir Theodore was the lover of Mrs. 
 Denzil, as she and many other Italian ladies had come to be- 
 lieve, why should he carry hypocrisy to such unnecessary 
 lengths? And why should Mrs. Denzil, whom one did not 
 wish to condemn too uncharitably for liking such a handsome 
 and attractive man as Sir Theodore — why should she take 
 her husband to be operated upon in the house of her lover? 
 And then Lady Cannynge's attitude! That, too, was extraor- 
 dinary. Why should she turn her beautiful apartment into a 
 hospital to suit the convenience of people whom she must surely 
 dislike, if not hate, in her heart? 
 
 The Princess spoke of the matter with Montebruno, who 
 had recently returned to Rome from the French Riviera. 
 
 *' I shall never learn to understand the English," she said to 
 him. " Although I have English blood in my own veins. Of 
 course they are called ' the mad English.' But that is merely 
 a saying. They are different, so they are mad. That does 
 for the man who sells hot chestnuts, or the Vv-oman who eats 
 pasta sciutta under Queen Margherita's portrait in the den of 
 the concierge. But of course it is not for us. Do you think 
 Lady Cannynge knows?" 
 
 " Cara Lisetta — what?" said ]\Iontebruno in his harsh and 
 weary voice, which had no resonance, no softness. 
 
 "About her husband and ]VIrs. Denzil?" 
 
 " Women always know such things, men scarcely ever know 
 them." 
 
 " Yet she receives Mrs. Denzil at such a moment. He may 
 die in her apartment, and leave Mrs. Denzil and Sir Theo- 
 dore free to do whatever thev like."
 
 198 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " Free! Lady Cannynge will still exist even if Mr. Denzil 
 should die." 
 
 " I do not think Dolores Cannynge is the sort of woman 
 who would fight in a case like that. She would probably not 
 count. Her strength would never lie in fighting." 
 
 *' Where would it lie, mia cara? " 
 
 " In being conquered, I think." 
 
 "Ah!" said Montebruno. 
 
 He looked at the Princess steadily for more than a minute. 
 Then he said: 
 
 " I am getting old and dull witted " 
 
 " Don't be ridiculous, Giorgio ! " 
 
 " No, but tell me exactly what you mean by this enigma." 
 
 " I mean that if Dolores Cannynge were ever conquered, 
 her conqueror would probably become her slave." 
 
 When Montebruno spoke again, which he was in no hurry 
 to do, he said: 
 
 " Shall I go this evening and inquire how Mr. Denzil Is? " 
 
 " Yes, do. I should like to know. Poor fellow ! And 
 Just as he had got what he wanted, Munich." 
 
 " That is how things are in this world. And there is no 
 other for us. Even the Americans have found out that." 
 
 "The Americans!" 
 
 ** Their great Edison has said it." 
 
 " Then that is settled ! " observed the Princess, with a smile 
 not devoid of contempt. 
 
 " It is not only from the United States that I get It," said 
 Montebruno. 
 
 "From where, then?" 
 
 He touched his bald and yellow forehead with his long- 
 nailed forefinger. 
 
 " From here." 
 
 The Princess put her hand lightly on her heart. 
 
 "And from here — do you get nothing?" 
 
 He went out, slowly shaking his head. 
 
 Late in the evening he drove up in a hired fiacre to the 
 Palazzo Barberini, left his card, and inquired how Mr. Denzil 
 was. 
 
 The Cannynges' maestro dl casa, a middle-aged Roman, 
 with a dignified, almost intellectual face, and grave, expressive 
 eyes, lifted his hands. 
 
 " The poor signore is very ill ! very, very ill ! " 
 
 Montebruno, in suitable terms, expressed a dry regret. No
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 199 
 
 doubt the shock of the operation had greatly tried the strength 
 of the patient. 
 
 " Si, Signer Marchese. It is his heart, I think. But how 
 should I know? " 
 
 Again he lifted his hands, and raised his large and promi- 
 nent eyes. 
 
 " What a pity! what a pity! Let us hope all will go well! " 
 observed Montebruno. 
 
 " And why should we not hope ? " responded the maestro 
 d'l casa. 
 
 He stood respectfully at the door while Montebruno turned 
 and descended the wide staircase. 
 
 " And why should we not hope? " he repeated to himself, as 
 at length he closed the door softly. 
 
 Early the next morning, despite every effort of the doctors 
 to combat the shock to the system caused by the operation, 
 Francis Denzil succumbed to heart failure. 
 
 In the evening of the same day, in the first edition of La 
 Tribuna, his death was announced, and a short account was 
 given of his career in diplomacy, followed by the graceful ex- 
 pressions of regret at his loss, and sympathy for his wife and 
 young children, which Italian journalists know so well how 
 to turn. 
 
 Among the many who read this notice was Cesare Carelli. 
 He took in La Tribuna, and always glanced through it before 
 he went to bed. On this occasion, however, he had bought a 
 copy in the entrance hall of the Salone Margherita, whither 
 he had gone with three friends, young men fond of sport, and 
 with eyes ever warily on the look out for new pretty women 
 on the variety stage. They occupied the box on the left of the 
 scene, and as soon as they were in it Cesare opened his paper 
 widely, and began to read, without casting even a glance at the 
 performer of the moment. He read on steadily, sitting well in 
 the front of the box, close to the crowd in the Poltrone, to 
 whom he paid no attention, and of whom he did not once think. 
 His companions calmly stared at the wriggling and half-plead- 
 ing, half-defiant young woman on the stage, who swung her 
 short, puffed-out skirts, walked to and fro, showed her rows of 
 excellent teeth between heavily painted lips, and occasionally — 
 with a mechanical gesture — touched one of her darkened eye- 
 brows, as she rather spoke than sang a popular street song. 
 When, as happened almost immediately, the young men had 
 made up their minds that as a body — they did not think of
 
 200 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 her as a singer — she was unworthy of their attention, they 
 turned away and took long and deliberate stock of the audi- 
 ence. To Cesare they paid no attention. When he had fin- 
 ished what he was doing, he would throw away his paper, 
 and exist. 
 
 Presently the girl, with a last swing of her skirts, and a 
 peculiar waggle, almost circular, of her right leg, disappeared, 
 without a sound of appreciation from even one spectator. The 
 curtains drew together, opened again, and amid clapping Anita 
 di Landa walked on, looking steadily, almost threateningly, at 
 the hundreds of faces before her, and up at the circle where 
 the smoke wreaths mounted and dispersed. She sang song 
 after song, and every song was greeted with cries of "Bis! 
 Bis! " and still Cesare read calmly on, sitting well forward in 
 his chair. At length the singer indicated by gestures that she 
 did not want to sing any more. She put out her pretty hand, 
 and, smiling, but looking determined, pretended to push the 
 shouting men away from her with its delicate, pink-flushed 
 palm. She shook her head and drew down her eyebrows, mak- 
 ing a face expressive of fatigue. 
 
 " Zampugnaro ! Zampugnaro ! Zampugnaro ! " shouted 
 the young men, and not a few of the old ones too. 
 
 Cesare glanced up for the first time. 
 
 " Zampugnaro! " he too cried, in a loud, firm voice. 
 
 Anita di Landa sent him a side glance, which was like a 
 glance of rebuke, shrugged her shoulders, and made a signal to 
 the conductor. The applause ceased, and the orchestra played 
 the opening bars of the song every one wanted. 
 
 Cesare, satisfied now that his loud and decisive cry had been 
 obeyed, returned to his newspaper, and his eyes fell on the 
 word, Lutto. And as Anita di Landa sang the delicious 
 country song, with its suggestion of reeds, and its imitation of 
 the pipes of Arcady, Cesare read the announcement of the 
 death of Francis Denzil in the apartment of the Cannynges. 
 He had a real love of the odd aod characteristic little song, 
 which only Anita di Landa can sing as it should be sung. 
 There was caught in it something of the open air, of Italian 
 country scenes, olive-covered slopes, vines ripening on hills 
 stretching down from gray hill towns, with rough walls and 
 Campanili, to long plains covered with waving corn, dotted 
 with mulberry trees, and threaded by white roads deep in dust, 
 along which the wagons drawn by the leaning oxen pass, while 
 the drivers lie and sleep, with flowers, or bits of green, behind
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 201 
 
 their ears. And there was caught in it, too, a sound of rustic 
 love; love in the open air; far from cities, far from social tram- 
 mels, far from the prying eyes of those who chatter in draw- 
 ing-rooms, of love under silver green olives, of love by streams 
 in the grasses. 
 
 " Nu Zampugnaro 'e nu paese 'e fora 
 Lassaie quase n' figlianza la mugliera, 
 Se partette pe Napule 'e bon 'ora 
 Sunanno allero allero: ullero, ullero! 
 
 'ma nun era overo 
 
 'o Zampugnaro 
 
 pensava 'a mugliera, 
 
 e suspirava, 
 e a zampogna 'e suspiru s'abbuflFava *." 
 
 Cesare read, and heard Anita di Landa's voice singing while 
 he read. And forever after^vards the song of the Zampu- 
 gnaro was connected in his mind with the freedom of Mrs. 
 Denzil — he thought of her husband's death as her freedom — ■ 
 and with the movement of his own strong life onward in a 
 direction which might lead him to his greatest desire. 
 
 "E ullero, ullero! 
 Che bella faccella, 
 Che bella resella 
 
 Faceva Gesu! 
 Quanno 'a Madonna 
 Cantava: core mio, fa nonna nonna*!" 
 
 He put down his paper at last, leaned forward on the ledge 
 of the box, and looked at Anita di Landa. But he saw a 
 little osteria in the mountains, with vines leaning above its 
 door. And he heard larks singing in the midst of a great soli- 
 tude. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 At the beginning of March, about a month after the death of 
 Francis Denzil, there was a great skating party in the palace 
 of the Duchess Miravanti, not far from the Corso. The 
 Duchess was a widow, rich, cheery, kind-hearted, by no means 
 old. She had two sons, of eighteen and twenty, and a pretty 
 
 * For translations of foreign -words and phrases see page 523.
 
 202 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 daughter, recently married to Count Emilio Boccara, a younger 
 brother of Count Boccara; and partly for them, partly per- 
 haps for herself, though she did not say so, she entertained 
 perpetually. During the season before Lent she had given 
 two balls, and several small dances. Now that Lent had be- 
 gun, and society made a pretense of not dancing, though it 
 still danced whenever and wherever it could, the Duchess gave 
 lunches, concerts and dinners. And she it was who had made 
 roller-skating once more not merely the vogue, but the passion 
 in Rome. In her magnificent palace there was a long picture 
 gallery, with a ceiling painted by Tiepolo and a marble floor. 
 One day the Duchess, in a moment of inspiration, glanced 
 down at this floor. Her handsome eyes became fixed and 
 dreamy, then suddenly vivacious and twinkling. She raised 
 her head, clapped her hands — she was still as gay and almost 
 as buoyant as a child — and hurried away to find her secretary. 
 The result of her inspiration was Rome on rollers. 
 
 At first all the smart " boys " and " girls " of Rome began 
 to tumble down to the sound of music. Then they began to 
 get up, and their places on the marble floor of the palace were 
 taken by the young married women and the young men, sec- 
 retaries of embassy, scions of the great Roman houses, travel- 
 ing foreigners with good introductions. And now, when 
 Duchess Miravanti gave her first evening party for skating on 
 a grand scale, even middle-aged people, the intellectuals, the 
 erudite with beards and reputations, and those who had hith- 
 erto been wholly addicted to bridge, were earnestly taking 
 lessons at the Sala Pichetti. A well-known senator had 
 broken his leg only the day before. A beautiful princess, with 
 a face like a Muse and a cloud of dense black hair, boasted of 
 possessing two " housemaid's knees." Mrs. Tooms — at least 
 she said so — was black and blue, and had to be carefully 
 " made up " by an expert of the theater before appearing 
 in public. A royal lady had " ricked her ankle." And it was 
 rumored that Mrs. Faraway, who had lived in Rome to the 
 certain knowledge of various creditable persons for the last five- 
 and-forty years, and had certainly been in existence in some 
 other quarter of the Globe some thirty years before that, was 
 " thinking of beginning." 
 
 Rome loves anything that gives a spice of novelty to an 
 entertainment, and the Duchess had therefore decreed that all 
 ladies who intended to skate at her party must appear en 
 turban. This command was freely interpreted by various
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 203 
 
 pretty women to mean whatever suited them best. Countess 
 Boccara, for Instance, arrived in a close-fitting black velvet 
 gown, cut very low, with two patches, and a sort of Phrygian 
 cap, which looked as if it had strayed from the woods of The- 
 ocritus into Maxim's and changed most of its nature there. 
 Her pretty sister-in-law, the Duchess's daughter, had powdered 
 her hair and wore on it a scarlet cap, not unlike Pierrot's, only 
 smaller. A handsome, but discontented-looking American girl. 
 Miss Phoebe Crichit, who was reported to have three millions 
 of dollars, had managed to make herself look vaguely Turkish, 
 une desenchantce echappee du Harem, as Prince Perreto 
 whispered to Princess Carelli, the mother of Cesare. And 
 " Mimetta," otherwise Princess Giamarcho, remembering a 
 certain remark about a sphinx, had arranged her silver " tur- 
 ban " In a manner that recalled memories of the museum at 
 Cairo to those who had been there, and that afforded " The 
 Tomtit " an opportunity of showing his knowledge by chris- 
 tening her " Hathor, the lady of the underworld." 
 
 The MiravantI Palace was Immense, but the Duchess had 
 invited all Rome that was smart, and by eleven o'clock even 
 her great rooms began to look comfortably filled. In March 
 the Roman " season " Is at its height, and Rome Is thronged 
 with people of distinction, and people who think themselves so, 
 from all parts of the world. Duchess MiravantI had traveled, 
 and had a wide and cosmopolitan acquaintance. So her par- 
 ties were really amusing, and in her palace people were able to 
 escape from that small and wearisome round of Intimate Ro- 
 man tittle-tattle, which has given Rome a bad name for gos- 
 sip. Into an atmosphere more vital and Invigorating. The 
 Duchess shunned only aggressive bores, vulgar and ill-bred 
 people, oddities, cranks and those who, by the accident of sta- 
 tion, did not happen to be of " her world." The rest she gen- 
 ially welcomed, including Mrs. Paraway, who, having misun- 
 derstood her invitation, and being under the Impression that 
 ail the female guests were to put on turbans, appeared in one 
 of prodigious size, to the surprise and horror of the hostess, and 
 the amazed amusement of many of the guests. 
 
 " Elle va patlner! Mon Dicuf Mon D'leu!" exclaimed 
 the Duchess, to her Intimate friends as they came In one by one. 
 " Si elle tembe, c'est fini! Ngus aurons un cadavre dans la 
 maisonl " 
 
 No one needed to ask what was meant by elle. The friends 
 of the Duchess flocked towards the picture gallery, eager, it
 
 204 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 seemed, to be " In at the death." On a dais, covered with red 
 cloth, a string band was playing a negro melody with Southern 
 vigor. The scraping noise of the multitude of skates, as they 
 rolled perpetually over the marble, mingled with the music, 
 with the loud buzz of voices and the tinkle of laughter. Rome 
 Is become cosmopolis, a strange playground for the nations. 
 To-night the cheery Duchess had provided them w^ith a game 
 that seemed new. Their vigor and their entrain in playing It 
 were evidently a delight to the large company of dowagers, 
 married women who did not care for hard exercises, and men 
 old and otherwise, who sat and stood looking on. Among 
 these were Mrs. Faraway, whom everybody expected — on ac- 
 count of the turban — to set forth presently upon the marble on 
 a short voyage to the other world ; Marchesa Verosti ; Princess 
 Carelll; Princess Bartoldl, the beautiful Sicilian who held her 
 court at the Grand Hotel; Mrs. Melville Pringle; Madame de 
 Heder; Donna Alice Metardi, and many more. The men 
 numbered Prince Perreto; Count Boccara on the lookout for 
 Mrs. Tooms; a Spanish nobleman called Y Vives, who wrote 
 plays and always seemed steeped In melancholy; the Swedish 
 minister, and others. Most of the young men were skating, 
 were looking for skates, or were putting on the skates of the 
 women. 
 
 Just In front of those who were eagerly watching, under the 
 tall picture of a Pope, sat the lovely Princess who said she had 
 " housemaid's knees." Despite her affliction she was going to 
 skate. Her great eyes were sparkling with anticipation, as 
 she stretched one small foot out from beneath her short velvet 
 dress towards an adoring young man, a Neapolitan, who knelt 
 on the marble before her, and with muscular and eager brown 
 hands proceeded to fix on her skates. The music made an al- 
 most feverish crescendo. A little Polish princess, her hands 
 behind her, her head flung back in a sort of ecstasy of pleasure, 
 went swinging by, taking Immense curves with a motion almost 
 like flying. 
 
 " Presto ! Presto ! " cried the lovely princess to the Nea- 
 politan. 
 
 Cleverly he sprang up, took her two hands. A movement, 
 and they were gone on the tide of the music! And the Pope 
 looked down on an empty chair. 
 
 "Is your Cesare here?" asked Princess Bartoldl of Prin- 
 cess Carelll. 
 
 " No," returned Princess Carelll, In a wearj', lack-luster
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 205 
 
 voice, that yet was not disagreeable. " But he said he 
 might come. Probably he won't. He seems to go nowhere 
 this year." 
 
 " What does he do all the time? " 
 
 " What does any one do? I never know. He comes in, goes 
 out, sees his friends, I suppose, visits the clubs, dines and chi lo 
 saf The time passes. What should he do?" 
 
 Princess Carelli, perhaps because she was born English, was 
 more Italian than almost any Italian. She spoke English with 
 a strong accent, and made mistakes in the construction of her 
 English sentences. Her movements and poses were Italian. 
 She had introduced an Italian timbre into her voice. She was 
 contemplative, careless, rigid in etiquette with her equals, fa- 
 miliarly at home with her servants, as are Italians. But she 
 was more like the Italian lady who does not travel than like 
 the smart Italian woman who gets all her clothes in Paris, runs 
 over to London in June, and takes the cure at Aix in August. 
 Princess Carelli, when she wanted sea air, visited Viareggio, if 
 she must have a cure went to Salsomaggiore, for an after-cure 
 to the Abetone. She drove in a shut brougham, or a closed 
 motor, seldom or never walked, and was in casa every day 
 to her friends after six o'clock. At night she sat up very late. 
 In the morning she existed only for her maid, and for a few 
 very intimate Italian friends, women of course. She was short, 
 very stout, and yet elegant, unsmiling, and managed somehow 
 to look very much darker than she really was. One woman 
 only she disliked in Rome, and that woman was Princess Man- 
 cell i. 
 
 " When is he going to marry, my dear? " inquired Marchesa 
 Verosti. 
 
 "Chi lo sa?" returned Princess Carelli, with growing lan- 
 guor. The louder the music, the more rapid the skating, the 
 more weary and detached she managed to look. 
 
 " We are all expecting it," persisted the Marchesa. " Since 
 — well, we are all expecting it." 
 
 " I'm afraid that will not help matters." 
 
 The Princess sighed. 
 
 " I should not be surprised if Cesare never married," she 
 added. 
 
 " But everyone in Cesare's position marries ! " exclaimed the 
 Marchesa. "The only son, and such a property to inherit!" 
 
 " Cesare began life like a fool," drily observed the Princess. 
 " Perhaps he thinks he has earned his celibacy."
 
 2o6 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " According to Mantegazza " began an elderly man 
 
 standing by. 
 
 " Don't speak of that old horror to me! " said the Princess, 
 not changing her languid tone. " He is on my index." 
 
 "And why, if one may ask, Princess?" 
 
 " It is he who wrote that La simpatia e I'unica e vera sor- 
 gente dell' amore. Such a sacrilegious absurdity! And be- 
 sides, I hate his style." 
 
 " But my dear Adelaida " — began the Marchesa energetically 
 — " 'Tis only the English who pretend to believe such nonsense, 
 because they want to ranger love, to make it respectable. But 
 we Romans know better." 
 
 *' There is the Marmotta down again! " 
 
 " And Giulio Arrivamale picking her up — again ! " 
 
 " I wonder how Maria likes it? " 
 
 " Maria is in bed with a cold." 
 
 "How dull!" 
 
 The music changed to a cake-walk. The musicians m^ade 
 each new thing they played seem like the last, mere rhythm 
 and accent to give an impulse to the skaters. A powdery film 
 flew up from the marble floor, and settled lightly on the hair, 
 the turbans, the gowns and the coats of the flying couples, 
 as they swung monotonously by with linked hands, smiling, 
 talking, or silently looking at one another, joined in the strong 
 sympathy of active pleasure. Louder and ever louder rose the 
 scraping sound under Tiepolo's roof as new skaters joined the 
 throng. The crowd watching at the end of the gallery be- 
 came more dense, more compact. In other rooms the bridge 
 players were sitting down to the tables. 
 
 " Has she ventured? " 
 
 The Duchess had left the first drawing-room, and now was 
 anxiously looking with her round and bird-like eyes towards 
 the skaters. 
 
 " No, no, she is there, by the American ambassadress." 
 
 The Duchess breathed a sigh of relief. She perceived the 
 large green turban of Mrs. Paraway nodding violently as she 
 talked to a handsome fair woman covered with jewels, who was 
 serenely smiling and looking on. 
 
 " She clings to life after all. It is a natural instinct. But 
 I wish she would take off her turban, dear soul. Then I should 
 know she had resolved not to die in my house." 
 
 The Duchess turned, and saw a tall, dark and delicate look- 
 ing man coming slowly towards her. She welcomed him with
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 207, 
 
 the genuine warmth which made her such a popular hostess. 
 
 " Mr. Verrall! How glad I am! When did you arrive in 
 Rome?" 
 
 " Only yesterday. I found your kind card at the Embassy." 
 
 " I must present you to all the nice people. Tiens 1 There 
 is Lady Cannynge coming in! Do you know her? " 
 
 " Not at all." 
 
 " I will present you." The Duchess lowered her voice. 
 " Her husband was the great friend of poor Denzil, your pre- 
 decessor. He is guardian to the children, I believe, and is 
 looking after them all. One never sees him anywhere. Main- 
 tenant il est bon pere de jam'ille." 
 
 Although she spoke excellent English she often broke into 
 French. 
 
 " That was a very sad business," said Mr. Verrall sympa- 
 thetically. 
 
 " Mr. Verrall, the new Councillor at your Embassy — Lady 
 Cannynge," said the Duchess. " I am glad you are en turban 
 and mean to skate." 
 
 And she turned away to greet the Princess Mancelli, who 
 came up alone, not wearing a turban. 
 
 Eric Verrall, who — as became an ambitious diplomat — was 
 a keen observer, saw, or in that first moment believed he saw, 
 in Lady Cannynge a gay and perhaps brilliant woman of the 
 world. The rose color in her hair emphasized the darkness of 
 her eyes, which looked to the diplomat almost malicious. The 
 lips had the slight suggestion of hardness which comes to the 
 lips of so many women who are much in contact with social 
 life, a hardness which implies a soul on the defensive, a heart 
 that has learnt to be wary of ambush. A light irony flickered 
 surely on this face. And yet — the diplomat began to realize 
 that malice and irony could not be natural expressions of the 
 tall, slim, and still almost girlish woman who stood before 
 him. They spoke for a moment of Rome, of the skating. 
 Then Verrall said: 
 
 " My coming here must give pain to some people I'm afraid." 
 
 " Why ? " asked Lady Cannynge, with a slight lift of her 
 eyebrows. 
 
 " My predecessor was such a good fellow, I have heard, and 
 had staunch friends here." 
 
 " Oh — yes. But you cannot suppose anyone will be prej- 
 udiced against you on that account." 
 
 " Prejudices have their roots in strange ground. Will you
 
 2o8 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 be kind and tell me where Mrs. Denzil lives? She will be 
 the first person on whom I shall leave a card, with an expres- 
 sion of my sympathy." 
 
 " You will have to go out to Frascati." 
 
 "She has left Rome?" 
 
 " Yes. She is living at Frascati with her mother. But one 
 can get there in twenty minutes with a good motor. What did 
 we all do without motors? They have annihilated space. 
 Frascati is practically Rome now, which is, of course, delight- 
 ful for the people who live at Frascati. How lovely the view 
 is from the height above Tusculum. You have never seen it? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 *' You must. My husband thinks It one of the views of 
 the world. I am going to skate. Do come and see us. We 
 are in the Palazzo Barberini." 
 
 A young Italian spoke to her. People came up. Verrall 
 saw her dark and graceful head, crowned with the cleverly 
 arranged twists of bright rose-color, moving towards the music 
 and the scraping sound of the skates, her lips smiling as she 
 talked to her companion or to the many who greeted her on 
 her way. 
 
 " Surely," he thought, " I heard that Denzil was operated 
 upon, and died, in her apartment. It was in the Barberini, 
 I know." 
 
 There came to him, as more than once there had come to 
 him before, a sensation of unpleasant wonder at what seemed 
 the hardness inherent In many, perhaps in most, women. 
 
 " And why, in Heaven's name, do we need softness in them? " 
 he asked himself, " always softness ! " 
 
 " Mr. Verrall, let me present you to Princess Mancelli." 
 
 The Duchess was hospitably determined that the newcomer 
 should not pass a dull evening. 
 
 Meanwhile Dolores was joining the skaters. 
 
 For a fortnight after the death of Denzil she had gone 
 nowhere. She had attended the quiet funeral in the Protestant 
 cemetery outside Rome, where pilgrims go to stand at the foot 
 of the sad poet's grave. She had seen the sun shining through 
 the cypress trees upon the three small children dressed in black, 
 and, with tears, she had asked herself whether ever again she 
 would have faith and courage enough to pray to the mysteri- 
 ous God. She had remembered the words of a collect: "O 
 God, who declarest Thy Almighty power most chiefly in show- 
 ing mercy and pity," and she had repeated them mentally again
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 209 
 
 and again. " Are they true? Are they true? " she had said to 
 herself. And she had seen the sun shining through the cypress 
 trees upon those three little children dressed in black, upon 
 the mother who stood beside them, holding tightly the hand 
 of the tiniest. She had heard the dry sound of earth fall- 
 ing on the lid of the box which contained Francis Denzil — 
 or his body. Which? That hideous question had come to her 
 then. 
 
 And now, with rose-color in her hair, she was going towards 
 the Duchess's picture gallery to skate under the painted eyes 
 of dead Popes to the sound of a cake-walk. 
 
 How had she come to it? She knew, and yet sometimes It 
 seemed to her as if she did not really know. And afterwards 
 trying to look back, not only on the few days between Denzil's 
 funeral and the Duchess's skating party, but on the many days 
 that followed them, she said to herself, " I don't know. We 
 never really know." 
 
 For a fortnight few had seen her, and no one in the social 
 world. Then she had reappeared at a dinner given by the 
 Countess Boccara, to which Sir Theodore had been asked but 
 had not been able to come. 
 
 " Theo's in England," she had said, In reply to inquiries. 
 *' He had some business in London." 
 
 That seemed natural enough. Dolores did not say that Sir 
 Theodore was in London on a dead man's business. Two or 
 three people began to speak to her of the sad happenings in 
 her apartment. They did not continue. There had been an 
 expression in her eyes which had stopped them. It was re- 
 pellent. It was like the decisive shutting of a door. 
 
 *' She does not care to talk of it," people said. 
 
 But they did not understand why she did not care to talk 
 of It. 
 
 " She's an odd sort of a woman," one or two of them added. 
 
 And indeed from this time the feeling grew up and spread 
 In the Rome that knew, or knew of Dolores, that she was " an 
 odd sort of a woman." 
 
 Sir Theodore had returned from London two days after 
 the Countess Boccara's dinner, and from that time it was an 
 understood thing that he would take no part in the season. 
 
 " Theo's not going anywhere," Dolores said. " And we 
 shall not do any more entertaining this spring." 
 
 She did not add any reason, but every one of course under- 
 stood.
 
 210 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 This was a mark of respect to Denzil's memory. That 
 Lady Cannynge went out was also understood. It would be 
 very odd for a woman to give everything up on account of 
 the death of a man who stood in no relationship to her. Good 
 feeling and etiquette were both satisfied. And Dolores was 
 made much of by every one. The Romans felt that she had 
 passed through a sad time, and must be petted and helped to 
 forget it. Romans can be very staunch friends. Dolores was 
 liked, and now this general liking was markedly shown. 
 
 She seemed to respond, and almost with ardor, displaying 
 social qualities more vigorous, more brilliant, more determined 
 than any she had shown before. 
 
 " It's a pity," the little Boccara remarked. " Dolores Can- 
 nynge is coming out of her genre. I told her long ago what 
 it was. .Every woman who isn't a fool should know what her 
 genre is, and remain in it." 
 
 The little Boccara was not in the best of humors. For she 
 was — secretly, or so she thought — coming out of her own 
 genre. She was beginning to be jealous of her husband with 
 Mrs. Tooms. Mrs. Tooms was certainly the plainest of all 
 the ladies whom Nino believed himself to have loved. This 
 was, perhaps, the reason why the Countess began to be jealous. 
 And Nino had ceased from talking to his wife about Mrs. 
 Tooms. His reticence was a symptom which made all the 
 Frenchwoman bristle. Even the diminishing size of her waist 
 ceased from occupying her mind exclusively, and she began to 
 hate Mrs. Tooms, although she believed that the American was 
 " ridiculously respectable." Indeed if Mrs. Tooms had been 
 wicked Countess Boccara would have been less jealous of her. 
 The Countess knew this, but she did not know why it was. 
 
 When she left Verrall Dolores went into a corridor that ran 
 parallel with the picture gallery, and sat down on a long 
 settee, while the young Italian who had accompanied her, Mar- 
 chese Alarini, hurried off into the hall to find her a pair of 
 skates. For the moment there was no one in this corridor. 
 Every one who meant to skate was already skating. The bridge 
 players had made up their tables. Those who loved quiet con- 
 versation were scattered through the long series of immense 
 drawing-rooms, or were standing before the buffet. The rest 
 of the crowd were watching the skaters, who used the corri- 
 dor as a promenade when the band was silent. Alarini did 
 not come back immediately as Dolores had expected. She 
 leaned back and fidgeted with her fan.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 211 
 
 " Who declarest Thy Almighty power most chiefly in show- 
 ing mercy and pity." 
 
 Why should those words recur to her mind now? 
 
 The noise of the multitudes of skates on the marble was very 
 loud in her ears. It gave her an impression of violence rather 
 than of pleasure. She imagined the skaters, whose voices she 
 could hear breaking in disjointedly upon the heavy accented 
 music, turning perpetually upon their steps, covering perpetu- 
 ally the same ground, joyously advancing only to retreat. 
 Their buoyant movements suggested a setting out on some 
 glorious journey to an enticing unknown. But at the end 
 of the gallery there were only gossiping dowagers, staring and 
 commenting men. And there the skaters must turn and come 
 just as buoyantly back. She heard a fearful scrape, almost like 
 a cry, and a crash. Some one — two or three people perhaps — 
 had certainly fallen. But the music did not stop for a moment. 
 And the violinists seemed to dwell more heavily on the accents, 
 like tired people leaning. She wondered why she had come. 
 She did not want to skate. But she would skate, and already 
 she skated well. And perhaps later she would play bridge. 
 She had improved wonderfully in her play every one said. 
 There was soon to be a very smart bridge tournament in one 
 of the palaces. She was going in for it. She often played in 
 the afternoon now. Perhaps she would win if she drew a good 
 partner. The woman's prize was a jewel. It would be a 
 triumph to win that jewel. 
 
 She sighed, and looked down at her fan, turning it slowly 
 round and round in her hands. In a moment, while she made 
 this useless movement and as uselessly watched it, she knew 
 that some one was looking at her intently. She did not look up. 
 She asked herself who it was. And the answer came at once, 
 " It is Cesare Carelli." The quiet knowledge of a not im- 
 portant fact was within her. She looked up and met Carelli's 
 eyes. And immediately she knew that the fact was not unim- 
 portant. There was steady intention expressed in those black 
 eyes. Though it died out, or retreated instantly as she looked 
 up, so swiftly indeed that the disappearance almost coincided 
 with the slight lifting of her head, Dolores had perceived it 
 as certainly as she would have perceived a great and obsti- 
 nate figure which planted itself in her path. That the figure 
 stepped swiftly aside, vanished in forest depths, could not alter 
 the fact of its appearance before her, or the impression it left 
 with her.
 
 212 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 Cesare held in his left hand two pairs of skates. iWhen 
 Dolores looked up he came towards her, smiling. 
 
 " Why are you all alone, Lady Cannynge? " he asked. 
 
 He bent, took her hand, lifted it to his lips, and with those 
 lips touched it. Dolores felt his firm mouth through her glove. 
 
 " I am waiting for Emilio Alarini. He has gone to get my 
 skates." 
 
 " I saw him hunting for something in a distant hall. But 
 these are the last two pairs." 
 
 He held up the four skates, which knocked together with a 
 dry little sound. 
 
 "Did you tell him?" 
 
 " No. He did not tell me what he was searching for. It 
 m.ight be anything." 
 
 " Don't you think you ought to go now and let him know, 
 poor boy ? " 
 
 Her face had changed. She was smiling, and looked gay 
 and rather ironical. 
 
 " Emilio is very determined. He has been at Oxford, you 
 know, and has grafted the cold fixity of purpose of the English- 
 man upon the mercurial energy of the Northern Italian. It 
 would be a pity to stop up the channel in which his energy 
 is flowing. 'Besides, chi lo sa, he may commit an act of brigand- 
 age. Let me put on your skates." 
 
 " Are they for me ? " 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 He knelt down before her. 
 
 " Whom were they for? " Dolores asked. 
 
 She had not stretched out a foot. Cesare, on one knee, his 
 strong, broad-chested and hollow-backed body leaning away 
 from her as he looked into her face with his unselfconscious 
 eyes, paused before he replied: 
 
 ** I saw there were only two pairs left. I thought it wise 
 to take both. One never knows how soon an emergency may 
 arise. And here it is already." 
 
 "Well then " 
 
 She stretched out her left foot. He took it gently in his 
 hand and drew it down into one of the skates. While he did 
 this he was silent. So long as he was touching Dolores he 
 was silent, and so was she. Afterwards she thought of that. 
 At the moment this mutual silence was instinctive. When 
 both skates were on he got up, and sat beside her on the settee 
 to put on his. And immediately they began to talk.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 213 
 
 " Do you care for this rage? " he said, as he threw one leg 
 across his knee, and bent sideways to fasten a skate. 
 
 " It is a good exercise and it gives us all something to do." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 He put his foot down sharply, and tried the skate on the 
 floor. 
 
 " But there is something awfully artificial about it," he con- 
 tinued, beginning to attend to the other skate. " Skating by 
 electric light between popes and cardinals on mosaic floors under 
 Tiepolo ceilings! " 
 
 He tried the other skate, pushing his foot to and fro. 
 
 " We are incongruous here in Rome. But no one seems to 
 notice it. And I suppose it would be ridiculous to try to live 
 up to our palaces. I feel more at my ease in the open air. 
 I often wonder " — he looked into her face, which always had 
 in it something exotic — "whether any woman can care for 
 being out in the open as a man can. I don't suppose it is 
 possible." 
 
 *' Perhaps you don't wish it to be possible." 
 
 Although they were sitting with their skates on, and felt 
 unnatural, as the skater does when not in movement, or poised, 
 neither seemed inclined to join the crowd in the gallery just 
 behind them. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " I think men hug the idea that they have powers of enjoy- 
 ment which we don't possess." 
 
 " Which do you think enjoy life most, men or women ? " 
 
 " Men." 
 
 " I expect you are right. I should hate to be a woman." 
 
 The apparent calmness with which Carelli made that state- 
 ment filled Dolores with a sudden irritation. 
 
 "Why?" she asked, with a hint of sharpness. 
 
 " Probably because I can't imagine what it is like," he 
 answered gently, and smiling as if at himself. " I have not 
 enough imagination. And all my instinct is against what I 
 suppose appeals to women." 
 
 " And what is that? " said Dolores, disarmed and with genu- 
 ine curiosity. 
 
 He turned a little more towards her. 
 
 " Don't you want to be protected ? " 
 
 " I? " 
 
 " Women, I mean, to be watched over, waited on, to be 
 given things? "
 
 214 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " Perhaps we do." 
 
 " I want to take things for myself. I should hate to be 
 protected, waited on, except by a servant. I should hate to 
 be looked after. My idea of life is freedom, and I don't think 
 women are ever free. Besides, I don't even think they ought to 
 be. It seems to me against the nature of things for a woman 
 to be quite free." 
 
 The irritation of Dolores had quite died away. 
 
 " I daresay you are right," she said. " I don't believe we 
 ever long for freedom merely as an ideal state, as I suppose 
 men do. We may long to be free from some particular thing, 
 or person. But there it ends. Complete freedom would seem 
 to me a very lonely condition, I think." 
 
 For a moment her eyes rested on him with an expression of 
 contemplation that was searching and almost profound. 
 
 " And even for a man like you," she added. 
 
 At this moment with a loud chord the music stopped, and 
 people began to hobble into the corridor, laughing, talking, 
 stumbling, touching the walls, being helped along. Many sat 
 down with an abruptness that had nothing of grace. Some 
 hurried away, lifting high their feet and taking short steps, 
 in search of refreshments. 
 
 " How absurd we all look ! " said Dolores. 
 
 Her face had broken up into smiles. She nodded to several 
 of the skaters. Countess Boccara passed by, stepping daintily, 
 and holding on to a tall young Frenchman. She was a very 
 bad skater, and hated it, t'ut she wished to be in the fashion. 
 iWhen she had gone by, as if suddenly attracted by something 
 she turned her head, and, looking back, saw Dolores and Carelli. 
 Still holding fast to the young Frenchman, who was fair, ironic, 
 manicured, and slightly overdressed, and who held his head 
 a little on one side in a way that displeased other men, she 
 said: 
 
 " Dolores " — she had taken to calling Lady Cannynge by 
 her Christian name — "how late you are! Have you only just 
 put on your skates? Do stand still, Jules! " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Did you hear that crash just now? — Cesare, I want to 
 speak to you presently — Did you ? — Don't forget, Cesare." 
 
 "Yes. Who was "it?" 
 
 " Mrs. Tooms and Nino. They say she has made a dent in 
 
 the marble. Jules, if you don't stand still " Her feet shot 
 
 out and for a moment she presented herself to the company
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 215 
 
 almost in the form of an arch. But though no skater she was 
 as lithe as a monkey and made a clever recovery." 
 
 " A new figure! No one can do it but me! " she said, stand- 
 ing suddenly rigid. " Are you going to play in the tournament, 
 Dolores?" 
 
 " I believe so. Are you ? " 
 
 *' Of course. The Grand Duke insists on my being his 
 partner. Such a bore! He plays like — a royalty. Tons ces 
 Grands Dues ni'ennu'ient tellement! By the way is it really 
 true that you are going to spend all the summer near Rome ? " 
 
 " The summer ! Of course not. We always go away in the 
 summer. What could make you think so ? " 
 
 " I heard Sir Theodore was perpetually at Frascati trying 
 to find a villa." 
 
 " Absurd ! We are going to England for the summer." 
 
 " I felt sure it was a potin. I said I was certain Sir Theo- 
 dore didn't go to Frascati twice in the year. It's the sort of 
 place where Nino retires with Mrs. Tooms to spend a quiet 
 hour gazing at the tiresome old dome of St. Paul's — or do 
 I mean St. Peter's? — Help me, Jules! Ah! Marcantonio, take 
 my other arm." 
 
 She stepped carefully away, talking rapidly to the two young 
 men, and glancing about her for admirers. 
 
 "How pretty she is!" Dolores said, looking after her. 
 " That lovely red hair." 
 
 " Certainly she is pretty," Cesare answered. 
 
 Their eyes met for an instant, and Dolores felt certain that 
 the same thought had passed simultaneously through both their 
 minds. Emilio Alarini came hurrying up with a pair of skates 
 in his hand. He looked angry but as if he were trying not to 
 show his vexation, 
 
 "Impossible to find two pairs!" he exclaimed, in a gruff 
 but boyish voice. " I managed at last " — his eyes went to 
 the feet of Dolores. " You've got a pair ! You've been skat- 
 ing." 
 
 " I haven't begun yet. Now it's all right. We shall each 
 have a pair." 
 
 " But " — he stared hard at Cesare, who met his fiery, boyish 
 glance with the calm and determined eyes of a man who was 
 not accustomed to yield to other men. 
 
 The orchestra began to play once more. And it played the 
 barcarolle from the Contes d'lloffmann, which that season 
 was the best beloved tune of smart Rome. Instinctively Do-
 
 2i6 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 lores turned her head. Cesare fixed his eyes on the curve of 
 her long white neck. How almost exaggeratedly feminine it 
 was! He had known, he had been something like the prey of 
 a passionate woman for many years. Yet as he looked at Do- 
 lores he felt like the man who has never entered the secret gar- 
 den in which woman reveals to her appointed companion the 
 foundation truth of life. 
 
 " Then, shall I put on my skates? " almost stammered young 
 Alarini, still looking out of -the tail of his eye at Carelli. 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 Alarini shot a defiant glance at Cesare, and sat quickly down. 
 
 " I won't be a minute." 
 
 Cesare stood up and held out his hand to Dolores. 
 
 " It's difficult getting up. Let me help you." 
 
 She glanced up at him, but did not immediately put her hand 
 in his. Alarini almost furiously buckled on a skate. Cesare 
 looked steadily down at Dolores. She gave him her hand. 
 
 " Oh, but Lady Cannynge! " exclaimed Alarini. 
 
 He was bent over one foot. His forehead was flushed below 
 his thick and shining black hair, which shone almost like a 
 varnished boot. His hands worked quickly, but no longer effi- 
 ciently, on the other skate. 
 
 " Come and find me presently. I want to skate with you. 
 You skate so well," Dolores said to him, with gentle kindness. 
 " I shall be in the gallery." 
 
 "Oh, thank you! But " 
 
 She turned, and looking almost unnaturally slim and tall 
 raised up on her skates, she stepped slowly away helped by 
 Carelli. 
 
 " Damn ! " muttered Alarini to himself. 
 
 He had the mania for things English, and this utterance of 
 an English bad w^ord somewhat relieved his mind. But he 
 longed to challenge Cesare to a duel. And at the same time 
 he suddenly admired him immensely, and wished he were his 
 friend. What conquerors of women they would be! 
 
 As Dolores stepped into the gallery she felt very unhappy, 
 because she had yielded to Cesare's wish that she should skate 
 first with him. Not that such a trifle mattered ! And yet she 
 could not help feeling that it did matter very much because it 
 was a symptom of character. Even now there was time. She 
 need not begin to skate. But she would begin. She knew that. 
 She could not possibly help beginning. And Carelli gave her 
 his hand, and, exchanging their careful stepping movement for
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 217 
 
 the swinging elan that is a joy to healthy bodies, they struck 
 out together over the smooth marble. 
 
 Not many people as yet had returned to the gallery. But the 
 little Polish princess was already there, and as usual was 
 skating alone. She was almost a child, not tall, softly rounded, 
 plump, with a face like a joyous and very intelligent baby. 
 And, to her, skating was just an ecstasy. She gave herself to 
 it with a complete abandon that was almost startling. Never 
 would she hold any one's hand. She could not bear to be fet- 
 tered, and she knew that no one in Rome could skate as she 
 did. Half smiling, with her little round head, thickly covered 
 with strong brown hair, thrown back, she shot out in a great 
 curve to the left, in a great curve to the right, as if she saw 
 before her the shining ice tracks of a virgin world. Marble, 
 cardinals, popes, princes, Tiepolo ceilings, they did not exist 
 for her. Her bright eyes were nearly closed. Their light 
 seemed directed inward. Dolores and Cesare followed her and 
 kept their eyes upon her. And almost immediately Dolores 
 lost her feeling of unhappiness. It was as if she emerged from 
 a black room. But the door remained open behind her. And 
 she was aware of that, and knew that she would presently re- 
 turn to the room. 
 
 Meanwhile, however, she was out of it, and holding Cesare's 
 strong hand she followed the little princess. 
 
 Among those who were gathered at the end of the gallery 
 were the Princess Mancelli and the new Councillor of the 
 British Embassj^ Mr. Verrall had heard of the Princess as 
 one of the leaders of Rome. He thought it would be to his 
 advantage if he made a good impression upon her. She might 
 " put him up to the ropes " if she chose. And he found her 
 very agreeable. He knew nothing of her long connection with 
 Cesare Carelli, and now, as the music began again he said to her: 
 
 " How well Lady Cannynge skates! Can you tell me who 
 that man is with her?" 
 
 " His name is Carelli, Cesare Carelli. That is hi? mother 
 sitting over there by Princess Bartoldi. She is talking to a 
 thin old man, do you see? " 
 
 " Yes. I remember now I have heard of them. The Prin- 
 cess is English." 
 
 " Was English." 
 
 Verrall looked Interrogative. 
 
 " She is far more Italian now than any of us," said the 
 Princess, with a light Irony. " But it is a case of the Protes-
 
 2i8 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 tant converted to the Catholic Church. You know what I mean 
 by that, of course ? " 
 
 " Perfectly. And the son ! " 
 
 Dolores and Cesare swept by, turned, and went away with a 
 rush in the gathering crowd of the skaters. 
 
 "Cesare?" said the Princess, with an easy familiarity in 
 which there was not a hint of embarrassment. " He is a bon 
 enfant. Not very much in him, perhaps, but thoroughly bon 
 enfant. Men like him, I believe. Lady Cannynge is a charm- 
 ing creature." 
 
 " I should think, very." 
 
 " And she is coming out wonderfully." 
 
 "In what way exactly do you mean. Princess?" 
 
 " Well, she was always delicious. But she was rather like 
 an exotic flower that had a secret desire to lie in hiding. She 
 was very reserved, I think, in a sort of gentle, mysterious way. 
 But now she is more resolute, more definitely femme du monde. 
 She shows more marked social qualities than she used to. Look 
 how she skates. And she's developing into a capital bridge 
 player too. She's altogether more brilliant lately. Even in 
 the last few weeks she seems to have come on in an extra- 
 ordinary way. She may become quite a leader of the younger 
 cosmopolitan set if she likes, I should think. But this season 
 unfortunately she can't entertain, on account of her husband." 
 
 "That tragic business of my predecessor?" 
 
 " Yes. It seems that Sir Theodore was very devoted to his 
 friend, and that as the death took place actually in his apart- 
 ment he resolved to close it for the season to all gaieties. Lady 
 Cannynge receives, of course, but only in a very small way and 
 never at night." 
 
 " I understand Sir Theodore Cannynge's feeling." 
 
 " Yes, of course. So Lady Cannynge comes out to amuse 
 herself." 
 
 Again Verrall thought of the hardness of women. He did 
 not, however, think the Princess Mancelli hard. Somehow she 
 had managed to convey to him an impression that she agreed 
 with his secret feeling, that she, too, was wondering a little 
 at, if not actually condemning Lady Cannynge. 
 
 " It was a very sad affair," the Princess added. " There are 
 three small children and they seemed a very united family. 
 Indeed I'm afraid we used to make it almost a reproach to 
 Mr. Denzil in Rome that he was too domestic. You see in 
 diplomacy "
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 219 
 
 " Yes, I know what you mean." 
 
 And they drifted into a conversation in which they were both 
 very much at their ease. For Verrall was devoted to his 
 profession, and Princess Mancelli could have been the perfect 
 wife to a great diplomat. 
 
 " I must skate with Alarini now," said Dolores to Cesare. 
 " He is standing in the doorway, and looking as if I had done 
 him a deadly wrong." 
 
 Immediately Cesare began to skate more slowly. 
 
 " Do you want me to stop by him? " he asked. 
 
 " Oh no. Leave me somewhere and he will come to me." 
 
 "Among the dowagers?" 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " I will take you to my mother." 
 
 At that moment Cesare's voice sounded exactly as if it were 
 smiling. But when he spoke again the smile was certainly 
 gone. 
 
 " You remember our conversation about freedom ? " he said. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I think perhaps I gave you a wrong impression." 
 
 She turned her eyes towards his. And again she saw in his 
 the steady intention that was almost like a great and obstinate 
 figure standing in her path. This time, however, it did not 
 retreat. 
 
 " I told you I loved freedom. But I am not free. And 
 I don't even wish to be free. I will go and tell Alarini." 
 
 He left Dolores by his mother. 
 
 Cesare might be bon enfant, as Princess Mancelli affirmed, 
 but he had a good deal of the astuteness, by some called cun- 
 ning, which belongs to most Italians. 
 
 And so he left Lady Cannynge beside his mother. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 On the night of Duchess Miravanti's skating party Princess 
 Mancelli knew that Cesare loved Dolores Cannynge. She 
 could have given no good reason for her knowledge, perhaps in- 
 deed no reason at all. Months ago Montebruno had told her 
 that it was so. She had neither believed nor had she doubted 
 him. His statement had hardly affected her. She would not 
 take a man's word in such a matter. " If it is so I shall see
 
 220 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 for myself." Such had been her thought. Since then two or 
 three times she had seen Cesare with, or not far from, Lady 
 Cannynge. They were together at the Countess Boccara's din- 
 ner at the Grand Hotel. Their other meetings had been equally 
 fortuitous. At the Grand Hotel, when Schizzi was playing, 
 the Princess had become aware that Cesare admired Lady Can- 
 nynge very much. She had seen a strong admiration in his eyes. 
 But she knew young Italians very well. A good dinner, a 
 glass or two of champagne, Schizzi's way of performing, and 
 the nearest pretty and young woman might surely — the Prin- 
 cess had told herself — have called up that expression in Cesare. 
 Who knew as well as she what responses to sensual influences 
 there were In Cesare's nature? Perhaps she had been anxious 
 to trick herself, although she was a woman not at all given to 
 self-trickery. But now that she had seen Lady Cannynge and 
 Cesare joined together in an exercise the Princess had no 
 longer any doubts. Had they only made one round of the 
 Duchess's picture gallery she would have been certain. Not 
 just like that could Cesare have skated with any woman he 
 did not love. Not just like that could he have held her hand, 
 not just like that have been on the alert to respond to her 
 movements, to protect her from any chance of collision, to sup- 
 port her, firm but not iron-handed, if she slipped. There was 
 nothing in Cesare's face to tell the Princess. He had the self- 
 command of the well-bred, and never shy Italian. His body 
 had told her, and how she herself could not have said. Monte- 
 bruno had either been right, or he had somehow anticipated 
 a coming fact. She knew, and probably she was the only per- 
 son in all Rome who knew. For Montebruno had gone away 
 again to gamble at Monte Carlo. And as to Dolores Cannynge 
 — well, the Princess did not feel sure of her knowledge. 
 
 That was absurd perhaps. " A woman always knows such a 
 thing." 
 
 Nevertheless — after saying that to herself — the Princess 
 still did not feel sure about Lady Cannynge. 
 
 A woman docs not always know such a thing. The Prin- 
 cess was clever enough to distrust cliches, and to realize that 
 very pure women, as if by reason of their virtue, sometimes 
 have to forego certain mental privileges supposed to belong to 
 the whole sex. 
 
 As she drove home to the Palazzo Urbino the Princess hated 
 a man, and that man was Sir Theodore Cannynge. She had 
 not the feminine joy of being able to think him a fool, for
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 221 
 
 she supposed him in love with, and happy in the company of, 
 Edna Denzil. The little Boccara, whose sudden jealousy of her 
 husband and Mrs. Tooms seemed to have soured her whole na- 
 ture, had abruptly become hostile to " the most beautiful person 
 in Rome." The petting Dolores had received at the hands 
 of Rome — sympathetic since the death of Francis Denzil — 
 and the sudden vigor and success with which she had responded, 
 showing social qualities which were decisive, as well as those 
 which were merely graceful and charming, had quite changed 
 Countess Boccara's feelings towards her. She had felt almost 
 fond of the Dolores who was really indifferent to social success. 
 But a challenging woman, a woman who cared to succeed, 
 would find in her an instinctive enemy. 
 
 Countess Boccara, who heard of every trifle connected with 
 the doings of society in Rome, and of the people she thought 
 smart enough to know, had discovered that since the return 
 of Sir Theodore from England he motored out perpetually to 
 Frascati. " Twice and three times a day," some one had said. 
 And the Countess had sent this piece of news on its travels 
 through Rome, with a small addition of her ov/n, that Sir 
 Theodore meant to spend the summer at Frascati, and was try- 
 ing to rent one of the big villas with gardens there: " Why, no 
 one knows! " She had spoken of it to Princess Mancelli, who 
 had shown no interest, and had merely replied, " Frascati is 
 not at all bad after the middle of September, and even in the 
 height of summer it would be quite bearable in Villa Aldo- 
 brandini, or Villa Lancellotti." 
 
 " I doubt if Dolores will like the idea," the Countess had 
 said, with meaning. 
 
 And to this Princess Mancelli had answered nothing at all. 
 She had understood that for some reason Countess Boccara was 
 rejoicing over the supposed humiliation of one whom she called 
 her friend, and had felt a faint contempt, as she often did 
 for certain feminine qualities. 
 
 Now as she drove home through the dark and narrow street 
 to Palazzo Urbino she remembered Countess Boccara's words, 
 and she hated Sir Theodore. For she still believed that Do- 
 lores loved him. 
 
 *' Always at Frascati ! " What worse than fools men were ! 
 As the carriage turned in at the gate of the drive, and mounted 
 the short hill to the arcade of the palace, the Princess felt the 
 hot blood stir round her heart. She burned with the desire 
 to be able to rule Sir Theodore, to be able to order his goings
 
 222 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 out and his comings in. As she got out it seemed to her that 
 she saw a traveling cloud of white dust moving swiftly across the 
 Campagna. And it was the companion of a motor that was 
 rushing to Frascati. 
 
 She went slowly up the great staircase, with her gown trail- 
 ing behind her. She was aware that the sense and the horror 
 of loneliness had grown within her, that to-night they were 
 almost unbearable. Her heart sank as she stood by the great 
 door which led into her apartment, and thought of the empty 
 rooms beyond. " No woman is meant to live alone," she 
 thought. The door was opened and she passed in. 
 
 " Cesare loves Lady Cannynge." 
 
 Her maid, an elderly, corrugated and broad-bosomed Italian, 
 who had been with her since she was a child, and who lived 
 respectfully, devotedly, and intimately in her life, took away 
 her wrap. 
 
 " In a few minutes, Nanna — Nannina," she said. 
 
 " Eccellenza, si ! " 
 
 " Don't call me Eccellenza — to-night," the Princess ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 "Ma——" 
 
 The Princess put her cheek against the wrinkled temple of 
 Nanna. 
 
 " I'll come almost directly, I won't keep you up long." 
 
 Nanna went away, shaking her head. She had no real moral 
 sense but that of love. In her eyes her princess stood above and 
 apart from all other living creatures. No such thing as vice 
 could be in her princess. She bitterly resented the defection of 
 the " Principino." And yet she was thoroughly respectable, 
 very devout, and strictly moral in her own behavior. She was 
 even extremely severe on any lapse among persons in her 
 own class of life. " People shouldn't do such things!" was a 
 favorite saying, and often on her lips. Personal devotion 
 destroyed in her all reason. Love made such havoc of pro- 
 priety in Nanna that she had repeatedly besieged the Ma- 
 donna with prayers for the return to her princess of the " Prin- 
 cipino." 
 
 When Nanna was gone. Princess Mancelli sat down on one 
 of the immense sofas in the room where she had talked one 
 day with Dolores. How horribly large and lonely it seemed 
 to-night, and how silent! And loneliness was before her in 
 the long and dark hours of the night. She was sick at heart. 
 But something else was sick within her — her pride.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 223 
 
 Again and again she saw the two skaters pass before her. 
 She saw the body of Cesare which in some strange and subtle 
 way had told her a dreadful truth. She heard the pretty Bar- 
 carolle from Contes d'Hoffmann. To her — for she was 
 very Italian in most of her tastes — it seemed expressive of 
 sentiment, even of the languors of genuine passion. It made 
 scenes rise up before her. 
 
 Was Dolores Cannynge une petite chattef The Prin- 
 cess had wondered. But no, she did not really believe it. It 
 was strange that Dolores almost attracted her, that when she 
 looked at Dolores she was nearly always conscious of a feeling 
 of pity, such as one may feel for a child who is destined to 
 sorrow. There was something grotesque in the idea of her 
 pitying Dolores Cannynge. iWhat must be Dolores Cannynge's 
 feeling for her? 
 
 Through all these months the Princess had been holding in 
 quiescence the turbulent depths of her nature. She had been 
 making a powerful and continuous effort. At the end of her 
 liaison with Cesare Carelli there had been terrible scenes. The 
 Princess had not allowed her lover to go without desperate 
 efforts to keep him. Afterwards she knew that she had humbled 
 herself to the dust. But at the time she had acted instinctively, 
 had given the reins to her nature, had been careless of every- 
 thing before Cesare. She had been like a mad creature and 
 she had not scrupled to let him know it. If, when he finally 
 left her, he had gone to another woman, the Princess might 
 have committed an act of violence. And she knew it. But 
 he had not done that. He had simply chosen to resume his 
 complete freedom. He had realized that he was in servitude, 
 and he had had the cold strength to break out of it. The 
 Princess and he had measured their wills, and Cesare's had 
 conquered. 
 
 Since that triumph the Princess had secretly loved Cesare 
 more passionately, and differently. She had loved him as one 
 over whom for years she had dominion, but who now had do- 
 minion over her. She knew that now she was in soul Cesare's 
 creature, in soul the creature of a man who loved another 
 woman. 
 
 All these months she had held herself in. When the rup- 
 ture was an accomplished fact, when she had no more hope, 
 then she had returned to herself, had summoned the pride she 
 had flung to the winds, had tried to entrench herself in it. 
 She had gone off alone to Switzerland, had joined a party of
 
 224 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 French friends, had kept herself well en vue. She had, as 
 it were, run up the flag to the naast-head. 
 
 And ever since she had kept it flying. She had braved the 
 pity of Rome. And not one woman had been let into her con- 
 fidence. Not one woman had been allowed to see anything of 
 what she was feeling — ■ unless it were Dolores on that day 
 just before Pacci came. Then, perhaps, by accident, for a 
 moment the Princess had shown a shadow of the truth, when 
 she spoke about bridge. But she had doubted at the time, and 
 doubted now, whether Lady Cannynge had thought anything 
 of it. All these months she had held herself in. But — now ? 
 
 While she had been standing with the new Councillor of the 
 British Embassy, and talking gaily about diplomacy, she had 
 for a moment envisaged a future in which she might be as she 
 had never been, might act as she had never thought to act. 
 She envisaged that future now as she sat alone, forgetful of 
 Nanna, who in the big bedroom close by was getting things 
 ready for the night, and muttering maledictions against the 
 " Principino." 
 
 If Sir Theodore Cannynge continued going to Frascati, and 
 if Dolores Cannynge changed — what then ? 
 
 Changed ! Princess Mancelli, like all women who succeed in 
 her world, was a keen reader of character, an instinctive psy- 
 chologist. Her conclusions about people were rapidly come to 
 and were seldom indeed wrong. But Dolores remained oddly 
 mysterious to her. Perhaps the truth was that the Princess 
 was puzzled, even baffled, by the natural sincerity and innocence 
 which belonged to Dolores, and which sometimes had troubled, 
 even almost angered Dolores herself, because they had some- 
 times made her feel painfully apart from the world she gener- 
 ally moved in. Nov/ and then the Princess was on the edge of 
 divining this nature, then again she said to herself, " It's im- 
 possible. We women aren't like that, cannot remain like that, 
 in our way of life." And she feared to be what she called 
 iouee by Dolores. It was so dangerous to believe in any one. 
 
 The rupture with Cesare had made Princess Mancelli se- 
 cretly uncertain of herself, and not only with men but also with 
 women. It had struck a deadly blow at her self-esteem, and, 
 so, had weakened her. For she was not one to build a temple 
 on the ruined foundations of a house that had been dedicated 
 to secret pleasures. She no longer trusted her intellect because 
 she had ceased to trust her heart. How Cesare's desertion 
 had weakened her ! She wished she knew how to hate him.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 225 
 
 Nanna looked round the door, with the eyes of a sorceress, 
 yet anxiously. The Princess did not hear her, but felt that 
 she was there. Nanna, and all she would do, were the prelude 
 to the long hours of the lonely night. 
 
 When the Princess got up from the sofa, and turned round, 
 Nanna was quite alarmed by her pallor, the expression of misery 
 about her eyes, and the exhaustion in her movements. 
 
 "Ma — donna!" Nanna said, laying an almost terrified 
 stress upon the first syllable. 
 
 She hurried fonvard, with her respectful gait. 
 
 " Poveretta! " she almost bleated. "You are too tired!" 
 
 " Yes, Nannina, I am very tired to-night," said the Princess. 
 She longed to cry. But she knew too well what crying would 
 mean for her; a tempestuous outburst in which rage would be 
 mingled with sorrow. And she did not dare to cry. 
 
 "How I hate all these parties! How I hate them!" she 
 said, when she was in the bedroom. 
 
 " But it is there you go to take 3'our pleasure ! " protested 
 Nanna. " And what would they do in Rome without my 
 Principessa? " 
 
 " Nobody wants me! Nobody wants me! " the Princess an- 
 swered. 
 
 Again she saw the skaters pass by. The tears rushed into 
 her eyes. 
 
 " Make haste, Nanna! " she said. "All these horrible silly 
 things!" 
 
 She threw her jewels down almost violently on the dress- 
 ing-table. 
 
 " Leave them — put them away to-morrow." 
 
 "Ma Eccellenza " 
 
 " To-morrow — to-morrow ! Turn out the light, quickly." 
 
 As Nanna went off to her bed she was in a state of strong 
 agitation. She cursed the Principino. Whom could he ever 
 find equal to her Principessa? She resolved to make one last 
 attempt to soften the heart of the Madonna. Perhaps she, 
 Nanna, had not put forward the sadness of her mistress with 
 sufficient detail, sufficient eloquence. She lifted her heavily- 
 veined and big- jointed hand, signed herself, and made a vow 
 to try once more. One never knew! 
 
 In the morning the Princess wrote to Montebruno who was 
 staying in lodgings in Nice. 
 
 The connection between the Princess and Montebruno was 
 a not unusual one in Italy, but in one respect it was exceptional.
 
 226 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 The Montebruno family were, It might also be said, hered- 
 itary friends of the family of Torquemara to which the Prin- 
 cess belonged. For more years than most Romans could re- 
 member Torquemaras and Montebrunos had stood by each other, 
 and stood up for each other, sometimes against all reason, some- 
 times even against all right. 
 
 "They are our friends!" That was considered by either 
 family to be an all-sufKcient reply to any charge, however well- 
 founded, against the other. And individuals were covered by 
 a similar cloak of charity. The father of the Princess, Prince 
 Torquemara, a man of the strictest rectitude, put his principles 
 in his pocket without hesitation for the sake of a Montebruno. 
 On one occasion Enrico Montebruno, a cousin of Giorgio, the 
 Princess's ally, who had behaved abominably in a money mat- 
 ter, had cheated his wife's family, and had been publicly ex- 
 posed in a resounding processo, presented himself at Prince 
 Torquemara's palace when the Prince was giving a luncheon 
 party. All Rome had cut him owing to his disgraceful con- 
 duct. But the Prince, as soon as the name was announced, 
 ordered another place to be laid at the table, and received the 
 unexpected visitor with perfect cordiality. An Englishman of 
 high rank who was present, a near relation of Princess Torque- 
 mara, afterwards ventured to express his amazement that a 
 swindler was made welcome to Palazza Torquemara. 
 
 " We know nothing about that," was the Prince's reply. 
 " He is a Montebruno and our friend." 
 
 Thus any Montebruno was likely to be a friend of Princess 
 Mancelli. But there was another reason, a more strange and 
 romantic one, for the intimacy between her and this ruined 
 gambler. 
 
 Montebruno, who now looked as if no gentle feeling of 
 humanity could ever have been housed In his bosom, had had a 
 passion for Princess Mancelli. It had been the only passion 
 of his life except the mania for play. The Princess had not 
 returned it, and had never permitted Montebruno to hope for 
 any return. Although not a woman of any high moral sense 
 she was a woman who knew how to respect her own power of 
 loving. Apart from her husband Cesare Carelli was the only 
 man who had been Intimately in her life. But she had known 
 how to keep Montebruno by her refusal. Egotist, cynic, piti- 
 lessly selfish though he was, and concentrated on that direst 
 and most unamlable of all the vices — the passion for gaining 
 money without giving anything in return — he had a hidden
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 227 
 
 shrine. And in it was cherished a curious devotion for Prin- 
 cess Mancelh'. He was the Princess's confidante. He had 
 stood aside and, not unchivalrously, had been patient during 
 the years of her love for Cesare. If he were jealous he had 
 not shown it. When that connection ended in disaster for 
 the Princess, only he had known the despair and the fury that 
 consumed her. And it was then, when Cesare left her, that 
 Montebruno awoke to a sort of slow-burning hatred of Cesare. 
 He did not show it. He seldom, or never, showed any real 
 feeling. And Cesare had no suspicion of it. But it would have 
 been a satisfaction to Montebruno to kill in a duel the man 
 who had dared to break away from Lisetta IMancelli. Such a 
 rejection seemed to leave a scar — was it on his pride, or on 
 the curious, but implacable affection that had succeeded his 
 passion ? 
 
 The Princess relied on this affection more than she was 
 even aware. It was like a cold rock to which she could 
 cling, and which she knew would never crumble. She trusted 
 Montebruno as she trusted no other human being, unless 
 it were perhaps poor old Nanna with her petitions to the 
 Madonna. 
 
 In this friendship there were strange reciprocities. Two 
 prides had melted in the dull glow of its embers. By its light 
 two passions had been disclosed in their nakedness. Monte- 
 bruno knew all that the Princess had suffered from her love 
 for Cesare. The Princess knew all the misery brought upon 
 Montebruno by his insatiable mania for the tables. So deep 
 did her knowledge penetrate, so completely had Montebruno's 
 jJride melted, that one rumor at least of Rome was true. 
 Princess Mancelli had on more than one occasion paid up 
 Montebruno's losses. There was surely little more that either 
 could do for the other in proof of friendship! Each had given 
 the sacred hostage of degradation, the Princess when she let 
 Montebruno look upon her as she lay humbled in the very dust, 
 Montebruno when he permitted a woman to fill the purse that 
 was empt)'-. 
 
 The link between these two personalities was strong. It 
 had been tempered by misery and tested by shame. And it had 
 become much stronger since the Princess had been encompassed 
 by loneliness. Montebruno knew that he was a slave. Since 
 the Princess's rupture with Cesare he knew that she, too, was 
 a slave. She had entered his community. He was a clever 
 man. He was even a decidedly intellectual man. But for
 
 228 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 his vice he might have been of value to his country. But his 
 vice vi^as withering his mind as a disease withers a body. He 
 was becoming like a sapless leaf. All the energies of his life 
 were concentrated upon one thing, and when by circumstances 
 he was separated from that thing a sort of relapse, that almost 
 resembled a dying, took place within him. Apart from gam- 
 bling only in relation to the affairs of Princess Mancelli did 
 he show any vital interest, any determination and strong ac- 
 tivity. At her call there resounded within this hollow cavern 
 of a soul an answer. To the summons of any other there was 
 no reply, except the deep silence which is less human than 
 refusal. 
 
 At Nice, in his uncomfortable lodgings, Montebruno re- 
 ceived the letter in which the Princess told him that he had 
 been right, that Cesare loved Lady Cannynge. 
 
 It was a long letter, an outpouring from one who had no 
 other confidante. While the Princess had been writing it 
 Nanna had been on her knees before a certain Madonna in the 
 Church of the Gesii. So, in their different ways, two women 
 looked to Providence. 
 
 Montebruno, in a dirty old dressing-gown, sitting near the 
 window which looked into a back street of Nice, read carefully 
 every word of the Princess. She had a habit of joining words 
 and letters one to another by lines, which resembled the cross- 
 ing of t's prolonged. This made her writing look unusually 
 symmetrical and strongly characteristic, but difficult to read. 
 The sun was shining, but Montebruno had to get his eyeglasses 
 before he could make out all that she had put down on the gray, 
 crinkly paper, with the little coronet in gold, and the mono- 
 gram L. M. at the top. As he sat there, without a collar, and 
 with his lean and yellow neck exposed, he was more like a 
 weary bloodhound than even when he had sat at Countess 
 Boccara's dinner-table. In his long-nailed fingers, which were 
 dried up and thin, and which looked predatory, he held the pa- 
 per high. Slowly he turned the sheet. His tall forehead was 
 alive with shifting lines, although he was not talking. The 
 big lobes of his large and pendulous ears showed almost trans- 
 parent as the sun fell on them. He moved his lips with a 
 faint, munching sound. Very much alone he looked, as no 
 human being can ever look when there is another within his 
 view. His strained and bloodshot eyes had a piteous and yet 
 a ruthless expression as he read and reread the long letter. 
 
 On a table near his tumbled bed stood his black coffee get-
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 229 
 
 ting cold, with a liqueur glass full of brandy beside it. At last 
 he remembered, emptied the contents of the glass into the cup, 
 and sipped. He made an ugly face as the tepid mixture touched 
 his mouth, drawing back his flexible lips, and showing his long 
 yellow teeth. By nature he was an epicure. Only his domi- 
 nating vice induced him to live in such lodgings, to drink such 
 coffee. (The brandy was his own and was good.) He had 
 not even a valet. Presently he laid the letter down, pulled 
 the gray and blue striped dressing-gown, which had fallen open, 
 mechanically about him, held it tightly, and sat there in the 
 sunshine, with the lines darting about in his forehead and his 
 eyes staring at the floor. 
 
 Lisetta had helped him with money to Indulge in his vice. 
 How was he going to help her ? 
 
 Certainly not by praying to the Madonna. Montebruno 
 had no belief in a merciful God or a future life. He did not 
 even desire to believe in either. He was interested in scien- 
 tific progress, so far as he could be interested in anything that 
 was not gambling. But he saw no reason in man for a future 
 existence. For humanity he had a great contempt. Even in 
 his love he had not discovered a need of religion, or a thirst for 
 something beyond the woman he had loved. 
 
 In her letter, which was a veritable outpouring — almost 
 the equivalent of those tears in which she had not indulged — 
 the Princess had exposed the raw of her soul. She could never 
 forgive, though she might adore, Cesare for abandoning her. 
 But if the break between them was followed by his entering 
 into some suitable engagement with a young girl, who was in a 
 good position, and had a copious dot, her pride would be at 
 least partially safeguarded. In time, with her influence, and 
 her self-possessed cleverness, she would be able to create and 
 diffuse the legend that she had " made Cesare marry." In 
 time, if that were to happen, an impression might follow, and 
 grow up, that she had done this because she had got tired of 
 Cesare. Her ever-smarting pride longed desperately for as- 
 suagement, though it showed no trace of its gaping wound ex- 
 cept to Montebruno. And what she had seen at Duchess 
 Miravanti's had terrified her pride. 
 
 " If Cesare marry I can bear it," she wrote. " But if — 
 I can't bear that. I should be the laughing stock of Rome. 
 Everybody expects him to marry, thinks he meant to marry. I 
 feel it, I know it. Nobody says anything to me, but it is in
 
 230 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 the air. His horrible mother of course says he has no thought 
 of marrying. But that means nothing. She and his father 
 are both longing for him to take a wife. You know her so 
 well. Can't it be managed? Can't you do anything? Oh, 
 Giorgio, I will not endure that it should be known in Rome 
 that he left me for another irregular relation. That would 
 simply prove to everybody that he threw me away, got rid of 
 me — of Lisetta Mancelli! — that he had no desire to marry, 
 but that he was sick and tired of me. If he marries I can still 
 save the situation. He must marry. He must. I have not 
 slept all night. By the way, when he had finished skating with 
 her, he left her beside his mother. What do you think of that? 
 For a moment it almost made me fancy that perhaps he didn't 
 really — but it's no use. When a woman knows a thing of 
 that kind it is so. She is developing amazingly. But I cannot 
 understand her. My instinct tells me she is a good little thing. 
 Unfortunately she is interesting, too. How rare that combi- 
 nation is! So rare that perhaps I am wrong and she is really 
 une petite chatte. I have thought of that, too. She puzzles me. 
 People in Rome are beginning to say she is " an odd sort of 
 woman." But I think she is more admired than before. La 
 petite jalouse est tout bonnement furieuse! Tell me what can 
 be done, what you can do. Or, better still, come to Rome. 
 Cannot you leave your demon for two or three days to help me 
 with mine? You know Baronessa Vitragli, the Bostonian. 
 She had a reception to which I went two nights ago to meet a 
 Buddhist monk. He gave a lecture on the joys of Nirvana. 
 And what do you think his definition of Nirvana was? * Nir- 
 vana means the extinction of individual emotion, thought, sen- 
 sation, — the annihilation of everything that can be included 
 under the term " I," the final disintegration of conscious per- 
 sonality.' 
 
 *' What a joy to seek after! Gran Diof 
 
 " Her husband is forever at Frascati. You know why. And 
 can you believe it ? — that poor Denzil — so everj'body Is be- 
 ginning to say — actually left the children to his care, as guard- 
 ian. Are not the English impayable? 
 
 " Giorgio, can you — can you come ? — Lisetta." 
 
 And that night, but only after a long struggle with himself, 
 Montebruno forsook his demon, left the dingy lodgings in the 
 back street of Nice, and started in the express for Rome.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 231 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 The shock of her husband's death changed Edna Denzil. One 
 part of her nature, the mother-part, it deepened, made richer, 
 finer, warmer than it had been before. Her tenderness, her 
 love for her children increased, became a passion, now that the 
 care of a father was snatched forever from them. The power 
 of devotion in her which had been dispersed, which had done 
 so much work in the world quietly for her Franzi, as well as 
 in the home for her children, was now almost fiercely concen- 
 trated. She was the mother-bird with outstretched wings 
 brooding over the nest in which were her 3^oung ones. But 
 no woman is all mother. The Edna Denzil the Roman world 
 had known and been charmed by was not softened, not im- 
 proved by suffering. She was even, perhaps, a little warped. 
 And yet the change was not unnatural, was almost inevitable. 
 She had been an exceptional woman, exceptionally sweet-tem- 
 pered, free from all jealousies, from feminine pettinesses, and 
 feminine arts of attack and defense. But she had been excep- 
 tionally happy. And she had always been conscious of wearing 
 the protective armor in which a strong man's complete love 
 clothes the woman he loves. For years she had envied no 
 woman. Possessed of a nature which clung instinctively to 
 the essential things of life, she cared nothing for life's trap- 
 pings, and was incapable of the small jealousies of women, 
 jealousies connected with money matters, clothes, good looks, 
 worldly success, men. But she was capable of envy, and now 
 that Denzil was dead she knew it. Bitterly, fiercely, she en- 
 vied every woman who had at her side a strong man to love 
 and protect her. In the deep waters of her soul strange weeds 
 floated up and showed themselves sometimes like shadows. 
 
 The change in Edna Denzil was sharply traced in the trans- 
 formation of her feeling towards Dolores. One thing she had 
 to forgive her Franzi, the keeping from her of the knowledge 
 of his fatal illness until the eve of the operation. She forgave 
 him. But she could not forgive Dolores for having known of 
 it before she did, for having prepared everything for the ill 
 man's comfort while she, his wife, did not know he was ill, for 
 having consulted with doctor and nurse, discussed possibili- 
 ties, hopes, fears, while she, in blank ignorance, concerned her- 
 self with the preparations for a children's party. So long as 
 Franzi was alive the whole matter seemed subtly different.
 
 232 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 And she could bear it. She could write that note thanking 
 Dolores, could allow Dolores to kiss her, could be moved by 
 her kiss. If Franzi had recovered from the operation she could 
 have borne it. But when the coffin containing his body went 
 down into the pit beneath the cypress trees her heart cried, " I 
 can't bear it ! " Under her veil she looked across the open 
 grave at Dolores, and she felt as if she hated her. She was 
 shocked at herself, condemned herself, almost hated herself for 
 the feeling. She fought with it, but she did not overcome it 
 entirely. There remained with her a dreadful distaste for 
 Dolores, 
 
 That distaste threw a shadow upon the life of Dolores. 
 From distant Frascati far across the Campagna it fell, and lay 
 upon a palace in Rome. 
 
 Immediately after the death of her husband Mrs. Denzil and 
 her children left the flat in the Via Venti Settembre, the home 
 of the happy days, and removed to Frascati. The noise and 
 the bustle of a city had become terrible to the widow. Sounds 
 that had hitherto fallen cheerfully upon her ears were now 
 hideous to them. The shock she had undergone had affected 
 her body as well as her mind, and for a long while — so she 
 afterwards believed — she was not physically normal. 
 
 She fled across the Campagna. Always afterwards that re- 
 moval remained in her memory as a flight from a city that had 
 changed, from a dreadful city. Between her and it she put 
 the great plain that was almost like a stricken sea dividing her 
 from a lost happiness. 
 
 Mrs. Massingham, Edna's widowed mother, had for some 
 time been established in Frascati in a comfortable pension — 
 she liked pensions — looking towards Rome. But she now 
 hastened to move into an apartment big enough to contain her, 
 her daughter and grandchildren. She selected the upper part 
 of a house in the Viale Giuseppe Ponzi as the new home. 
 
 This viale is reached by a flight of steps descending at the 
 left of the broad tree-shaded walk which runs parallel to the 
 road by which carriages gain the Piazza Romana. It is quiet, 
 almost deserted in appearance, and consists of a broad terrace 
 with two or three houses on the right. On the left the ground 
 drops sharply beyond a wall to the open space before the small 
 railway station. The terrace turns at right angles, and is hid- 
 den behind a gaunt "and ugly " Magazzino di Carbone," which 
 is the last house in the row. Beyond the end of the terrace 
 looms up a great yellow building with a tower, cutting the view
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 233 
 
 from that point. But Mrs. Massingham, though not specially 
 enamored of nature, had — because rooms were sufficiently spa- 
 cious, and not too expensive — selected an abode from the win- 
 dows of which a great prospect was to be seen. The upper part 
 of the house, which now belonged to her and her daughter, was 
 composed of two stories. The rooms in the top story opened on 
 to a terrace, or hanging garden, which was the roof of a large 
 loggia with pillars below. This loggia, the walls and ceiling 
 of which were tinted a deep red, was closed in at the two ends 
 by towers containing rooms. Other chambers opened by French 
 windows into the loggia, which was arranged as a sort of family 
 and general sitting-room. Here, when the weather was not too 
 cold, the children could play. Here Edna Denzil could work, 
 attend to her business, or sit looking out over the Campagna 
 towards that Rome which had seen her great happiness and the 
 end of it. And here, too, Mrs. Massingham could read light 
 literature, embroider, play patience, sing stornelli and May 
 songs to the grandchildren, or talk to them, the servants, or any 
 visitors who sought her out in what she called her casa di Cam- 
 pagna. At first she missed the pension, where she had encoun- 
 tered a good many forestieri who had sometimes amused her. 
 But she was soon taken thoroughly by the new domesticity. She 
 learnt, as good grandmothers learn without difficulty, to con- 
 centrate on her little descendants. Women love to be needed. 
 Mrs. Massingham had the joy of presently realizing that 
 " Nonna " could still be of some use in the world, was some- 
 times wanted, filled a special place, and was even of importance. 
 Warmly she threw herself into the task of qualifying as a first- 
 class necessity. 
 
 Mrs. Massingham w^as not a remarkable woman, but she 
 was a woman who had always been liked, had had warm friends, 
 and deserved them by her kindness and open nature. She be- 
 longed to a good Old family of Lombardy, the family of Villa- 
 ferato, who had a seat near Varese, and a house in Milan. But 
 her dot had not been a large one when she married Henry 
 Massingham, and his English estate and most of his money had 
 gone to a son of his by a former wife. On his death his widow 
 had returned at once to her native land. She was rather bron- 
 chial, and thought herself far more bronchial than she was. 
 The climate of England, therefore, made no strong appeal to 
 her. And when Denzil was given the post of Councillor to 
 the British Embassy she had removed from Cadenabbia, where 
 she had been living, to Frascati. Rome made her feel blood-
 
 234 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 less, she always declared. Otherwise she would have settled 
 there. Frascati had good air, and its prices were much smaller 
 than those of Rome. Mrs. Massingham, therefore, had made 
 the best of things on the hill above the Campagna. And now 
 she had her reward. At a critical moment, a moment of trag- 
 edy and sorrow, four human beings fled to her. She rose to 
 the task and occasion. 
 
 In appearance she was not unlike a handsome owl of the 
 brown species. She had a rather round face, thick brown eye- 
 brows which arched themselves over round and yellow brown 
 eyes, a short nose, small full-lipped mouth, and round, com- 
 fortable looking chin. She appeared to possess a great deal of 
 hair, brown in color with a few fleeting suggestions of gray 
 here and there, and she wore it in such a way as to make her 
 head look large and round. Her hands were beautiful, and 
 she had known that they were ever since she had known any- 
 thing. She had an agreeable, slightly muffled voice, and a habit 
 of blinking and of suddenly enlarging her eyes when she was 
 talking. What her age was she did not happen to mention to 
 any living person. She looked not more than sixty, and was 
 growing stout. But this fact did not detract from her charm 
 and rather added to her dignity, for she bore herself as one who 
 deliberately intended not to remain slight, considering such a 
 condition of body as wholly unsuitable to a gentlewoman of 
 middle age. She was singularly unlike her daughter Edna. 
 
 Having abandoned the joys of the pension, and taken to a 
 new way of life, Mrs. Massingham set herself to make a suc- 
 cess of it. She showed unwonted energy in getting things into 
 order and making the most of the accommodation at the dis- 
 posal of herself and the Denzils. The death of her son-in-law 
 had surprised and shocked her very much. She had been very 
 fond of Francis. But either she was a philosopher, or else she 
 had known enough of the chances of life to be prepared for any 
 event. For she showed in this painful time a complete self- 
 possession, and a sort of soft resignation, which were no doubt 
 of help to her daughter, but which nevertheless made Edna 
 feel that she could never let her mother know what havoc grief 
 works in strong natures. 
 
 " Mamma wouldn't understand." 
 
 Edna said this to the only person who, she felt, indeed she 
 knew, could understand, to Franzi's friend of friends, Sir Theo- 
 dore. She bore no ill-will to Sir Theodore because he had 
 known from the first of Franzi's condition. Mysterious sex
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 235 
 
 spoke in her, and proclaimed that fact natural. Of course 
 Franzi told his greatest chum. Of course the two men con- 
 sulted together about her, the woman. Nor did Edna Denzil 
 ever think of visiting upon Sir Theodore her secret jealousy — 
 for it came to that — at the thought of her days of ignorance, 
 Dolores' days of knowledge. Yet Sir Theodore had told Dolo- 
 res. She blamed no one, but she could not endure the thought 
 of Dolores having known, and she could endure the thought 
 of Sir Theodore's having known. And after her husband's 
 death, side by side with the dawning of her deep distaste for 
 Dolores, there grew in her a much deeper regard for Sir Theo- 
 dore than she had ever felt before. 
 
 Their actions seemed to prove her right, not that she cared 
 about that consciously one way or the other. Edna was very 
 much a woman and knew how to be unreasonable. And she 
 did not see how her different mental attitudes towards the hus- 
 band and wife would be likely to affect their mental attitudes 
 towards her. When the funeral was over, and the Denzils 
 removed to Frascati, Dolores was the first woman friend to 
 drive out from Rome and call upon them. She was received. 
 It chanced that little Theo met her at the door. She sat with 
 Edna and Mrs. Massingham in the confusion of the not yet 
 arranged loggia. She felt genuinely full of deep sympathy, and 
 held two sorrows, her sorrow for Edna, her prophetic sorrow 
 for one not Edna. She tried to be natural, simple, to show 
 what she felt. But almost instantly she knew that would be 
 impossible. Edna would not have it so. The woman Dolores 
 had kissed, had heard whispering against her shoulder, the 
 woman who had written the note she herself could never have 
 v/ritten, was no longer there. Instead there was surely the 
 woman Dolores could, nay, must have been, had her circum- 
 stances been as Edna's were. Dolores understood that woman. 
 As she sat with her trying to talk gently, naturally, trying 
 hard to be her best self, she was hideously conscious of irrev- 
 ocable things. The weeds in the deep waters! The weeds 
 in the deep dark waters! Like shadows she saw them ris- 
 ing and withdrawing. " And mine ! " she thought. ** And 
 
 mme 
 
 Mrs. Massingham, blinking and then enlarging her hand- 
 some eyes, earnestly thanked her for all that she had done, 
 twisting and turning the sword round in her daughter's wound. 
 And a sort of darkness came into the white cheeks of Dolores. 
 She was conscious of a kind of despair and a kind of heavy anger.
 
 236 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 Never would she forget the aspect of the loggia on that day, a 
 warm, still, but melancholy day, cloudy and gray and full of 
 presage. Some brown basket-work chairs stood about. These 
 were covered with dull red cushions. Some pots with plants 
 were ranged In a row not far from an angle. They were to 
 *' go somewhere " presently. Meanwhile they were in dan- 
 gerous proximity to a French window. Dolores was sure some- 
 one would open that window brusquely and do damage to the 
 pots. And so indeed it happened. An Italian housemaid sud- 
 denly pushed the window with violence outwards. Two pots 
 fell over and one was smashed to pieces. Mrs, Massingham, 
 in her pleasant, muffled voice, protested, while Dolores looked 
 away over the gray Campagna. Rome was but a blur in the 
 far distance, most of it cut off from her sight by the yellow 
 tower. From the blur, near a trail of white smoke, two or 
 three livid blotches stood out. She wondered what they were, 
 trying to distract her mind, in which arose a sense of unreason- 
 ing misery because what she had foreseen had occurred w^ith the 
 window and the pots. 
 
 How could Edna Denzil bear the burden? How could she 
 confront life, with its arrangements of straw chairs with red 
 cushions, its plants in pots to be put here or there, with its end- 
 less succession of meals, with its gray days? And oh! to gaze 
 out over that Campagna to the blur which had been the city of 
 happiness! A sob struggled up in Dolores' long throat. But 
 it was for herself, perhaps, as much as for Edna Denzil. 
 
 She felt as if Edna Denzil were hating her and steadily try- 
 ing not to. When she got up to go she wanted to kiss Edna. 
 It would be the natural thing to do now, after all that had 
 been. But she could not. Her body stiffened at the mere 
 thought, and her soul seemed to stiffen too. 
 
 Afterwards she had thought, " If I had kissed Edna what 
 would Edna have done?" 
 
 Mrs. Massingham warmly embraced Dolores, and said: 
 
 " You dear pretty creature ! Come again. In a motor it is 
 nothing." 
 
 She enlarged her eyes, blinked and added: 
 
 " I shall look out for you from here. It is such an advan- 
 tage being where we can see every arrival from Rome. The 
 sight of a little life is good, even if one doesn't take part in it." 
 
 And she pointed with her small and beautiful hand to the 
 avenue leading from the Campagna up the hill in front of the 
 Grand Hotel, which was full in view of the loggia across a
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 237 
 
 depression of waste ground planted with trees and shrubs be- 
 yond the station. 
 
 " I shall like to hear your motor purring like a great cat, my 
 dear! " she concluded, pushing up her big, round head, to give 
 another kiss to Dolores. 
 
 And often since then she had heard the purr of the motor, 
 but Dolores was not in it, and the children greeted it with cries 
 of "Here's Uncle Theo!" 
 
 Princess Mancelli had said that Dolores was not by nature a 
 fighter. Perhaps that was true. Certainly she felt that she 
 could not fight to win a place in the Denzil family. Even the 
 children, she thought, disliked her, were not really at their ease 
 with her, except Iris, when she sat down to the piano. As she 
 drove away that afternoon, descending the hill into the vast 
 gray Campagna, she knew that she would not often return to 
 the red-wallcd loggia. " I've done my best! " she said to her- 
 self, " I've done my best. And now Edna hates me." And 
 it was then that she decided to take her social life up again with 
 determination, to throw herself into its energies and to succeed 
 at least in them. She felt like one expelled. It was perhaps 
 very absurd of her. But she was intensely sensitive. If she 
 made an advance and was tacitly repulsed she felt physically 
 miserable, and as if a rude hand had shot out and thrust her 
 away. That afternoon in the Campagna she was beset by a 
 sensation of having been humiliated. "Why did I go? Why 
 did I go? " she asked herself almost fiercely. But then she re- 
 called Edna's situation, her sorrow, and the anger died away. 
 She looked out of the open window, and saw the flocks of sheep 
 closely gathered together, life clinging to life in the vast expanse 
 of loneliness, where the Power outside our world seemed to 
 brood as it does in the desert; she heard the call of a shepherd, 
 •savage and melancholy, with a lingering, downward cadence, 
 and she had a desire for release. " Oh, to be out of it all! " 
 But — where? And the motor rushed towards the domes and 
 the towers of Rome, carrying her back to the social life. 
 
 She hurried into it again, before Sir Theodore returned from 
 London. When he did return he found the writing-table in 
 the green and red drawing-room covered with cards of invita- 
 tion, and heard from his wife that she had been dining with 
 Countess Boccara, and had already many engagements. He 
 was amazed. Still haunted by the tragedy of the operation and 
 his friend's death, it seemed to him almost incredible that Dolo- 
 res should already have taken up again the empty life of frivol-
 
 238 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 fty. But he did not express his surprise, and another feeling, 
 his disgust. Yes, he was disgusted. For this readiness for 
 pleasure on Dolores' part, following so swiftly on the heels of 
 her apparent deep sympathy, even of her restless anxiety and 
 grief, which had seemed almost to mount to terror when Den- 
 zil had died, surely showed her to possess a nature incurably 
 shallow and changeable. " And if I were to die ? " her hus- 
 band thought. And again there came upon him the helpless 
 and humiliating feeling that he did not yet know his wife. 
 Since when had he begun to feel actively that he did not know 
 her? If he had searched back — but this he did not do — he 
 might have discovered that the birth of this conscious ignorance 
 dated after the evening of his outburst concerning his wife's bar- 
 renness. Upon that evening the silence had closed upon them 
 both like a cloud, and in the womb of that silence had been 
 conceived his feeling. It began to torment him, and to render 
 him often ill at ease in Dolores' company. His instant and ex- 
 pressed decision neither to go out, nor to entertain any more 
 that season, was expected by Dolores. Yet it fell upon her like 
 a rebuke. She tried to harden her heart and set her lips tightly 
 together. 
 
 " I shall have a lot to do now," Sir Theodore concluded. 
 *' But anyhow I haven't the heart for going into society." 
 
 He nearly added, "And have you — really — Doloretta?" 
 
 If he had said that, taken Dolores in his arms, let her see his 
 surprise, his grief, but also some belief that in her heart there 
 was something responsive to his, she might, in her then condi- 
 tion of almost quivering sensitiveness and longing, have cast 
 pride away, and flooded him with the truth. But he said noth- 
 ing more. He let the moment pass, deceived by a physical de- 
 tail, the tight line her lips made just then. 
 
 And from that day both of them began to strive to gather In 
 a harvest from life. But while Dolores set herself to the reap- 
 ing of tares, her husband went into fields where there was 
 wheat to be gathered. And so It was that Edna Denzil pres- 
 ently was able to say to herself, " I am right ! " both in respect 
 of her distaste for Dolores and of her greater affection for Sir 
 Theodore. 
 
 Day after day a big motor came out from Rome by the Porta 
 Furba and spun along the flat road towards the little town on 
 the hill, with its blunt-headed olive trees and its vineyards about 
 it, and the Campagna breezes dancing in its face. A new life 
 began for Sir Theodore with the death of his friend, just as a
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 239 
 
 new life began for Mrs. Massingham. As always out of the 
 dust of death blossomed the flower of life. 
 
 Sir Theodore took up the new life with a heavy heart. He 
 was a man capable of so much feeling that any sorrow struck 
 him a stinging blow. But he was a faithful man, and a man 
 with fire in him. Soon he began to glow with energies, first 
 of duty then of love born of duty's fulfillment. The love was 
 there from the first, but his regret for Francis shrouded it, 
 gave it a meaning that was tragic. And he even fought against 
 the change that he felt was towards greater, unexpected hap- 
 piness. 
 
 For years Sir Theodore had been longing for children. It 
 was almost as if Francis called from the grave, " Take mine ! " 
 It was almost as if his friend stopped his ears to that cry, but 
 at last heard it in despite of himself because it was meant that 
 he should hear it. Now children came into this man's life as 
 they had never come before, and in his middle age, just when a 
 man of mental force and good health is apt to begin counting 
 the years that are left, with a secret " How long? How 
 long?" He had waited, he had suffered, he had rebelled, he 
 had even been cruel for children's sake, because of his need of 
 them. Now he began to learn something of what children are, 
 really are, in a life. For soon he began to be aware that till 
 Denzil's death he had imagined but had not known. Intuition 
 was struck away. He had tottered. Now he walked hand in 
 hand with knowledge. 
 
 Little Theo must be his special care. He would be respon- 
 sible to Francis for what the boy became in later life. It was 
 difficult, almost impossible, to have serious doubts as to Theo. 
 He was not a saint but a boy. But no malign spirit ever looked 
 out of his eyes. Even when he was in a temper, or in a rage, 
 the thing whose home is the pit never rose to confront you in 
 a look or a movement. Nevertheless Sir Theodore was beset 
 at first by the anxieties of the deeply conscientious amateur. 
 For the first time he felt, " How different I am from a father! " 
 Evidently the instinct, the unfailing instinct, of a father is only 
 born in a man when God and a woman make him one. Sir 
 Theodore must fumble for it, but he must never let Theo know 
 he was fumbling. He wished to strike the happy mean be- 
 twixt laxity and strictness, to stiffen the boy's back without 
 dulling the brightness of his ingenuous charm. And he was 
 above all anxious never to assume in this poor little family any 
 sort of right. Full of delicacy he wished to protect, to help, to
 
 240 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 guide as a man may, and as only a good and straight man can, 
 but never to be intrusive or challenging. In the first days 
 after his return from London he was full of tentativeness, even 
 full of indecision. But he was clever enough to hide both. 
 
 He had first to talk over business matters with Edna Denzil. 
 Francis had not been far wrong when he had said that there 
 would not be very much for his family. There was not. But, 
 with the money coming from his policy of life insurance, 
 there was enough for his wife and children to live upon quietly, 
 enough to educate Theo thoroughly well and to launch him in 
 life. But it would be necessary for them all to live carefully 
 and to avoid anything like extravagance. Sir Theodore had 
 gone to London with a view to changing some of Francis's in- 
 vestments. He knew more about finance than Francis had 
 known, and enjoyed the advantage of having expert advice on 
 money matters from America. He had Mrs. Denzil's permis- 
 sion to use this advice for her advantage by selling out certain 
 English investments and placing the money in safe American 
 enterprises which brought in a higher percentage. Sitting one 
 afternoon in the loggia overlooking the Campagna he explained 
 things to her. She listened, agreed, and thanked him. 
 
 The two elder children were out walking with Marianna. 
 Vi was unwell and in bed. Mrs. Massingham had gone to tea 
 with a friend in the famous pension. She had not wished to 
 go, but Edna had begged her to go. 
 
 " You must not give up all your little pleasures, mamma, be- 
 cause of us," she had said. " Why should you not have tea 
 alone with a friend ? " 
 
 " She has her own room of course, otherwise " began 
 
 Mrs. Massingham. 
 
 " Go, mamma, go. You must pass your time," said Edna. 
 
 So by chance she and Sir Theodore were quite alone. 
 
 When they had finished talking of the necessary business 
 there was a dead silence between them. Their subject done 
 with abruptly they seemed to fall away into a sort of ghastly 
 space, a nothingness. The truth of grief — atmospheric — en- 
 veloped them, but they had naught to cling to. And not only 
 that, they were almost as strangers to one another. A widow 
 ' — could it be Edna Denzil ? A man doing business, discussing 
 the children's monetary future — could it be Sir Theodore? 
 
 In that silence they were as strangers in space. The brown 
 chairs with the red cushions now stood in their appointed places. 
 The plants, too, had found their homes. On a table lay some
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 241 
 
 books, L'ltalie, which Mrs. Massingham read and Edna 
 never read, a piece of embroidery, a box containing two packs 
 of cards. Augustus, too, was there reposing upon his left side. 
 
 Sir Theodore saw the creature, and was no longer in space. 
 
 " How are Theo and Iris's bear — getting on here, Edna? " 
 he said, recalling her. 
 
 As she looked up he realized that sorrow had made her 
 plainer. Physical alteration he noted, and almost in despite of 
 himself. He had not noted the deeper change. 
 
 " I scarcely know," she said. '' I scarcely know anything." 
 
 She looked at him, utterly careless of the physical change in 
 herself. 
 
 " I feel " — she gazed round her at the loggia — "as if I'd 
 been pushed out of everything and the door locked against me, 
 or — I don't know. I can't understand being here. I can't 
 feel that I shall live here. When I get up in the morning it 
 isn't like living. And when I go to bed at night " 
 
 She broke off. After a moment she added: 
 
 " It's stupid of me, Theodore, but I can't help it — I feel 
 more dazed every day." 
 
 " The quiet here, the pure air, in time they will do something 
 for you." 
 
 " Yes, I suppose they will." 
 
 "And Edna, the children!" 
 
 *' Without them I don't think I should be here any longer." 
 
 "Here?" 
 
 " I don't mean in Frascati." 
 
 Again the silence fell. But in it they were no longer like 
 strangers in space. Sir Theodore was aware of the Latin fire, 
 the Latin despair in his friend. The charming wife, the charm- 
 ing mother was made strangely forceful by grief. He felt a 
 violence in her which till now he had not suspected. 
 
 " There is your mother too," he said. 
 
 " Mamma — yes." 
 
 He realized that Mrs. Massingham would never be very 
 much in her daughter's life. 
 
 " I made her go out to-day. A friend asked her to tea. 
 Poor mamma! But she has been a great help, and she loves 
 the children. She sings to them when they're in bed. Just 
 think! Mamma singing! " 
 
 She looked vacantly towards the Campagna and added: 
 
 " Canta la rondinella: pace e amore 
 Canta I'augurio bello del Signore —
 
 242 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 she sings that. Iris loves it. And I sit here, when it's warm 
 enough at night, listening." 
 
 On the last word her eyes met his and he was able to go 
 right down into her despair. And he knew that he might go, 
 that she almost, perhaps, wished him to go. Her eyes seemed 
 to say: 
 
 " You were his friend. You knew him. You loved him. 
 You may go where no one else may." 
 
 In that moment Sir Theodore knew that though Edna Den- 
 zil was still young, though no doubt she would again be charm- 
 ing to the world — for Time is inexorable in his dealings with 
 sorrow as with joy — yet she would always be a widow. She 
 would never give up the name Francis had bestowed upon her. 
 
 " Dolores has been to see me," she said, as he did not speak. 
 
 *' Of course. She told me." 
 
 " It was good of her. Mamma quite loves her." 
 
 Sir Theodore wanted to say warmly that he hoped Dolores 
 would often come, that he hoped Edna would take her into the 
 new life at Frascati. But he could not. He thought of the 
 writing-table covered with cards of invitation. 
 
 " Remember," he said, " that in Rome there is always a home 
 for you to come to. I speak for Doloretta as well as myself." 
 
 "Thank you, Theodore — I know. But — you won't be 
 hurt?" 
 
 "No, no. What is it?" 
 
 " I think it will be a very long time before I shall be able to 
 come into your apartment. I can't help it." 
 
 " Because — I understand." 
 
 " Make Dolores understand too. She has been so kind " 
 
 Edna swallowed, and two vertical lines showed themselves in 
 her forehead above the inner ends of her eyebrows. " So good. 
 I shouldn't like her to think me " 
 
 " She never could. She could never misunderstand you, 
 Edna. She knows you far too well." 
 
 " And I don't think I shall come to Rome at all for a very 
 long time." 
 
 Again she looked out over the Campagna. On the extreme 
 right of the view visible from the loggia there was a small sec- 
 tion of the distant city. The day was not very clear. On 
 such a day from Frascati Rome is as a city hinted at rather 
 than a city seen. In the great plain there is something which 
 suggests to the imagination the congregation of men. Smoke 
 rises, trailing away towards the sea, perhaps, or towards soli-
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 243 
 
 tary Monte Soracte. Vague shapes show themselves, but as if 
 surreptitiously. Dashes of white, darknesses — are those build- 
 ings? That tiny upstanding shadow — is it the dome of St. 
 Peter's? 
 
 From the loggia Edna could not see that shadow. But she 
 saw enough to tell her that Rome indeed was there, and sud- 
 denly her eyes filled with tears and overflowed. 
 
 She did not wipe away the tears. She let them run down 
 her devastated face. Why should not Theodore see them? 
 He, too, had loved Francis. 
 
 And in that distant city people were saying, and were even 
 believing, that the man and the woman in the loggia were 
 lovers. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 Mrs. Massingham read the Italic regularly, and she 
 could not resist occasionally telling her daughter scraps of its 
 social news. She knew Edna was profoundly indifferent to all 
 that went on in Rome socially, politically, in every way. But 
 she had an expansive nature and an almost physical desire to 
 share things. And as the years increased upon her she was in- 
 clined to yield more and more to her inclinations, which were 
 very innocent and harmless. Through Mrs. Massingham Edna 
 came to know of the present career of Dolores. For, as pre- 
 sented by the Italic and other papers, the goings out and 
 the comings in of Dolores assumed a definiteness, an impor- 
 tance, which were lacking from them in her own eyes. She 
 was trying to " find something to do," trying to fill up somehow 
 the void of her life. Secret misery sketched out behind her ac- 
 tions a faint background of defiance. And this background 
 impressed the world and apparently also the Roman newspa- 
 pers. One evening, towards twilight, Mrs. Massingham, in 
 her pleasant, though slightly monotonous voice, read out to her 
 daughter a paragraph from La Tribuna alluding to the 
 sguardo Imperiale of Lady Cannynge, then passing onward 
 to the Italic, which to her was always a bonne bouche, re- 
 cited In French a passage describing Lady Cannynge's skating 
 feats at the Palazzo Miravanti, and closing with an allusion 
 to her powers at bridge. " If Lady Cannynge draws even a 
 moderately good partner she is almost certain to win the prize 
 at Princess Giamarcho's forthcoming bridge tournament," the 
 writer concluded.
 
 244 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 Mrs. Massingham laid down the paper. 
 
 " I never knew before that pretty creature was so mondaine, 
 Edna," she observed. " And somehow I don't think she looks 
 it." 
 
 " No, mamma?" 
 
 Mrs. Massingham took up her embroidery, held her head 
 back, and examined it. 
 
 *' Of course she is very fcmme du monde. iWhere is my 
 needle ? " 
 
 " Isn't it in your work? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Perhaps it has fallen under the table." 
 
 " Don't bother, little daughter." Mrs. Massingham nearly 
 always spoke in Italian to Edna. " Oh, is it there?" 
 
 " I can't see it, mamma. But wait a minute! " 
 
 "Oh, here it is! I have found it." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 " It was in my w^ork all the time. I am so sorry." 
 
 Edna sat down again. 
 
 " Of course she is very fcmme du monde" Mrs. Massingham 
 resumed. " But I don't know, I shouldn't have thought her 
 heart would be in that kind of life. Do you think she is quite 
 liappy, Edna darling?" 
 
 " I can't tell. Perhaps there are not many quite happy 
 people, mamma. But I think she has a great deal to make her 
 happy." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " Franzi knew Theodore through and through, and he said 
 to me once that Theodore had a golden nature." 
 
 " What a curious expression, but I quite understand. I am 
 sure Francis was right." 
 
 " He was." 
 
 " Then that pretty creature must certainly be very happy. 
 That is a comfort. Oh ! " 
 
 " What is it, mamma? " 
 
 " This time my needle really has gone under the table. I 
 am so sorry! They slip away so easily." 
 
 " Yes, mamma." 
 
 ' "Here it is!" 
 
 " I think I chose well for us, Edna. This loggia is very 
 comfortable and healthy too." 
 " I am sure it must be."
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 245 
 
 "And such a view! Not that I bother very much about 
 that, for after all the Campagna is monotonous. Still it is a 
 fine view and we are fortunate to have it." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Iris seems to love my singing, poor little thing! I sang 
 the ' Cantava I'usignolo ' to her last night." 
 
 "Was it that?" 
 
 " Yes. You know it begins * Cantava I'usignolo stamattina 
 colla vocina sua gentile e fina.' And when I had done Iris 
 said, 'That is your vocina, Nonnal' Wasn't that pretty of 
 her, Edna?" 
 
 Thus Mrs. Massingham was wont to while away the hours 
 which her daughter shared with her. 
 
 Genuinely fond though Edna Denzil was of her mother, 
 grateful for the warm affection Mrs. Massingham unceasingly 
 showed towards her and the children, yet there were moments, 
 and not a few, when the past rose up as if conjured almost 
 malignly from out of the ground by Mrs. Massingham, as by 
 some sorceress. Edna missed not m.erely the love of a hus- 
 band, but the intellect of a man in her new life. Never had 
 she been a has bleu, never aspired consciously to great culture, 
 or learning. But she had quietly and fully entered into every 
 side of Francis's life. She had been accustomed to talk over 
 with him "European affairs. She had worked for him, and al- 
 ways successfully. Sometimes now, when Mrs. Massingham 
 talked, or read out paragraphs from the Italie, Edna would 
 think of the gaffes of Francis, and how often she had set things 
 right, would think of what she had done towards smoothing the 
 way to Munich, would think of their long conversations by the 
 fire in winter when the children were gone to bed. She knew 
 now that she loved the mind of a man, and not merely the mind 
 of Francis, but the masculine mind for its own sake. Never 
 had she fully realized this till now when Francis was dead. 
 Like many others she had to lose in order to know. She did 
 not say to herself that the masculine mind was finer than the 
 feminine, and that therefore she needed it; she said to herself 
 that because it was different from the feminine mind she 
 needed it. 
 
 Mrs. Massingham unconsciously drew her daughter's atten- 
 tion to this need. And so, presently, Edna grew to value some- 
 thing in Sir Theodore which she had not thought much of till 
 now, the quality of his mind for its own sake, and for its dif- 
 ference from any woman's.
 
 246 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 She began to see many things with a clear consciousness of 
 seeing them which hitherto she had overlooked, or had not 
 troubled much about. As a woman she began to realize the 
 mental importance of man in the life feminine, as a mother to 
 grasp the value of a worthy and straight man in the budding 
 lives of children. Grief, perhaps, made her selfish in a certain 
 respect, or, if not actively that, indifferent. And yet the con- 
 nection that was presently established between Palazzo Bar- 
 berini and the house in the Viale Giuseppe Ponzi was natural 
 enough. It might almost be said that a dead man had de- 
 creed it when, in his terrible hour, he thought of his wife's and 
 his children's future. 
 
 It came about that Sir Theodore began to live In the life at 
 Frascati, and merely to exist in the Roman life. 
 
 Dolores did nothing to hinder him. Since the death of 
 Denzil a fatalistic tendency, which perhaps she had always pos- 
 sessed, had begun to develop within her. Perhaps Edna Den- 
 zil might have attenuated, or even destroyed it. If Edna could 
 have taken Dolores simply, warmly into her heart and the fam- 
 ily nest, have claimed her help and sympathy, have used her — 
 above all, that! — all might, perhaps, have been well. Dolo- 
 res might have found within herself a generosity to enable her 
 to conquer her obscure jealousy of the barren woman directed 
 against the woman who was fruitful. It must have been hard 
 to do. It might have been possible. 
 
 But the distaste of Edna for Dolores, bred by Sir Theodore's 
 sincere action, served to deepen the cloud in Palazzo Barberini, 
 widened the separation between husband and wife. 
 
 Sir Theodore knew nothing of it. He did not even suspect 
 it. On the contrary, he thought that all the distaste was on 
 Dolores' side. He judged people — even women — by their 
 actions, and the actions of Dolores during that Roman spring 
 established in him the belief that though she had been sincerely 
 fond of Francis she could never have cared for Edna. He 
 could not otherwise account for the apparent discrepancy be- 
 tween her behavior when Francis was ill and dying, and her 
 behavior now that he was dead. Never had he seen Dolores 
 so given over to social distractions as she was now. He had 
 been a good deal bored, even worried, by her efforts to form a 
 sort of salon in the winter, but her life then had been quiet, 
 almost peaceful, compared with her present life. There was, 
 however, this important difference for him, that now he was 
 definitely cut out of all his wife's social doings, whereas before
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 247 
 
 he had felt it his duty to take a suitable part in them. He was 
 determined not to condemn Dolores for plunging into gaieties 
 almost before the grave had closed over Francis's coffin. But 
 he felt that he need, nay that he could, have nothing to do with 
 them. Dolores had her pleasures. He had his duty, and that 
 lay at Frascati. 
 
 Very soon he knew that his pleasure, a pleasure he had never 
 thought to have, lay there too. 
 
 The three children turned to him with the blessed simplicity 
 and confidence of extreme youth, almost as to a necessary savior. 
 The death of her father had made little Viola ill. Her dazed 
 and uncomprehending grief of a very small child was compli- 
 cated with fright. She connected the sudden disappearance of 
 Denzil with unknown horrors, such as dawn with such facility 
 in a child's imagination, and cause such unspeakable dread. 
 But she had not become ill at once. It was only after the 
 family had been for some days at Frascati that she showed fully 
 the effect that her father's death had made upon her. Then 
 she was sick, feverish, and had painful fits of screaming espe- 
 cially at night. The fever and sickness were soon banished by 
 simple remedies, but it was evident that Viola was pining. 
 She had lost all her animation and her pretty ways, would not 
 respond to Mrs. Massingham's coaxings and seductive blandish- 
 ments, carried almost to an excess, and marked by strange nod- 
 dings of the head, startling movements, and a vocabulary com- 
 posed almost solely of nonsense words, and turned a cold shoul- 
 der even to her mother's endeavors to cheer her and hearten 
 her. Only when Sir Theodore came upon the scene did she 
 permit herself the indulgence of a faint smile, a half-roguish, 
 half-petulant movement which recalled the Viola whom he had 
 watched from behind the curtain one twilight evening. He re- 
 membered just how he had felt that day, and one afternoon, 
 yielding to a sudden impulse of irresistible tenderness, that em- 
 braced a dead man as well as a living child, he almost roughly 
 snatched Viola up in his arms, and, forgetting the lost father's 
 beardless, his own bearded face, he pressed his lips against the 
 little creature's small mouth. And as he kissed her again and 
 again, he spoke to her in his deep bass voice. What he said he 
 never knew. His heart seemed to cry out independently of his 
 brain. To Mrs. Massingham, who happened to enter with her 
 cards for " patience " as he caught the child up, Vi appeared to 
 be almost entangled in his moustache and pointed beard, so 
 tiny was her face, and so closely did he press it against his.
 
 248 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 The grandmother expected an outburst of shrieks. But when 
 Viola emerged she was flushed, and wrinkled up her face in a 
 smile that was almost triumphant ! And from that moment she 
 got better. Her spirits rose gently. Her little arts and minute 
 coquetries began to peep out, like snowdrops defying the kind 
 earth in spring. Her fears decreased and finally vanished. 
 
 Mrs. Massingham summed up the whole matter in words not 
 without wisdom. 
 
 " The fact is," she said, as she sat down to lay out her cards, 
 " It is as I always suspected, Edna. Vi doesn't care for women." 
 
 Marianna came in, and Vi was reluctantly parted from Sir 
 Theodore. As she was borne away she looked back and cried 
 out to him. 
 
 " I wants you eve'y day ! " 
 
 And in her high little voice there was a sound of innocent- 
 desire, and a sound of hope, perhaps also an arbitrary sound. 
 
 Sir Theodore came up to the two women. His bright eyes 
 were shining. 
 
 " We shall soon have her well again," he said. 
 
 "You!" said Edna. 
 
 " She doesn't care for women," repeated Mrs. Massingham, 
 laying the cards in careful rows and pursing her lips, while her 
 forehead showed suddenly the exaggerated wrinkles peculiar to 
 ardent patience players. " She can't help it. I have known 
 even babies in arms that could distinguish between — no, I 
 shouldn't have done that! wait a moment! " 
 
 She fell into silence, knitting her brows, and rapidly open- 
 ing and shutting her large yellow-brown eyes. 
 
 As Sir Theodore was going away that afternoon Edna Denzil 
 went with him as far as the terrace. The big motor was wait- 
 ing for him at the top of the steps near the public garden. 
 
 " Theodore," she said — and she spoke as if with some diffi- 
 culty, looking down — " Vi is inclined to make slaves of people." 
 
 "Vi! Ridiculous!" he exclaimed. "That mite!" 
 
 " A mite can have a compact little will. She has. VV^hat I 
 wanted to say though is that we, as a family, must not try 
 to make a slave of you. No ! I just thought of that when Vi 
 called out to you. Grief makes people " 
 
 " Edna, I ask you not to speak like that! " Sir Theodore in- 
 terrupted. " Francis and I understood each other. We talked 
 the — the matter over that day he told me what he had to pre- 
 pare for. I told him how it would be. Do you wish it to be 
 otherwise? "
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 249 
 
 " No. How could I ? But still " She spoke almost with 
 
 a sort of obstinacy. " We must not make a slave of you. 
 Women and children are apt to cling and be tiresome. We all 
 know that." 
 
 For a moment he looked at her almost sternly. Then his 
 face changed. He had been a diplomat, and knew it was 
 wise to take things lightly. 
 
 " You are quite right. I will defend myself as best I can," he 
 answered. " But I'm afraid of Vi, and I don't believe I can pull 
 myself together enough to disobey her. However, we shall see." 
 
 That afternoon, as he drove down into the Campagna, he 
 recalled every detail of that twilight afternoon with Francis, 
 when their talk had been interrupted by the children's return, 
 and he had hidden himself and watched Viola with her father. 
 And for a moment he felt as if his action in snatching up the 
 little one and kissing her into hope and forgetfulness had in 
 it something terrible, something traitorous. He remembered 
 how, when she hid her face against her father's shoulder, a knife 
 had seemed to be driven into him, and how, at that moment in 
 thought he had been unfaithful to Dolores. 
 
 And that now, in so short a time, Viola should have to turn 
 to him! There was something too drastic, too frightful, in 
 the perpetual transformations of life. They were too merci- 
 less, too unprepared. It was as if they were often deliberately 
 designed to crush the souls of men to the dust, or to wring 
 from the hearts of women that most frightful of protests, the 
 cry in which with despair a sharp rage, that Is almost animal, 
 Is mingled. 
 
 The motor passed a giant cypress tree which stands sentinel 
 on the right of the road as one descends from Frascati, and 
 Sir Theodore had an odd thought, " The safety of that old tree 
 compared with mine ! " And the trees fled away on either side 
 backwards in the gathering dusk, and the Campagna, vague, 
 full of faint darknesses, with its peculiar atmosphere of dignity, 
 and of romance with a hint of old savagery, gave Itself to the 
 motor like a prey. 
 
 A report like a pistol shot rang out. Pletro, the chauffeur, 
 applied the brakes, and wrinkled up his face into an expression 
 of resigned contempt that was half philosophic but only half. 
 And Instantly the Campagna was changed. No longer a prey 
 It had become a huge, and almost threatening power, desolate 
 and mysterious, with the bare and barbaric Sabine Mountains 
 planted like troops along its frontiers.
 
 250 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 Sir Theodore threw off his coat, opened the door and got 
 out. Pfetro hated to be helped by his master in, anything con- 
 nected with the motor. So Sir Theodore said : 
 
 " I'll walk on, Pietro. ,When you've finished you can catch 
 me up ! " 
 
 " Sissignore ! " 
 
 Still with the half-contemptuous expression on his face Pietro 
 bent down to get out his tools. And Sir Theodore walked 
 on slowly towards distant Rome. The evening was falling, 
 bringing its gift of delicate romance to watch-tower and to 
 farm, to pine and ilex tree, to every fragment of ancient ruin, 
 to all things that moved slowly in the vastness, to every sound 
 that floated over it. The wind was light, fresh but not actu- 
 ally cold. Sir Theodore put up his hand. ,Yes, surely it came 
 from Ostia and the sea. 
 
 Behind him lights began to gleam here and there in Frascati. 
 No doubt a lamp shone over Mrs. Massingham's rows of cards, 
 illuminating her mistakes. What was little Viola doing now? 
 And what Edna? How extraordinary the difference the com- 
 ing of night makes every twenty-four hours in the life and feel- 
 ings of man ! 
 
 In the distance between him and Rome Sir Theodore heard 
 the pealing of little bells. A belated wine cart was approach- 
 ing. Soon it came up and passed. The big mule held its head 
 low. Under a striped blue and red hood Sir Theodore dis- 
 cerned the humped form of the carettiere abandoned to sleep. 
 Just behind the hood, on a barrel covered with a bit of sacking, 
 sat a woolly brown and white dog barking at the Campagna. 
 The bells soon died away. Far off there was the sound of a 
 distant shot, then of sheep and lambs baaing, and melancholy 
 rough cries of their shepherds. Flights of birds, some twenty or 
 thirty together, eddied through the sky moving towards Albano 
 and Rocca di Papa. The hay-ricks looked like jet black bee- 
 hives, swollen to an unnatural size. The solitary towers, that 
 rise here and there in the solitude, narrow and almost fearfully 
 alone, were losing their aspect of solidity, and resembled straight 
 columns of dark smoke melting gradually and about to be dis- 
 persed in the immensity of night. 
 
 As Sir Theodore walked on between the huge stretches of 
 grass-covered flat land which lay to left and right of the road 
 he was glad that a tire had burst. But for that Nature would 
 not have been able to draw near to him with her hands full of 
 consolation, mysteriously, and almost in defiance of his reason,
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 251 
 
 laying his fears to rest, taking him beyond them for a moment, 
 breathing into his soul her perpetual message, " As I am be- 
 yond all fears so shall each man, each woman be at last — and 
 forever." 
 
 He hoped Pietro would be slow in accomplishing his task. 
 He had never before walked far out in the Campagna alone at 
 nightfall. He had not known its balm for the spirit. 
 
 A shepherd passed with his flock and his big dog. He was 
 whistling. And his little tune came gaily from under the brim 
 of his broken black hat, which was pulled dov/n over his eyes. 
 He turned and stared after Sir Theodore, but he did not cease 
 from whistling. Beyond Sir Theodore now stretched a lonely 
 road. For a little while, as he walked along it, he heard 
 sounds faint and espaced; a call that seemed to come from some 
 fortress in the Sabines and that died in the shifting grasses; 
 the whinney of a horse, and those faint noises of evening in 
 solitary places which, as it were, at the same time are, and are 
 not, which seem to be known by the spirit rather than to be 
 heard by the ears; then the silence seemed to him to be com- 
 plete, and in its completeness tremendous and beautiful — like 
 the Ludovisi Giunone. 
 
 He did not know whether he had walked on for a long or a 
 short time, when he saw on the left side of the road a dark 
 and motionless object. It was short. For a moment he thought 
 it must be a stone post. Then he saw it was a man. The 
 man did not move as he approached. There were no sheep 
 about him. No dog moved near him. And his attitude and 
 immobility were so strange that on reaching him Sir Theodore 
 involuntarily stopped. Even as he did so he saw that this 
 man was Giosue Pacci. Wrapped in a dark blue cloak, with 
 a soft and very old brown hat crushed down upon his fine head, 
 and a stout staff in his hand, he was gazing with his childlike 
 blue eyes into the night, and perhaps hearing strange voices 
 from the past; from the little farm of Horace near Tivoli, 
 from Cicero's villa on the height of Tusculum, from Hadrian's 
 wonderful dwelling at Tibur, from the Lamian Gardens, or the 
 sea-house of Nero by the waters of Antium. 
 
 " Signor Pacci ! " said Sir Theodore. 
 
 Pacci quietly looked at him, recognized him and smiled. 
 When he smiled the whole of him was kind, almost tender, but 
 the whole of him seemed to remain a little remote ; not because 
 of his intention but because he could not help its being so. He 
 was evidently not at all surprised by Sir Theodore's appear-
 
 252 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 ance. Why should not any sensible man be faring alone in the 
 Campagna while night was drawing on? 
 
 ' Buona sera!" he murmured, still gently smiling, and look- 
 ing very straight into Sir Theodore's face. 
 
 He stepped down into the road, quietly joined Sir Theodore, 
 and walked slowly but firmly along beside him. If he had 
 been let alone he would probably have continued thus till 
 their feet trod the pavements of Rome without uttering a word. 
 But Sir Theodore, like many others, loved to hear Pacci talk, 
 and to find him alone in the Campagna was a chance to be 
 valued. 
 
 Pacci haunted the Campagna, but always went into it, and 
 nearly always came out of it alone. He was absolutely indiffer- 
 ent to company though he always seemed perfectly at home 
 when he was in it. 
 
 " Do you know that grand old fellow of a cypress on the left 
 of the road going up to Frascati?" said Sir Theodore. 
 
 " Si — si ! " said Pacci. 
 
 The conversation was carried on in Italian. 
 
 " As I came down the hill just now I wished I were he," 
 
 " From love of him, or fear of yourself," inquired Pacci 
 mildly. 
 
 " I'm afraid it was the latter." 
 
 " Most Europeans who really think are full of fears. People 
 live in the present, and the present has the terrifying quality 
 of all actuality. The mystics are less cowardly because they 
 dwell in the future with God, or perhaps with Madonna, or 
 with some kindly saint deeply attached to thern as they might 
 be attached to a good servant. Antiquarians live chiefly in the 
 past, and they again put aside fears unconsciously." 
 
 " Have you ever felt afraid, caro Pacci? " said Sir Theodore. 
 
 Pacci was silent for a little while. 
 
 " The thunderbolts will not fall upon me at present. Ful- 
 gur and Summanus will let me do a little more work," he ob- 
 served at length placidly. " I have planted many flowers 
 between the two summits of the Capitoline Hill." 
 
 "What stood there? Some place of propitiation?" 
 
 " The sanctuary of him who came from the loins of Jupi- 
 ter, Vediovis." 
 
 " To be sure, the evil Jupiter." 
 
 " They must all have their flowers, just as the active gentle- 
 men of Rome must have their monument, clear of such rubbish 
 of Palazzo Venezia as can be quickly carted away.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 253 
 
 " Would you not be glad if Vediovis overwhelmed them with 
 one of his storms? " 
 
 " But if the drains should be flooded! " said Pacci. " Who 
 could attend to that, when they will soon be beautifully busy 
 joining together the three palaces on the Capitol, as a disease 
 might join my fingers with membrane? " 
 
 He held up his broad hand. 
 
 " We must not ask too much even of the gods of misfor- 
 tune," he murmured, and in his smile there was just a hint of 
 the gentlest, most innocent satire. 
 
 "How you must hate modern Rome!" said Sir Theodore. 
 " But — no — I expect you seldom see it. You live in the 
 things you care for, and very few men do that. Would you 
 believe it if I told you that this is the first time I have ever 
 walked in the Campagna at nightfall? I have walked in the 
 Corso a hundred times." 
 
 Pacci stopped. He turned towards the hidden place of the 
 sea. The breeze had grown a little stronger. Sir Theodore 
 turned with him, and it blew directly into their faces, coming 
 over the grassy plain which melted away into the dusk. 
 
 " Yes," Pacci said. " It comes from the sea. If we were 
 in the Corso it would come from the monument." 
 
 He opened his mouth wide, and stood thus for two or three 
 minutes breathing in deeply. 
 
 " One should walk where the wind can come to one from the 
 sea as often as possible," he continued at last, walking slowly 
 on again. " Nature is not like a modern woman. She requires 
 to be encouraged. It is not always she who wants you. But if 
 you want her she is a generous creature — a generous creature. 
 She is a marvelous collaborator both with the brain and with 
 the soul. She helps the one in creation, and she puts into the 
 other a beautiful necessity." 
 
 " What necessity, Pacci ? " 
 
 " The imperious need of being grateful to some one, as Kant 
 says." 
 
 Lifting his hand he quoted in an almost singing voice: 
 
 " Observe a man when his spirit is most open to his moral 
 instincts. In the midst of a beautiful scene of nature, invaded 
 by a full, but calm sense of well-being, there seizes hira an 
 imperious need to be thankful to some one." 
 
 He paused, then in a muffled voice he added: 
 
 " And the Campagna is Nature's most beautiful scene, and 
 peopled, thank God, only with memories."
 
 254 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " Some of them scarcely calm and beautiful though ! " said 
 Sir Theodore, with a touch of irony, wishing to rouse his com- 
 panion up. 
 
 But Pacci did not seem to hear him. 
 
 " Horace, Hadrian, Cicero " he murmured, 
 
 "And Nero?" interjected Sir Theodore. 
 
 Pacci looked round at him rather sharply. 
 
 " I always connect the thought of Nero with beauty and with 
 calm," he obsei-ved. " I do not need to go to Anzio to forgive 
 him for his mistakes and his errors. Wherever Nero is known 
 to have lived dig, and you will discover some glorious Greek 
 work. This fact proves that in the soul of Nero existed a 
 persistent love of beauty and simplicity." 
 
 " I think the art-love of a man is often a passion quite 
 apart from the rest of his nature," said Sir Theodore. " And 
 not expressive of it — necessarily." 
 
 In the distance out of the gathering darkness rose the loud 
 and long cry of some shepherd. It sounded at the same time 
 very fierce and very sad, but wonderfully real and vital ; so 
 vital that Sir Theodore felt as if it plunged him abruptly up 
 to the neck in humanity, coarse perhaps, brutal, but tingling 
 with the almost terrible interest of life. 
 
 " Men are mysteries and should not judge each other," said 
 Pacci, turning his head slowly in the direction of the cry. 
 ** What an enigma was in that shepherd's call ! And yet that 
 shepherd only desired to express what was in him at that mo- 
 ment, and tried to do so with naked simplicity. Only he could 
 not help being mysterious. Rome came from shepherds, but 
 not even Rome ever was able to express what shepherds really 
 were. And not even the monument will be able to express 
 all that the modern Roman is." 
 
 Sir Theodore could not help smiling at Pacci's last sentence, 
 in which once again a faint and subtle irony glided. 
 
 " Tell me the truth, Pacci," he said. " I hear Hagenbeck 
 has undertaken to supply a magnificent collection of wild beasts 
 to Rome when there is a place for them in the Villa Borghese. 
 Wouldn't you like to be allowed to feed them with — shall we 
 say certain human mysteries? " 
 
 Pacci looked meditative. 
 
 " Are you making a mental selection, Pacci ? " Sir Theodore 
 inquired, at length. 
 
 "No, no! I am a great lover of animals," murmured the 
 historian.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 255 
 
 At this moment the purr of the motor sounded behind them, 
 and Pietro came up at top speed. Regretfully Sir Theodore 
 opened the door, and, to his surprise, Pacci immediately stepped 
 in, sat down, and went on talking. 
 
 " No, no! And specially not in the Villa Borghese!" 
 
 Sir Theodore shut the door, and Pietro started. The strong 
 lights of the motor illumined the white and deserted road, and 
 emphasized the darkness of the great spaces on either hand. 
 " All that is done should be done in the suitable place," went on 
 Pacci. " Otherwise ugly confusion arises." 
 
 " You are thinking that the Colosseum ? " Sir Theodore 
 
 began. 
 
 But Pacci interrupted him by saying: 
 
 " Is there a way of stopping it?" 
 
 *' Do you mean the motor? " 
 
 " Yes. Can you stop it ? " 
 
 " Of course. Do you wish me to ? " 
 
 " Per piacere! " 
 
 Sir Theodore communicated with Pietro, who applied the 
 brakes. Pacci opened the door on his side, got out and 
 shut it with a snap. He then got up upon the step, and pre- 
 pared to resume the conversation, holding to the door with 
 both his hands and having his stall tucked under his left 
 arm. 
 
 " You remember the kneeling angel that Leonardo painted 
 in Verrocchio's ' Baptism of ' " 
 
 At this point Pietro, under the impression that his padrone's 
 mysterious acquaintance of the Campagna had been shed into 
 the darkness, sent the motor on at a rapid pace. 
 
 " ' Of Christ? ' " said Pacci, thrusting one hand into the mo- 
 tor to make sure of Sir Theodore's attention, and holding fast 
 to the door with the other. " That angel stopped Verrocchio's 
 brush. Now I " 
 
 " Let me stop the motor, and then ! " 
 
 But Pacci only held more firmly to Sir Theodore's arm, and, 
 leaning well forward, continued earnestly: 
 
 " The world is said to advance. I don't say it does — but 
 it certainly travels. -I suppose the period for using wild animals 
 in the way you suggest is one from which we have traveled 
 away. But if a Leonardo could carve another angel on a cer- 
 tain building and stop " 
 
 The motor sprang across an Inequality in the road, and the 
 historian executed what looked like some strange, and perhaps
 
 256 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 symbolic dance. Sir Theodore broke away decisively and 
 shouted to Pietro, who pulled up with a jerk, 
 
 Pacci immediately got down into the road, and said: *' But we 
 have no Leonardo!" made a slow gesture with his hand, and 
 disappeared into the night, walking with a firm and composed 
 tread. Pietro turned round, his large eyes rolling with in- 
 quiry, to ask what was wanted. 
 
 " Ma come e ancora qui questo s'lgnoref " he blurted out. 
 
 " A casa! A casa! " said Sir Theodore. 
 
 He leaned back in the motor and blessed Pacci. 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 " Bridge has one supreme merit. It takes possession of the 
 mind. While one is playing one is absorbed and can think of 
 nothing else." 
 
 Princess Mancelli had given Dolores a recipe for forgetful- 
 ness one afternoon in the Palazzo Urbino. Dolores remembered 
 the words in that Roman spring, and she found there was truth 
 in them. When she was happy she had cared very little for 
 bridge, though she had played sometimes to make up a four 
 and because every one played. Now she played in order to 
 obtain short periods of forgetfulness, and she came to think of 
 bridge not as a pastime but as a narcotic, and to care for it 
 as a woman in physical pain might care for morphia. And 
 as her love for the game grew her skill as a player rapidly 
 increased. 
 
 She was now living chiefly in a world in which the un- 
 essential things of life are given vast importance, in which 
 " crazes " take the place of tastes, fashions suffocate individual 
 desires, and freedom is a thing unknown, perhaps scarcely 
 dreamed of. And she was trying to trick herself in regard to 
 this world. Taken lightly it had its charm and its value. 
 But Dolores was not in a condition to take anything lightl}% 
 She caught at a feather and tried, by her obstinacy of imagina- 
 tion, to turn it into a bar of iron. She was like a child that, 
 holding in Its hand a pebble, shuts Its eyes, clenches Its teeth, 
 and resolves that the pebble shall become a piece of money. 
 
 In her secret misery she was greedy, and she desired to seize 
 everything the world to which she was clinging could give. As 
 well as Its frivolous side It had an apparently serious side. It
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 257 
 
 not only danced, skated, dined and played bridge. It also 
 listened to music, discussed politics, dabbled in religions, and 
 pronounced judgment on literature and art. Only in bridge, 
 however, did Dolores find now and then for a time, almost 
 complete forgetfulness. She played nearly every afternoon as 
 well as on most evenings. But on Sunday nights she usually 
 went to the house of a certain Mrs. Eldridge, who gave parties 
 which were not only smart, but were supposed to be also im- 
 portantly brilliant. 
 
 Mrs. Eldridge was the widow of a very rich Englishman, 
 and she had the reputation In Rome of being extremely clever. 
 She was middle-aged, self-possessed, and apparently active- 
 minded, though really muddle-headed. Her special gift was to 
 put subjects on the carpet and leave them there to be worried by 
 her Intellectual guests, while she and her guests who were not 
 intellectual sat round and assisted at the melee. If any unwary 
 person incautiously tested her by attempting to go profoundly 
 into the discussion of a difficult subject she was out of her depth 
 at once. Nevertheless through all Roman society she was spoken 
 of as a very clever woman, and it was considered " the thing " 
 to appear at her Sundays. She had chosen Sunday night for 
 her series of receptions because she considered that the serious 
 intellectuality at which she aimed was specially suited to a day 
 that was a little apart from other days. Rome did not bother 
 about such a subtle trifle as that. Mrs. Eldrldge's wealth and 
 determination had captured it and it gave her a sort of special 
 niche In Its gallery of hostesses. 
 
 One Sunday night Dolores came rather late Into Mrs. El- 
 drldge's carefully decorated house which was In the Piazza deli' 
 Indipendenza. Wonderful copies of famous Italian paintings 
 hung upon the walls, most of them made by a Florentine painter 
 whom Mrs. Eldridge had discovered a great many years ago. 
 There were also a few genuine old masters, religiously sepa- 
 rated from the rest and carefully lighted up. The colors of 
 carpets and hangings were subdued, almost austere, but very 
 delicate, very harmonious. The few tapestries were admirable, 
 the few bronzes classically simple, classically calm. On the 
 Stelnway grand piano nothing was ever put except music. 
 There were not too many sofa cushions, not too many flowers, 
 not too many bibelots, not even too many servants. 
 
 Mrs. Eldrldge's "note" was an exquisite austerity, and she 
 had been " helped with her house " by some one who knew a 
 great deal more than she did.
 
 258 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " True beauty is found in economy," was a favorite remark 
 of hers. " Don't mistake me! Don't think I mean economy of 
 money!" And then she would compose her rather large 
 features into an expression of patient nobility, as of one who had 
 to endure a good deal of misunderstanding at the hands of a 
 world unable to rise to the heights on which she usually stepped. 
 
 Despite her austerity, however, Mrs. Eldridge was exceed- 
 ingly fond of " names " and smart people, and she lived up to 
 her watchword when it came to engaging a chef or an artist, 
 a famous lecturer, or a man to reset her jewels. Even upon 
 the heights she kept an instinct that was worldly-wise, and un- 
 derstood that in an existence where all is vanity it is as well 
 to be able to be vain. 
 
 As Dolores came in the last bar of a string quartet sub- 
 sided, apparently on the leading note, and people began to 
 move about, to break up into groups, and to say things that 
 they hoped would be thought brilliant and quoted, or be 
 thought deep and meditated over. The four players disap- 
 peared. Mrs. Eldridge never had too much string music. 
 Economy! Economy! The jaded palate can savor nothing. 
 
 In the distance Dolores saw Lady Sarah Ides bending her 
 characteristic head towards an invisible talker. She also saw 
 Princess Mancelli, Pacci, Mr. Verrall, Mrs. Tooms, Count 
 Boccara, Princess Carelli and many others whom she knew. 
 She was rather surprised to see Lady Sarah, who very seldom 
 went to large parties. But she knew that Mrs. Eldridge was 
 an old acquaintance of Lady Sarah's family, and was sometimes 
 very determined in her invitations. 
 
 Mrs. Eldridge, in a remarkable gown of brown velvet with 
 bronze lights In it, came rather mysteriously up, and greeted 
 Dolores with a careful imitation of the Monna Lisa smile. 
 
 " You heard the last note ? " she asked, in a soft contralto 
 voice. 
 
 " Yes. I am afraid I'm very late." 
 
 " The ear has to supply the key-note. The composer, Mon- 
 sieur Martin, designed it so to stimulate his hearers to an in- 
 tellectual activity. When I was in Paris in the autumn he 
 allowed me to penetrate his new method." 
 
 "How interesting. What is it exactly?" 
 
 Mrs. Eldridge moved with a sudden hint of restlessness. 
 
 " Well — the — the — he wishes to introduce into music the 
 ■ — the — note the Japanese long ago introduced Into art, to 
 carry it — yes — even farther. We have been too positive.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 259 
 
 hitherto, too detailed In art. And so — yes — we must be led 
 to love indications, hints. We must learn. to supply for our- 
 selves what composers and painters could, but no longer choose 
 
 to, give us. There you have the whole method in a " She 
 
 was probably going to say " nutshell," but she suddenly checked 
 herself and substituted " synthetic form." 
 
 "How interesting!" Dolores almost mechanically repeated, 
 looking into the large face of Mrs. Eldridge with her gazelle- 
 like eyes. 
 
 " The step forward ! " said Mrs. Eldridge. " Art In the 
 sense of aesthetic appreciation ! " 
 
 She often quoted without putting quotation marks. 
 
 "Well?" she added, looking round. 
 
 Her eyes lit on a group of people talking rather eagerly 
 at one end of the room under a copy of Raphael's " Madonna 
 del Cardellino." 
 
 "Ah! a discussion!" she exclaimed. "Let us join It!" 
 
 She put a plump and heavily dimpled white hand upon the 
 arm of Dolores, and drew her towards the group. 
 
 "What is It?" she said, as the talkers glanced round. 
 
 One, an eager-looking man, an Italian of perhaps forty, 
 sprang up to offer his seat. 
 
 Mrs. Eldridge drew Dolores Into It with her. 
 
 " Lady Cannynge and I saw something really Interesting was 
 going on here, and we are always on the alert for the keen 
 minds. The Damascus blades for us! " 
 
 She looked round with her determined, but rather dull eyes. 
 
 "What is it all about, Donna Flavia?" 
 
 Donna Flavia, a thin, plain, but very animated looking 
 woman well over forty, replied, in a high and energetic voice: 
 
 " We were talking about the Donna Delinquente." 
 
 "Lombroso!" said Mrs. Eldridge, pressing her hand on the 
 hand of Dolores. "Well?" 
 
 Princess Mancelll came up with Verrall, and stood on the 
 outskirts of the group, listening. 
 
 " Marco will have it that the woman who sins always sins 
 from one root motive." 
 
 "One root motive!" repeated Mrs. Eldridge slowly, as If 
 determined to fix the expression In her memory for all time. 
 " And what motive — root motive? " 
 
 " Love, in some form or other." 
 
 The Italian opened his lips to break In. But Donna Flavia 
 continued with even greater energy:
 
 26o THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " You did contend that, Marco. And of course we all knew 
 exactly what you meant. You meant sex love." 
 
 " I " 
 
 " As a man always does when he speaks of woman's loving. 
 It never occurs to him that we are capable of aflPectlons In 
 which man has no part, into which he does not enter at 
 all " 
 
 " Cara Flavia," vehemently Interposed the Italian, smiling, 
 however, with his whole face. " I must beg you to except chil- 
 dren, though even they are scarcely unconnected with man! " 
 
 "Oh, children!" 
 
 " Yes, Indeed. I think a woman would be as likely to com- 
 mit a crime for the sake of her children as for the sake even 
 of her lover." 
 
 "Her lover!" said Donna Flavia. "And why not add — 
 or her husband ? Or do you think women never love their hus- 
 bands, for excellent reasons supplied liberally by those hus- 
 bands?" 
 
 Two or three people laughed. It was the fashion to laugh 
 at Donna Flavla's sharp, or downright sayings. 
 
 " This Is profoundly Interesting," said Mrs. Eldridge. 
 " What do you say. Princess ? " 
 
 She threw the remark to Princess Mancelll, who made a 
 little gesture with her left hand and said : 
 
 " Nothing. I haven't grasped the discussion yet." 
 
 A slightly satirical smile flitted over her face. " When I 
 am more enlightened " 
 
 She glanced at Mr. Verrall. 
 
 " I will add — or of any man whom she loves, legitimately 
 or not," said Don Marco Torani. " There are some deserving 
 husbands even in Rome, I suppose, and some women who re- 
 ward the deserving." 
 
 " And for an idea," said Donna Flavia. " Do you mean 
 to say that no woman would commit a crime for an Idea? What 
 about women Nihilists?" 
 
 " They always work In connection with men. I should con- 
 tend that, If you could thoroughly look into the ramifications 
 of Nihilism, you would find that they worked really because of 
 men, because of enthusiasm caught from men, comrades." 
 
 He paused and looked round the circle with his large and 
 rather satirical eyes. 
 
 " Comrades ! What a word that Is ! What a lot of secret 
 things It covers In the mouth of a woman ! "
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 261 
 
 "Really, Marco, you are the victim of an idee fixe!" ex- 
 claimed Donna Flavia. " You see sex love in every action of 
 every woman. That absurd maniac, Weininger, and that odi- 
 ous Nietzsche — both madmen by the way, for Weininger's sui- 
 cide v/as an indication of insanity — have disturbed the balance 
 of your mind, amico rnio. Women sin from many motives with 
 which maternity and sexual affection have nothing whatever 
 to do." 
 
 "Look at Charlotte Corday!" said ]\Irs. Eldridge em- 
 phatically. 
 
 " But in the first place I contend that Charlotte Corday 
 did not sin!" exclaimed Don Marco. 
 
 He was evidently preparing to tackle Mrs. Eldridge seri- 
 ously on the relation of violent acts to the general good of 
 humanity, and the moral psychology of revolutionaries, when 
 a thin old man, a senator, Signor Peraldi, interposed with 
 these remarks, uttered in a faded voice: 
 
 "Where women differ from men is in this: A woman is 
 capable of committing a sin, and never realizing it is a sin, 
 because of the thought in her heart when she carries out her 
 act. A man's thought does not blind him in the same way. 
 Therefore more severe punishment should be meted out by 
 justice to men than to women. French juries are not nearly so 
 incompetent for their function as many people think." 
 
 " The thought in her hearty senatore," said Don Marco. 
 
 But the old man had already walked away. 
 
 " Oh, he used the right substantive," said the Princess Man- 
 celli. 
 
 There was a moment's pause. Something either in the old 
 senator's manner, or in his matter, had produced a change in 
 the mental atmosphere. But Mrs. Eldridge both hated and 
 dreaded pauses at her parties. She thought they meant failure. 
 Now, therefore, she made a mental effort, and flung down a 
 subject on the carpet. 
 
 " You were speaking of husbands and — and wives," she 
 remarked, gathering listeners to her with a circular glance. 
 " I have noticed that different nations take different views 
 of what is due from the man to the woman and — and con — 
 and vice versa in the marriage state. Now what is the Roman 
 view ? Here we all are In Rome. Let us have the Roman view 
 of the matter." 
 
 A satisfied look spread itself over her face as she sat back 
 on the sofa by Dolores. She had now only to wait for the
 
 262 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 melee. For the moment she had forgotten Princess Mancelli's 
 relations with the Prince. Verrall began to speak quietly to 
 the Princess, bending towards her in his agreeable, half-defer- 
 ential, half-seductive way, and Don Marco, after a quick glance 
 towards them, said : 
 
 ■ " Even in Rome the man's views on that matter are sure to 
 be different from the woman's." 
 
 " Give us yours, Marco! " said Donna Flavia, in a satirical 
 voice. " They may serve as a guide to us all." 
 
 "I assume" — Don IVIarco turned to Mrs. Eldridge, who 
 was rather startled, and almost a little confused, at having 
 more mental activity expected of her so soon, " that you 
 mean the Roman view of marital unfaithfulness? " 
 
 Mrs. Eldridge had really not meant anything so definite 
 as that, but she answered : 
 
 " Of course. What else could I mean, dear Don Marco? " 
 
 Don Marco's face had changed a little. It looked harder 
 than before. 
 
 "I believe in the unwritten law — as regards the husband," 
 he said. " I think " — Princess Mancelli and Verrall were 
 walking away slowly — " if a wife is unfaithful and the hus- 
 band shoots her, strict justice has been done. I don't say I 
 would do it myself, or even that I wish it to be done. I only 
 say it is strict justice." 
 
 "Of course! I could have said all that for you, Marco!" 
 cried Donna Flavia. " And the wife who shoots the unfaithful 
 husband? " 
 
 " That Is murder, not justice." 
 
 " His father is Sicilian ! " said Donna Flavia sweetly to 
 those about her. " That means about five hundred years in the 
 rear of modern civilization — and proud of it! " 
 
 Don Marco laughed. 
 
 " Possibly I am in the background mentally," he rejoined. 
 " But I have met with " — his eyes happened to fall on Dolores 
 — " with Englishmen who think just as I do, that there must, 
 • — even owing to physiological reasons — be one law for men, 
 another for women in this matter. What would your husband 
 say, do you think. Lady Cannynge?" She smiled. 
 
 " Oh, I think he is far too civilize ever, under any circum- 
 stances, to dream of daggers and pistols in connection with his 
 wife," she replied. 
 
 She looked lightly amused. But she was really thinking, 
 with deep and sudden seriousness.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 263 
 
 " If — what would Theo be like? What would Theo do? " 
 
 " And " — said Donna Flavia, who was always argumentative, 
 and who was secretly devoted to Don Marco, " if a husband 
 drives his wife into sin by his cruelty, or his persistent neglect? 
 Have you nothing to say for her, and against him, then Marco? " 
 
 "A hit! a palpable hit!" exclaimed Mrs. Eldridge, who by 
 long practice had become a highly efficient " bottle-holder." 
 
 Again Don Marco's face hardened, and his under jaw quiv- 
 ered for an instant. 
 
 " I do not defend him, but I say that a really good woman 
 never could be driven into sin." 
 
 " There I don't agree with you ! " said a new voice, breaking 
 in. 
 
 A small, thin, dried up Englishman was the speaker. 
 
 " Bravo, Mr. Belton! " said Donna Flavia, scenting an allj''. 
 
 " An angel might be driven into sin under certain given 
 circumstances," said Mr. Belton. *' If the angel were of the 
 female sex." 
 
 *' Oh, but " cried Donna Flavia. " Are you, too, going 
 
 to put us below men ? " 
 
 " Far from it ! Men never are angels and they need no driv- 
 ing where it is a question of sin." returned Mr. Belton. 
 
 " There, Don Marco! " said Mrs. Eldridge, in great delight, 
 " the battle is arrayed against you! " 
 
 " And what are the circumstances? " asked Don Marco, turn- 
 ing towards the little man. 
 
 " Poor people manage with very little to eat," said Mr. 
 Belton, in his thin and small voice. " But if they are to live 
 at all, they must have something, they must have the crust 
 of bread. So it is with my angels." 
 
 " And what must they have? " said Don Marco. 
 
 " At least a crust of affection, if possible from the man who 
 has taken their life into his hands. But if they don't get it 
 from him, and if they are to go on living " 
 
 At this moment Mrs. Eldridge happened to see that a very 
 important ambassadress was entering the farther drawing- 
 room, and she got up. 
 
 "Now, Don Marco, what have you to say to that?" she 
 observed. "The crust of bread — a very admirable simile!" 
 
 She moved away, and Dolores rose and followed her. She 
 wanted to remain, to hear more, but something within her told 
 her not to do so. As Mrs. Eldridge went to greet the ambassa- 
 dress Dolores paused, looking round for acquaintances, and her
 
 264 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 eyes fell upon a young girl, whom she could not remember 
 having seen before. This girl was standing close to the Prin- 
 cess Carelli, and Dolores — she did not know why — looked at 
 her closely, with a scrutiny that took note of every detail of 
 her appearance and dress. 
 
 She was evidently very young, perhaps eighteen, and was 
 very pretty, but extraordinarily, almost unnaturally, like a doll. 
 In every way she was what is generally called petite. Her 
 figure was narrow, her bones were small, her waist was so 
 tiny that she looked as if at a rude touch she must break in 
 two. Her head, crowned with a mass of yellow hair, in tex- 
 ture like spun silk, was flat at the back, going almost in a 
 straight line into her minute and very white neck. Her com- 
 plexion was marvelously pink and white, very fresh, very vir- 
 ginal, and her features were cameo-like in their regularity. 
 She had bright, staring blue eyes, and exquisite little hands 
 and feet. Simply, but beautifully dressed in white, she stood 
 very still, looking about her with an air of absolute self-pos- 
 session and without any curiosity. This entire lack of curi- 
 osity impressed Dolores unfavorably. It suggested coldness, al- 
 most heartlessness, in one so young. 
 
 A young man from the French Embassy came up and spoke 
 to Dolores. 
 
 " Who is that little girl? " she asked him. 
 
 " Which little girl? " he said, looking around him. " There 
 are so many little girls in Rome, and indeed almost ever}-- 
 where." 
 
 " That one, over there by Princess Carelli." 
 
 The Frenchman followed her eyes. 
 
 " Ah ! " he said expressively. " But that little girl is a very 
 important person ! " 
 
 " May one ask why? " 
 
 " She is to have the biggest ' dot ' in Rome." 
 
 " And that fact makes her important! " 
 
 "Does it not?" 
 
 *' Of course." 
 
 " She is Donna Ursula Montebruno." 
 
 "A relation of Marchese Montebruno, the great gambler?" 
 
 " The daughter of one of his cousins, Giacomo Montebruno, 
 who married Miss Mullins, the only child of the Colorado oil 
 king. His Majesty has had the good taste to die, and that 
 little lady will eventually possess enough money to make Midas 
 uneasy in his grave. For she also is an only child. No won-
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 265 
 
 der she is terribly self-possessed. Does not her hair glitter 
 like a shower of sovereigns? " 
 
 " Poor little thing," said Dolores. 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 Dolores lifted her shoulders slightly. 
 
 " I don't — know! " she murmured. 
 
 But in her heart she repeated, " Poor little thing! " 
 
 " The mother has a nervous illness. She is always breaking 
 down, perhaps under the weight of the avalanche of dollars. 
 I suppose Princess Carelli is taking the little lady out." 
 
 Princess Mancelli came up with Mr. Verrall, and the French- 
 man spoke to Madame de Heder, who was sitting close by, 
 watching the crowd with her light and sincere eyes. 
 
 Since Dolores had begun to play bridge regularly she had 
 seen a good deal of Princess Mancelli. Both the Princess and 
 she were secretly seeking in cards a similar consolation, and 
 they met fairly often in the houses of ardent bridge players. 
 The Princess played as a rule much better than Dolores, but her 
 play varied little, whereas Dolores was rapidly improving her 
 game. 
 
 " Do you like these parties? " said the Princess, touching the 
 hand of Dolores familiarly. 
 
 "Mrs. Eldridge's?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Why not ? Surely they are very pleasant." 
 
 "Yes. Music, discussion — by the way, why did you flee 
 from the Donna Flavia coterie?" 
 
 "Was the discussion getting too hot?" asked Verrall. 
 "Was it like being in Bastion Four at Sevastopol?" Dolores 
 laughed. 
 
 " Perhaps. And I'm not very good at argument. It is not 
 my line." 
 
 " Bridge is your line," said the Princess. 
 
 " Do you really think so? " 
 
 " You are coming on wonderfully. I am getting afraid of 
 you." 
 
 " You play far better than I do." 
 
 " But shall I — soon ? There are still ten days before the 
 Giamarcho tournament. By that time you may be irresistible. 
 And I want that jewel." 
 
 She said this as if in truth the prize for the winner of the 
 tournament was the last thing she really wanted. 
 
 " I wonder what man I shall draw," said Dolores.
 
 266 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " Not Mr. Verrall, I hope. He plays too well." 
 
 Verrall looked pleased. He was what is generally called 
 " a good all round man " and had already become a far greater 
 success in Rome than Francis Denzil had ever been. 
 
 "Since I have played with you, Princess!" he said. 
 
 " Have I taught you so much ? " 
 
 " But," said Verrall, *' I have just heard from Prince Gia- 
 marcho that one of the best bridge players in Europe is to be 
 in the tournament." 
 
 " Who is that ? " asked Dolores. 
 
 " Marchese Montebruno." 
 
 " Quite true. He has come back unexpectedly to Rome, no 
 one knows why," said Princess Mancelli. " But Montebruno 
 is always a mj^stery even to his oldest friends. I have known 
 him all my life, and yet he never tells me anything." 
 
 " Is he a fine bridge player? " said Dolores. 
 
 " Oh yes, simply wonderful," replied the Princess. " If 
 you have the luck to draw him, and play as you do at present 
 even, the jewel is yours." 
 
 " The cards might be against us." 
 
 " You would win all the same." 
 
 People came up. An Austrian began to sing, " Mon coeur 
 s'ouvre a ta vo'ix." Dolores made her way to a seat beside 
 Lady Sarah, who whispered a friendly greeting with her pecul- 
 iar charm of manner, which had its roots in the heart. They 
 sat together in silence while the Austrian sang. And again 
 Dolores looked at the little doll-like girl who was to have the 
 enormous " dot." She had found a seat by Princess Carelli, and 
 she listened to the warm passion of the song without the slightest 
 change of expression. Her bright blue eyes traveled about the 
 room, looking from one person to another, and finally they 
 rested on Dolores. For nearly a minute the woman and the 
 girl looked at one another. Then Dolores glanced down. She 
 felt almost strangely repelled by " that child " as she mentally 
 named her. And when the music was over she turned to 
 Lady Sarah with a soft eagerness, almost as to a saviour. 
 
 But who can save another from what is ordained, by the 
 Power outside, or perhaps by the Power inside, herself?
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 267 
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 Cesare Carelli was biding his time. 
 
 He was passing through a strange period, which was not 
 at all understood by his men friends. It seemed to them in- 
 credible that Cesare should be without a woman in his life 
 during all these months. Yet, as they could not discover her, 
 they were eventually obliged to conclude that, lady or cocotte, 
 she did not exist. Some of them chaffed Cesare. Others en- 
 deavored to interest him in some of the pretty, and not too 
 virtuous, women who are perpetually passing through Rome. 
 He took their good-humored chaff with good-humor, even made 
 more than once a lively attempt to pretend to respond to their 
 endeavors. But they were all agreed at last that there was 
 really nothing in it. 
 
 During the long intrigue with Princess Mancelli they had 
 understood their companion's situation very well. He belonged 
 to " the Mancelli." That was settled. They respected the 
 intrigue, and they all admired the Princess despite her age. 
 She still had a power of eliciting the worship of j'outh though 
 she did not possess youth. But this long lying fallow of Cesare 
 had made them gossip a great deal among themselves. 
 
 Some one said he had a mistress in Paris. But that must be 
 a lie, because for months he had not gone to Paris. Another 
 declared that he had found a lovely contadina in the country, 
 and had hidden her in a cottage on the edge of the Pontine 
 Marshes. But in some mysterious way the " no " of truth, 
 though not uttered, will often irresistibly force its way into 
 the minds of men. And thus it was with the gay companions 
 of Cesare. Not one of them really believed in that contadina. 
 
 Although they sometimes chaffed Cesare they were careful 
 not to go too far. Cesare was a man who imposed a certain 
 respect on other men. He seemed so thoroughly master of 
 himself that no man ever tried to be his master, and though he 
 did not ordinarily appear to be reserved, even his best friends 
 had long ago learnt that he did not choose to have his life pried 
 into by any one. 
 
 His absolute reticence, never deviated from, concerning his 
 connection with Princess Mancelli had taught every one that 
 lesson. 
 
 Most Italian men are secretive, and somewhat mistrustful of 
 others, and Cesare possessed this trait of his countrymen. He
 
 268 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 was strong enough not to take a confidante, and, if he had a 
 secret, only considered it safe so long as he told it to no one. 
 
 Perhaps, after the rupture with Princess Mancelli, attended, 
 as it had been, by scenes of despair and violence, of humiliation 
 and fury, Cesare had needed these months of quiescence, which 
 seemed to his friends unnatural. He had passed through fires 
 and had been burned. And the scars of that burning he had 
 carried with him into loneliness while the Princess went bravely 
 to meet her French friends in Switzerland. The summer after 
 their rupture Cesare had spent chiefly in Lombardy on an es- 
 tate of his father's, and quite alone with the contadini. He 
 was supposed to be with his people, because he was in Italy, 
 and on Prince Carelli's land. But the Prince and Princess 
 had been at Salsomaggiore, Vallombrosa and Viareggio, and 
 scarcely at all with their son near Monza. And Cesare had 
 been glad of solitude. He had felt that he required it, both 
 mentally and physicall5% For he had not won his way out of 
 the long intrigue with Princess Mancelli without a great exer- 
 tion of the will, and without considerable moral suffering. And 
 his complete secrecy in the whole matter had cost him dear. 
 If he could have told the whole matter to a friend, a much 
 older man, have explained his situation, have asked advice, have 
 been backed up in his action by an opinion that was valuable, 
 the solace would have been great. Although nobody knew it, 
 he had had a long inward struggle before he had come to the 
 resolve to leave Princess Mancelli. For years he had secretly 
 longed to be free before he had at last claimed his freedom. 
 Perhaps he would never have claimed it if Dolores had not come 
 to Rome. Almost certainly he would never have claimed it if 
 he had not been so much younger than the Princess. His sense 
 of honor, and perhaps also his deference to the traditions and 
 opinion of his set in Rome, might have kept him dragging his 
 chain. But youth has its riotous energies, its hardnesses, above 
 all its passionate desire to taste the wine cup only the golden 
 years can put to the lips of a man. And it has a secret and 
 almost severe understanding of what is owed to it, and of what 
 it owes to itself. Cesare knew that the Princess had done him 
 a cruel wrong in seizing upon his ignorant youth. She might 
 say that Italian boj^s were men at the age of eighteen. But 
 had that been true of him? He had emerged from the hands 
 of his English tutor to be seized upon by this woman of the 
 world, who was already over thirty, and who knew life comnie 
 sa pocke. He had been but a handsome and spirited child.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 269 
 
 She had turned him into a man, and by doing so, had taught 
 him what she was, and in what a condition he was living. She 
 had taught him that he was in prison and that she was the 
 jailor. It was a long while before he v\'oke up to the complete 
 understanding of the ugly truth. At first vanity blinded him, 
 and passion blinded him, and he honestly believed he adored 
 Princess Mancelli. He was flattered bej'ond measure because 
 she had picked him out, she who was considered a great ele- 
 gante, who was a leader of the smart world. The good look- 
 ing boy loves to ^are figura among his comrades, and his mind 
 not seldom swaggers. Cesare was very proud of himself at 
 first. He saw himself envied by other men, and he believed 
 himself to be enviable. And the Princess knew how to make 
 appeals that were not to his vanity. She swept him of? his 
 feet with her love. But the time came when he touched ground 
 again, the time when he looked out on the freedom of others, 
 when he thought, " But why am I not free too? " 
 
 As so often happens in an intrigue, when the woman is much 
 older and more experienced than the man, Princess jMancelli 
 was terribly jealous of Cesare. Her jealousy was founded on 
 fear, and her fear was based on reason and her knowledge of 
 life. She knew that it might be difficult for her to keep Ce- 
 sare, even though she was a charming and a clever woman. 
 She knew that she might have to suffer. She risked that 
 chance. She was a woman who was ready to take risks when 
 her heart spoke. But, in the beginning, she had not known 
 how she was going to love Cesare. When she knew all that 
 he meant in her life, a thousand lives seemed suddenly to bristle 
 up within her, and every one of them depended for all its hap- 
 piness on Cesare. 
 
 Gradually he came to hate her complete dependence upon 
 him, which he divined. It closed in the horizons about him. 
 It exhausted the air. It dulled the music of life. It shut the 
 doors. Princess Mancelli's love was so great, and so essentially 
 passionate, that it occasionally carried her beyond her clever- 
 ness. She could not always be clever with Cesare, though for 
 long she had been clever even with him. She had to show 
 herself to him sometimes not as a woman of the world, but 
 simply as a woman. And her complete and intense depend- 
 ence upon him was as a lamp by whose light he came to perceive 
 that he was not dependent on her. 
 
 And at last he knew the wrong she had done him. 
 
 The young men who were his contemporaries passed from
 
 270 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 one love affair to another, or they married. He heard their 
 talk in the club, at the theater, in the hunting field. And he 
 felt that always there was a reservation in regard to himself, 
 when possible marriages, or flirtations, or intrigues were dis- 
 cussed. He " belonged to the MancelH." He was out of it 
 all. By slow degrees he grew almost to hate the Princess. 
 And yet he was grateful to her, and he was accustomed to her, 
 and he admired her, and she knew how to give him pleasure. 
 But he wanted his freedom. He needed it. He began to feel 
 as if he had a right to it, and that in her heart Princess Man- 
 celli was perpetually, almost furiously, denying him that right. 
 
 In times of great stress people have to act in complete accord 
 with their natural characters. The character of Princess Man- 
 celli was essentially imperious, and she was not wrong in think- 
 ing that in her nature there was something of a granite texture. 
 When she became mortally afraid because she divined her lover's 
 secret and growing restlessness, therefore, she sought to impose 
 herself upon him by the force of her will, to dominate him by 
 her inflexible determination, almost to sequestrate him by the 
 intensity of her love. She hid her new softness, her cringing 
 terror of the woman who loves too much. She showed the 
 woman who considers that she has a right to possess, and to 
 rule, because of her attractive force and her pride. 
 
 This was Princess Mancelli's natural way of asserting her- 
 self in a difficult moment, or period. 
 
 The other woman in her seemed almost not herself, but she 
 began to grow insistent. Nevertheless, using her will, deter- 
 mined to be true to herself, the Princess strove resolutely to 
 hide this stranger, who yet was herself. When her heart was 
 crying, " Don't desert me! " to Cesare, her manner said often, 
 " You are fortunate to have been chosen by me as my compan- 
 ion." In her moments of abandonment to passion she was 
 fierce, and even in them imperious. 
 
 But .there were lapses. Sometimes the fearful, and even 
 humble woman could not be concealed. Sometimes the naked 
 truth of her was shown. But, in the main, as Cesare grew 
 more restless under the yoke, the Princess sought to press it 
 more firmly upon him. She knew that the really clever woman 
 holds a man to her by cords that seem made of thistledown. But 
 there was the hardness in her character, the pride in her Roman 
 blood. Almost instinctively she rushed to find chains for Ce- 
 sare's binding. The fight was engaged between heart and 
 brain, and the heart conquered.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 271 
 
 And then Dolores appeared in Rome. 
 
 The peculiar and almost romantic softness which was a char- 
 acteristic of the true Dolores, the Dolores unwarped, had made 
 a curious appeal to Cesare. But it had done more. It had 
 shown him clearly the whole of his manhood. It had taught 
 him that this manhood had never been allowed free play. The 
 true man ought to take, but he had been taken ; to make the 
 advance towards the sacred citadel, but he had been captured. 
 To his restlessness was added a cold self-contempt. What had 
 Rome been thinking of him all these long j'^ears? He saw him- 
 self at last as a prey, himself — a man. It is a man's business — 
 he said to himself — to conquer the woman he loves. But he 
 had been conquered by a determined woman. With new and 
 terrible ej'es he now looked upon Princess Mancelli. That 
 she loved him was not enough. Men excuse very little in love 
 when they themselves do not love. And when a woman would 
 turn into fire, a man often turns into iron. 
 
 Beneath the yoke that pressed heavily upon him Cesare began 
 to turn into iron. 
 
 Had the Denzils not been in Rome Cesare might not have 
 been more than strongly attracted by Dolores. But when he 
 believed that she was deserted — in the sense of the only real 
 desertion — by her husband, he began to love her. And from 
 this love he drew the strength to burst his bonds, and to obtain 
 his freedom. And with the bursting of his bonds he felt as if, 
 for the first time, he came fully into his manhood as into a great 
 inheritance. 
 
 He had to rest with It, to grow accustomed to it, before he 
 used it. The new criticism of his Rome, which, he quite un- 
 derstood, must be turned upon him because of his treatment of 
 Princess Mancelli, did not seriously affect him. For he was 
 free of that other criticism which his now conscious manhood 
 had chafed under. They might speak against him and say he 
 was cruel now they could no longer speak against him because 
 he was weak. The code of honor did not permanently trouble 
 him, not because he was devoid of a sense of honor, but be- 
 cause, in his new love, he realized how false the world's stand- 
 ard in that matter frequently is. And he was not made to 
 suffer much because he was saved by the Princess Mancelli's 
 pride. She said not a word against him. And so not very 
 much had been said against him in Rome. 
 
 So the months passed and Cesare lived with his freedom, and 
 his lack of freedom ; with his liberty of the man who was no
 
 272 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 longer bound fast to a woman by recognized ties, and his lack 
 of liberty of the man whose heart cannot stray because it is an- 
 chored. It seemed that he dwelt in calm, and his companions 
 wondered. And the Princess Mancelli watched. And Sir 
 Theodore Cannynge began to live in the life at Frascati. 
 
 About the time of the party at Mrs. Eldridge's at which 
 Dolores had seen the little doll-like girl, however, Cesare be- 
 came aware that his mother was once more beginning to " make 
 plans " for his future. In former days both she and his father 
 had spoken very plainly to him with regard to matrimony, and 
 had done their best to force him to marry. Repeated failures 
 had induced a long quiescence on their part. And Cesare had 
 ceased to fear their energies. He thought that his obstinacy 
 had conquered their hopes, and that they had finally decided to 
 let him alone. 
 
 But now he began to understand that something had caused 
 his mother to plan a fresh campaign against her only son's 
 celibacy, and that she was going to conduct it with less frank- 
 ness than had attended her previous efforts to settle him in 
 life. She said not a word to him about marrying, but one 
 afternoon, in a weary voice, she remarked : 
 
 " It is so tiresome! I have been obliged to promise to chap- 
 erone a girl to the Caltanizetti's to-night." 
 
 "Have you, mamma? What girl?" asked Cesare, quite 
 unsuspecting. 
 
 " Little Ursula Montebruno. The mother is ill as usual, 
 and Giorgio came on an embassy about It from his cousin." 
 
 "Giorgio Montebruno?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I thought he was in Nice." 
 
 " No. He was in here yesterday. I know Giorgio so well 
 that I couldn't get out of it." 
 
 " Povera mamma! " said Cesare, kindly, but rather negli- 
 gently. 
 
 The Princess was given to complaining, especially in the 
 family circle. 
 
 Cesare did not go to the Caltanizetti's, and thought no more 
 of the matter till he found that his mother was chaperoning 
 Donna Ursula at another party at Mrs. Eldridge's, and then 
 that she had agreed to " take the little thing about " with her 
 till the end of the season, as poor Minna Montebruno — the 
 mother — was a complete wreck, and would not be able to 
 hold up her head for months, in all probability.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 273 
 
 " And she's quite a nice little thing," the Princess added 
 languidly. " And not a bit spoilt." 
 
 "Why should she be spoilt?" asked Cesare, without much 
 Interest. 
 
 *' Well, she's the greatest heiress in Italy. All the Mullins 
 money is coming to her." 
 
 " Really! " said Cesare, with an air of complete indifference. 
 
 He realized that probably his mother was once more plotting 
 to marry him to a big " dot," but it never occurred to him that 
 IVIontebruno or Princess Mancelli had anything to do with the 
 matter. He believed that the Princess's one desire was that 
 he should never speak to another wom.an now that he had left 
 her. For he knew her jealousy, even to its depths. And he 
 knew, too, that Montebruno was an old, and apparently a de- 
 voted friend of hers. Princess Carelli had no more idea than 
 Cesare of Princess Mancelli's part in the matter of Donna 
 Ursula. She so disliked Princess Mancelli that she would 
 have preferred to see her son remain a celibate forever rather 
 than see him marry because Princess Mancelli wished it. But 
 it never occurred to her that the Princess could wish such a 
 thing. Princess Mancelli had, Princess Carelli thought, tried 
 to ruin Cesare's life. Such a woman could not desire to see 
 the ruin pieced together, restored, by another woman or girl. 
 The fact that Giorgio Montebruno had first put it into Prin- 
 cess Carelli's head that Donna Ursula might do very well for 
 Cesare as a wife did not wake the Princess's suspicions. Mon- 
 tebruno was an old friend of so many women that his strange 
 affection for Princess Mancelli was not suspected in Rome. 
 He looked quite incapable of a strong affection. And his fam- 
 ily and the Princess's were old and almost legendary allies. Of 
 course he was hereditarily fond of Lisetta. That meant noth- 
 ing. And Montebruno had always been intimate with Prin- 
 cess Carelli, as he was with nearly everybody. He had never 
 suggested to her that Donna Ursula would do for Cesare. He 
 had only deplored the perpetual illnesses of his cousin, Gia- 
 como's wife, and casually hinted that it was dangerous for the 
 greatest heiress in Rome to be so little looked after. And he 
 had wondered whether Princess Carelli would chaperone Ur- 
 sula to the Caltanizetti's, It would be the child's first party, 
 and it was important she should appear under good auspices. 
 
 Princess Carelli's mind had been set going, like a watch. And 
 now it ticked on vigorously. Although she had " given Cesare 
 up," she was quite ready to make one last campaign against his
 
 274 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 obstinate celibacy. And the thought of little Ursula's immense 
 " dot " roused in her the strange and ugly avarice so often man- 
 ifested by rich people. Besides, as she often said with a dry 
 plaintiveness, " In these days of American millionaires no Ital- 
 ian is rich. We are all picturesque paupers with lovely names, 
 trying to pretend we can afford the necessaries of life, when we 
 know quite well we can't." So Princess Carelli set to work 
 with a will, disguised under her habitual manner of languid 
 indifference, to try to carry into effect the wishes of Princess 
 Mancelli. 
 
 Women have strange lacunae in their jealousies. Princess 
 Mancelli had looked once on the fair hair, blue eyes, narrow 
 figure and fiat little head of Donna Ursula, and at once had 
 known that she could never be jealous of her. It was as if 
 her body had cried the truth aloud and her soul had at once 
 accepted it — on the evidence of the body. It was the way 
 Donna Ursula's head went into her neck that had made the 
 Princess know she could never be jealous of her. In that 
 straight line there was something cold, unimaginative, limited, 
 and hard in a small way which the Princess accepted at a glance 
 and without mental parley. 
 
 " Cesare shall marry, and he shall marry that doll ! " she had 
 said to herself. 
 
 At Mrs. Eldridge's party she had looked from Donna Ursula 
 to Dolores, and she had felt within herself two extremes, like 
 Heaven and Hell, she thought. She had seen Cesare belonging 
 to the one — and to the other, ice-bound and fire-bound. And 
 all that was imperious and all that was violent within her had 
 risen up to decree the marriage of the doll to the man who had 
 rejected her fire. For the first time since Cesare had aban- 
 doned her she felt again a very faint thrill of the zest of life at 
 her heart. She even — for what wild dreams do not flash 
 through the heart of the woman who loves? — had a quick 
 vision of Cesare learning through Donna Ursula what he had 
 thrown away when he broke from Lisetta Mancelli. 
 
 But Dolores Cannynge! When Princess Mancelli thought 
 of Dolores with Cesare she knew that there were some things 
 which no woman ought to be made to endure, however much 
 she may have sinned. And from this time she set Dolores 
 apart. 
 
 " Any one but Dolores Cannynge ! " she said to herself, and 
 most often when she lay awake in the night. ** Any one but 
 Dolores Cannynge ! "
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 275 
 
 Her woman's instinct divined the exact truth of her lover's 
 desire. He wanted the opposite of her, Lisetta Mancelli. And 
 Dolores was her opposite. When they had sat together in the 
 Palazzo Urbino she had felt almost sternly conscious of the 
 power of her nature, and of the romantic softness of Dolores. 
 She had known that she had the strong fiber of the ruler. And 
 then had come to her the thought, " And you ! Are you not 
 born to yield, and to be cherished, sheltered, perhaps wor- 
 shiped by strength ? " And a cold sensation of impotence had 
 slipped through her. For something had surely told her in 
 that moment the root-cause of the rupture between Cesare and 
 herself. They were too much akin. In both of them was the 
 fiber of the ruler. Her imperious strength at last had offended 
 the strength in her lover. He had learnt to hate something 
 that was almost of himself which he had discerned in her. 
 
 She knew now how mad she had been when she had striven 
 to make her yoke hard upon Cesare's shoulders. 
 
 Princess Mancelli was superstitious. She laughed at omens, 
 but there was something in her, from of old surely ineradicable, 
 which believed in them. And Nanna fostered this something. 
 Princess Mancelli would have smiled had any one hinted to her 
 that ignorant Nanna could possibly influence her mind. But 
 so it was. Nanna, with her eyes of a sorceress and her beliefs 
 of Trastevere, and her deep and exclusive love, meant a good 
 deal to the Princess. And Nanna believed in omens, and in- 
 deed in almost everything that was entirely unscientific and 
 that could never be proved to be a truth. 
 
 As the night of the Giamarcho bridge tournament drew 
 close Princess Mancelli became possessed of a conviction. She 
 felt certain that she and Dolores would find themselves oppo- 
 nents in the final struggle for that jewel on which, as she had 
 said to Mrs. Eldridge, she had set her heart. It was a beau- 
 tiful jewel, a curiously cut emerald in a setting of jade, very 
 original and very effective. But the Princess had quantities 
 of jewels. She wanted this one because she believed that its 
 loss to Dolores would be ominous. If she and Dolores fought 
 for it, and Dolores won it, that would be a bad omen for her. 
 In the night, when she could not sleep, she dwelt upon this idea 
 till it became almost an obsession. At one moment she saw 
 herself wearing the jewel. At another it gleamed in its curi- 
 ous pale setting on the long and graceful neck of the woman 
 she had begun to fear. She resolved, with a secret violence, to 
 win it. Sometimes she said to herself that probably Dolores
 
 276 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 Cannynge and she would not play against each other in the 
 tournament. Lady Cannynge and her partner might be put 
 out by another pair long before the final was reached. Or she, 
 Princess Mancelli, might draw an impossible partner and be 
 beaten in the first game. The chances were perhaps against 
 her meeting Lady Cannynge as an adversary. Nevertheless 
 she felt quite certain that the fight for the jewel would eventu- 
 ally lie between her and Lady Cannynge. 
 
 She gathered together all her force in the resolve that the 
 Jewel should be hers. 
 
 That she played better than Lady Cannynge she knew. But 
 Lady Cannynge was improving every day. Princess Mancelli 
 was able to mark that fact, for between the night of the El- 
 dridge reception and the night of the tournament, they played 
 together nearly every afternoon in one house or another. And 
 each afternoon it seemed to the Princess that Lady Cannynge 
 played a little better than the afternoon before. 
 
 Dolores, too, wanted to win the jewel. If she did it would 
 mean a success, that she had achieved something at which she 
 had definitely aimed. A poor little aim! A poor little unmean- 
 ing success! Perhaps so. But it would be something to 
 reach any goal. And if everything she really wanted — more 
 needed — was taken from her, then she must try and get some 
 little thing for herself. A jewel in jade! She must try to 
 get that. 
 
 She did not tell her husband of her small ambition. In her 
 heart, perhaps, she was crying over it as a mother, bereft of 
 her child, might cry over the doll — that could stay. She felt 
 Sir Theodore's complete separation in mind from all the things 
 in which she was now concerned. She even felt that with 
 every day he moved further away from her life. But she made 
 no effort to join him. 
 
 For, often she seemed to be conscious of the movement of 
 the current of her life, setting away from all that she needed, 
 irresistibly. 
 
 She tried to put all her heart into bridge. She tried to set 
 all her heart on that jewel. 
 
 On the night of the tournament she dined alone with her 
 husband. Theo was never at Frascati at night. But she dined 
 out very often. She had offered never to dine out, but her 
 husband had begged her to do as she liked in words she had 
 not forgotten. He had said : 
 
 " Remember, Doloretta, I shall never wish you to give up
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 277 
 
 anything that brings innocent pleasure into your life. I don't 
 think I have anything of the kill-joy in me. I know you un- 
 derstand my occupations and duties. And I can quite realize 
 what your pleasures mean to you. If I cannot always share 
 them you must say to yourself, ' He's a good many years older 
 than I am.' " 
 
 That v,-as the first time Sir Theodore had spoken of the dif- 
 ference in their ages as if it must set them apart the one from 
 the other. The thought shot through the mind of Dolores: 
 
 " Is he going to make that an — excuse ? " 
 
 " Then I will dine out sometimes, Theo," she had answered. 
 " The season will soon be over." 
 
 *' Where are you going to-night, Doloretta? " said Sir Theo- 
 dore, as they sat down to dinner. 
 
 " To a party at Princess Giamarcho's." 
 
 " You look so mighty serious, so determined, that I fancied 
 some extraordinary matter must be in the wind." 
 
 " No," she said. 
 
 She did not choose to tell him just then about the tourna- 
 ment. He would think it such a paltry affair. 
 
 " Is it to be a big party? " Sir Theodore asked, with a clever, 
 but of course utterly useless attempt at seeming interested. 
 
 " I believe so." 
 
 "The Grand Duke, I suppose?" 
 
 *' Oh yes. He is going everywhere. But he is only in Rome 
 for a fortnight." 
 
 " I met him In the Campagna to-day, motoring with the little 
 Boccara — one mass of extraordinary veils." 
 
 *' He admires her, I believe." 
 
 " I nearly stopped the motor and begged her to give us the 
 dance of the seven veils in that marvelous setting." 
 
 " She would have been delighted. And she dances beauti- 
 fully." 
 
 " Not so well as Marchesa though," said Sir Theodore, 
 
 mentioning a very pretty woman who had once made a sensa- 
 tion in Rome by appearing as the moon in a charity ballet at 
 the Teatro Argentina. 
 
 " No. How is Theo getting on with his fencing? " 
 
 " Wonderfully well for such a child. Erdardi is delighted 
 with him, but far too martial to say so." 
 
 " I suppose he will soon be going to school, won't he? " 
 
 "To school!" Sir Theodore said, rather sharply, as if he 
 were startled.
 
 278 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " Or does Edna mean to educate him out here? " 
 
 ** No doubt he will go to school in England eventually. I 
 think Edna will be guided by me in the matter, as I am Theo's 
 guardian. But there is plenty of time." 
 
 Dolores knew that she had touched upon a subject which al- 
 ready had troubled her husband's mind. But something in 
 her felt cruel, and she continued: 
 
 " I am sure Francis would have sent his son to a public 
 school. He was such a thorough Englishman." 
 
 " Francis told me of his wishes concerning Theo before he 
 died," said Sir Theodore, " And of course I shall be careful 
 to carry them out. But Theo is only nine. So, as I said be- 
 fore, there is plenty of time." 
 
 There was a short silence. Dolores had realized how fond 
 her husband had become of little Theo, how already he dreaded 
 the moment when the child would leave the home nest, and go 
 out to be made, or marred, by contact with others, with stran- 
 gers who would become his friends or perhaps his enemies, but 
 who, in any case, must influence him for good or for evil. If 
 she had given her husband a son — ah ! how different every- 
 thing would have been ! How Theodore would have wor- 
 shiped her as the mother of his son, the giver to him of the 
 great gift he had always longed for! She hated little Theo in 
 her husband's life. She could not help it. Edna was little 
 Theo's mother. 
 
 " What time do you expect to be back, Doloretta? " said Sir 
 Theodore at last. 
 
 " Very late, I think. We are going to play bridge." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 He helped himself to some claret. 
 
 " Should j^ou mind if Theo stayed here to-morrow night?" 
 he said, after a minute. " He could sleep in the little blue 
 room. He has his fencing lesson late, and Erdardi has a sort 
 of tournament for his pupils in the evening. Theo is longing 
 to go to it, and I thought it would be better if " 
 
 " Of course let him sleep here. I — - shall love to have 
 him. Perhaps Edna will come, too?" 
 
 " Oh no," said Sir Theodore hastily. 
 
 " Does she never come to Rome ? " 
 
 "She hasn't as yet. And — well, she told me she couldn't 
 come to our apartment for a long time, because of the sad m.em- 
 ories connected with it." 
 
 " I understand. That's very natural."
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 279 
 
 There was another pause. Sir Theodore looked across the 
 table twice at his wife. She felt certain he had something in 
 his mind which he wished to speak of to her. She did not 
 know what it was. But she supposed it must be connected 
 with the family at Frascati. She was beginning to understand 
 a little more every day — sometimes it seemed to her every mo- 
 ment — how concentrated Theodore was becoming on the Den- 
 zils. Whatever he and she might be talking of she knew he 
 was thinking of them. And she fully realized that the more 
 Theodore did for the Denzils the more he would love them. 
 In time Francis's death would perhaps almost seem to Theo- 
 dore the event which had given birth to his own real life. Not 
 for a long time could that be, but Dolores foresaw that it might 
 be — at last. 
 
 Although Sir Theodore evidently had something, probably 
 important, that he wished to say he did not say it. And Dolo- 
 res put on her cloak to go to the Giamarchos' still wondering 
 what it was. 
 
 " Good-night, Theo! " she said. 
 
 She stood in such a way that it was impossible for him to 
 know that she wished him to kiss her, equally impossible for 
 him to be sure that she did not. 
 
 " But I expect I shall still be up when you come back," 
 he said. 
 
 " I shall be very late, I know." 
 
 "Why so specially late to-night?" 
 
 " We are having a bridge tournament. And of course that 
 takes time." 
 
 Sir Theodore had come quite close to his wife. And she 
 believed he was going to kiss her. But at her words he made 
 a slight movement away from her. It was very slight, but it 
 meant a lost kiss. 
 
 " A tournament! " he said. " Well, I hope you may win It." 
 
 As Dolores went down the great staircase to get into the 
 motor she felt almost as if the expression of her husband's hope 
 had killed her own desire. 
 
 Did she wish any longer to win that jewel?
 
 28o THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 The Giamarchos lived in Palazzo Chlgi looking on Piazza 
 Colonna. They had large estates in Tuscany, and for Ital- 
 ians were rich. The Prince was dull and suffered from colds. 
 And the Princess was a poseuse, a phenomenon unusual among 
 Italians. But she was handsome and smart, and had known 
 every one in Rome all her life, having been born a Lantini, and 
 a member of the elder branch of that old and famous family. 
 And she had been admired by a very great personage, appar- 
 ently with the approval of the Prince, who had influenza so 
 often that he almost ceased to count. So a party in Palazzo 
 Chigl was an event which brought what the Italie called 
 the " tout-Rome " together, and nobody who received an invi- 
 tation refused it. 
 
 The apartments in Roman palaces are usually immense, and 
 the Giamarcho apartment was no exception to the general rule. 
 Multitudes of people who were not going to play in the tour- 
 nament put in an appearance, but they were supposed to keep 
 away religiously from the great room decorated with Flemish 
 tapestries in which the bridge tables were arranged. The play- 
 ers entered the palace and disappeared, while the other guests 
 dispersed through the rooms to talk, or in a distant gallery lis- 
 tened to Schizzi's band, which performed in a painted alcove 
 decorated with flowering shrubs. But details of the progress 
 made in the tournament leaked out as the night wore on, and 
 the players who were already put out of the handicap emerged 
 to receive consolation from their friends, from Schizzi, and 
 from an excellent buffet. 
 
 Mrs. Eldridge, who played abominably, being too intellec- 
 tual for cards, was the first to come out of the sacrosanct room, 
 with her partner, Mr. Belton. And they were shortly followed 
 by Countess Boccara, In an extremely bad temper, with her 
 Grand Duke. The latter personage was taken possession of by 
 his hostess, while the little Countess was quickly surrounded by 
 anxious young men, full of instincts that had surely descended 
 from the Good Samaritan. She sat down on a hard chair with 
 a gilded back, and looked crossly around her. 
 
 "Who Is going to win, cara Contessa?" asked Prince Per- 
 reto, who had not entered for the tournament. 
 
 " Chi lo sa? " said the Countess, with a coldly bored intona- 
 tion.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 281 
 
 "Well, but tell us who has drawn whom?" said Perreto. 
 " You were honored of course by " 
 
 " Honored ! " interrupted Countess Boccara, in a decidedly 
 acid voice. "Imagine! He " 
 
 She poured forth a catalogue of the Grand Duke's mistakes. 
 Perhaps expression relieved her temper, for she eventually be- 
 came a little more amiable, and condescended to satisfy the 
 curiosity of her circling admirers. 
 
 "The Tomtit? He's got Marchesa Verosti, and Hereward 
 and Princess Bartoldi are partners. They beat us owing to 
 
 his ■■'■' the catalogue received additions and amplifications. 
 
 " But of course Lisetta and her partner are bound to win, un- 
 less Dolores Cannynge plays up as she never has till now." 
 
 "But who are their partners? Who are their men?" ex- 
 claimed Carlo Vitali. " Cara Contessa, a flaming sword has 
 driven you out of Paradise to make a Paradise for us poor mor- 
 tals here. Be merciful to us! Tell us what is going on " 
 
 " Under the tree of knowledge," interjected Perreto. 
 
 Vitali looked cross. He tried to shine and greatly disliked 
 to have his effects intercepted. He now felt that he had been 
 about to say what Prince Perreto had said. That this was not 
 the fact did not subdue his ill humor. But while he cast about 
 for a mot Countess Boccara became informing. 
 
 " Lisetta has Verrall and Dolores Cannynge has jMonte- 
 bruno," she said. 
 
 "A Homeric combat!" said Perreto, pressing his hands to- 
 gether and separating them. 
 
 " Such luck for both of them! " Countess Boccara continued. 
 ** If only I had had Montebruno or Verrall, I must have won. 
 I play ever so much better than Dolores Cannynge, and almost 
 as well as Lisetta, quite as well on my good days. And to- 
 night I know I should have been at my very best. I feel it. 
 It is too disgusting." 
 
 " It is your own fault, my dear Countess," murmured a 
 French attache. 
 
 "Why?" she demanded, looking into his eyes, "taking a 
 header to bring up a compliment," as an Englishman standing 
 by afterwards described it to a friend. 
 
 The Frenchman held her eyes for a moment. 
 
 " La joie fait pcur. It is your own fault if His Impe- 
 rial Highness was not able to command all his resources 
 to-night." 
 
 " You always talk such utter nonsense, terre-a-terre," ex-
 
 282 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 claimed the Countess, in a voice the sharp edge of which began 
 to be dulled. " But he certainly did play his very worst for 
 some reason or other." 
 
 " Of course he did! " exclaimed Vitali, anxious to regain his 
 intellectual position. " Cnra Contessa, is it possible that you 
 do not yet know how — disturbing you are?" 
 
 He gazed at her waist, which was encircled by a gold band 
 not very much bigger than a bracelet. 
 
 " In London they would arrest you," he added softly. 
 
 " Why? " asked Countess Boccara, taking another " header," 
 this time into Vitali's black eyes. 
 
 " As a disturber of the peace," he answered, speaking in ex- 
 cellent English. 
 
 Some of the men began to make small bets on the result of 
 the tournament. Every one was agreed that Princess Mancelli 
 and Verrall, or Lady Cannynge and Montebruno, must prove 
 the winners, unless the cards ran in an altogether extraordi- 
 nary way. The great question was whether Montebruno's 
 known skill would counterbalance Princess Mancelli's superi- 
 ority over Lady Cannynge. When the discussion was at its 
 height Cesare Carelli came into the room alone. He had just 
 arrived. Countess Boccara saw him at once, as she saw at 
 once every young man who came within the range of her vision. 
 
 " Cesare, come here! " she commanded. 
 
 "What is it, Contessa?" asked Cesare, bending to kiss her 
 hand, with his air of strong and manly politeness. 
 
 " Which would you bet upon to win the bridge tournament, 
 Lisetta and Mr. Verrall, or Dolores Cannynge and Monte- 
 bruno?" 
 
 She held her pretty head slightly on one side. There was 
 an almost monkey-like expression of mischief in her little sharp, 
 but frivolous, face, which never looked thoughtful, but never 
 looked stupid. 
 
 The eyes of the men fixed themselves on Cesare. 
 
 " You know how Lisetta plays," Countess Boccara added. 
 
 " Yes," said Cesare calmly. " But I don't know Lady Can- 
 nynge's game." 
 
 "But surely — haven't you ever plaved with her?" 
 
 " No, never." 
 
 "It doesn't matter! Which will you bet on? We are all 
 having our little wagers. You lay one with me." 
 
 "Why not? What shall it be?'" 
 
 Countess Boccara looked swiftly round, to see if all the men
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 283 
 
 were appreciating her mischief. That some might consider it 
 to be m bad taste did not trouble" her at all. 
 
 *' You propose the terms!" she said, in a moment, turning 
 again to Cesare. 
 
 " Oh no ! It is for you to choose them. I am prepared to 
 fall in with whatever proposal you make." 
 
 " No, no ! I am sick of always having my own way. I 
 wish you to suggest a bet to me." 
 
 " If I do you will be having your own way once more." 
 
 *' How tiresome you are ! I wish you to have your way. 
 Bet on whichever couple you expect to win." 
 
 " But if I don't know anything about Lady Cannynge's 
 game ! " 
 
 " I'll tell you. She plays about a third less well than 
 Lisetta." 
 
 " I was always a classic, never a mathematician." 
 
 Cesare had assumed an expression almost as mischievous in 
 its masculine way as the Countess's. 
 
 "What have mathematics ?" she began. 
 
 But at this moment from the bridge room came Princess 
 Bartoldi and Hereward Arnold. Countess Boccara turned 
 eagerly towards them. 
 
 " Who beat you? " she said. 
 
 *' Lady Cannynge and Montebruno," said the Princess, with 
 a smile, and a charming gesture which seemed to say whim- 
 sically that she had no more to expect from fate. 
 
 She passed on, but Arnold, twisting his moustache with a 
 hand that looked hot and angry, said: 
 
 " Lady Cannynge is playing like " he paused abruptl}^. 
 
 *' Comme le diable?" suggested Perreto. 
 
 " Exactly ! I never knew her play could be so good as it is 
 to-night. Montebruno, with his cold determination, must have 
 inspired her. We hadn't a chance. And yet the cards were 
 with us." 
 
 He stared at Countess Boccara, but it was evident that for 
 once he did not see her. 
 
 " Perhaps if I hadn't " 
 
 " For Heaven's sake don't give us a list of all your mistakes, 
 Hereward!" she interrupted. "Now, Cesare! Whom will 
 you back?" 
 
 " The Contessa thinks Princess Mancelll and Mr. Verrall 
 must win," interposed Vitali, speaking to Cesare almost in a 
 whisper.
 
 284 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 He meant to give Carelli a hint what to do in order to please 
 the Countess. But she overheard him and exclaimed: 
 
 "Don't interfere, Carlo!" 
 
 But Cesare had received his excuse to do what secretly he 
 wished to do, and he gripped it. 
 
 " If you think the Princess and Verrall must win, Contessa," 
 he murmured, with gentle amiability, " I will bet against them, 
 of course." 
 
 " But I " 
 
 " I will bet you a hundred lire to fifty, or a thousand lire to 
 five hundred, that Lady Cannynge and Montebruno win the 
 prize." 
 
 " I never said I thought Lisetta would win ! " s::id the 
 Countess almost viciously. 
 
 " Contessa ! " a small chorus of protest arose. 
 
 "Will you take my bet?" said Cesare. 
 
 " Very well ! A thousand to five hundred. But I 
 never " 
 
 "Contessa! Contessa!" said the chorus, almost bouche 
 jermee, and led by Perreto. 
 
 " A thousand to five hundred that Lady Cannynge and Mon- 
 tebruno are the winners in the final ! " said Cesare, in a firm 
 and inexpressive voice. 
 
 And before the Countess could say another word, he turned 
 and walked away. 
 
 " What a monkey she is! " he was thinking. 
 
 Did she really suspect his secret? He did not feel sure of 
 that. Probably she only guessed that he admired Lady Can- 
 nynge's appearance, and wished to find out if there was any- 
 thing behind her guess. He had been so careful, had held his 
 desires, his passions, so tightly in leash. But oh! those cursed 
 watching eyes of the world ! 
 
 He entered a small, but very high and circular room, which 
 was used by Giamarcho as a smoking-room. There was nobody 
 in it. He sat down and lit a cigarette. 
 
 This eternal prudence ! His love for Dolores was accumu- 
 lating in it as the money of a minor accumulates during a long 
 minority. He compared his secrecy with what he believed to 
 be the almost blatant indifference to opinion of Sir Theodore, 
 and it seemed to him that he was as delicate as Sir Theodore was 
 indelicate in action. Why was he so restrained ? Was it from 
 fear of Lisetta? What would she — what could she do if he 
 showed his love for another woman ? He knew, as he sat there
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 285 
 
 alone, that something in Dolores had inspired his caution, the 
 long restraint which was beginning to torture his fiery nature. 
 Something delicate and mysterious in her personality had made 
 him very delicate, very secret in relation to her. He did not 
 think she loved him. After his experience with Princess Man- 
 celli he almost adored the soft aloofness of Dolores. It set a 
 task before him. He had to win her. The morality of the 
 whole question did not trouble him at all. To his hot blood it 
 seemed quite unnatural that a woman as young, and as beauti- 
 ful as Dolores, should live a loveless life. It was her 
 right to have a lover if her husband neglected her for another 
 woman. 
 
 Every one knew that Sir Theodore's motor was forever tra- 
 versing the Campagna to Frascati. 
 
 And novv-, at this moment, " mamma " began once again a 
 matrimonial campaign against him — Cesare ! It was almost as 
 if she had divined that her son's heart had fixed itself — she 
 would have said "again" — on a married woman. She was 
 there to-night with Donna Ursula. 
 
 Cesare moved restlessly, knocked the ash off his cigarette, 
 threw one leg across the other. How he longed to burst all the 
 bonds of etiquette, all the strands of convention, to catch up 
 Dolores in his arms and carry her away from the watching 
 eyes, from everybody. The Pontine Marshes came before his 
 imagination, the wild, the desolate places, the river mouth, the 
 long sea-shore. He loved the open. To have it — with Do- 
 lores ! 
 
 Would she beat Lisetta? 
 
 He, too, like Princess Mancelli, began to think of that com- 
 bat of cards as strangely important, began to feel as if its result 
 would be ominous. If Dolores won then Lisetta was con- 
 quered. Was she not already conquered by Dolores in another 
 battle? For Lisetta had fought for his heart, had fought like 
 a tigress to keep him. 
 
 Quite simply Cesare acknowledged in his thought his su- 
 preme value in the life of Lisetta. He was not specially con- 
 ceited, perhaps, but he knew very well that most women con- 
 sidered him, in his youth, strength, vigor, attractive, desirable. 
 He was not inclined to self-depreciation. That sort of thing in 
 his view was unmanly. He was quite sure that a great many 
 women in Rome secretly wanted him. 
 
 He set Dolores apart from all those women. He loved her, 
 but not because she had chosen him out, because she had meant
 
 286 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 him to love her, because she had wanted him. He had to 
 make her want him. That was partly why he loved her. 
 
 Soon the Roman season would be over. All these people, 
 who now were crowded together in Rome, would disperse. 
 Where would Dolores go? And where Sir Theodore? Would 
 the summer be his — Cesare's — opportunity ? That was what 
 for long he had been secretly hoping. And lately he had heard 
 a rumor that Cannynge was trying to get a villa for the summer 
 at Frascati. If that were true then surely his opportunity must 
 come, unless Lady Cannynge consented to go to Frascati for 
 the villeggiatura. And that was more than any woman with 
 even a trace of pride, would consent to do, he supposed. 
 
 Would the omen be favorable? Would Lisetta be beaten? 
 Cesare felt within him a strong excitement, almost boyish, 
 which his outward man did not show. 
 
 A friend of his came into the smoking-room, sat down and 
 talked to him. Soon afterwards he got up, and once m.ore joined 
 the crowd in the suite of drawing-rooms. 
 
 It was getting late, but no one went away. It seemed an 
 understood thing that everybody would wait the result of the 
 tournament. 
 
 More players had come out from the bridge room. Pres- 
 ently the rumor went about that the final was on, and that it 
 lay between Princess Mancelli and Verrall, Lady Cannynge 
 and Montebruno. 
 
 The little world gathered in the Giamarcho apartment pro- 
 fessed a keen excitement and, " suggestioned " perhaps by their 
 own profession, presently became genuinely interested in, even 
 excited about, the result. Those who had made wagers pre- 
 tended lightly to tremble for their money. Several very young 
 men, who clung to their small means, began to feel really anx- 
 ious. And Cesare, deep down in his heart, was concentrated on 
 the omen, though he was pretending to talk to Donna Ursula 
 Montebruno, having been captured by his mother quite cleverly 
 and naturally. 
 
 He did not care for the little thing. Her blonde freshness, 
 her doll-like daintiness did not attract him. And her almost 
 hard self-possession seemed to him repellent. But there was an 
 odd little determination about her which prevented her from 
 being a nobody, even in his eyes. She seemed to him neither 
 Italian nor American, but a doll without nationality, who, how- 
 ever, knew her own value, and, not in a wholly vulgar spirit, 
 would probably use her knowledge to gain any little ends she
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 287 
 
 might chance to have in view. That he might be one of them 
 did not trouble him. She was a doll, and he was a strong man, 
 who had lost and regained his freedom. As to his mother, 
 she had tried to make him marry before and she had failed. 
 
 Schizzi's band played better and better, and Schizzi him- 
 self was induced by champagne to be fervent on the violin as 
 only he could be. But people were distrait. They wanted to 
 know the result of the tournament. And it was nearly two 
 o'clock in the morning. 
 
 " I can't stay any longer," observed Princess Carelli, look- 
 ing dark and weary, and slightly drawing down her flat nostrils. 
 " Cesare, do go and ask for the motor." 
 
 "But doesn't Donna Ursula wish to v/ait for the result?" 
 he said. 
 
 He knew what getting the motor for his mother would 
 mean, probably at least half an hour's hovering in the hall. 
 Princess Carelli was fearfully slow in all her proceedings. She 
 would be in the cloak-room for ten minutes, and then would find 
 last words to say to innumerable friends at the top of the stairs, 
 probably at the bottom also. 
 
 " I v/on't mind," returned the girl, in a cold soprano voice. 
 "What does it matter who wins? None of us will get that 
 jewel." 
 
 Cesare looked down at her almost sternly with his large 
 black eyes. Donna Ursula returned his glance. And he 
 thought that her bright blue eyes, though inexpressive, compared 
 with most people's eyes, looked oddly arbitary. A sudden sharp 
 antagonism against the little, narrow-limbed creature was born 
 in him. But he only said: 
 
 " I will fetch your footman, mamma. And then I must find 
 Countess Boccara. She and I have a bet on the result of the 
 tournament. So we are not able to be so disinterested as you 
 and Donna Ursula." 
 
 " But surely you can take us to the motor," began Princess 
 Carelli, drawing out her words. " Countess Boccara " 
 
 At this moment there was a slight stir. The band had 
 ceased playing. 
 
 " Is it finished? " said some one. 
 
 " Who has won? " said another. 
 
 Then several voices, speaking together, exclaimed: 
 
 "Who has won?" 
 
 There was a general movement, in which Cesare found him- 
 self, quite naturally, separated by two or three people from his
 
 288 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 mother and Donna Ursula. He then hegan to increase the 
 gap between himself and them by his own almost instinctive 
 exertions. Very soon they were out of his sight. He felt that, 
 perhaps for the first time in his life, he had failed in courtesy 
 towards his mother. But she was really maddening sometimes, 
 with her plans and her meager plots. If only she would leave 
 him alone! Suddenly he was conscious of an almost hot anger 
 against her such as he had never felt before, and had never 
 thought to feel. It replaced something that had been a quiet 
 amusement in his mind. 
 
 He wanted to be let alone. After all his years of close 
 bondage surely he had a right to govern himself and his own 
 life, if only for a little while. 
 
 He looked away to the left and saw Dolores at some distance 
 coming slowly in his direction. And at once he knew that she 
 had won the jewel. 
 
 She looked rather tired, and there was in her face a sort of 
 strong excitement, controlled, which made her more expressive 
 even than usual. There was a little red in her cheeks, her large 
 eyes were shining and her lips smiling. Yet Cesare thought, as 
 he looked at her drawing slowly nearer and speaking to people 
 here and there, he had never before noticed how pathetic her 
 eyes and her lips naturally were. There was something almost 
 childish in both, even at this moment. He had heard people in 
 Roman society say that she was getting to look hard, and add 
 that no doubt her husband's devotion to the Frascati menage 
 accounted for that fact. But now he said to himself that Do- 
 lores never could look really hard. As she came nearer he 
 saw that she was w^-earing the jewel set in jade. Montebruno 
 was close behind her. 
 
 Cesare made his way toward her. 
 
 " I congratulate you on your triumph," he said. 
 
 As he saw the sharp gleam of the emerald at her throat, 
 again he felt as if this victory were an omen. 
 
 " I had Marchese Montebruno as my partner," Dolores an- 
 swered. " I feel it is absurd for me to receive congratulations." 
 
 " But you have been playing wonderfully to-night, I hear." 
 
 " I believe I did play my best." 
 
 She glanced round. Montebruno was farther away now, 
 speaking to some friends. 
 
 " Marchese Montebruno had an odd influence," she said. 
 
 People, their curiosity satisfied, were beginning quickly to 
 disperse.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 289 
 
 " In what way? " Cesare asked her. 
 
 Dolores lowered her voice. 
 
 " I felt as if he wished me not to win although he was my 
 partner, and that made me play my very best. He roused my 
 fighting spirit." 
 
 Cesare looked at the two red spots in her checks. 
 
 " You have a fighting spirit? " he said. 
 
 " It seems so. I scarcely knew I had till to-night." 
 
 There was a sound in her voice he had not heard before. 
 
 ** But did Montebruno play badly then ? " 
 
 " No. He couldn't. But I think he tried to." 
 
 He looked at her In silence. Perhaps something in his eyes 
 made her continue, rather quickly: 
 
 " But I mustn't say these absurd things. You will forget 
 them, I know." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 " Now, please ! " 
 
 " They are forgotten." 
 
 Some one spoke to her. She turned away smiling and was 
 separated from him by people who came up to congratulate her. 
 A minute afterwards he saw Princess Mancelli saying good-bye 
 to Prince Giamarcho. She, too, was smiling, and was talking 
 with her usual completely self-possessed animation. Monte- 
 bruno was now close to her, looking cold, w^ary, a man without 
 hope or fear. Cesare gazed at him Mith a new, almost hard 
 interest. Was Lady Cannynge right? Had Montebruno 
 wished to bring about her defeat in the tournament, and had his 
 instinctive passion for cards, his instinctive skill, refusing to be 
 controlled, asserted themselves fn opposition to his desire? 
 
 Princess Mancelli spoke to Dolores, took her hand, pressed 
 It, turned round to go away. Montebruno joined her. Just as 
 the Princess was nearing a great doorway which led Into a 
 further drawing-room through which she had to pass to go to 
 the cloak-room, she looked round and met Cesare's eyes. Imme- 
 diately she stopped, and beckoned to him, making also a little 
 characteristic movement of her head. Cesare went to her. 
 Montebruno glanced at Cesare, nodded, and walked very slowly 
 on. Cesare took the Princess's hand and bent over It. He 
 seemed to touch her glove with his lips. 
 
 " I met Countess Boccara as I came out of the bridge room," 
 the Princess said. 
 
 "Yes? " said Cesare, meeting her piercing eyes steadily. 
 
 " She told me you were kind enough to bet a thousand lire
 
 290 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 to five hundred against me. I only wanted to thank you. Good 
 night, Carelli." 
 
 She spoke in a level, unemotional voice. And as she finished 
 speaking she gave him a little familiar smile, and left him. 
 He saw her join Montebruno in the further room and walk 
 slowly away with him. They disappeared in the vista of draw- 
 ing-rooms. Cesare stood for a minute looking after them. 
 
 "Could Lisetta hate me?" he thought. 
 
 A moment afterwards, as he went to find his mother, he 
 thought, 
 
 " Does she hate me? " 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 When Dolores started for Palazzo Barberini it was between 
 two and three o'clock in the morning. She did not know she 
 was tired. She was strongly excited, and her excitement shed 
 through her a sort of feverish life, which made the darkness, 
 the emptiness, of sleep's almost midmost hour seem vivid and 
 strangely intense. She had done what she had meant to do. She 
 had won. The jewel that was the symbol of her triumph was 
 on her neck. She pulled off her long glove, put up her hand, 
 unfastened her cloak and felt it. When she got into the motor 
 she had turned off the electric light. Now in the darkness her 
 fingers clasped tightly over the emerald and its setting of jade. 
 How hard jewel and setting were! She thought they felt 
 ugly. But she kept her fingers upon them. And, almost imme- 
 diately, their hardness made her think again of Montebruno. 
 Why had she told Cesare Carelli of her feeling about Monte- 
 bruno in the tournament? She knew he would never let any 
 one know what she had said. It did not occur to her for a mo- 
 ment to doubt him. Nevertheless she was angry with herself 
 for having spoken to him unguardedly. But in her poor little 
 triumph she had felt dreadfully alone. In the bridge room it 
 had seemed to her sometimes as if she were fighting not only 
 her adversaries but also her own partner. And when she and 
 Montebruno had won had she not beaten three people? She 
 had felt a hardness in her victory until she had stood by Cesare. 
 And then 
 
 The motor stopped under the arcade of the palace. 
 
 As Dolores went up the great stone staircase, accompanied 
 by the footman who held a little electric light, she wondered
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 291 
 
 whether Theodore would be awake and know of her late return. 
 Since he had given up going out, and she had gone out so 
 much, they had begun to occupy separate bedrooms. It disturbed 
 him when she came back very late in the night, although he 
 never went to bed early. She had been the first to suggest the 
 new arrangement. And she had done this because she had felt 
 as if Theodore wished to do it, but would not for fear of hurt- 
 ing her feelings. He had assented, but almost as if reluctantly. 
 She thought that his reluctance had come from the fact that 
 she had taken the initiative in the matter. But she was not 
 quite sure. 
 
 Perhaps she was determined not to be quite sure of that. 
 
 As the footman put the key into the front door of the apart- 
 ment she remembered a night when she had sat waiting for her 
 husband, had called out to him directly he entered. How long 
 ago that seemed ! The door shut behind her. She walked to- 
 wards her bedroom. 
 
 She could have gained it without going into the green and 
 red drawing-room, which adjoined her husband's sitting-room. 
 And she had meant to do so when she came into the hall. But 
 now she paused at the turning of the wide corridor close to the 
 entrance to the reception rooms. She felt as if her husband 
 were still up, and were not in his bedroom. After standing 
 still for a moment it seemed to her that she knew he was sitting 
 up. And, with a mind peculiarly alive, she recalled his man- 
 ner at dinner, her conviction that he had had something, prob- 
 ably important, to say to her. He had not said it. Was he 
 sitting up, perhaps, in order to tell it to her now? 
 
 She turned away from the corridor, and made her way into 
 the green and red drawing-room. As she switched on the elec- 
 tric light the painted ejxs of the Lenbach portrait met hers, with 
 a scrutiny that seemed fierce. The snaky veins on the almost 
 transparent temples looked dreadfully alive. She was almost 
 startled by this old man, whose intellect was presented by the 
 genius of the painter like a writhing force taken from his 
 hooded basket by a charmer of snakes. What did he want of 
 her? Or — what did he think about her with his pitilessly 
 acute old mind ? 
 
 She passed him, almost drawing her skirts away, opened the 
 door of her husband's room and looked in. 
 
 She had been right. Theo was still up. His room was lit 
 rather faintly by two movable reading lamps covered with red 
 shades. By a revolving bookcase, in which he always kept the
 
 292 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 volumes he was Interested in at the moment, he was sitting in 
 a large and deep armchair, with his long limbs stetched out, 
 and his arms lying along his body and legs, with the hands just 
 touching each other. He was not reading. His head, in an odd 
 position, leaned towards his left shoulder against the back of 
 the chair. She had a moment of terror, thinking, " Is he 
 dead ? " 
 
 Then she saw that he had fallen asleep. 
 
 He was always a very silent sleeper. But Dolores, approach- 
 ing gently, holding her gown with both hands, could hear a 
 faint sound of his breathing. She stood still and looked at 
 him; at the brown, sharply cut face, the thick hair with its 
 silver threads lying almost in slabs along the sensitive forehead, 
 the moustache and pointed beard which suited his features, 
 the artistic brown hands, the long limbs. And as she looked 
 she put up her hand again to her neck, and touched the jewel 
 she had won that night, and slowly her eyes filled with 
 tears. 
 
 Sir Theodore stirred slightly, then was motionless again, but 
 opened his eyes, and kept them open, looking straight down 
 at his hands and limbs. He remained thus for perhaps a minute. 
 And, during that minute, why she did not know, he reminded 
 Dolores of a child. Then he raised his eyes, and saw her 
 standing near him, and gazed at her for an instant in silence. 
 
 "Doloretta!" 
 
 He moved brusquely, drew in his legs, lifted his hands and 
 stood up. 
 
 " Doloretta ! Why — what time is it ? " 
 
 The childish look left him abruptly and completely. 
 
 " I must have been asleep." 
 
 " Yes, you were." 
 
 He looked at a clock on the high mantelpiece. 
 
 "Getting on for three. No wonder! Have you just come 
 back?" 
 
 " Yes. 'What made you sit up? " 
 
 "What — I was reading. I got interested." 
 
 " So interested that you slept ! " 
 
 " Without knowing I was even getting sleepy. Where's — 
 where's ? " 
 
 He bent down. 
 
 " Here's the book, by Jove! " 
 
 He picked up a volum.e of Carlyle from the floor and put it 
 down on the top of the bookcase beside his chair. The action.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 293 
 
 perhaps, brought him to a full consciousness of circumstances 
 and of himself in them. For as he straightened himself he 
 said, with a more natural ring in his deep bass voice: 
 
 *' To be sure there was a reason though! The tournament at 
 the Giamarchos in which you were to play. How did you get 
 on r 
 
 For answer Dolores came up to him, put her hand to one of 
 the electric lamps, and turned its bulb upwards, so that the light, 
 no longer concealed by the red shade, fell over her bosom and 
 neck, and the green jewel in its setting of jade. 
 
 "I won this!" 
 
 Her husband bent, lifted the jewel from its resting place, 
 held it and examined it with the closely critical eyes of one 
 who loves beautiful things, and who knows v/hat is beautiful. 
 
 " The first prize? " he asked, in a moment. 
 
 " The only woman's prize." 
 
 " It was well chosen." 
 
 He let the jewel go to its place. 
 
 " It is original and charming." 
 
 " I'm glad you like it." 
 
 " And — you play so well as to beat all the determined 
 players? " 
 
 " I had Montebruno for my partner." 
 
 She paused, then added, in a voice that was rather hard: 
 
 *' But I believe I did play astonishingly well — for me." 
 
 " I congratulate you. It really is a triumph." 
 
 I' Isn't it?" 
 
 " Some of the women must be hating you to-night, eh! " 
 
 He made a sound something like a laugh, and turned It into 
 a laugh. 
 
 " I daresay they are." 
 
 She spoke with apparent cool indifference. 
 
 " What does it matter who hates one so long as one does 
 what one wishes and tries to do? " she added. 
 
 It was her husband's laugh which had sent her those words, 
 the manner she assumed at this moment. 
 
 Sir Theodore looked at her sharply, and as if surprised. 
 
 " Isn't that rather a selfish philosophy? " he said. 
 
 "You think so? I think one must fight for oneself in this 
 world, or one gets very little. And one can't fight well if one 
 is full of sympathy and consideration for one's enemies." 
 
 "Who were your enemies to-night?" 
 
 " Princess Mancelli and Mr. Verrall."
 
 294 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 She nearly added " and Montebruno," but she checked herself. 
 What she had told to Cesare she did not feel inclined to tell 
 to her husband. 
 
 ** And you really remained up because you wanted to know 
 the result?" she added, with a change of tone, which might 
 have told him something if he had had ears for the subtleties of 
 Dolores just then, have told him that a little real interest from 
 him would turn ashes into glowing embers. 
 
 She really knew in her heart that her husband had sta5'ed 
 up for some other reason. But she longed for a word from him 
 that would prove her heart in the wrong. 
 
 " Naturally I wanted to hear how things had gone," he 
 replied. " You have won a very beautiful thing." 
 
 " Oh — yes. And a thing I shall be able to keep." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " Good-night, Theo. I really must go to bed. And you 
 ought to." 
 
 " Yes. Oh, by the way, Doloretta " 
 
 "Yes?" she said, turning. 
 
 For she had moved as if to go out of the room. 
 
 " The season will very soon be over now. Won't it ? " 
 
 " Yes. There are a few things, the fete at the Grand, the 
 Concorso Ippico — and then I suppose we must think of start- 
 ing for England." 
 
 " That is just what I wanted to speak to you about." 
 
 " Now! " she said, as if surprised. 
 
 And she turned her eyes towards the clock. 
 
 "You're tired? Of course! We'll discuss it to-morrow." 
 
 " No, I'm really not a bit tired. Only it seems such an odd 
 time. But vdiat is there to discuss, Theo?" 
 
 She sat down close to one of the lamps. The red light from 
 it lay over her small oval face. 
 
 " Only our plans for this summer." 
 
 She said nothing, but leaned back in the great chair, and 
 put up her hand to her emerald. 
 
 " But It really is too late — — " 
 
 " No, no. Go on, Theo." 
 
 Sir Theodore went to the high mantelpiece, searched along 
 It for some matches, found them, and lit a cigarette. He glanced 
 down at Dolores. How peculiar she looked with that light 
 on her face! He felt almost as if she were a stranger not un- 
 derstood by him. 
 
 « Well " he sat down. " I " he was determined to
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 295 
 
 get away from that sensation that his wife was a stranger. " I 
 want to hear your view's about the summer, Doloretta." 
 
 " At three o'clock in the morning! " 
 
 He heard her laugh. 
 
 " It's difficult to have any. Tell me yours, Theo. What 
 date do you propose for the move? " 
 
 "Move?" 
 
 " Our move to England for the summer." 
 
 " That's what I wanted to talk over." 
 
 "Well, Theo?" 
 
 " You see this year things are so changed — for us." 
 
 "Changed! In what way?" 
 
 "My dear Doloretta!" he spoke quickly, in a sudden out- 
 burst of irritation, which showed her he was strung up, per- 
 haps partly because he had slept and been awakened. " How 
 can you ask? By the death of poor Francis, of course! " 
 
 " Oh — I see. I beg your pardon, Theo." 
 
 " I'm sorry," he said, realizing that he had been cross without 
 much reason. " But of course it has made a considerable 
 change, not so much in your life as in mine." 
 
 " I see." 
 
 " I have duties now that I hadn't before, those children to 
 look after." 
 
 " Yes, indeed." 
 
 " Before of course I had no one." 
 
 " Of course not." 
 
 " And so I mustn't only think of myself now." 
 
 " No. I quite see that." 
 
 " Do move that lamp a little, Doloretta." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "It throws such — such an ugly light over you. That's 
 much better. But I particularly wish to consult your con- 
 venience where changes might seem necessary In the more im- 
 portant matters, for Instance in regard to our summer plans. I 
 want to be perfectly frank, and I specially want you to be so 
 too. Then it will all be plain sailing." 
 
 " Do you think of altering our usual summer plans, then ? " 
 
 " Frankly, I do. I would much rather not go to England 
 this vear." 
 
 " Not at all ? " 
 
 " I have just been there, you see." 
 
 "For — how many days was it?" 
 
 " Does that matter? "
 
 296 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 Again the Irritation appeared In his voice and manner. 
 
 " No, of course not. But — then do you propose to go to 
 St. Moritz, or Venice, or where ? " 
 
 Sir Theodore made an abrupt movement in his chair. 
 
 " I might as well go to England as to any of those places. 
 My reason for wishing to make an alteration in my — In our 
 plans Is because of the Denzil children, but chiefly, most espe- 
 cially, because of little Theo." 
 
 "Oh — I see." 
 
 " Of course you see ! My dear Doloretta! It's surely pretty 
 obvious. There's nothing very extraordinary about it. Francis 
 specifically left his children in my charge. What can I do but 
 be faithful to that charge? And this first year specially I 
 feel " 
 
 He broke off, got up, searched for another cigarette and 
 the matches. While he did this he had his back to his wife. 
 She watched him, sitting almost like a creature petrified. 
 
 " It's Theo ! " he said, turning. " My responsibility is great- 
 est towards the boy." 
 
 He remained standing, and thrust his hands into the side 
 pockets of his smoking jacket. 
 
 " Let me tell you, let me try to make you understand just 
 how I feel in the matter." 
 
 " Yes, do." 
 
 He looked calmer, more at his ease, more natural. 
 
 " A woman of course knows best about girls. But a boy of 
 Theo's age, the susceptible age, the age in which character 
 has to be formed, needs the influence of a man. Of a father, 
 If possible, if there Is no father of one who stands In his place, 
 who — who really cares for the boy almost as if he were the 
 boy's own father. I wish to take the place of a father In Theo's 
 life — so far as I can." 
 
 He stopped, flicked the ash from his cigarette, and, speaking 
 rapidly, developed to Dolores, who sat motionless, his Ideas re- 
 garding the aims a good father should have, would naturally 
 have, for his little son's advancement, not In the material, but 
 in the moral sense. As he spoke he warmed up. Perhaps 
 the night hour quickened his brain, excited his heart. He spoke 
 almost eloquently. He showed unusual feeling — about little 
 Theo. 
 
 Without being aware of It he showed to Dolores strange 
 glimpses of certain depths In his heart. 
 
 "This Is Theo, the father!" she said to herself again and
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 297 
 
 again while he was speaking. " Or, no! this Is the shadow of 
 what Theo would have been if I had given him children. But 
 only the shadow — only the shadow ! " 
 
 At last he paused. 
 
 " But I'm letting myself be run away with," he said, with 
 a short, almost shamefaced laugh. " I only wanted to make you 
 see why I feel that this summer I ought to stick to the boy. 
 Next year he may have to go to school. He will be ten. It's 
 early of course, but — there's time enough for that. I should 
 in any case want to go to England then to look into the matter 
 of the best preparatory school for him. But this summer I 
 should wish — I consider it indeed almost as my duty — to re- 
 main out here." 
 
 " I see. I quite see." 
 
 " I knew you would." 
 
 He spoke with almost warm heartiness. 
 
 " Then you wish to remain here in Rome all the summer? " 
 
 " Oh no. That w^ould be insufferable. I should propose to 
 do as lots of the Romans do." 
 
 "What's that?'' 
 
 " Go to Frascati for the villeggiatura/' 
 
 "Oh — yes." 
 
 *' The air is delicious there, quite different from the air in 
 Rome. And in summer the scenery is beautiful. There are 
 such masses of trees." 
 
 *' Did you mean to go to the hotel ? " 
 
 " Well, I have been thinking about a villa." 
 
 So, for once, gossip had justified itself, gossip in the mouth 
 of the little Boccara! At that moment Dolores felt towards the 
 Countess Boccara almost as Edna Denzil had felt towards her, 
 Dolores, in that matter of ignorance and knowledge when the 
 verdict was given on Francis, 
 
 "There are very few villas at Frascati — aren't there?" 
 she said. 
 
 " Not many good ones. In any case there are always the 
 hotels, the Grand and the Tusculum." 
 
 The warm heartiness had died away from his manner. 
 
 "What do you think of the idea?" he added, throwing his 
 cigarette away into the empty fireplace. 
 
 As he spoke the clock chimed. Dolores moved, leaned for- 
 ward, then got up. 
 
 " It's not a bad one," she said. " As you say lots of Romans 
 spend the summer at Frascati, But — let's talk it over to-
 
 298 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 morrow, shall we? It's so awfully late now. And I am be- 
 ginning to feel a little bit tired at last." 
 
 " Of course you are, dear, after all your exertions at bridge. 
 We'll leave it till to-morrow. But I wanted you to understand 
 the position and just how I feel." 
 
 " I perfectly understand — perfectly. Well, good-night, 
 Theo." 
 
 " I'm coming too. Go on, and I'll turn off the lights and 
 join you." 
 
 Outside her bedroom door he kissed her, and hesitated. But 
 she went into the room rather quickly with a "Good-night! 
 Sleep well ! " 
 
 A cloud came over his face. 
 
 " She doesn't want me! " he thought. 
 
 And he went away to his own bedroom. 
 
 That night Dolores had a thought, recurrent, persistent, 
 vital as a live thing that has teeth, that gnaws. It was this. 
 
 " If I could give Theo a son ! If I could give him a son ! " 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 Fashion makes "seasons," and very often makes them at the 
 wrong time. The time decreed by fashion as most suitable 
 for a stay on the Lake of Como is a couple of months in the 
 spring and a couple of months in the autumn. In the winter 
 nobody wants to live on the shore of a lake hemmed in by 
 mountains. And in the green and the lustrous summer, when 
 the oleanders and the roses peep over the balconies to see them- 
 selves in the cool green waters, people go to Switzerland, or 
 to take " cures." And so in the summer, the ideal time of the 
 year at Lake Como, the hotels are deserted, and the big villas 
 are most of them shut up. Green Venetians oppose the sun- 
 rays. But nobody is hiding behind them. The glorious gar- 
 dens, with their willows leaning over mouldering staircases and 
 balconies of mossy stone, with their red arbutus trees, their 
 shining magnolias, their regiments of enormous cypresses, 
 their ilexes, their acacias, do not echo with voices, with the rip- 
 ple of laughter. Only, perhaps, a bare-armed gardener moves 
 slowly among the flowers, and gives water to the smooth green 
 lawns, or some footman or groom in his shirt-sleeves and with 
 sleepy eyes, leans down to the lake with his line, fishing for
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 299 
 
 agoni. The calm of a siesta is over this world of green moun- 
 tains, green waters, green forests of chestnut trees. The foun- 
 tains play. But few there are to hear them. The bells chime, 
 but for fishermen not for lovers. The moon lifts her horn 
 above the Eastern hills, and hangs in a sky of trembling clear- 
 ness her silver lamp. And the white fire falls upon the shadows 
 under little Torno, or perhaps upon the bowers of Cadenabbia, 
 and the legendary groves of the Villa Carlotta. But few boats 
 steal out to greet her from the boat houses that hide under the 
 green and the perfumed fleeces flung over them by the gardens. 
 
 It is not the " time " to go to Como. 
 
 In the early days of July, despite the decrees of fashion, 
 Dolores arrived at the station of Como with her maid, got into 
 a fiacre and told the man to drive her to the Hotel Villa D'Este 
 at Cernobbio. The maid and the luggage followed in a motor 
 omnibus. The heat was intense in the town, and on the de- 
 serted piazza by the lake-side the sunshine was almost blinding 
 in its intensity. But when Dolores stood on the balcony of her 
 sitting-room, looking down on the long garden with its elabo- 
 rate flower-beds, its palms, its huge plane trees, and its roses 
 falling in showers over the low railing which was the only 
 barrier between the garden and the water, she thought she had 
 chosen well. 
 
 Surely she would feel the great peace of the " empty time " 
 at Como descending upon her spirit. And it would increase 
 as the days went by. Soon every one she knew would have 
 fled from Italy. Switzerland would be crowded. But here the 
 peace would be only intensified. 
 
 And Theo would soon be coming. Till he came she would 
 be quite alone — with a thought, the thought which was like a 
 live thing with gnawing teeth. 
 
 After that night when she had won the bridge tournament 
 she had been quite definitely conscious of possibilities within her 
 which, till then, she had never envisaged. Perhaps almost 
 every woman possessed them. She did not know. They were 
 possibilities connected with love and its needs. They had been 
 — as she often thought — touched upon in the discussion she 
 had heard between Donna Flavia and Don Marco Turani at 
 Mrs. Eldridge's. Was every woman a potential donna de- 
 Unquentef Dolores sometimes wondered. But usually she was 
 concentrated upon herself, and shut out the other women and 
 their possible sins. 
 
 On the day after her talk with her husband in the dead o£
 
 300 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 night little Theo had come over from Frascati for the fencing 
 at Signor Erdardi's, and had slept at Palazzo Barberini. For 
 the first time a child had stayed with them in the apartment. 
 For the first time Dolores had seen her husband in his own 
 home looking after a child whom he loved. And she had know'n 
 at once that it would be impossible for her to spend the whole 
 summer at Frascati. There are a few things a woman who 
 deeply loves cannot do. Dolores knew then that the close con- 
 templation of Theo in the bosom of the Denzil family, would be 
 a trial she was not fitted to endure for long. Nevertheless she 
 had made a sort of compromise with herself and with fate. 
 She had told her husband that she would remain in Italy for the 
 summer, and would see how Frascati suited her, but that he 
 must let her go to the lakes for part of the time. He had as- 
 sented eagerly, and had said that he would visit the lakes too. 
 Then he had suggested that they should settle in a villa at 
 Frascati. Dolores had opposed this. Secretly she had shrunk 
 from the definiteness of settling down In a house of their own. 
 And they had taken rooms at the Grand Hotel, and had gone 
 there together at the end of May. But the hotel had been 
 full of people. Theo had got tired of it directly, and Dolores 
 had been obliged to consent to his renting for three months and 
 a half a sort of pavilion with a tiny garden adjoining the Den- 
 zils' home. She had just come from that pavilion now after a 
 fortnight spent in it. Theodore had promised to follow her in 
 a couple of weeks. He was acting as tutor to little Theo, and 
 took his duties seriously. It had been decided definitely that 
 the boy should go to school In England the following year. 
 Sir Theodore had developed tremendous ambitions for his god- 
 son, and was " grounding " him in various branches of knowl- 
 edge. Sometimes it seemed to Dolores as if all the ambition 
 which her husband had trampled on in a moment of disappoint- 
 ment and anger was reviving, but was centering Itself upon 
 the career of this child. And she had been almost amazed to 
 find how much of the boy still lingered in Theodore, despite 
 his tale of years, his knowledge of the world, his diplomatic 
 training. The Ineradicable boy had risen within him to set 
 little Theo at his ease. 
 
 Dolores had seen her husband romping in the garden before 
 the pavilion with the children, while Edna Denzil looked on. 
 
 Her maid arrived with the luggage. She changed her gown 
 and went to sit in the garden under the mighty plane trees. 
 
 How blessed was the change from Frascati. At this moment
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 301 
 
 she did not even want her husband. She was thankful to be 
 quite alone. She had left Theo in the very midst of the Latin 
 deponent verbs with little Theo. It was an " awkward mo- 
 ment " for him to come away. And now she was glad he had 
 not come. For she was conscious of reaction. What secret 
 misery she had endured at Frascati! 
 
 In Rome she had had distraction, and she had not — seen. 
 
 At Frascati she had seen Theodore playing the father in a 
 family of which she was not the mother. 
 
 That was too much for Fate to demand of any woman with 
 a nature such as hers, with a love such as hers. 
 
 She had fled from Frascati, v/ith the excuse that her health 
 Imperatively needed a complete change from the neighborhood 
 of Rome. And she was supposed to be going back with Theo- 
 dore in quite a short time. But she did not mean to go back. 
 She did not mean ever to set foot in that pavilion-like house 
 with the little garden again. The undercurrents of the familiar 
 life there, she felt sure, would sweep her to some sad act if she 
 returned. Rome — yes ! Frascati — never again ! She v/ould 
 find some natural excuse. 
 
 A tall and stalwart lad passed by the seat where she was 
 resting, walking with the bold and supple gait of one who lives 
 In the open air and is perpetually exercising his body. He 
 wore white ducks, and a white jersey, which exposed his copper- 
 colored arms. Dolores called to him. 
 
 " Are you a boatman? " 
 
 " SIssIgnora! " he said, saluting her. 
 
 " Take me out In a boat, will you? " 
 
 From that moment Dolores began almost to live on the water. 
 She was seeking — strange irony, vehemently seeking! — calm 
 of spirit. Perhaps she would find It there. She glided over 
 the sheltered green waters, lustrous, silken almost, In the golden 
 heat of the mornings, In the trembling magic of evening hours, 
 sometimes in the romantic stillness of night. Often she talked 
 with Silvio, the boatman, more often she vi-as silent under the 
 orange-colored awning among the white cushions. Now and 
 then she took the light oars and rowed, while Silvio, sitting 
 sturdily upright in the place of honor, with the tiller ropes in 
 his big, hard hands, steered the boat to the places she loved best ; 
 to the dark green shadows under the wall of Villa Volpi, to 
 the Madonna of Villa Pcdraglio who seemed to smile among 
 her roses, to Villa Pllnlana with Its waterfall. Its giant cypresses, 
 its pathos, almost its stern bitterness, of old and broken romance.
 
 302 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 But always a thought gnawed at her mind. The great silence, 
 the great beauty of this caressing nature, which lay about her, 
 which cradled her body, could not still its activity, its dogged 
 persistence. Often she felt the terror of being the powerless 
 prey of a thing that knows no relenting, that is incapable of 
 fatigue. 
 
 But Theo was soon coming. Soon she would have him to 
 herself in this peace, this beauty. Little Theo would not be 
 there to take all his attention from her. Edna would not be 
 there to look on at the man and the children, with gratitude, 
 with approval. 
 
 How intolerable the real relations between Edna and herself 
 had been, though the outward relations had been cordial, 
 friendly, even intimate ! At Frascati Dolores had become quite 
 certain that Edna had grown into secret dislike of her. And 
 she had shown, she had been irresistibly forced to show to Edna, 
 her unreal side, the woman of the world who had been devel- 
 oped by concealed unhappiness. 
 
 And then the mother must surely have divined a dreadful 
 fact, that Dolores could not like her children, could not be 
 really natural, womanly, with them, especially with little Theo. 
 Whether Edna knew why, Dolores had not been able to deter- 
 mine. But if Edna did know why she had surely been hard, she 
 had not cared. Her own great sorrow had, perhaps, made her 
 indifferent to the sorrows of others for a time. But Dolores, 
 impelled by her secret jealousy, had come to doubt Edna's abid- 
 ing grief for the vanished husband. The great deeps faithful 
 natures conceal. And Edna concealed hers from every one but 
 Sir Theodore. 
 
 There were very few people in the great hotel, and there 
 was no one whom Dolores knew. She dined and lunched in 
 her sitting-room, and made no acquaintances. After the stress 
 of the Roman season, the anxiety and terror connected with 
 Francis Denzil's illness and death, and the recent episode at 
 Frascati, she had needed complete emancipation from people 
 more than she had known, and she felt that it was doing her 
 body good. But perhaps such complete solitude was not a 
 healthy thing for her mind. As the few travelers on the shores 
 of the lake began to disappear, afraid of the growing heat, as 
 the calm of summer deepened about her, she did not find that 
 calm spread through her spirit. For in spirit she was too often 
 at Frascati. 
 
 But she tried to fix her mind on the near future when Theo-
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 303 
 
 dore would join her. They would be almost alone together in 
 the hotel. She went into Milan one day and bought some em- 
 broideries, one or two bronzes, a beautiful pair of flower vases 
 of Venetian glass. She set about making the sitting-room 
 *' homey." She got a piano from Como, and even telegraphed 
 to Rome for some of her husband's favorite books. When they 
 arrived, she put them about, drew up a small table, pushed the 
 most comfortable armchair into an angle near it. That was 
 the sort of corner Theo liked when night came and he sat down 
 to smoke a last cigar, and read a "bed-book." She stood trying 
 in imagination to see his long limbs stretched out, his head rest- 
 ing against the back of the chair, his bright, rather critical eyes 
 and his brown, long-fingered hands. She even thought of their 
 honeymoon, more than ten years ago. Perhaps — perhaps ? 
 
 The quiet daj^s passed, and a sort of fever of anticipation, 
 of anxious desire woke in her. Everybody in the hotel knew 
 that the " Signore " was expected. The servants had noted 
 her preparations, and, with the active sympathy Italians of 
 their class feel and show with the hopes and fears of a pretty, 
 and kindly-spoken woman, were quite anxiously alert for his 
 arrival. Silvio was specially on the qui vive. He considered 
 himself, in a perfectly respectful way, the particular friend and 
 adherent of the signora, and had already been devising with 
 her water-excursions that would delight the signore's heart. 
 Dolores had arranged to hire a vaporino belonging to the hotel 
 while her husband was at Villa D'Este, and Silvio was to be 
 allowed to take charge of it. The day before that on which 
 Sir Theodore was expected he had gone into Como and bought 
 a quantity of little flags. Now the vaporino was gaily decorated. 
 
 " I'll go into Como to meet the signore, Silvio," Dolores 
 said. " I'll take a fiacre from the piazza to the station and back, 
 and we'll bring him home by water." 
 
 " Come arna il suo signore! " said Silvio to his comrades. 
 He wished he had bought more flags. 
 
 Sir Theodore was due to arrive from Milan a little before 
 midday. And Dolores had made a plan for his first evening 
 with her. After lunch Theo was to rest till tea time. Then, 
 flying all its flags, the vaporino would appear to take them to 
 Cadenabbia. There was a moon. They would dine on the 
 boat coming back. Already she had ordered a delicious cold 
 dinner. She was going to make the salad herself in a way that 
 Theo was particularly fond of. 
 
 The day dawned, radiantly clear, still, promising almost in-
 
 304 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 effable glories. Looking from her balcony Dolores saw the far 
 side of the lake steeped in cool green shadows, the chestnut 
 woods on the higher spurs of the hills touched with the pure 
 and youthful light of the childlike hour, which was lovely as if 
 it had but just fallen out of the lap of the Gods. Two boats, 
 one coming from Torno, one from Como, crept over the wave- 
 less water, which looked mystic, and as if its tranquillity ema- 
 nated from a soul that was beautiful and at peace. Under the 
 roses of Villa Pedraglio a great barge was being rowed slowly 
 on its way to Lecco. Silvio, in rough blue clothes, his arms 
 as usual bared to the sun rays, sat sideways on a low wall to 
 the left just beyond the flower-garden, smoking a cigarette and 
 holding a fishing line. The gardener was carefully tying the 
 stalk of a climbing rose to the rail that ran along the edge of 
 the lake. There was a soft freshness in the air that was like a 
 benediction, there was a quiet over the world that was like an 
 answer to prayer. 
 
 For the first time since she had been at Villa D'Este Dolores 
 felt within herself something that seemed closely to correspond 
 with that which lay around her, something that was not yet, 
 but that perhaps could some day be, in complete accord with the 
 peace of Nature. 
 
 " I could be — " she thought. " I could be — if only " 
 
 And for a moment a great sadness overcame her, and she felt 
 as if she had sweetness, tenderness, goodness within her and as 
 if they were, perhaps, becoming atrophied because of the numbing 
 influence of the circumstances of her life. Might they not 
 shrivel up, die out of her altogether, unless her life became 
 different? Dimly she felt that it should not be so, that the 
 human being should never be controlled by circumstances, that 
 the soul should be a thing independent, a flame that retains un- 
 impaired its quality whatever its surroundings. What is within 
 ourselves makes us great or small. Ah yes! But is not that 
 which is within ourselves formed and transformed by penetrat- 
 ing influences from without? Dolores knew that she was almost 
 terribly susceptible to influences. ^Yas that her fault? She 
 feared so sometimes, and condemned herself. She never said to 
 herself that it was also her charm. 
 
 If only Theo would be happy here, as Torno was happy now 
 in the embrace of the pure and growing light ! Surely he would, 
 he must be happy, and so make her happy. 
 
 Her eyes filled with tears. She leaned forward over the stone
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 305 
 
 he sat holding his line. He looked at her for a moment. She 
 remained motionless. Then suddenly she started, and turned 
 her head, looking towards the room behind her. He saw her 
 make a gesture with her right hand. A waiter appeared hold- 
 ing towards her a salver. She took something from it, and the 
 waiter stepped back and vanished. 
 
 Silvio felt a faint tug at his line. He had got a fish. When 
 he glanced up again at the balcony he saw his " padrona," as 
 he had taken to calling Dolores, violently tearing something 
 with both her hands. Fragments of paper fluttered down. 
 She turned, and went into the sitting-room. He thought there 
 was something very odd in her movement. He threw his fish 
 into a pail of water which stood by him on the shingly path, 
 got up, and went to the place in the garden where the fragments 
 of paper had settled. He picked one of them up, and knew it 
 for a piece of a telegram. As he returned slowly to his fishing 
 he wondered if there was anything wrong. His mind went 
 naturally to the great event of that day, the arrival of " II 
 Signore." Was the telegram from him? He lit another ciga- 
 rette, took up his line, and dropped it again over the wall into 
 the water. 
 
 The vaporbiQ was ordered to be at the steps at eleven to 
 fetch the signore. In good time Silvio changed into his smart 
 white costume. He saw to the many little flags. They were 
 firmly fastened and would fly bravely. He arranged the white 
 cushions in the cabin. Then he turned on the motor, took the 
 wheel, and brought the boat cleverly out of the boat-house and 
 round to the steps. He had not waited there more than a 
 couple of minutes before Dolores, in a white dress and hat, 
 with a white veil and parasol, and carrying a book, came out, 
 saluted him with her usual kindly " Buon giorno, Silvio," and, 
 putting one hand on his doubled arm, stepped down into the 
 boat. 
 
 *' Will you go into the cabin, signora? " he asked her. 
 
 " No. I'll sit outside. It is going to be very hot." 
 
 " Davvero! " he answered. 
 
 He was about to climb up on the edge of the wood that ran 
 round the cabin, in order to gain the after part of the little 
 craft, and set the motor going again, when Dolores said to him: 
 
 " I'm not going to Como." 
 
 "Ma — ;7 signore!" he exclaimed, in surprise. 
 
 " He isn't coming." 
 
 Silvio stared with his big, bold eyes.
 
 3o6 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " He isn't able to come — to-day. I've had a telegram. So 
 I want to go right up the lake to Cadenabbia. That will be 
 delightful in such weather. Take me up along the left hand 
 shore, and I'll come back by the other." 
 
 " Sissignora." 
 
 Silvio climbed up, and put his hand on the cabin roof. In 
 a moment the throb of the motor made the boat quiver as if 
 with life, and Villa D'Este was disappearing in the golden dis- 
 tance. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 The telegram which Dolores had received, and which had evi- 
 dently been delayed In transmission, w^as from her husband, and 
 was as follows: 
 
 ** Theo suddenly taken ill, fear blood poisoning, cannot leave 
 till better news, very sorry, writing — Theodore." 
 
 It had been handed in at the office at Frascati. 
 
 Directly Dolores had seen the waiter at the sitting-room win- 
 dow with something on a salver she had known it was a tele- 
 gram from Theo to say he was not coming. Her preparations 
 were useless. Her anticipation had been humiliating and ridicu- 
 lous. When she had torn up the telegram she had gone in 
 from the balcony and looked at the sitting-room. Flowers, 
 coverings, bronzes, books, those vases — all for Theo ! And 
 the corner where he was to sit the last thing at night, smoking 
 and reading, feeling thoroughly at home! Brusquely she went 
 over to It, pulled out the armchair, took the books from the 
 little table. Her cheeks and her hands were burning. And 
 her heart was burning, too, burning with Indignation, with a 
 sense of outrage. 
 
 Even now, as she sat in the vaporino, with the book shut In 
 her lap, watching the shore flit by, the long garden of Villa 
 Volpi, the clustered houses of Moltrazio, of Urio, of Carate, 
 the more solitary verge where the road rises before descending 
 to Argegno, she was unable to be quite reasonable. 
 
 " He never wanted to come! He never meant to come! " 
 
 She was saying that to herself. And she was believing It. 
 She had been ousted from her place, the only place she cared 
 for, In Theodore's heart, by little Theo, by these children, and
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 307 
 
 ? — she now for the first time definitely added this — and by 
 their mother. Because she had only given her husband the 
 devoted love of a nature capable of great devotion, and had 
 not given him a child, she was to be put aside — oh, of course 
 in the most gentle and natural — natural way! — and left, to 
 what? To bridge! To skating! To — husks! 
 
 She trembled as she sat there in the sun, while the motor 
 throbbed and the boat rushed on. And it was anger that shook 
 her. She hated little Theo at that moment! She almost 
 wished ■ 
 
 Argegno was passed. The great stretch of the lake, which 
 seems to be guarded by far ofE Bellagio, an almost fairylike 
 town under its climbing woods, came into view, with the peaked 
 and rocky mountains that suggest another land than radiant 
 and smiling Italy. The boat suddenly swayed over. Dolores 
 looked hastily round, and saw Silvio clambering towards her. 
 He descended with a con permesso sat down in the prow, 
 and took the wheel, turning his eyes towards the long reaches 
 between them and Bellagio. 
 
 Dolores felt sure he had come because of a feeling of sym- 
 pathy with her. And this touched her, and at the same time 
 added to her sensation of anger and distress, and of acute humili- 
 ation. To break out of it, if possible, she began to talk to the 
 lad, and she forced herself to talk gaily. 
 
 " Perhaps I'll stay at this end of the lake all day," she said 
 presently, " And come back by moonlight," 
 
 " But we have not brought the dinner! " said Silvio, gazing 
 at her with a new gentleness. 
 
 " The famous dinner! " 
 
 How she had talked about It, had enjoyed ordering it! 
 
 " Oh, I can dine at Cadenabbia or Bellagio in one of the 
 hotels," she said. " It will be great fun. I shall love to come 
 home by moonlight." 
 
 Alone ! 
 
 They passed the most beautiful villa on the lake, an ex- 
 quisite garden running almost wild, surrounding two houses 
 and a little campanile set in a solitary place on a point, with 
 terrace rising, dropping, to terrace, with old wall of carx^ed 
 and weather-kissed stone above old wall, with willows pouring 
 their green tresses — almost as if in a libation — over damp 
 and mossy stairways of stone leading down into the lake depths. 
 This villa had for long years been deserted by its owner, and 
 perhaps partly for that reason, had acquired a look of romance
 
 3o8 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 which was poignant almost as a soft and beautiful cry in a 
 solitary place. As Dolores saw it she thought: 
 
 " To have seen that with Theo — loving me! " 
 
 And all the hardness of her anger melted into a sort of 
 anguish such as she had never felt before with so much poig- 
 nancy, the anguish of yearning uselessly for something the 
 heart knows could satisfy it absolutely. 
 
 Silvio, seeing that his padrona was gazing at the deserted 
 villa, offered to turn and run the boat Into its tiny harbor. 
 
 " It is beautiful! " he exclaimed, in his loud and manly voice, 
 waving his brown arm towards the willows. 
 
 " Not now! " she answered, controlling her voice with some 
 difficulty. " I will get out at Cadenabbia." 
 
 " Sissignora! " 
 
 " Perhaps I'll hire a boat there, and go for a row." 
 
 " Va bene, signora" 
 
 Dolores felt that she must escape from the lad's silent sym- 
 pathy, although she was secretly grateful for it. She must be 
 either quite alone, or with some stranger whom she had never 
 before seen, who knew nothing at all of her. And she must 
 not allow herself to think too much of what happiness is in the 
 world. Such thought was dangerous. It might in time act 
 upon the spirit like a slow poison upon the body. 
 
 Silvio brought the boat in close to the wooden landing stage 
 at Cadenabbia. 
 
 " Go and have your lunch, Silvio," Dolores said to him, as 
 she got out. 
 
 " Sissignora. What time will you want to start back?" 
 
 She hesitated, looking across the smooth water bathed in the 
 burning rays of the sun, then up at the rocky turrets of the 
 mountains behind Bcllaglo and Lecco. And she felt that at 
 this moment of her life it would be well for her to have a long 
 afternoon of solitude. 
 
 Cadenabbia looked almost utterly deserted. There was not 
 a boat on the lake. It was the hour when people eat, or enjoy 
 the siesta. 
 
 " I don't think I'll go till quite the evening, Silvio. Don't 
 bother about me at all. But be here about six, and then I'll 
 fix the hour for starting." 
 
 He looked at her rather inquiringly. No doubt he felt him- 
 iself to be almost In charge of her. However he only said: 
 
 " Va bene, signora" took off his cap, and caught up his 
 jacket from the boat.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 309 
 
 " I will go and eat maccheronl," he added. 
 
 And he went off along the straight road by the houses, swing- 
 ing his big shoulders. 
 
 When he had disappeared Dolores felt a strange loneliness 
 suddenly descend upon her. It connected itself vaguely with 
 the great heat, seemed almost to be part of the heat. Behind 
 her was the Hotel Bellevue, with its big and glittering windows, 
 its rows of balconies. Two idle waiters were staring out at 
 her. An old lady, probably German, with a red, petulant-look- 
 ing face, and a hat of mustard-colored straw set awry on her 
 head, which was coiffee au diable, spied upon her from one of 
 the balconies, with an air of fixed attention. Dolores turned 
 quickly, and walked down the road that leads to the Villa Car- 
 lotta. 
 
 She was not hungry. She resolved not to lunch, but pres- 
 ently to have tea at the latteria. 
 
 She met no one in the road, but saw a few tourists, Germans 
 and English, mostly of the female sex and obviously unmar- 
 ried, sitting — almost squatting — ■ in arbors by the water, with 
 an air of idleness that was brutal. With heavy, lack-luster 
 eyes they stared at her as she passed. Colazione was writ- 
 ten all over them. They were abandoned, like derelicts, to the 
 processes of digestion. Before the great gate of the Villa Car- 
 lotta she paused. The fountains v/ere playing in a marvel of 
 roses. She watched the shining water for a moment — the liv- 
 ing water — and she remembered a sentence once spoken to her 
 by a woman friend, no longer young, " I must have affection 
 from somebody. Affection to me is the water of life." For 
 years she had not thought of that sentence. Yet all those years 
 her memory had kept it close, like a treasure laid up in lavender. 
 
 *' Barca, signora! " 
 
 An old boatman, with a wrinkled face almost the color of 
 mahogany, was addressing her. She looked at him, and de- 
 cided at once. He would not sympathize, would not want to 
 talk. He would just be there, rowing like an old machine. 
 
 She stepped into his comfortable boat. 
 
 About a quarter to four that afternoon Dolores began to feel 
 a longing for tea. She told her old machine, and he suggested 
 taking her to a latteria which stands absolutely alone on a knoll 
 above the lake. Near it is a blue grotto, which is shown to 
 visitors almost as solemnly as the grotto at Capri. As they 
 were drawing near to it, but were still at some distance, Dolo- 
 res saw a very small black object a gooa way off in the water.
 
 3IO THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 She looked at it for a minute, then looked away. But pres- 
 ently she turned her eyes towards it again. They were nearer 
 to it now, and she saw it was moving. She began to watch it 
 with a faint interest. Was it a dog? But why should a dog 
 be so far out in a lonely part of the lake? Could it be a man, 
 a swimmer? She began to think it must be. Now she fol- 
 lowed the progress of the dark object with a certain quickening 
 of interest, even with a dawning feeling of admiration. If, as 
 seemed nearly certain to her now, it was the head of a swim- 
 ming man, he was a very fine and intrepid swimmer, and must 
 have come a long distance. For there were no houses along 
 this part of the lake. Only far off the closed villa of an Eng- 
 lishman stood at the green foot of the lonely mountain side. 
 And in the distance, beyond, was the little latteria. And no 
 boat accom.panied the moving head — if it was a head. From 
 whence had it come? And whither was it going? 
 
 The old machine had his back to it as he rowed with a slow 
 stroke that never varied, staring slightly sideways with his small 
 beryl-colored eyes. 
 
 "What's that?" Dolores asked, pointing towards the black 
 thing. " It must be a man, I suppose, swimming." 
 
 The boatman slowly turned his head, and took a long and 
 steady look. 
 
 " Yes. It's a swimmer," he said, in a rather hoarse voice. 
 
 "Where is he going, do you think?" 
 
 The old man shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " Where we are going, maybe." 
 
 But he stared very hard at the moving head, and an almost 
 fierce keenness came into his old eyes. He pulled harder at the 
 oars. Very soon Dolores could see a movement in the lake, as 
 the swimmer cleaved his way through it with strong, almost 
 machine-like strokes, then a gleam of white, as his shoulders, 
 rising a little out of the water, caught the sunrays, then a regu- 
 lar, flail-like motion of his arm, as he changed from the breast 
 to the side stroke. 
 
 " What a pace he goes! " she murmured. 
 
 There was a concentrated strength and energy in the man's 
 swimming, which made her heart leap for a moment, and took 
 her out of that sadness which still seemed connected with heat, 
 with shining, and with the emptiness of the hour of siesta. The 
 glory of human force took hold of her woman's mind, as it can 
 never take hold of the mind of man, giving a peculiar, almost 
 tingling, thrill to it. In that recurring flail-like movement of
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 311 
 
 the arm she seemed to see a symbol of mascuh'ne strength, will, 
 determination, and dogged vigor. 
 
 " It must be the Principe Carelli," observed the old boat- 
 man. 
 
 "Principe Carelli!" said Dolores. 
 
 ** Don Cesare," said the boatman. " He comes here some- 
 times in the summer, and very few swim like he does." 
 
 He pulled hard, evidently with the intention of joining the 
 swimmer, looked round again, and said: 
 
 "Si, si! It is Don Cesare!" 
 
 " Go to the latteria now, please. I want my tea," said 
 Dolores. 
 
 A small spot of red showed on each of her cheeks. She sat 
 back under the awning, and did not look any more towards the 
 swimmer. The old boatman lay on his oars for a moment, 
 and the beryl-colored eyes observed Dolores with a curiosity 
 that showed plainly a long knowledge of certain ways of the 
 world. 
 
 Then he pulled towards the latteria, 
 
 " Don Cesare will be landing there, maybe," he observed, 
 in his hoarse voice. 
 
 Dolores nearly told him to turn and go back to Cadenabbia. 
 But that look in his eyes deterred her. When she landed at 
 the foot of the knoll, behind which rose the mountain side, the 
 dark head of the swimmer was slowly traveling towards the 
 shore, and as she walked up the path to the little house, she 
 met a man carrying a towel, a panama hat and a small leather 
 suit case. On seeing her he smiled, and turning his head, 
 shouted : 
 
 " Maria! a lady is coming! " 
 
 An ample woman, rustic and kind in appearance, and browned 
 by the sun, came out of the house in response to the shout, and, 
 with smiles and salutations, conducted Dolores to a seat under 
 the trees, received her order, and walked cheerfully away to 
 carry it out. Before she entered the house she shaded her eyes 
 with a small brown hand, on which shone a heavy gold ring, 
 and gazed down the lake. 
 
 Dolores laid her parasol and her book on the wooden tea- 
 table and sat still. Below her, on the farther side of the knoll, 
 she saw a smart boat lying. In it was sleeping a boatman clad 
 in scarlet and white. The Italian flag flew at the stern. 
 Warmth, silence wrapped the whole place, all the scene that 
 lay before her eyes. The sleeping boatman, whose attitude
 
 '312 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 and whose thrown back head suggested a sort of ecstasy of re- 
 pose, gave to the picture a strong " note " of stillness, a value 
 which increased the effect made by Nature. Hushed activities 
 were there. The sun and the hour had sealed the fountains. 
 Only that swimmer symbolized by his determined stroke the 
 tense energies of life. Dolores could not see him now, but she 
 felt him cleaving his way towards her through the element that 
 can destroy, but that supported, made possible, his bold and 
 serene activity. 
 
 And though she sat motionless in the midst of the peace, the 
 exquisite solitude, she knew not peace, nor could she feel any 
 charm, or sadness, of solitude. 
 
 Presently, it seemed to her soon, she heard a distant sound of 
 voices, and she knew that the swimmer had gained the land. 
 The brown-faced woman came out of the house bearing a tray, 
 and set before her a large china teapot, sugar, cream, milk in 
 a separate jug, a big cup and saucer, bread and butter, and a 
 huge currant cake. 
 
 Dolores thanked her in an absent-minded way. She still 
 heard those voices. 
 
 " Don Cesare is coming," said the woman, standing beside 
 her. " He has swum all the way from the Villa Sirena." 
 
 "Where is that?" 
 
 "At Bellagio. He is a swimmer!" 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 The woman smiled. 
 
 " Very few swim as he does." 
 
 She returned to the house. 
 
 Dolores began her tea, always listening to the voices. Soon 
 they grew louder, drew nearer. She heard steps crunching on 
 the stones behind her. But she did not look round. The noise 
 of the steps ceased, and she heard a voice that she knew say, in 
 Italian: 
 
 " Si, si. Out here under the trees! " 
 
 Then for a moment there was a complete silence. She knew 
 that Cesare Carelli was standing before the house and looking 
 towards her. But still she did not turn round. At last he 
 said: 
 
 "Lady Cannynge!" 
 
 Then she looked, and saw him, saw him standing in a white 
 linen suit, with a Panama hat, the brim turned down over his 
 eyes, a lighted cigarette In his hand. His dark face was ex- 
 traordinarily fresh and energetic. His figure seemed to exhale
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 313 
 
 force, youth, but not the youth of the boy, the stronger, even 
 more vital youth of the man who is young. " Noon not dawn ! " 
 was her quick thought. 
 
 Cesare came up to her. He was evidently somewhat sur- 
 prised to find her there, but — Dolores saw it at once — he 
 was not astonished. He took her hand, and held it in his, and 
 she felt all the freshness of the lake in his hand. 
 
 " How delightful, and how extraordinary, to come upon you 
 here and all alone ! " 
 
 "Then you were the swimmer!" 
 
 " And you the lovely lady in the boat ! " 
 
 " Did you notice me ? I watched you for a long time. I 
 thought at first you were a dog." 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 " May I have tea at your table ? " he asked. 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 He caught up a chair, put it opposite to her, and sat down. 
 
 " But you see nothing there ! " she said. 
 
 " I like seeing — nothing," he answered. " And how did 
 you come from Villa D'Este? By the steamer from Cernob- 
 bio?" 
 
 Dolores put down the big cup which she was Just lifting 
 to her lips. 
 
 " You knew I was at Villa D'Este? " 
 
 *' Of course. It is better for you to be there than at Fras- 
 cati." 
 
 He said the last words with a sudden, and almost intense 
 seriousness, like a man who had, or believed himself to have, 
 a right to judge of what was good and evil for her. 
 
 " Oh, I think Frascati is delicious in summer," said Dolores, 
 quickly and decidedly. 
 
 •'But you are at Villa D'Este!" 
 
 A-t this moment the woman came out with Cesare's tea. He 
 spoke to her familiarly, calling her Maria, and inquiring for 
 mem.bers of her family. She made a voluble and delighted re- 
 ply. When she had gone he said: 
 
 " From a child I've been on the lake. My uncle, Prince 
 Camara, has the Villa Sirena at Bellagio." 
 
 He looked at her and then, with a slight smile, repeated: 
 
 " You are at Villa D'Este." 
 
 ** Only for a few days. I'm expecting my husband." 
 
 " He hasn't come, then? " 
 
 " He was to have arrived this morning."
 
 314 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " I know." 
 
 " But how? " she exclaimed, almost with a touch of anger. 
 
 " It's very simple! I was at Frascati three days ago. I had 
 
 been with my mother in Lombardy " He suddenly drew his 
 
 dense black eyebrows down and looked almost brutal for a mo- 
 ment. "One must, you know, sometimes! I thought you 
 were still at Frascati, that you had even rented a villa for the 
 summer. And I went over — to see. It was a glorious day. 
 As I was coming into the Piazza Romana I encountered a pic- 
 nic party going to Tusculum, children on donkeys, two ladies 
 In a pony carriage, and your husband." 
 
 " The Denzils of course ! " said Dolores, trying to speak care- 
 lessly. " So that was how you knew ! " 
 
 " Yes. I went with them to Tusculum." 
 
 "You!" 
 
 A sudden hardness, almost a bitterness, transformed her face. 
 Cesare saw before him a new Dolores. And Dolores herself, 
 a moment later, sat wrapped in hidden wonder at her own pos- 
 sibilities, even at her own present reality. How she must have 
 counted upon this man's secret loyalty to her to have felt that 
 he was a traitor because he went to Tusculum! It was as if 
 she had broken a commandment, and was no longer the woman 
 she had been. 
 
 " They asked me to. The smallest girl asked me, insisted 
 on my coming." 
 
 "Oh — Viola!" She forced a smile, and then was able 
 really to smile. " She is devoted to men." 
 
 " Evidently. And men will certainly be devoted to her." 
 
 " So my husband told you he was coming here ? " 
 
 " Yes. That was why I was swimming just now." 
 
 Dolores looked at him, and her eyes were a question. 
 
 " I thought he was here — at Villa D'Este with you, I 
 mean." 
 
 " Why are you not having your tea? " 
 
 " I wanted — I hoped perhaps you would pour it out for 
 me. 
 
 She drew his teapot slowly towards her. 
 
 " I must get something hot into me," he added, with his 
 most English manner. " It's a fairly long swim from Bellagio. 
 But it has done me good." 
 
 She poured out the tea and gave him the big cup. He felt 
 that she had forgiven him for having gone to Tusculum. How 
 good that she had made of it a matter for forgiveness!
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 315 
 
 " Worlds of good! " he added, as he put the cup to his lips. 
 
 And he smiled at her as he drank. Between the cup and 
 the drawn brim of his hat she saw his black e5'es gleaming with 
 light. At that moment their fires seemed strangely concen- 
 trated, as sunraj's are by a burning-glass. 
 
 " There is nothing like exercise when you want to ride your 
 mind on the curb," he said, putting the cup down, and slightly 
 stretching his legs in a way that made her feel the happy lassi- 
 tude of his body after the fine effort it had made. 
 
 " This is better than Rome, better than Tusculum, and how 
 much better than my father's place near Monza with little 
 Donna Ursula! " he exclaimed, with an almost boyish sound in 
 his voice. 
 
 " Is Donna Ursula there? " 
 
 " Oh ves. You know mamma wants me to marry her.'' 
 
 "You — Donna Ursula!" 
 
 The little doll, cold, observant, bright-eyed, narrow, rose up 
 before Dolores. 
 
 Cesare leaned a little forward over the table. 
 
 "You don't think we should suit?" 
 
 " I don't know that I can tell." 
 
 " Mamma says we are made for each other, to supply each 
 other's deficiencies." 
 
 " Perhaps she is right." 
 
 " She is^ if ice can supply the deficiency of fire," he 
 said, in a tone that vibrated with contempt, and almost with 
 indignation. " Do you think it can? " 
 
 His eyes were asking her many more questions than his lips. 
 
 " No," Dolores said. 
 
 Cesare looked suddenly happier. 
 
 " You understand things that poor dear mamma has no con- 
 ception of. You understood why I took that long swim." 
 
 " How do you know that? " 
 
 "Don't you?" 
 
 " Perhaps. I am not quite sure. No, you needn't explain. 
 It doesn't matter whether I do or not." 
 
 " To me it does." 
 
 " I was thinking of myself." 
 
 " Were vou? Do you often think of yourself? " 
 
 " Very often." 
 
 She paused, then added, with a sort of sad seriousness, almost 
 like a child who has just realized something distressful; 
 
 " I'm afraid I am an egoist."
 
 3i6 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " No, I don't think so." 
 
 " You can't know." 
 
 " You do not look like an egoist." 
 
 " Do move your chair so that you can see the view," she said. 
 ** I quite hate to see you with your back to it all." 
 
 He got up at once and put his chair sideways, at one of the 
 ends of the little table. 
 
 " Don't you care for beauty, for Nature? " she added, almost 
 critically. 
 
 " Yes, very much, in my way," he said. 
 
 "What way Is that?" 
 
 " I like mountains because one can climb them, water be- 
 cause one can swim In It. I love the open, for a gallop on a 
 good hunter, like my Irish mare, Medusa; the marshes for the 
 duck shooting." 
 
 "And sunsets and moonlight nights?" she asked, almost ob- 
 stinately, and with the air of one who Is getting an adversary 
 in argument Into a corner. 
 
 " A moonlight night — 5^es, I could care for that, I could ! " 
 He pushed his hat a little upwards and backwards. '" To-night 
 there will be a moon," he said. " By the way, you have never 
 told me how you came from Villa D'Este." 
 
 " I came In a vapor ino." 
 
 "All alone?" 
 
 " Yes — of course. At least I had Silvio." 
 
 "Who's Silvio?" 
 
 " A very nice boatman." 
 
 "SI?" 
 
 'He drank some more tea with frank relish, put down the 
 cup, and said: 
 
 " We had regular romping at Tusculum. Your husband 
 was almost like a boy, I didn't know him before." 
 
 " Why don't you eat anything? " 
 
 " I never eat In the afternoon. That's a fine little boy of 
 Mrs. Denzil's." 
 
 " Yes. He's 111 now, poor little chap." 
 
 "111?" 
 
 "Very 111. I'm afraid. That's — that's why my husband 
 couldn't come. He telegraphed at the last moment. You see 
 he Is the child's guardian, and stands to him almost in the place 
 of a — I mean he feels a certain responsibility." 
 
 "Does he?" 
 
 " Of course he does. They're afraid It Is blood poisoning."
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 3^7 
 
 " That sounds bad." 
 
 " I shall have a letter to-morrow explaining." 
 
 " And if it is bad news will you have to go back to Fras- 
 cati?" 
 
 "I? Of course not. What good could I be? " 
 
 ** I wonder what the news will be ? " said Cesare, after a 
 pause. " Will you do something for me, Lady Cannynge ? " 
 
 "W^hatisit?" 
 
 "Will you let me know the news when you get it? He's 
 such a fine little boy. I should like to hear how he gets on." 
 
 " I'll send you a card then." 
 
 " To the Villa Sirena, Eellaglo. Thank you." 
 
 She looked at him with a searching directness. She had eyes 
 that were incapable of looking actually piercing. Almost al- 
 ways there seemed to be in their cloudy depths a softness. He 
 thought of her nickname, " Gazelle." 
 
 " And anyhow you will stay on at Villa D'Este for a time? " 
 
 " I suppose so. I think so." 
 
 She had lowered her eyes now and spoke with some faint hesi- 
 tation. 
 
 *' And quite alone, if Sir Theodore can't get away? " 
 
 "I — I like solitude. It rests one." 
 
 She knew by his expression — she was again looking at him 
 — that he had seen through her barricade of a lie, had seen at 
 least something of the truth crouching behind it. 
 
 " I don't, for too long. And I'm alone at the villa. My 
 uncle is at Salsomagglore." 
 
 " Why do you stay there then? " 
 
 " I thought I would come. I think I will stay a little while." 
 
 His eyes now told Dolores plainly the truth, which already 
 she knew though it had never been spoken, though, till to-day, 
 she had never wished it to be spoken. Till to-day! Since 
 Cesare had come up to her from the water, since she had felt 
 the freshness of the lake in his hand, since he had told her of 
 that meeting which had ended in his joining the party to Tus- 
 culum, a reckless feeling had grown within her, had stolen 
 through her, penetrating — it seemed — through every vein in 
 her body. She had noted it, with a startled thrill, when her 
 mind for a moment had glimpsed this man's defection. And 
 at that moment, too, she had fully, nakedly realized that she 
 looked upon the Denzlls now wholly as her enemies, enemies of 
 her happiness, her peace, enemies, perhaps, even of her safety. 
 And in the reaction from that momentary fear of defection she
 
 3i8 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 almost — still was it not only "almost"? — wished Cesare to 
 say plainly that he was on her side, that there was a feeling in 
 his heart for her which ranged him on her side, not for a mo- 
 ment but forever. Stricken by the feeling of being unnecessary 
 something within her wailed to be needed, then, at that very 
 moment. Again and again, as she sat by the tea-table, she had 
 seen the family party, the children on their donkeys, Mrs. Mas- 
 singham and Edna, Theodore, Cesare, mounting up into that 
 eyrie of the sun above the vast Campagna and the shining of the 
 sea. She had seen Theodore romping " almost like a boy." 
 Although she still seemed to feel the touch of Cesare's strong 
 hand on hers, in her relation to him at this moment there was 
 nothing of the physical. Her body was not speaking, although 
 she felt as if it independently knev»^ something that was strange, 
 and that she wished it did not know. She Vv^as wholly mental 
 and affectional in her desire to be needed here and nov/, to 
 have that need stated in words. She was ashamed of her desire, 
 she wished to strangle it, to know it dead. But her shame had 
 no power over it. And Cesare must have seen it in her eyes, 
 in her features, perhaps even in her hands and her whole atti- 
 tude. 
 
 " Dolores! " he said, leaning towards her, laying his arm on 
 the table, with his brown hand feeling of hers. " Dolores '* 
 
 She saw his face change completely, into a sudden, broad 
 smile which showed his big white teeth. 
 
 " Maria! " he called out, tapping his fingers idly on the table 
 in a way that was nonchalant. *' I have only six soldi with me 
 for both the bills." 
 
 The padrona of the latteria was coming out of the house 
 with the conto. 
 
 He exchanged some lively chaff with her in Italian. But 
 when she had gone to get some change for a ten-lire note he said 
 to Dolores: 
 
 " I am going to dine with you to-night. You must let me. 
 There is no one — but — no one — in the hotel at Cadcnabbia. 
 And I will com.e down the lake with you — ■ not to Villa D'Este. 
 You can put me ashore at Carate or Urio. I'll walk back, or 
 row. I'll get back somehow. Do not say no. I must do It. 
 I will do It." 
 
 And to that last assertion of his will something In her as- 
 sented, as if it were Irresistibly forced to assent. 
 
 " Let him tell me! " that was her thought. "Then it will 
 all be over. I will explain, I will send him away. AvA It
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 319 
 
 will all be over. But I must hear him tell me that he wants 
 rae. 
 
 Was it a reckless, a wicked voice within her? She did not 
 think so then. It seemed to her the natural voice of woman, 
 of every woman who had lived as she had lived, who had 
 been treated as she was being treated, who needed what she 
 needed. 
 
 Of any wrong to Cesare she did not think at all. There 
 was a force in him that prevented her, then, from thinking it 
 possible she could wrong him. She felt too weak. And he 
 looked and seemed so strong. 
 
 " Will you come in my boat?" 
 
 " No, no." 
 
 "May I ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 *' Then " he took off his hat. 
 
 Without it he looked different, a little older than before, a 
 little graver. Something in his appearance, thus changed, sent 
 a doubt into the mind of Dolores. 
 
 " You'd — I think you'd better not come to Cadenabbia to 
 dine," she said. 
 
 *' I am coming," he answered. 
 
 " Perhaps I may not be there. I may go down the lake be- 
 fore dinner." 
 
 He only looked firmly into her eyes, drew his thick brows 
 down, and repeated: 
 
 *' I am coming." 
 
 Then Dolores left him and went to her boat. 
 
 Soon she heard behind her a regular plash of oars. She 
 opened the book in her lap and began to read. And she seemed 
 to be reading steadily till the boat touched land opposite to Villa 
 Carlotta. 
 
 At a few minutes before six Silvio saw her coming towards 
 where he stood near the vaporino. 
 
 " I think " she began. 
 
 She stopped. 
 
 ** Sisslgnora? " said Silvio. 
 
 She looked at the lake. The water seemed if possible even 
 calmer than before, as if it had sunk into a dreamless sleep as 
 the evening drew on. The sky was absolutely clear. 
 
 " I think I'll start," she said, very slowly. 
 
 "Now?" 
 
 " Will It be a very lovely night, do you think, Silvio? "
 
 320 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 ** SIssIgnora. Look at the sky!" 
 
 He waved his arm. 
 
 " How beautiful it is! " he exclaimed in his loud voice, pro- 
 nouncing the Italian words with the accent of the North. 
 
 "You think?" 
 
 " You should stay, signora, and return with the moon." 
 
 "• You think so ? Then — I will." 
 
 " At what time, signora? " 
 
 " Half-past eight, or nine. No, half-past eight punctually." 
 
 "^ Va bene, signora." 
 
 Silvio looked after her steadily as she went away. His quick 
 Intelligence had grasped the difference in her, a difference arisen 
 since the morning hours. 
 
 " La signora e un po' strana! " was his mental comment. 
 
 At seven Cesare arrived in the smart boat from Bellaglo. 
 He went at once to the Hotel Bellevue to look at the visitors' 
 list. There were very few names, and none of Italians whom 
 he knew. And there were no English names. He spoke to 
 the head waiter and arranged to have a table in a quiet corner 
 of the restaurant. Then he went out to find Dolores. He 
 knew that he would find her. 
 
 She was sitting in the little garden on the far side of the road 
 close to the water, under a trellis of roses, looking at the rocky 
 mountains, which were subtly changing, obedient to the influ- 
 ence of the delicate evening light. She turned her head as he 
 approached, and he thought, "Yes, she is like a gazelle!" 
 Even he thought that he saw in her eyes the half-frightened, 
 half espiegle, and wholly gentle look characteristic of the eyes 
 of the gazelle. 
 
 " Is it dinner time already? " she said. 
 
 Cesare had meant to sit down beside her. But she got up 
 at once, evidently to accompany him to the hotel. 
 
 " If you wish it to be," he said. 
 
 She heard a plash of oars. 
 
 " But there is your boat! " she said. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Going away? " 
 
 ** I do not care to keep the man here for so many hours. He 
 has a family and likes to eat with them at home." 
 
 "Let us dine quickly!" she said. "I must not get home 
 too late." 
 
 Silvio was by the water side with two boatmen of Cade- 
 nabbia. He looked after Dolores and Cesare with deep interest,
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 321 
 
 as they entered the hotel. Then he talked eagerly with the 
 boatmen. 
 
 In the restaurant there was only one person dining, the red- 
 faced lady, probably German, who had stared at Dolores from 
 the balcony. In a white blouse she looked fatter and redder 
 than before. Upon her bedevilled hair she still wore the mus- 
 tard-colored hat. She stared at Dolores and Cesare with a 
 morose, and apparently almost apoplectic attention. To Dolo- 
 res her small and angrily attentive eyes were as the eyes of " the 
 world." She felt uneasy, almost guilty under their gaze. And 
 she felt that she was singularly unfitted, by something in her 
 temperament, for what almost every woman she knew in Rome 
 would think an amusing and delightful little adventure. 
 
 Cesare talked to her quietly. He was absolutely self-pos- 
 sessed, as indeed he always was. But she felt, rather than 
 saw, a strong excitement heaving, as it were, beneath his sur- 
 iace calm. And she knew that he could feel, and that his 
 strong, perhaps even violent feeling was for her. And this 
 knowledge gradually comforted her. Her intense susceptibil- 
 ity to all outward influences made her conscious of a sort of 
 strong shock from this strength in him. But it was a shock 
 that vivified, not stunned. And again the almost reckless feel- 
 ing woke in her. She made him talk of the picnic at Tuscu- 
 lum, describe every detail of that day in the sun. She pre- 
 tended to enjoy the thought of their — the Denzils', her hus- 
 band's, his — enjoyment. She laughed when Cesare narrated 
 the manner and matter of the games played by the three 
 children, Sir Theodore, himself, and even by Mrs. Mas- 
 singham, half under protest, and almost rent asunder by loud 
 breathings. 
 
 " And Edna? " asked Dolores. " Didn't she play too? " 
 
 " No. Mrs. Denzil looked on." 
 
 " I suppose she thought it would be hardly right for her to 
 romp — already." 
 
 Cesare felt the interior bitterness, almost saw it striving for 
 an outlet, in that level murmur. Princess Mancelli had edu- 
 cated him in the fierce truths of feminine jealousy. He con- 
 tinued to talk about Tusculum, using his knowledge, relying 
 on it for the first time. He knew he was being cruel. He did 
 not know — being a man he could not know — how cruel. He 
 had comforted Dolores. Now he tortured her. And under 
 th.e torture the recklessness in her grew. She no longer cared 
 at all for those eyes of the world staring under a head of be-
 
 322 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 deviled hair. The German lady — she really was German ! — 
 left the room, after a final stewed pear, with a most unfavor- 
 able opinion of the " ridiculously thin woman in the white hat." 
 
 Her departure infected Dolores with the thought of depar- 
 ture. 
 
 " I ought to go," she said. 
 
 " We! " said Ccsare. " But it is very early still." 
 
 " It is a long way to Villa D'Este." 
 
 " Not long enough for us, with a moon." 
 
 " I'm afraid I must go back alone," she said. 
 
 She knew — somehow she knew mysteriously — that she cer- 
 tainly was not going alone. But she wished to avoid what she 
 felt to be wrong — she was of those who think words can be 
 wrong, almost as wrong as bad actions — and she resolved to 
 make a struggle against the approach of evil. 
 
 " In fact I really must," she added. 
 
 She moved as if to get up. 
 
 *' You won't even allow me my cigarette? " he asked. 
 
 "Oh — well, that is too bad. Yes, I will have one too." 
 
 He gave her one, but he lit a large cigar. 
 
 " You said a cigarette! " she said. 
 
 " If I smoke too many they hurt my throat. And I have 
 smoked too many to-day." 
 
 His lie made her think of Denzil. When Denzil went down 
 into the darkness had he not condemned her to the darkness? 
 Abruptly she was seized upon by a melancholy that made her 
 desire, almost with terror, a refuge. 
 
 "Please let us sit out of doors," she said, getting up. So 
 fierce was the melancholy that she had to disturb it by move- 
 ment. 
 
 " Yes, in the little garden by the lake. Have you a wrap? " 
 
 " In the boat. But don't fetch it. I don't want it." 
 
 The moon was not up yet. A soft mantle of silvery gray, 
 with a hint of dim blue in it, wrapped the v/orld. In the breast 
 of the large silence voices were almost like points of flame in 
 blackness. The sound of steps on the road was romantic. Re- 
 treating forms of people, perhaps ugly, possessed the strange 
 beauty of shadows. In the little garden there was no one. 
 
 They sat down under the trellis of roses now colorless in the 
 night. 
 
 Cesare took her hand. She tried to draw it away. He held 
 it fast. And she let it remain in his. In his hand she felt his 
 excitement. It both frightened and fascinated her. It roused
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 323 
 
 in her no evil sensation, but it made her think violently of a 
 possibility that no doubt was evil. Never had she felt more 
 mental than at this moment. 
 
 Holding her hand fast in his Cesare began to speak. He 
 did not make love to her. He began to give her his secret, the 
 secret he had never before told to a human being. And he 
 mentioned no woman's name. He did not ask for pity plainly 
 in words, did not make, that is, a blatant appeal such as a boy 
 in such circumstances would almost certainly have made. Yet, 
 subtly, all that he said was really said to establish a claim on 
 the softness, the tenderness, of the intensely feminine woman 
 beside him. He did not ask her never to betray his secret. 
 She felt that he knew it was not necessary to do so. There 
 was complete trust in his hand. That was her feeling. His 
 flesh, bones, nerves told her that, and touched her heart as well 
 as her hand. For a man expects to be trusted, but a woman 
 loves to be trusted. His story was the story of his intrigue 
 with Princess Mancelli. An Englishman would not have told 
 it perhaps. An Italian could not have told it with the reti- 
 cence Cesare still was able to preserve in this moment. His 
 way of telling it, the volubility, the fervor, the command of 
 language, the eloquence — that was Italian. The delicacy in 
 all detail had something of English pudeur, born only for her, 
 this woman whom he knew to be pure. 
 
 The narrative was a story of slavery, of possession, of youth- 
 ful vanity and sensuality, flattered and developed, of the wak- 
 ing of manhood with its restlessness born of incipient under- 
 standing, which became complete understanding; of the shame 
 and the misery of the bondman, of the self-torment of a tradi- 
 tional sense of honor often at war with the naked truth of things, 
 of the torment, imposed from without, of intense and eternally 
 watchful jealousy. Despite Cesare's instinctive carefulness in 
 many matters of detail Dolores was led by him into a new and 
 terrible world, a world whose tumult, whose warring impulses, 
 whose spiritual and physical tortures — the former realized 
 by her far more keenly and sensitively than by Cesare, and far 
 more clearly than the latter — blotted out for the moment from 
 her eyes and mind the stillness, the peace, tlie mystic beauty of 
 the world that lay around her, silently waiting for recognition, 
 but remote from any appeal. The subtle misery of the body 
 was there, a frightful, and, it seemed, an independent thing, a 
 force altogether detached from the soul — following its own 
 courses, driven by its own demons, going to its own perdition.
 
 324 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 It was surely the woman's body that was jealous, that followed, 
 that spied, that craved, that cursed; it was surely Cesare's body 
 that angrily longed, that fought against sense of honor and tradi- 
 tions, for the liberty that was necessary to it. And all this 
 was quite hideous to Dolores. 
 
 And then the narrative came to herself, and a soul seemed 
 to be released and to arise — she thought like a dove out of a 
 pit of black ashes. 
 
 Cesare described how it was her coming into his life that 
 made him finally resolve to grasp his liberty. He did not speak 
 with any sentimentality, or pay her compliments, or rave about 
 the effect her beauty had had upon him. But he spoke with 
 deep sentiment, and with a sort of vehement and clear pic- 
 turesqueness which painted what she had been in those early 
 days to him, what thoughts and desires she had engendered in 
 him, what action she had all unconsciously led him to. He 
 showed her her own softness, her own romance, her needs, her 
 rights, even her longings, by describing his summoned into being 
 by her. How masculine his were! How different in fiber, 
 as it were, from her own ! But they were imperious. He pre- 
 sented himself to her as a man who was starving, because he 
 had been fed with the wrong food. 
 
 And Dolores felt that Princess Mancelli had possessed no 
 food for his soul. 
 
 Finally Cesare told her how he had cast off the yoke from 
 his neck, how he had forced his way out into freedom, not com- 
 plete freedom, perhaps, but a liberty such as he had not hitherto 
 known, such as he had hardly hoped for. 
 
 " You are cruel," Dolores almost whispered, speaking at last. 
 *' You are cruel." 
 
 She drew her hand away, but gently. 
 
 " I believe all men are," she added. " As soon as they don't 
 love any more." 
 
 And as she said that she was not thinking only of him. 
 
 " I don't know whether I was cruel or not, and I don't 
 much care," he answered. " I had to do it, and it was you 
 who made me do it." 
 
 It seemed to Dolores at that moment very wonderful that 
 she had been able to inspire such a fierceness of action, that 
 she had, unwittingly, crushed a woman down into the dust, that 
 she had poured into a man the strength of desire that had made 
 him ruthless. But she believed Cesare, and she was almost 
 frightened.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 325 
 
 " It was your softness, your gentleness, your — the look in 
 your eyes. It was 3'ou." 
 
 He sought for her hand again, but she got up. 
 
 " I must go," she said. 
 
 " I am coming with you." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " I am coming as far as Urio." 
 
 She looked at him, and said nothing more. They went to- 
 wards the boat. Silvio was there with some boatmen. He 
 saluted Dolores. 
 
 " You can bring the boat, Silvio. I am ready to go now." 
 
 " Sissignora." 
 
 As a moment later Silvio was helping Dolores into the boat 
 she said to him : 
 
 " This signore is coming a little way down the lake for the 
 sake of the trip. I'll tell you where to put him ashore." 
 
 " Sissignora. But it must be where there's a landing.'" 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 Dolores settled herself outside the cabin with a cushion at 
 her back against the partition. As Cesare was getting into 
 the boat he said something to Silvio in a low voice. 
 
 "Where shall I sit?" he asked. 
 
 Dolores pointed to the seat on the opposite side of the narrow 
 gangway. 
 
 "Or shall I steer?" he suggested, pointing to the wheel. 
 
 "If you like." 
 
 He sat down on her side by the wheel. Silvio climbed into 
 the stern, to his fastness behind the cabin, and began to back 
 the vaporino out into the lake preparatory to turning her prow 
 homewards. 
 
 The moon was just above the crest of the mountains. The 
 first ray of silver lay on the water stretching towards the boat, 
 as if in an effort to touch it. 
 
 " I think you had better not come," Dolores said, in a quick 
 and very low voice. " Why should you come? " 
 
 Before he could answer the boat turned easily, and set her 
 course for the south. And, perhaps because of that, he did not 
 answer at all. With his hand on the wheel he sat sideways 
 to Dolores, so that she saw his profile, looking dark and almost 
 mysterious, relieved against the delicate dimness, lit with strange 
 silver pallors of the night. What had she to do with this man, 
 or he with her? They were almost strangers still. Yet he 
 had given her his secret. If he knew hers!
 
 326 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 She shivered at the thought. 
 
 " You are cold," he said. " Put on your wrap." 
 
 He got up, bent, went into the cabin and brought it out. 
 She moved, and he put it round her shoulders. And as he did 
 that she suddenly knew what he had not told her, how he loved 
 her with his body. The momentary light touch of his hands on 
 her shoulders and the upper part of her arms taught her that, 
 more than his hand clasp had taught her. And it threw her 
 into a strange, and almost terrible confusion of mind. She 
 was in a chaotic state of rebellion. She was rebelling against 
 Cesare, against herself — the temple in which dwelt a hateful 
 thought of which she was wholly unable to rid herself — against 
 her husband, against all that had brought her to this present 
 moral and emotional crisis. She felt like a guilty woman, and 
 then like a foolish child because she had felt like that. Her 
 innocence made her absurd, even to herself. How could she 
 have lived so long in her world, have known so much, and yet 
 remain so almost ludicrously Puritanic? A man had made a 
 sort of love to her. She had not responded. And yet already 
 she felt as if she had sinned against the light. 
 
 "Aren't we going very slowly?" she asked. 
 
 Cesare was again at the wheel, and the vaporino was skirting 
 the left-hand, here deserted, bank of the lake. 
 
 *' I don't think so. This Isn't a very high-powered boat." 
 
 He relapsed into silence. 
 
 Presently, almost directly, Dolores began genuinely to won- 
 der why he had come. He would be out probably all night. 
 For there were no steamers plying so late, and Urio was a 
 long way off. He was not talking to her, not even looking at 
 her now. With what seemed to her a business-like air of com- 
 petence he sat at the wheel guiding their course. Perhaps he 
 was the victim of a reaction after the strong feeling he had 
 just been showing to her. She could not divine his mood. 
 BafRed, her consciousness of his strength increased. She be- 
 gan presently to wonder if she had hurt him. When he put on 
 her wrap had he perhaps felt as if she shrank from him? It 
 would be a good thing if he had. But she — had she instinc- 
 tively shrunk from him when she had realized what she had 
 realized ? 
 
 She nearly began to cry. Suddenly she felt like a poor weak 
 little thing, battered about, flung this way and that, desperately 
 alone. It was Cesare's silence, his grim retreat into himself, 
 after his strangely frank, and even passionate outburst, which
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 327 
 
 gave her this lonely feeling. It was scarcely bearable. She 
 did not love this man. Her heart was possessed, unworthily 
 perhaps. That she should ever come even to wonder if that 
 were so! But she loved something in Cesare. That day had 
 amply proved it to her. She loved his love of her. She felt 
 as if she needed his love of her, not another man's, his. Then 
 there was something special in Cesare that set him apart from 
 other men in her estimation. 
 
 The prow of the boat turned, slipping through the moonlit 
 water, and sending a silver curve, like a ruff, to right and left. 
 It was as if it turned in answer to a thought. 
 
 "Where are we going?" said Dolores. 
 
 Her own voice startled her. She was still more startled 
 by his silence. But she did not repeat her question. She looked, 
 and she saw rise out of the moonlight the thickly wooded 
 promontory where stood the deserted villa which had so pain- 
 fully moved her in the morning by its aspect of poignant ro- 
 mance. The vaporino was heading straight towards it. She 
 leaned forward a little, moving with a gentleness that was al- 
 most surreptitious, and she saw that her companion, who was 
 looking towards the shore, was frowning. She drew back. The 
 shuttered houses, blind, dark, with the flowing darkness of 
 those weeping trees falling to the water below them, showed 
 dimly on the rocky point. The woods, so black, so near, seemed 
 groping after them. The steady throb of the motor failed. 
 
 "What is the matter? " 
 
 Dolores leaned forward again. 
 
 "Why are we stopping here?" 
 
 Cesare was still frowning. His drawn down brows gave 
 him in the night a hard and brutal expression. He turned, with 
 a deep sigh, but only looked at her for an instant. The frown 
 was gone. He said : 
 
 " I must be careful. The harbor is small." 
 
 His voice sounded strange. 
 
 The wheel went round. The vaporino was gliding into the 
 shadows. Silvio's voice called out from the stern, and Cesare 
 left the wheel. Silvio had charge of it now. He reversed the 
 engine, then sent the boat on again. 
 
 " But why are we coming here?" 
 
 Cesare seemed to suppress a sigh, 
 
 " I know you care for beauty." 
 
 "Beauty!" 
 
 She spoke almost with a sharp anxiety.
 
 328 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " Didn't we talk of it to-day at the latterlaf I thought I 
 would show you the most beautiful villa on the lake by moon- 
 light. That's all" ^ 
 
 Pole in hand Silvio was edging towards them, his other hand 
 on the cabin roof. 
 
 " But it is closed ! " 
 
 " The gardens I mean." 
 
 " But it's deserted, shut up! " 
 
 " I have brought the key of the cancello." 
 
 He showed it. Silvio took the shore with the hook of his 
 pole, steadying the boat. The moonlight was gone. The little 
 harbor was black with shadows. 
 
 " We are allowed to have one — at the villa. We may go 
 In at any time." 
 
 Silvio leaped ashore, and bent down to bring the swaying 
 boat close in, gently. 
 
 " Have you got a match?" Dolores asked Cesare. 
 
 Her voice was very low, very level, almost unnaturally level. 
 
 "You want ? 
 
 ** To see the time, please. I've got my watch here. I only 
 want a light." 
 
 He felt in his pocket, found and drew out a box, struck a 
 match, protected it with one hand, bending down. The even- 
 ing was still. The tiny flame lit up his face, showed the exact 
 expression in his eyes. 
 
 Dolores did not look at her watch. 
 
 " I'm not going ashore, Silvio 1 " 
 
 "The ^ 
 
 " I'm not going ashore here," she said. 
 
 " Signora." ^ 
 
 " We find it's too late to go ashore. Take the boat out, 
 please ! " 
 
 " Sissignora! " 
 
 " And stop at the nearest landing place from which the sig- 
 nore can get a boat home." 
 
 " Va bene, signora" 
 
 Till they reached Argegno neither Dolores nor Cesare spoke. 
 When he got up to leave the vaporino he said, almost in a 
 whisper : 
 
 " For God's sake, forgive me ! If you knew — if you knew ! " 
 
 " Good-night," she answered. 
 
 And now her voice was broken. 
 
 " That card — you'll send it ? "
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 329 
 
 " I said I would." 
 
 " And if the boy is worse I shall come down to Villa D'Este. 
 You will be there alone." 
 
 " Good-night! " she said in a voice that was scarcely audible. 
 She got up to go into the little cabin. As she did so Cesare 
 gave something to Silvio. He stood by the edge of the water 
 watching till the vapor'ino disappeared in the silver track of 
 the moon. 
 
 Two days later he landed at the steps that lead down from 
 the garden of Villa D'Este to the water. He had received a 
 card from Dolores on which were written these words : 
 
 " I am sorry to say little Theo Denzil is worse. My hus- 
 band isn't able to come. — D. C." 
 
 He was about to cross the garden and go into the hotel 
 when he saw Silvio a little way off by the wall fishing for 
 agoni. He went towards him. Silvio looked up and took ofiE 
 his cap with a smile. 
 
 " Fishing? " said Cesare. 
 
 " Si, Eccellenza." 
 
 " Is the padrona in the garden anyw^here." 
 
 " The padrona of the hotel, Eccellenza? " 
 
 " No, the lady whom you took to Cadenabbia the other day.'* 
 
 Silvio jerked his head slightly backward, thrusting out his 
 square chin. 
 
 " She has gone, the beautiful signora," he said, almost sadly. 
 
 " Gone ! " said Cesare. *' Do you mean she has left Villa 
 D'Este?" 
 
 " Si, Eccellenza, this morning suddenly. And she had or- 
 dered the vapor'ino for this afternoon." 
 
 "Why did she go so suddenly?" 
 
 Silvio looked steadily at Cesare. Then in his loud voice, 
 throwing out his arm in an ample gesture, he answered: 
 
 " Eccellenza, I don't know. But she was expecting her sig- 
 nore. He did not come. And I think she has gone back to 
 him." 
 
 When Cesare inquired at the bureau of the hotel Silvio's 
 surmise was confirmed. He was informed that Lady Cannynge 
 had suddenly made up her mind to return to Frascati, and had 
 gone away within an hour of her decision, leaving her maid to 
 follow with most of her luggage. Only the day before she had 
 said that she would stay on perhaps for several weeks.
 
 330 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " Do you think she means to come back ? " Cesare asked. 
 
 The dark and agreeable man in the bureau pursed his lips 
 into an expression of doubt. 
 
 '^ C/ii lo sa, Signor Principef " he murmured. "Ladies 
 change their minds from one day to another. Chi lo saf " 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 In August Dolores was once more living in Palazzo Bar- 
 berini. She had fled from Frascati to Villa D'Este. And 
 then she had fled from Villa D'Este back to Frascati. Each 
 time she had been driven by a powerful impulse. And each 
 time her decisive action had been followed by fear. She had 
 yielded to fear and left Villa D'Este. And now she had 
 yielded to fear and again left Frascati. The small house Sir 
 Theodore had taken was not very comfortable and Dolores had 
 made that fact an excuse for her return to their beautiful apart- 
 ment. Sir Theodore had advised her against returning, fear- 
 ing, or seeming to fear, the effect of the heat in Rome on her 
 health. But she had been firm. 
 
 " It is all nonsense about Rome being impossible in sum- 
 mer," she had said, " and I am going to prove it nonsense. I 
 can often motor over and spend the day at Frascati if I want 
 to." 
 
 *' You must come every day and go back at night." 
 
 But of course Dolores had not gone every day. She had 
 never meant to go. 
 
 Little Theo had been seriously ill, in danger of death. In 
 some mysterious way his blood had been poisoned. Edna 
 Denzil, already so fearfully' warned of the uncertainty of 
 life, was terrified by the sudden malady of her son. From the 
 moment when .the first symptoms became manifest she made 
 up her mind that he was going to follow his father to the 
 grave. She told Sir Theodore of her conviction, which she 
 concealed from every one else. And in doing so she displayed 
 the strange nakedness of a soul that sorrovi^ had rather warped 
 than refined. 
 
 " Theodore," she said, " I've been a fool and I'm having 
 my reward. I've only cared for the few things good women 
 care for, the so-called good women at least. All my heart's 
 been set on my home, my husband and my children. I've never 
 loved what so many women love — pretty clothes, parties, jew-
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 331 
 
 els, money, admirers. I've never wanted to shine, to be witty. 
 I've never cared really one bit for it all. And see how I'm 
 punished! Everything will be taken from me. Franzi has 
 gone. And now Theo will go. It seems to me that God 
 hates simple things, natural goodness. Poor mamma always 
 says I'm naturally good and could never be anything else. 
 And so, I suppose, God wants to punish me." 
 
 Suddenly she burst into tears. 
 
 "What does He want? Oh, what does He want? Will 
 He never leave me alone? " 
 
 There had been a sound almost of fury, and certainly of 
 enmity in that cry. And Sir Theodore realized that in her 
 heart his friend, ever since the death of her husband, must 
 have cherished hostility against the God in whom she believed, 
 in whom, perhaps, now, she would have been glad to believe 
 no longer. He tried to comfort her, and almost immediately 
 she dried her tears. 
 
 " Do forgive me," she said. " If only I could be like other 
 women, like Dolores for instance, and find all my real enjoy- 
 ment in the so-called pleasures of life, how much happier I 
 could be." 
 
 Sir Theodore had been conscious of a disagreeable feeling 
 that was almost sharp mental pain, when she said that. But 
 he only replied: 
 
 " We will f^ght for Theo's life." 
 
 Edna's face changed, softened. 
 
 "Oh, Theodore!" she said. "What should I have done, 
 what should I do now, without your generous, disinterested 
 friendship?" 
 
 " I understand you," he said quietly. 
 
 " No one else does." 
 
 In these two sentences, without knowing it, they put into 
 words what was becoming the tragedy of another woman's 
 life. And the desperate illness of little Theo drew them 
 rapidly much nearer together. For during it Edna Denzil 
 saw, as no one else saw — for she alone had the mother's eyes — ■ 
 the intensity of Sir Theodore's love for her child, and his 
 capacity, unusual in a man, for complete unselfishness where 
 his deepest feelings were roused. Instinctively he now hid 
 these things from his wife. He was a sensitive man, and her 
 dislike of the Denzil children, carefully, scrupulously concealed 
 though it was, mysteriously touched his spirit and affected his 
 words and actions.
 
 332 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 Although he had had a secret reason for wishing Dolores to 
 remain in Frascati he was more at his ease when she had gone. 
 And he took her view of Rome in the month of August. She 
 declared that Rome was *' Delightfully quiet and fascinating." 
 No doubt it was. Because people ran away from a place at a 
 certain season, that did not prove that the season was maleficent. 
 And Dolores had told him that she was seeing all the beautiful 
 things she had not seen properly before. 
 
 He began honestly to think, when he thought about the 
 matter at all, that she was having " a very interesting time." 
 
 But he had few moments just then to give to any thought 
 unconnected with little Theo. Presently the imminent danger 
 of death passed away, and there began the period of hope, 
 sometimes assailed by fear, but on the whole progressive. Edna 
 Denzll and Sir Theodore shared both fear and hope as they 
 watched over the battling child. Day by day they were drawn 
 together more closely by their community of feeling. Mean- 
 while Dolores had her opportunity of becoming acquainted with 
 Rome in August. 
 
 At first she believed that there was no living creature whom 
 she knew left in Rome. And she was glad. She thought she 
 much preferred to see one. All the palaces were closed. 
 There was no one in the great hotels. Her apartment in 
 Palazzo Barberini was the only one that was tenanted. A si- 
 lence that almost frightened her sometimes, heavy like some 
 Iron weight impending and near its fall, reigned in it and 
 seemed old. She felt as if it were a silence which could be 
 touched. The heat was great, but not overwhelming if one 
 remained within doors during the midmost hours of the day. 
 This Dolores always did. 
 
 She often lay down on a sofa in the green and red drawing- 
 room. The windows were protected by awnings and by green 
 blinds which were kept down. Sometimes a breath of wind 
 stirred the blinds, producing a dry, and very small rattling 
 sound. More often they were motionless. Dolores fancied 
 that she felt the stagnant city brooding outside all around 
 the palace In the blaze of the sun, like a thing solidified instead 
 of liquefied by the action of heat. Its flowing movement and 
 murmur burned out of It. In the great and dim chamber Len- 
 bach's old man regarded her, and his eyes seemed waiting till 
 they should see something that they had not 3'et seen. And the 
 " Donna guardando il mare " was surely waiting too, looking 
 over the desolate sea. In these hours of solitude Dolores came
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 333 
 
 to have a very strange feeling about these two pictures with 
 which she had lived so long. Her imagination gave to them 
 life. The woman was alive and expectant — for herself. She 
 was a sort of symbol, or wraith, of another woman. And the 
 man was alive, that old man, and expectant because he knew 
 what women are, what they do, what they have to do. What 
 an experience of life was in his eyes! Dolores identified herself 
 with the woman watching the sea, and it was the sea of life 
 which throws up strange flotsam and jetsam. The old man 
 would not v/atch forever in vain. She began to be convinced 
 of this, and to feel that she had always subtly, sub-consciously, 
 known it since she had been in Palazzo Barberini. And she 
 connected the old man's eyes with the thought that still gnawed 
 at her mind. What would he see at last? One day it seemed 
 to her quite suddenly that she knew. So abruptly did the 
 knowledge burst upon her, ripping away defensive barriers, 
 beating down doors, that she almost cried out. Indeed for a 
 moment she believed she had cried out. She had been lying on 
 the sofa. She sprang up, went to the picture, looked into those 
 eyes. Was she attempting defiance? No. She and he shared 
 that knowledge. They were chained to each other by it. 
 
 But how could the future be known by a human being with 
 the ordinary capacities and powers of a human being? 
 
 That day Dolores went out much earlier than usual, and 
 before the great heat had subsided. She walked till she was 
 tired. She even went on walking when she was tired, until 
 she was almost exhausted. When she went home she found 
 her husband in the palace. She regretted this. She felt as 
 if he must see the knowledge shared by her and the old man, 
 the knowledge which had driven her out into the sun and an 
 empty world, in her eyes, even in the look of her body. But 
 he evidently noticed nothing. He only stayed a short time, 
 and then motored back to Frascati. Little Theo that day had 
 seemed to fall back, and once more Edna and Sir Theodore 
 were ravaged by fear. 
 
 It was on the following day that Dolores found there were 
 two people whom she knew still in Rome. She met them both, 
 separately, Lady Sarah Ides close to the Piazza di Siena in 
 the Villa Borghese, and Nurse Jennings, the Irish girl who 
 had helped to nurse Francis Denzil, in the little restaurant 
 on the Pincio where she had gone to have a cup of tea. 
 
 Lady Sarah, with a loose and shockingly adjusted veil over 
 a shady hat, her bag in one hand, an old green parasol in the
 
 334 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 other, was standing with her back to the garden of the lake 
 watching some airily clad Italian boys running and bicycling 
 on the track around the Piazza. Dolores saw her before she 
 saw Dolores, and hesitated for a moment, debating whether 
 to speak to her or to move quietly away unobserved. Although 
 Dolores almost loved Lady Sarah, that day she felt half afraid 
 of her. Once, a long time ago, she had let Lady Sarah into a 
 secret, perhaps into the secret of her heart. Now she must 
 be reserved with her. She knew that. And truth and sin- 
 cerity shone in this middle-aged woman who had been tried 
 more even than Edna Denzil had been tried, but who had not 
 been found wanting. And Dolores had another reason which 
 made her now hesitate to accost her friend. Something within 
 her almost dreaded Lady Sarah's absolute rectitude of heart. 
 Perhaps she would have stolen away had not Lady Sarah very 
 suddenly turned round, at the same time dropping the bag, 
 which as usual burst open. 
 
 " My dear! " she cried. 
 
 Forgetting the bag she surged forward impulsively to clasp 
 the hand of Dolores in hers. 
 
 " You have come in from Frascati." 
 
 Through the veil her kind eyes seemed to Dolores to be 
 reading changes In a face that had surely changed very much 
 in the last few weeks. 
 
 " You have dropped your bag! " 
 
 Dolores picked it up. 
 
 *' Have I? Oh, everything is coming out. It Is always so. 
 I must get a new one. Never mind. I have been In England 
 with my brother-in-law." 
 
 "The doctor?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 They were both silent for a moment. Then Lady Sarah 
 said: 
 
 " Ever since the end of April when I bade you good-bye. 
 I've been seeing a good deal of hospital life." 
 
 She sighed. 
 
 " How human beings bear things! It's too splendid, and 
 might force an atheist to believe in God ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 "Physical things!" said Dolores. 
 
 Lady Sarah pushed up her veil in a bunch. 
 
 " I heard In England you had gone to Frascati for the sum- 
 mer. 
 
 " Yes. We both like the air there, and the walks are lovely.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 335 
 
 But for the moment I'm in the Palazzo. Why did you come 
 back so soon? " 
 
 " Mervyn was going to pay an annual visit to Scotland, and 
 I was getting hard up. Rome is economical in summer. And 
 I love Italy in summer. Don't you?" 
 
 Suddenly Dolores realized how thought had killed observa- 
 tion in her while she had been out that day. Till now she had 
 not been aware of the loveliness of this Roman pleasaunce. 
 She had not seen the crested darkness of the pines, the sweet 
 twilight that hides, as if fearing pursuit of its beauty, under 
 the close growing leafage of the ilexes. The long walks had 
 not tempted her feet, nor the grassy lawns soothed her eyes 
 with their nature's color. She had riot even heard the frail 
 song of the fountains. 
 
 " Of course," she replied hastily. " It is only real Italy 
 then. We were wise to stay." 
 
 " And how are the Denzils? " asked Lady Sarah. 
 
 As she put the question there was a sound almost as of 
 constraint in her pleasant, slightly veiled voice. 
 
 " Poor little Theo has been desperately ill! " 
 
 All the constraint vanished at once from Lady Sarah. She 
 put her hand quickly on the arm of Dolores. 
 
 "Oh — no!" she said. "She can't be intended to go 
 through that. There are some things " she checked her- 
 self, thinking perhaps of her own life's tragedy. " Is he 
 better? " she asked. 
 
 And a whole heart, warm, energetic with love of humanity, 
 seemed in her voice. 
 
 " Yes," Dolores replied. 
 
 Lady Sarah looked at her and remained silent. 
 
 " He is better, but he is still very ill. Now, dear Lady 
 Sally, I must leave you. But do come to Palazzo Barberini. 
 Will you?" 
 
 " But are you going to stay on there? " 
 
 " I may. It's deliciously quiet — nobody there but me." 
 
 " You haven't got another dog? " 
 
 " No, not yet." 
 
 "Will you let me give you one? I saw one to-day being 
 carried by a man in the Corso, a perfectly delicious puppy, 
 tub-shaped at present — but that will pass! — with an 'All's 
 right with the world ' expression in its eyes that simply sweeps 
 you to optimism." 
 
 " I couldn't have a puppy in the palace."
 
 336 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 "All 5'our beautiful things! I see." 
 
 She took the hand of Dolores and held it rather closely. 
 
 "Your beautiful things!" she repeated. "And yet, isn't 
 a little bundle of happy life, even if destructive now and then, 
 worth them all — really?" 
 
 " You can say that, you who haunt churches and museums, 
 and go so often to stand before the ' Pieta '? " 
 
 "One takes refuge — yes. One is driven in by the storm. 
 But, oh, my dear! there's nothing in all the art in Rome worth 
 the touch of a hand that loves you." 
 
 Her eyes at that moment looked as if she — she, the soul — 
 were the space of a world away. 
 
 " But I do love the beautiful things all the same," she said. 
 And suddenly she was there by Dolores, with Dolores, again. 
 
 " Perhaps we can see some of them together. Shall we? 
 There are no parties, now," she added, with a sort of gentle 
 tentatlveness that had in it something extraordinarily delicate. 
 " Have you a little time for an old woman? " 
 
 Dolores longed to kiss her, and longed to be away from 
 her. 
 
 " Come to Palazzo Barberini, dear Lady Sally. Come " 
 
 she was about to say " to-morrow " to fix an hour, but she 
 finished with " come whenever you like." 
 
 When, at half-past five, she came Into the restaurant on the 
 PIncio, she at once caught sight of Nurse Jennings, who was 
 comfortably established on the small terrace in the open air, 
 with a teapot and a large plate of rather strangely colored 
 cakes beside her. She had not seen the Irish girl since Francis 
 Denzil's death, but she had known she must see her again. 
 Since the night when they had talked together, before Sir Theo- 
 dore came back from the children's party, Dolores had felt that 
 this girl would be some day in her life, and intimately. She 
 had a premonition of this. 
 
 Nurse Jennings looked up and smiled. 
 
 " Oh, it's Lady Cannynge ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 Her pleasure was obvious as she got up and, with unem- 
 barrassed frankness, came forward to shake hands. 
 
 " Let me have tea with you," said Dolores. 
 
 " Yes, do — Lady Cannynge." 
 
 They sat down side by side. 
 
 " Well," began the nurse at once. " You haven't called for 
 me yet." 
 
 " I! "
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 337 
 
 " Don't you remember you said how you'd like to have me 
 with you if ever you were ill? " 
 
 " Yes, I remember." 
 
 Dolores looked long into the healthy freckled face of the 
 nurse. 
 
 " Why, what is it? " Nurse Jennings asked. 
 
 " I don't know, but I often feel you will nurse me some 
 daj.'." 
 
 " Do you? I think I'd get you v/ell again." 
 
 " I wonder. What makes you think such a thing?" 
 
 " Well, I could put a lot of heart into it, I think, nursing 
 you." 
 
 " I'm glad you feel like that." 
 
 " I do, really." 
 
 " And you think that would make a great difference, would 
 help me to recover, I mean?" 
 
 " I expect it would. And yet it's all against science, I 
 s'pose. And I'm all for science." 
 
 They talked on cheerfully. Dolores noticed that Nurse 
 Jennings' very self-possessed and honest, and very experienced 
 eyes were often on her face, almost like the eyes of the old 
 man in the portrait. And again that sense of prophetic knowl- 
 edge assailed her. Did the nurse ? 
 
 When tea was over, and Dolores was about to go home, 
 she said: 
 
 " What are you thinking about me, nurse? " 
 
 " Thinking — «Lady Cannynge? " 
 
 " Yes. Haven't you been thinking something, nearly all 
 the time we've been together? " 
 
 *' I don't know that I have." 
 
 She spoke as if she were considering, perhaps searching her- 
 self. 
 
 " Have I ? " she added. 
 
 She sat, looking full at Dolores. 
 
 *' Even if I have I couldn't rightly say what it is," she said 
 at last. " I s'pose one has a lot of queer thoughts that go be- 
 fore one can catch them, like a snake in straw." 
 
 "What an odd simile!" 
 
 " Oh, I saw one once, when I was a child. That's why I 
 said that ! " 
 
 When they parted Dolores asked Nurse Jennings to come 
 and dine with her on the following evening. 
 
 She came, and a relation that was akin to friendship was
 
 338 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 established between them. There was something in the Irish 
 girl which attracted Dolores strongly. Perhaps it was her 
 powerful grip upon the grim facts of life, the calm and the 
 unblushing way in which she stood up to Mother Nature, not 
 in enmity, never in enmity, but in a comradely manner, ready 
 to say, " That is so, and has got to be sol " to all Mother Na- 
 ture's dictates. Her knowledge of physiology, her frank way 
 of speaking about facts — by some considered improper — as if 
 they were right and beautiful because they were natural, seemed 
 to clear the mind of Dolores of mists which had, perhaps, gath- 
 ered there because she had lived for long in the midst of a highly 
 artificial civilization. For anything that was " against Na- 
 ture " — her own phrase — Nurse Jennings had a great con- 
 tempt. But she wasi exceedingly lenient in mind towards many 
 who are usually condemned as sinners. And now and then 
 she sturdily enunciated propositions that startled Dolores. 
 
 Once, for instance, when discussing the superfluous woman 
 question, which in England had become important, she said: 
 
 " I think every woman, if things are to be fair, ought to 
 have a chance to have one child. I don't say more — but one." 
 
 Dolores had immediately turned the conversation from that 
 somewhat delicate subject. But the nurse's remark went 
 down into her mind, to take its place by the gnawing thought 
 that for so long had never ceased from its activity. And it 
 had a powerful influence upon her. For she had from the 
 first looked upon the freckled and radiantly strong Irishwoman 
 as a sort of embodiment of wholesomeness both mental and 
 physical. 
 
 "If things are to be fair! " How often during that summer 
 in Rome those words rose in the mind of Dolores. They came 
 to her more than once when she was with Lady Sarah — for 
 she saw Lady Sarah sometimes — and she wondered what Lady 
 Sarah's view on that subject would be. But she never in- 
 quired. Something kept her secretly reserved when she was 
 with Lady Sarah. Long afterwards she knew that it was an 
 intention which she must have formed, perhaps months before 
 she was completely aware that she had formed it. Lady Sarah 
 had a strong strain of religion in her. Nurse Jennings, al- 
 though she was a Catholic, and was very regular in her at- 
 tendance at Mass, had not. And the woman who sees 
 life only through Nature's eyes is very different from ^ the 
 woman who sees it through the eyes of the God revealed in a 
 religion.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 339 
 
 Lady Sarah saw no horizon line shutting out the Immense 
 possibilities of God. Nurse Jennings saw a very clearly 
 marked one shutting In the rather crude possibilities of Nature. 
 
 In her then condition of mind Dolores did not want to 
 look too far, perhaps lest she should see dark clouds of con- 
 demnation. She almost feared Lady Sarah, and sometimes she 
 wished she had never shown her that truth when they sat to- 
 gether in the victoria on the Pincio with Nero enthroned be- 
 tween them. She had opened a door Into her soul that day, 
 and she was nearly sure Lady Sarah had stepped In and had 
 seen much. Had she not seen too much? 
 
 September came, a golden September, and little Theo was 
 quite out of danger, and was growing stronger day by day. 
 With a radiant face one afternoon Sir Theodore came over to 
 Palazzo Barberlnl to make the announcement of the child's 
 strides towards health. 
 
 " It's his voice which shows It most strongly," he said, and 
 as he spoke his own bass voice took on a stronger, more res- 
 onant tone. 
 
 " Poor little chap! It used to be like the voice of a gnat 
 almost. But now ! " 
 
 He stopped, moved about the room, then came to Dolores 
 and said: 
 
 "Doloretta!" 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 *' Why not come out with me to-day to Frascati ? It Is a 
 day of rejoicing. Won't you come and share in It? I think — 
 I fancy If you did Edna would feel touched. You have scarcely 
 been over at all, and then only for such a few minutes." 
 
 *' I was afraid I should be In the way." 
 
 " I know. Because we were all so intent on Theo, naturally. 
 
 But It's different now." 
 . "Is It?" 
 
 "Of course It Is. Won't you come? You mourned for 
 Francis. Edna knew that. Won't you take a part In her 
 
 Joy?" 
 " Yes." 
 
 She got up and went to put on her hat. 
 
 " I will rejoice! I ivill!" she said to herself. 
 
 When she reached her bedroom. Instead of only putting on 
 her hat, as she had intended, she changed her gown. She re- 
 membered how critically Theo had looked at the gown she 
 had put on for the present-giving on little Theo's birthday.
 
 340 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 He had thought it too gay. Might he not think the pale 
 brown h'nen she was wearing to-day not gay enough? Almost 
 like a child that furiously wishes to " be good " she summoned 
 her maid and got into a festa dress, and a prefty, though simple 
 hat. 
 
 When she came down her husband said: 
 
 "What a time you've been, Doloretta! I thought you were 
 never coming. Let's be off to Frascati." 
 
 He did not notice the change she had made. 
 
 As they were driving in the motor over the vast expanse 
 which was the prey of the sun Sir Theodore, who had been 
 silent for some time, and who had more than once glanced at 
 Dolores rather doubtfully, or critically (she was not sure 
 which) said: 
 
 " It's very good of you to come, Doloretta." 
 
 "Good! What nonsense! Isn't it natural I should come 
 on a day of joy to congratulate friends? " 
 
 He obviously hesitated. Then he said: 
 
 " I hope you don't mind my saying something." 
 
 The almost diffidence with which he spoke, the evident dis- 
 comfort and reserve, showed her the gap which was now be- 
 tv/een them. 
 
 " Of course not. What is it? 
 
 " I wish you could manage really to look upon Edna as 
 your friend." 
 
 " But, Theo — what do you mean ? " 
 
 There was a sort of firm, deliberate surprise in her voice. 
 
 " Of course I look upon Edna as my friend. She has al- 
 ways been charming to me." 
 
 " I know she has. She could not be anything else. But 
 since Francis died I have sometimes thought it was only him 
 you were fond of, that you did not care about Edna. And — 
 I don't know, of course, but sometimes I have thought, too, 
 that Edna had some suspicion of it." 
 
 " But what have I done, or left undone? " 
 
 " Well, you hurried away from Frascati to Como after we 
 had taken the house." 
 
 " I came back directly I knew you could not join me." 
 
 " Yes, but j^ou did not remain at Frascati. And you scarcely 
 ever come over." 
 
 " My dear Theo," she said, smiling. " But I am coming 
 over now ! " 
 
 For the moment she said no more. The fact that he wished
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 341 
 
 her to be at Frascati for Edna's sake, lest Edna might feel 
 secretly offended or surprised, made Dolores feel as if her heart 
 were as hard as the emerald she had won at the bridge tourna- 
 ment. She remembered the jewel's ugliness to her touch in 
 the dark, and it seemed to her that her husband, in a strange 
 ignorance, was setting out to compass his own dishonor. When 
 they were not far from the foot of the hill which ascends to 
 Frascati he spoke again. 
 
 " There is a special reason," he said, still with obvious 
 reserve and discomfort, "why I think it would be much better 
 if vou and Edna saw a little more of each other." 
 
 ''Is there? What is it?" 
 
 " Well, Dolores, we live in the world, and must remember 
 the evil eyes and the sharp tongues. Nobody, perhaps, has 
 been more trained to consciousness of their existence than one 
 who has been a diplomat, as I have. Rome is a watchful old 
 lady " — as he continued he evidently became more uncom- 
 fortable, and was trying to speak more lightly and easily — 
 *' and can be very jnauvaise langue. I cannot help thinking 
 that if you are not a good friend to Edna people may begin 
 to talk." 
 
 "But what about?" Dolores asked, with an air of gentle 
 ignorance. " He shall say it! I'll make him say it! " she was 
 saying in that heart which felt hard. 
 
 " It's very absurd of course, but about my seeing so much 
 of Edna. Naturally, I could never care for such nonsense 
 on my own account. But she has no man now to protect her, 
 and it is my duty to think for her in these matters. You see 
 my position." 
 
 " Could people really be so silly ? " 
 
 " We must remember that Edna is still young! " he observed, 
 almost as if he were slightly nettled. 
 
 "Yes, that's true. Well, what is it you wish me to do?" 
 
 " I think it would be wise if you saw a little more of Edna, 
 were more intimate with her. It would make things appear 
 in their true light." 
 
 " It's a little difficult now, because Edna never comes to 
 Rome, never comes to see me." 
 
 " There's a good reason for that." 
 
 "Is there?" 
 
 " You know it as well as I do. Rome has terrible memories 
 for Edna, and especially Palazzo Barberini." 
 
 " I did not people the Palazzo with them."
 
 342 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " No, of course not. But it is obviously far easier for you 
 to visit Edna, than for Edna to visit you." 
 
 Dolores said nothing. She feared to say something she 
 would regret. 
 
 "But perhaps " Sir Theodore began. He stopped, 
 
 looked at his wife, and continued, " Perhaps it bores you coming 
 to Frascati, entering into such a homely family circle? Perhaps 
 you don't care for the children and their prattle? I know it 
 is not every one who can care for the simple things. And you 
 are such a success." 
 
 " I — a success 1 " 
 
 " To be sure, with your prizes for tournaments, and your 
 skating feats, and your salon." 
 
 " Would you have me an utter failure? " 
 
 " I certainly would not wish you to be bored because of 
 me." 
 
 "We'll see how I get on to-day!" she said, laughing. 
 ** How seriously you take everything — now 1 " 
 
 She forced irony into her voice, but indeed she felt a faint 
 sense of irony. There are few women who have not won- 
 dered sometimes at the naivete of the men they love. Dolores 
 almost wondered now. Yet she knew that Theodore was 
 cleverer than she was. But not about the things of the heart! 
 In those was he not as a blind man stumbling in a darkness 
 that might be felt? Or — was he willfully blind? 
 
 An arrow of jealousy pierced her. 
 
 " Things that are serious ought to be taken seriously," said 
 Sir Theodore, with unusual emphasis. " We all know how 
 tiresome the people are who take frivolous things solemnly. 
 But those who take the vital things frivolously are worse than 
 merely tiresome." 
 
 " Is that a rebuke to me? " she asked, still smiling, and with 
 more irony. 
 
 " No. But I must confess I don't think you always quite 
 appreciate what is important in human life and what is not." 
 
 The motor turned to the left, and came into the straight 
 bit of road which leads to the Piazza Romana. 
 
 " I must try to learn from you," she answered. 
 
 He said nothing more.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 343 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 That day Edna Denzil was happier than she had been since 
 her Franzi died. She had emerged from a great fear, and her 
 fear had taught her sharply a lesson. For months she had 
 been brooding over the thought of what she had not. Now 
 she realized how much she still had, so much that God might 
 yet take away from her, if He chose! Because He had chosen 
 to spare her son, Edna was able at last to turn to Him, al- 
 though He had snatched away her husband. She was able 
 to do Avhat she had not done for a very long time; to go quietly 
 and alone to a church, to kneel down and thank Him. As 
 the Cannynge's motor ascended the hill, observed by Mrs. Mas- 
 singham, who, as usual, was installed in the red loggia, with 
 the Italie, a novel and a piece of embroidery, Edna Denzil 
 came alone from the Cathedral of San Pietro, where she had 
 been praying before a picture of Saint Anthony of Padua. 
 
 She had found the big church almost deserted, despite its 
 coolness. Only three or four venerable unfortunates, who 
 looked centuries old, and as if their faces had been slowly 
 carved out of some dark material by the ruthless hands of time 
 and tribulation, prayed, muttered, or slept in dim corners, 
 ready, however, to emerge in search of alms if occasion presented 
 itself. They had all emerged in honor of Edna, and she had 
 given alms to all. Then, when they had retreated to their 
 corners, and returned to their orisons or their watchful slum- 
 bers, she had knelt down before Saint Anthony. He was 
 close to the door and he carried on his arm a child. Two 
 candles burned before him. Some humble bunches of flowers 
 lay at his feet. And lying close to them in a cheap little 
 frame was a " Preghiera a S. Antonio di Padova," beginning 
 with the words: "Oh, most gracious Saint Antonio, hear my 
 humble voice." 
 
 But Edna did not pray to any saint or even to Madonna. 
 She was able, indeed she felt obliged, to communicate directly 
 with God. And as she did so she felt an immeasurable relief; 
 as she did so she was aware of her long bitterness, she knew 
 the torture that wrings the soul which rebels against the decrees 
 it cannot understand. Only then, when she escaped it, did she 
 truly know it. 
 
 She prayed for a long time, and in that prayer found re-
 
 344 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 newal. In thanking she obtained. True gratitude receives 
 the most sacred gifts, and Edna knew that in the peace which 
 descended upon her soul. She shed some tears while she prayed. 
 And they gave a stronger, a more lovely life to the flowers 
 springing up in her heart. 
 
 She came out into the sun-scorched piazza before the Cathe- 
 dral with the drops of the holy water still wet upon her 
 forehead. And as she did so, as she stood at the top of the 
 steps for a moment and looked at the triple fountain bubbling 
 among its ferns at the base of the barrack-like building which 
 sternly rises above it, as she heard the clang of the bells that 
 ring untiringly out over the vines and the olives, as if send- 
 ing their message to Rome, mother of all messages of bells 
 of all Catholic churches, she wondered if Franzi could see 
 her. At this moment, for the first time since his death, she 
 felt as if he were alive. And she felt that because she had 
 renewed the true life in her soul. 
 
 She crossed the piazza, and came out before the Pension 
 Belle Vue, and in the distance she heard the sound of a motor, 
 running between the double rows of trees that shelter the 
 public walks by the garden over which Garibaldi presides on 
 a marble pedestal. In a moment she saw that it was Sir 
 Theodore's motor, and as it drew up she stood on the path by 
 its door, full of her new-found peace which was happiness, 
 not such as she had once known, but such as was prepared for 
 her now, at this stage in the long pilgrimage. And as the 
 door opened she met the eyes not of Sir Theodore, whom she 
 was expecting to see, but of Dolores. 
 
 She was surprised. Yet at this moment she would have 
 been ready to be cordial, almost in the way of that Edna 
 Denzil who had dined one night in Palazzo Barberlni to bless 
 a roof-tree. But directly she met the eyes of Dolores she felt 
 as if something in her withered up. Yet those eyes were 
 smiling above smiling lips. A hand clasped hers, and even held 
 it while kind words were spoken. 
 
 " I heard of your joy and I came over w^ith Theo to share 
 it, if you will let me." 
 
 Those were the words In her ears. She, too, smiled. She 
 returned the hand clasp. But joy's effortless ease was gone for 
 the moment right out of her life. 
 
 Sir Theodore got out, and at once Edna saw that he was 
 no longer the happy, the almost exultant man who had left her 
 but a few hours ago.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 345 
 
 "When shall I tell Pietro to come for you?" he asked his 
 wife. 
 
 "How long can you bear my company, Edna?" she said, 
 smiling. 
 
 Edna made a strong effort to recapture the feeling of 
 happiness, of goodness, that had descended upon her in the 
 church, and had made her at peace with herself and with the 
 world. 
 
 " Stay a long while, if you don't mind our dull little house 
 and ways. I always feel we are quite dreadfully domestic, 
 Dolores. Stay till after dinner, won't you?" 
 
 " Oh, I think that would be almost too late. Besides, I've 
 
 got " she was about to say " Nurse Jennings dining with 
 
 me." But she remembered about Francis, and after a pause 
 she said, " I've got some one dining with me to-night." 
 
 "Have you? Who is it?" said Sir Theodore, as if in an 
 effort to make cheerful conversation. 
 
 "' Nurse Jennings," she said quickly. " Let me stay for 
 an hour, Edna. At half-past six, Pietro ! " 
 
 The chauffeur took off his cap, and they turned and de- 
 scended the steps. 
 
 The mention of Nurse Jennings had sharply recalled to 
 Edna's mind all the horror of the operation and Francis's 
 death. She had never seen the nurse since then, and could 
 not bear even to think of her. And as she had never heard 
 of any friendship between her and Dolores she was surprised 
 at the m.ention of the dinner. She tried to dismiss the matter 
 at once from her mind. But she could not. She was back in 
 Palazzo Barberini. She was with Franzi on the sofa waiting 
 for his summons to get readj^ She recalled the long time when 
 she and Theodore sat together in silence waiting to know the 
 verdict. Her prayer in the Cathedral of San Pietro had re- 
 leased her from bitterness, and the bitterness did not now 
 return. But the great sadness did, with a sense of the terri- 
 ble realities which make up such a large part of life. She did 
 not find any words to break the silence which had fallen till 
 they were coming into the house. And then her words were 
 banal. 
 
 " Don' t vou find it very dull in Rome at this time, 
 Dolores?" ' 
 
 " Well, it isn't deliriously gay, Edna, I confess that." 
 
 Sir Theodore, who was behind them, frowned. 
 
 "And the heat?"
 
 346 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " Oh, that's quite bearable, if one shuts oneself up during 
 the middle of the day," 
 
 " You ought to come out here more." 
 
 " That's what I tell Doloretta," said Sir Theodore's deep 
 bass from behind. 
 
 " To cheer you all up ! " said Dolores. 
 
 Silence again fell, till they reached the first floor. 
 
 " Is little Theo up? " asked Dolores. 
 
 " On a chaise longue in the loggia. But he must very soon 
 go to bed." 
 
 " How happy 5'ou must be feelingi" 
 
 ** I am very thankful indeed." 
 
 She opened a door, and they came into the sitting-room 
 which gave on to the loggia. Through the French windows 
 Dolores saw the broad back and large brown head of Mrs. 
 Massingham. This head was nodding, and a thread of so- 
 prano voice, very small, but clear and sweet, was audibly 
 singing: 
 
 " Come si fa la pace, 
 
 Schiude Bertin la bocca, 
 Ei guarda, pensa, tace, 
 Ed unbel bacio scocca." 
 
 Dolores stood still. 
 
 "Wait!" she murmured. "Don't let us go out till it's 
 finished. The round head continued to nod, backwards and 
 forwards, and from one side to the other, as if the singer were 
 conducting in a new way without a baton. 
 
 " Pace che vince il cuore, 
 
 E che disarnia ratta, 
 Che scaccia il malumore, 
 
 Che collera ha disfatta — 
 Pace che chiede scusa 
 
 Muta teneramente 
 Pace cosi conclusa 
 
 Dura sicuramente." 
 
 The song ceased and the head stopped nodding. Then a 
 small voice, with a touching gentleness and simplicity in it, 
 said: 
 
 " Thank you, Nonna. I'm sure I should hate to quarrel 
 now." 
 
 "Is that Theo speaking?" said Dolores. 
 
 "Yes," said Edna.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 347 
 
 Dolores saw that her eyes were full of tears. 
 
 " No one should ever quarrel. But why now, dear?" said 
 Mrs. Massingham. 
 
 " I don't know. But I feel now as if I liked every one." 
 
 " That's a very nice feeling." 
 
 " Yes, isn't it, Nonna? " 
 
 Dolores went on, passed through the French window and 
 came into the loggia. 
 
 " Then you must like me, Theo! " she said. 
 
 She went straight up to a long chair, on which was a tiny 
 form covered with a rug, a head with carefully brushed brown 
 hair supported by cushions, and bending down, kissed the pale 
 little face that had turned towards her. 
 
 In doing this she had not so much yielded to, as attacked 
 a good impulse, but when she saw the expression in the little 
 boy's eyes, and heard him say, " Of course. But that's nothing, 
 is it, because you're our friend ! " she felt she could love this 
 child — as indeed naturally she loved all children — if only she 
 were allowed to be her true self. But oh, to have a son of 
 her own! To be the rightful owner, the jealous possessor of 
 a child! To see a child turn naturally first to her, put her 
 before every one, even its father! 
 
 " You dear, pretty creature ! Why I thought you were 
 never coming near us any more." 
 
 Mrs. Massingham blinked rapidly as she kissed Dolores. 
 
 She loved beauty, and secretly had a strong leaning towards 
 things that were brilliant and persons who shone. Plunged in 
 domesticity as she was, and thoroughly happy in it, she never- 
 theless could not entirely detach her mind from the great world. 
 And since she had read so much about Dolores in the Italian 
 papers Dolores had become in her eyes an embodiment of all 
 that her own dear daughter was not. She loved Edna, but she 
 had sometimes wished that Edna were a tiny bit more worldly, 
 more mondaine. Now of course that was impossible. Mrs. 
 Massingham was quite Italian in her view of the suitable life 
 for a widow. 
 
 " Sit down beside me and tell me something of your won- 
 derful life in Rome," she added, keeping her hand on the 
 hand of Dolores, and drawing her into one of the straw chairs 
 with red cushions. 
 
 Edna Denzil and Sir Theodore went over to little Theo, 
 bent over him, then sat down by him. And by the way they 
 went, together, by their whole manner of being with each
 
 348 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 other as soon as she was — as it were — detached from them, 
 Dolores gathered their much greater intimacy. 
 
 There on the chaise longue lay the link which held them 
 so tightly together. 
 
 " My wonderful life, dear Mrs. Massingham! " 
 
 " Yes, yes. I follow all you are doing in the newspapers." 
 
 "Now! what fascinating reading it must make! Lady 
 Cannynge walked alone in the Villa Borghese! Lady Can- 
 nynge sat at home and read Dyer's Modern Europe. Lady 
 Cannynge dined alone on a bowl of soup at eight and went to 
 bed at nine! The journalists must be at their wits' end for 
 topics." 
 
 Mrs. Massingham laughed. She loved to laugh, and thought 
 very small things, if said by people whom she liked, extremely 
 amusing. 
 
 " You are as witty as you are pretty," she said, patting the 
 hand she still held. "But are you really alone like that? I 
 don't approve of that at all." 
 
 She was about to raise her voice and say something to Sir 
 Theodore, who was talking to little Theo and Edna, but 
 Dolores stopped her. 
 
 " No, no, I'm not. I have Lady Sarah — all sorts of people. 
 I talk to the men on duty in the museums," 
 
 " But, my dear child " 
 
 " Why, even to-night I have a regular dinner party." 
 
 "That's much better!" 
 
 " One woman. Oh, but a very nice one! " 
 
 "A woman!" said Mrs. Massingham, turning her large 
 round eyes slowly from her pretty hand, at which she had 
 glanced, as she very often did, to the face of Dolores. " How 
 the Italians must admire you, all the smart men, I mean, in 
 Rome." 
 
 " I hope so," said Dolores, smiling, and trying to hear what 
 the group of three at the other end of the loggia were talking 
 about so busily. " But there are no smart men in Rome now. 
 So I have to put up with women." 
 
 "Are you like Vi?" inquired Mrs. Massingham seriously. 
 
 " In what way? " 
 
 " Vi can't bear women. She only cares for men." 
 
 " No, I like women very much. I like you, dear Mrs. Mas- 
 singham." 
 
 And this was true. Mrs. Massingham was the only person
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 349 
 
 with whom Dolores could feel at her ease in the house at 
 Frascati. 
 
 " But where is Vi? " Dolores added. " And where is Iris? " 
 
 " They were sent out for a donkey ride to give Theo a rest. 
 Edna! She doesn't hear me." 
 
 Mrs. Massingham turned more round in her chair. 
 
 "Edna! Edna!" 
 
 ** Yes, mamma. What is it ? " 
 
 Edna looked round. A laugh was just dying away from 
 her lips and eyes. 
 
 " When will the children be back? " 
 
 " I expect them every minute." 
 
 She turned again to the two Theos. And the tiny laugh 
 of the still weak boy rose up in chorus with Sir Theodore's 
 big bass sound. 
 
 " Do you know," Mrs. Massingham assumed an almost por- 
 tentously mysterious manner, as she leant a little nearer to 
 Dolores — " Do you know, I really think she is beginning to 
 get over it ! " 
 
 " Edna, do you mean?" 
 
 " Hush, my dear! Yes, Edna! She must not know I think 
 it. People don't like such thoughts. But since Theo is out of 
 danger she is a different creature. I can't tell you what I have 
 suffered with her all this long time." 
 
 " Have you? " 
 
 " Yes, seeing her so changed, like a stone almost, except when 
 your husband was here." 
 
 " He cheered her up, I hope." 
 
 " I think he did. But I couldn't. I am so glad you are so 
 happy with him." 
 
 Again she pressed the hand of Dolores. 
 
 " Edna told me once." 
 
 " Told you! What, dear Mrs. Massingham? " 
 
 " That your husband had a golden nature — I remember the 
 very words, they were so odd! — and therefore that you were 
 a very happy woman ! " 
 
 " A golden nature! " 
 
 "Yes. Wasn't it an odd expression? But I quite under- 
 stood what was meant, as no doubt you do. Edna has an 
 extraordinary opinion of your husband." 
 
 " I am so glad." 
 
 "Yes. And whatever men may say women can really judge
 
 350 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 a man best. I am sure I never saw any human being more 
 devoted than he is to children. They really worship him." 
 
 " Do they? Dear little things! " 
 
 Mrs. Massingham again looked mysterious, and leaned to- 
 wards Dolores, protruding her large head, and opening her 
 eyes very wide. 
 
 " If — hush! — if little Theo had died like his father I don't 
 know what your husband would have done. I don't think he 
 could have borne it." 
 
 " We have to bear things, dear Mrs. Massingham." 
 
 "Ah — I know ! I know ! But there are some things that 
 are too much." 
 
 " Yes," said Dolores, again looking towards the group of 
 three. 
 
 "And when they come — well, my dear child!" 
 
 Mrs. Massingham lifted her pretty little hands, raised her 
 chin, and made a face suggestive of cataclysm. 
 
 " And I don't think we should judge them ! " she continued, 
 oracularly, having apparently thought continuously through 
 the hiatus in her language. "But of course we always do!" 
 
 " I don't think I should care whether I were judged or not, 
 if I had done what I was obliged to do," said Dolores. 
 
 And there was an almost hard sound in her voice. 
 
 "You!" said Mrs. Massingham. "Why, you dear, pretty 
 creature, nobody could ever judge you. They could only 
 pity you. But thank God there is no need for that. My 
 Edna was right. You are a happy woman." 
 
 At this moment there was a sound of shrill voices, a patter 
 of feet, the door opened, and Iris and Viola appeared, rosy, 
 beaming, and excited from their donkey ride. Iris carried in 
 her hand a whip almost as big as herself, which Dolores recog- 
 nized at once as her present to little Theo on his last birth- 
 day. She walked firmly towards the loggia, with her legs 
 rather wide apart, in a manner suggesting that she rode almost 
 as often as the average cavalry officer, and that she always 
 rode astride. And as she came in she announced twice: 
 
 " My donkey tumbled down ! My donkey tumbled down ! " 
 
 Behind her the little Viola, dressed in white, with a shady 
 white hat, peeped with anxious eyes, perhaps to see whether 
 any men were of the party. 
 
 " My donkey tumbled down ! " repeated Iris loudly, for the 
 third time, as she gained the French windows giving on to the 
 loggia.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 351 
 
 " My donkey didn't tumbun down ! " cried Viola, taking 
 hold of her sister's skirt with one hand, bending and looking 
 round Iris, as if she were a corner, at the assemblage in the 
 loggia. 
 
 As her ej-es reached Sir Theodore she smiled with a coquet- 
 tish expression, withdrew her head behind the rampart of her 
 sister's body, then peeped again, while the rosy flush deepened 
 over her little face. 
 
 " Tumbled down ! " said Mrs. Massingham. " But how 
 danaerous, my darling! What a bad little donkey!" 
 
 She and Dolores were nearest to the window where the two 
 children were standing. 
 
 "Come and tell us all about it!" she added, holding out 
 her hand. 
 
 " Yes, Iris, and give me a kiss! " said Dolores smiling. " I've 
 come over to play j-ou a tune." 
 
 Iris stepped into the loggia, leaving the window free for 
 Viola, who immediately made a sort of half shy, half em- 
 perious dart at Sir Theodore, avoiding Dolores by means of 
 a dexterous curve, and threw herself upon him as if he were 
 a rightful prey, but a prey full of unexpected possibilities. He 
 caught her up and kissed her. 
 
 "Now, Iris!" said Dolores, almost sharply, and bending 
 down to the child. 
 
 "No, I don't want to!" 
 
 "But !" 
 
 " I don't want to ! " repeated Iris, twisting her face and 
 avoiding the proffered kiss. 
 
 "Never mind, then!" said Dolores. 
 
 But she felt as if some one had struck her. 
 
 "Tell us about the bad little donkey!" exclaimed Mrs. 
 Massingham, looking uncomfortable. "And then I daresay 
 kind, dear Lady Cannynge will play you a pretty tune." 
 
 " But he wasn't bad. And I don't want a tune to-day." 
 
 At this moment Edna, who was very particular about her 
 children's manners and with a mother's instinct had guessed that 
 something was not quite as it should be, got up and came 
 quickly over to Iris. 
 
 " What is it ? " she asked. 
 
 "Nothing!" said Dolores hastily. "Iris was going to 
 tell us about her donkey." 
 
 " I'm afraid when the donkey fell Iris dropped her man- 
 ners," said Mrs. Massingham, almost severely.
 
 352 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " I must go and speak to Vi," said Dolores, getting up. 
 
 Her face was faintly flushed. She went over to her hus- 
 band and Viola. The little girl was still in his arms, and 
 with both her tiny hands was very carefully and intently ar- 
 ranging his thick hair, trying to smooth it down on each side 
 of the parting. 
 
 " Why, what is Vi doing to your hair, Theo? " said Dolores. 
 " Isn't she satisfied with the way you wear it?" 
 
 She tried to speak gaily, with a good-humored chaffing in- 
 tonation; but, despite herself, the irony which Sir Theodore 
 had been unpleasantly aware of in the motor crept again into 
 her voice. Viola turned her head, looked at Dolores, then 
 abruptly turned her head away. She began to writhe in Sir 
 Theodore's arms. 
 
 "I wants to get down!" she whispered to him, making a 
 face. 
 
 He put her down at once, and she immediately ran over 
 to her mother and Iris. 
 
 "What was she doing to your hair?" Dolores said. 
 
 Her eyes and her husband's met, and for a moment — a long 
 moment it seemed — gazed. And while Dolores looked at 
 her husband the effort she made to retain hardihood sent 
 through her a hideous sensation of seeming, almost of actually 
 being, impudent, as a bad woman is impudent. 
 
 " Doing! I don't know. Who knows what little children 
 are up to? " he returned. 
 
 He put up his brown hands to his head, and Dolores saw 
 a distinct, though only passing expression of active hostility 
 in his eyes. And she knew that at that moment her hus- 
 band wished her far away from him, and from those he was 
 with. 
 
 ** Vi's always up to something with Uncle Theo," said little 
 Theo's weak and gentle voice from the chaise longue. " She 
 can't leave Uncle Theo alone. Shei is naughty." 
 
 " Is she? " said Dolores. 
 
 Her voice was almost choked in her throat. She sat down 
 quickly by the boy. He at least still treated her as a friend. 
 She took his thin hand in hers, trying to feel very tender. How 
 she hated that atrophied feeling about her heart! Hov/ she 
 dreaded what she was becoming at that moment! 
 
 "Is she?" she repeated, clearing her throat wn'th a faint 
 little sound which told Sir Theodore nothing. 
 
 " I don't mean really naughty like bad people," little Theo
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 353 
 
 explained, with a peculiar naivete of manner that seemed to 
 spring from his state of health, " who do awful things, you 
 know. I only mean that she does go for Uncle Theo the whole 
 time. 
 
 Sir Theodore got up and went after Vi, pulling at his pointed 
 beard with a hand that looked nervous. • Dolores saw that he 
 did not wish to hear what he did not wish her to hear. But 
 he was too subtle to stop little Theo, and the boy went on, in 
 his delicate voice, telling Dolores about the life of her hus- 
 band in this family when she was away. She had seen some- 
 thing of the family life, even too much, when she had stayed 
 against her will at Frascati. But she now realized that even 
 when he had played in the little garden before the Pavilion 
 with the children her husband had never been really natural, 
 had never quite abandoned himself to the spirit that had cap- 
 tured them so easily, so thoroughly. Her presence had cast 
 a shadow. 
 
 Soon Edna came over and interrupted the talk of her son. 
 
 ** Theo," she said, " you must go to bed." 
 
 " Oh, must I? Oh, mums, do let me stay a little longer! " 
 
 *' Yes, do, Edna," said Dolores, with an almost anxious 
 earnestness. It had come to this, that she felt as if the re- 
 moval to another room of little Theo would leave her with- 
 out a friend. For the moment she forgot Mrs. Massingham, 
 she thought only of the children, their mother and her hus- 
 band. 
 
 Edna Denzil looked doubtful. 
 
 "Do, Edna — for mel" 
 
 Sir Theodore came up. 
 
 "Now, Theo, old boy — bed time!" he said, in his deep 
 voice, bending down to take the child up. 
 
 "But Theodore," said Dolores. "We want " 
 
 "What is it?" said her husband, straightening up. 
 
 " Dolores wants Theo to stay up a little longer," said Ed;ia. 
 
 " But you said to your mother just now that he had al- 
 ready been up too long." 
 
 " I asked that he might stay," said Dolores. 
 
 " But he mustn't," said Sir Theodore. 
 
 "But, Edna, weren't you going to allow him to?" said 
 Dolores, in a voice that was almost agitated in its pressing 
 eagerness. 
 
 "Well, I don't really think I ol. :'-t to," replied Edna, but 
 u'ith obvious hesitation.
 
 354 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " My dear Dolores," said Sir Theodore, without any hesita- 
 tion, " a mother, and only a mother, can judge in such mat- 
 ters, and Edna said it was time for Theo to go to bed. You 
 must not interfere in the kindness of your heart, or you will 
 do mischief which we might all regret, and no one more than 
 you. Come, Theo!" 
 
 And he took the child up with loving strength and carried 
 him off to bed. 
 
 When he returned Dolores was saying good-bye to Mrs. 
 Massingham, who was stroking her hand and begging her soon 
 to return. 
 
 " You bring us a wh'ifi of the great world, my dear," Mrs. 
 Massingham was saying, " and that is good for us. We live 
 quite buried. Of course it is very nice," she hastily added, 
 fearing to hurt her daughter's feelings, " and very healthy, but 
 still we need waking up now and then. And you are so bril- 
 liant." 
 
 She looked at Dolores with a sort of large and maternal 
 admiration. 
 
 " When your eyes shine like that you are just like a jewel," 
 she added. 
 
 "My dear Mrs. Massingham, what a flatterer you are!" 
 said Dolores, hastily bending to kiss Mrs. Massingham, and 
 releasing her hand, but gently, " Good-bye, Edna," she said 
 in a moment, turning to Edna who was standing by the para- 
 pet of the loggia. 
 
 " But I will come with you as far as the motor." 
 
 " Indeed you mustn't." 
 
 " Are you going already, Dolores? " said her husband. 
 
 "Yes, I must." 
 
 " I don't think Pietro will be there yet. You said at half- 
 past six, and " 
 
 He was about to take out his watch, when she said, de- 
 cisively. 
 
 " Good-bye, Theodore. Perhaps I shall see you to-mor- 
 row. Good-bye, Iris. Good-bye, little Viola!" 
 
 She blew them two laughing kisses, but she did not touch 
 them. 
 
 " I really am coming," said Edna. 
 
 " Only to the steps then. It's very dear of you." 
 
 She was gone. 
 
 ** I'll be back in a moment," Edna said, looking at Sir 
 Theodore.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 355 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 He had made a movement as if to go with his wife. Then 
 he stood still and caught up Viola. 
 
 " We'll look out to see the motor going down the hill to 
 the Campagna, won't we, Vi ? " 
 
 " Yes," she replied. " Won't we! " 
 
 And once more she began with both hands to smooth his 
 thick hair. 
 
 " I'll come to the top of the steps, Dolores," Edna said. 
 " I'm really afraid you will have to wait for the motor. It 
 isn't half-past six." 
 
 " Pietro's a very punctual person. I must tell you how 
 glad I am about little Theo." 
 
 They began to go slowly up the wide steps, walking side 
 by side. 
 
 Edna's new joy, and the way in which she had commemo- 
 rated it by the visit to the cathedral, made her much less self- 
 concentrated, less egoistic, than she had been in her long bit- 
 terness of grief. She was able to-day to have kind thoughts 
 for another woman, even to see more clearly than she had since 
 the death of Francis how this other woman might be affected 
 by the apparently trivial incidents of life. 
 
 " Thank you, Dolores," she said, quite warmly. " I did 
 wish so much that your dear thought for old Theo " 
 
 " Old Theo! " said Dolores sharply. 
 
 " Little Theo " 
 
 Oh, yes." 
 
 " I did wish that he could have stayed up longer, but 
 
 " Oh, it was much better for him to go to bed. And now, 
 Edna, I'm not going to let you come another step. No — 
 really ! Good-bye, and thank you for a delightful hour. I 
 feel that little Theo's going to get quite strong, and that 
 you're out of all your troubles at last. Good-bye. Next 
 time I come I shall bring som.e toys, or dolls, or something for 
 the little ones; a Teddy bear, a white one, for Vi — and 111 
 find something that will please Iris and Theo too." 
 
 She hardly knew what she was saying. She turned and 
 went quickly to the road. Pietro was not there. She looked 
 at her watch. It was only a quarter-past six. For a quar- 
 ter of an hour she wandered about alone In the small public 
 garden. Then the motor arrived. As she descended the hill 
 she looked across the waste ground, and, beyond and above 
 the station, she saw the house with the loggia, and figures
 
 356 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 standing by the balustrade. One was very tall, and against it 
 there was a patch of white. 
 
 Theo holding Viola! 
 
 Dolores leaned back in the motor and shut her eyes. 
 
 V/hen she reached Palazzo Barberini that evening and came 
 Into the hall of the apartment, she saw a card lying on the 
 marble table that stood close to the front door. She picked 
 it up, and read the name of Cesare Carelli. 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 That night Nurse Jennings came to dine with Dolores at 
 eight o'clock. Her experienced eyes saw at once that, as she 
 would have expressed it, " something was wrong with Lady 
 Cannynge." At dinner Dolores talked a great deal, was in- 
 deed much more lively than usual. But there was to the 
 nurse something unpleasant in her liveliness. It did not sound 
 or seem natural. And anything that she could not consider 
 natural always set the Irish woman on her guard, even made 
 her feel almost hostile, unless she could trace it back to some 
 physical cause. If she could do that then her nursing instinct 
 at once came into play, and she was interested, ready to help, 
 perhaps even pitiful, in her calm and thoroughly self-possessed 
 manner. 
 
 After dinner the two women went to sit in the green and 
 red drawing-room. Dolores lit a cigarette. The nurse never 
 smoked. Indeed she thought smoking a "filthy habit," but 
 she did not say so. She was comfortably installed in an arm- 
 chair and Dolores half sat, half lay, curled up on a sofa, watch- 
 ing the little rings of smoke mount up and disperse in the 
 great high room. Her liveliness had left her now dinner was 
 over, but there was a faint flush in her usually white cheeks 
 and her eyes were glittering. They looked, thought Nurse 
 Jennings, like those of a fever patient. 
 
 " Have you ever been ill. Lady Cannynge? " she asked. 
 
 " No, not dangerously ill. Why do you ask, nurse? " 
 
 *' I don't know. It just came into my head." 
 
 " You don't think I look ill to-night? " 
 
 " I don't think you look your best." 
 
 "Don't I?" 
 
 With a brusque, but graceful movement Dolores was on
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 357 
 
 her feet. She crossed the room quickly and stared at herself 
 in a glass. And it seemed to her as if she looked at a bad 
 woman, but at a woman who had been forced to be bad 
 against her will, almost against her nature. Coming away 
 from the mirror she went to the piano and sat down on the 
 piano stool. 
 
 "Oh yes, do play, Lady Cannynge, please!" said Nurse 
 Jennings. She came to sit near the piano. 
 
 "You would really like it?" 
 
 " Indeed I should. You do play so well." 
 
 ** Somebody refused to hear me play to-day." 
 
 "Refused to hear you! Whoever could that be?" 
 
 " Somebody at Frascati. What shall I play ? " 
 
 She struck the keys powerfully, filling the room with sound, 
 improvised for a moment, stopped abruptly. 
 
 " Oh, don't stop ! " exclaimed the nurse, drawing her chair 
 closer to the piano. 
 
 " But I must think of something to play. That was only 
 nonsense out of my own head. Wait a minute." 
 
 Dolores had an excellent memory and played much music 
 without notes. Now she thought of various composers. Of 
 late she had given herself to the ultra-modern musicians, to 
 Debussy, Cyril Scott, Ravel and others. She had come to 
 understand, and even to delight in their strange and elusive 
 effects, their often pale subtleties, their intricate care in avoid- 
 ing the obvious, their mother-of-pearl mannerisms, and their 
 occasional touches of moonlight mysticism. But now in 
 thought she rejected them and their works as unreal, blood- 
 less, tearless. And her mind went back to the great classics. 
 But they seemed to her too robust, too gloriously sane, too 
 free from the cruel fever of life and the agony at the soul 
 of human things. 
 
 Nurse Jennings sat watching her, but at this moment Do- 
 lores was quite unself-conscious. And the nurse thought that 
 she had never seen a sadder face than the face now bending 
 over the keys of the piano. She tried to think that this tragic 
 look, which quite troubled her, might be caused by the way 
 the light fell on Lady Cannynge, then that Lady Cannynge's 
 face always looked rather sad simply because of her coloring, 
 the shape of her features, the depth of darkness in her large 
 eyes, and the duskiness of her hair. Nevertheless she con- 
 tinued to be troubled. "She's quite changed to-night!" the 
 nurse said to herself. " She isn't herself at all! "
 
 358 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 At last Dolores began to play. She played four preludes 
 of Chopin, each one, the nurse thought, more sad than its fore- 
 runner. Then she stopped. 
 
 " I can't think of anything to-night," she said. " Any- 
 thing that's really — music has always seemed to me to be 
 able to express more than any other art — till to-night. But 
 to-night it doesn't seem to me to be able to express anything. 
 Life is so sad, and the sadness is so — so deep. And the sad- 
 ness of music is shallow, I think now. But there's just one 
 thing I know that is unutterably sad, out of a symphony by 
 Tchaikovsky. Of course one ought to have the orchestra. 
 But even on the piano ! " 
 
 She began to play again, and continued for several minutes. 
 
 " Isn't that terrlblv sad, nurse? " she asked, stopping. 
 
 "Terribly — indeed!" 
 
 " Terribly sad, and terribly true." 
 
 She came away from the piano, and stood for a moment 
 looking at the Lenbach old man. Nurse Jennings noticed that 
 she was perpetually clenching and unclenching her hands, 
 
 " How I hate this apartment! " she suddenly cried out, turn- 
 ing around. 
 
 "Lady Cannynge! and it is so beautiful and splendid!" 
 
 " How I hate it, and oh! how I hate Rome! " 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Shall I tell you?" 
 
 She sat down close to the nurse. Something ungovernable 
 seemed to her to have suddenly arisen within her, beating, 
 clamoring for outlet. 
 
 "Shall I tell you?" she repeated, looking into the nurse's 
 face with Intensity. 
 
 " If it's right that it should be told ! " Nurse Jennings re- 
 plied with firmness. 
 
 "You do like me?" 
 
 " I do, Lady Cannynge. You're a true lady." 
 
 "A lady — oh! I'm a human being! That's all!" 
 
 "And enough too! " 
 
 Dolores put her hand on the nurse's knee. 
 
 " Enough! Isn't it too much? " 
 
 " Why too much ? " 
 
 " Because a human being has pride, and nerves, and a brain, 
 and a heart, so much that can be wounded, humbled, tor- 
 tured." 
 
 "What is the matter. Lady Cannynge? All the evening 
 I've seen that you were not at all yourself."
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 359 
 
 ** I am myself. It's just that. You've never seen me my- 
 self till to-night — never, never!" 
 
 " I'm sorry if that's so." 
 
 "I've always been pretending — pretending " 
 
 She burst into tears. 
 
 Nurse Jennings took hold of her hand gently, but firmly, 
 and held it. She did not express any surprise or concern, or 
 make any endeavor to stop Dolores from weeping. And her 
 manner, her touch, made Dolores able to weep on unashamed, 
 even glad in the relief she was obtaining. She even leaned 
 her head against the nurse's shoulder. At last her sobs 
 ceased. She felt about for something. 
 
 "What is It, Lady Cannynge?" 
 
 "A handkerchief!" Dolores whispered. 
 
 "Here — here!" 
 
 The fingers of Dolores closed on the handkerchief. She 
 wiped her eyes. Still the tears came. She wiped her e3'es 
 again, shut them for a moment, and sat up. 
 
 " You said once to me," she began, in an uneven, and some- 
 times choked voice, " that if everything was fair every woman 
 ought to be given a chance to have one child. I haven't got a 
 child. I want to have a child ! I v/ant to have a child 1 " 
 
 Her voice rose on the last sentence. 
 
 "Yes, yes! Is that it?" 
 
 " I want to have a child." 
 
 " Many women that are married and have no children feel 
 it terribly just like you do, and nobody knows." 
 
 Dolores shook her head. 
 
 " Not as I do! " she said. 
 
 " Yes, Lady Cannynge." 
 
 " I can't bear it — not having a child. The women you 
 mean want a child only for themselves. But I want one for 
 myself — yes, but not only for myself." 
 
 "Your husband?" 
 
 " Yes, It isn't only that I want to have a child, I need 
 to have a child." 
 
 A stern, fixed, and almost — the nurse thought — terrible 
 look came into her face. She sat staring straight down at the 
 floor. 
 
 " I need to have a child ! " she repeated, not moving her 
 eyes, and in a voice that sounded fatal. 
 
 " Don't speak like that!" 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 Dolores looked up.
 
 36o THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 *' It doesn't sound like you speaking. Never mind about 
 lady or not lady. But I don't like to hear any woman speak 
 just like that." 
 
 "No? But you haven't told me why." 
 
 " Because it doesn't sound to me natural." 
 
 Dolores was silent for a minute. Then she said: 
 
 ** Nurse, do you know how old I am? " 
 
 " No, indeed." 
 
 " How old should you think ? " 
 
 " Perhaps — twenty-seven." 
 
 " I am thirty." 
 
 " Young enough still. Why shouldn't you hope to have a 
 child yet ? There's no reason against it, is there ? " 
 
 Her eyes met the eyes of Dolores in a straight, clear 
 look. 
 
 " Only — so far as I know — that God hasn't chosen that 
 we should have a child." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 " And because of that " Dolores paused, looked at Nurse 
 
 Jennings, then moved a little nearer to her — "because of that 
 my husband — my husband " 
 
 "Yes? Oh, what is it. Lady Cannynge? I can see that 
 you had much better say it." 
 
 " He doesn't care for me any more." 
 
 She looked down again, and a slow flush crept over her face, 
 up to her hair, down to her neck. Slowly it died partly away, 
 leaving her face and neck mottled with red. 
 
 " Never say that ! " cried Nurse Jennings. " Oh, Lady 
 Cannynge, never say that ! " 
 
 " It's true. He never will care for me again unless I give 
 him a child." 
 
 " Everybody must care for you." 
 
 " And d'you think I want my husband to care for me in 
 that v/ay ! " Dolores cried, with a fierceness that startled the 
 nurse. 
 
 " You do care about liim! " she said slowly. 
 
 "Yes. That's why I cried." 
 
 There was a long silence. 
 
 "And that's why I hate this apartment!" Dolores resumed 
 in a voice that was now low and steady, and almost with- 
 drawn. " And that's why I hate Rome. I want to get away. 
 I want to get him away. But he won't come. I shall never 
 be able to make him come. And, do you know " Again
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 361 
 
 she put her hand on the nurse's arm, " He blames me because 
 we have no child." 
 
 " Does he say so ? " 
 
 " No. But he makes me feel it, every day and all the 
 time." 
 
 "That's hov\^ men are! And the Holy Mother knovi^s it," 
 said Nurse Jennings, speaking v^ith a strong brogue. 
 
 " If they are like that then " 
 
 "What is it, Lady Cannynge — my dear?" 
 
 " They oughtn't to be surprised at anything a woman does." 
 
 "But they are though, always! And what's more they al- 
 ways will be." 
 
 Dolores began to cry again, but without passion, silently, 
 with a sort of almost childlike helplessness. 
 
 "Why are they like that?" she murmured. 
 
 " Because it's Nature ! It's so and has got to be so, Lady 
 Cannynge — my dear. Now, don't cry any more. You had 
 to at first, and it was good you should cry. But not now! " 
 
 She spoke firmly, almost like one issuing a command. 
 
 And Dolores, to her own surprise, almost immediately was 
 able to obey her. 
 
 They talked quietly for a little while. Then Nurse Jen- 
 nings got up to go. She was standing close to the portrait of 
 the old man when, pursuing their conversation, she said: 
 
 " It would be a good thing, though, if men had it brought 
 home to them a good deal oftener than they do." 
 
 " You mean that it isn't always our fault ? " said Dolores. 
 
 " And I'd go farther than that, Lady Cannynge," returned 
 Nurse Jennings with her characteristic decision, which was 
 free from any hint of temper or violence. " I'd say that it 
 is just as often, and perhaps oftener, their fault than ours. 
 Bring that home to a man and you make him a better man! 
 but it is difficult to bring anything home to them!" 
 
 She was evidently pleased with her phrase. 
 
 When she was saying good-bye she said : 
 
 " May I give you a kiss? " 
 
 "Yes — do.'' 
 
 When the kiss was given Nurse Jennings added : 
 
 " I don't like to see you unhappy. If I had the chance I 
 should like to bring it home to your husband." 
 "What?" 
 
 " What he's made you suffer." 
 "No — no!" Dolores cried vehemently. " Prom.ise me — •
 
 362 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 promise me on your honor you'll never tell him what I've told 
 you to-night." 
 
 And Nurse Jennings promised, sincerely intending to keep 
 that compact. 
 
 When she had gone Dolores walked restlessly about the 
 room for some minutes. Twice she stopped before the por- 
 trait of the old man and stood looking into his eyes. Then, 
 as if coming to some mental decision, she sat down at her 
 writing-table and quickly wrote the following note: 
 
 " Palazzo Barberini. 
 
 " Wednesday night. 
 " I am so glad you are back in Rome. Come and see me 
 to-morrow at five. It is terribly dull. I don't know what 
 to do with myself to pass the time. I often — " 
 
 She paused and hesitated for some minutes. Then, frown- 
 ing and compressing her lips, she wrote : 
 
 " long to be back on the lake. — D. C." 
 
 She put this note into an envelope, and directed it to Cesare 
 at the Palazzo Carelli. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 When he found that Dolores had left Villa D'Este, in a fit 
 of violent anger Cesare abandoned Bellagio and returned to 
 his father's place near Monza. Donna Ursula was still there 
 with his mother. He had known he would find her there. 
 That was partly why he returned. In his anger sometimes 
 Cesare showed a certain childishness, or boyishness, that al- 
 most quarreled with his strong masculinity. He wanted to 
 punish Dolores for what she had done. He felt sure that she 
 had an instinctive dislike for little Donna Ursula. So he 
 hurried back to Donna Ursula. When he recovered from his 
 fit of temper he had greatly strengthened his mother's hopes. 
 She wrote to Montebruno: " Cesare seems much more inclined 
 for the match now than he was at first. He v/ent away to his 
 uncle's villa at Bellagio, but hastened back. Evidently Ursula's 
 loveliness and charm are making an impression. I begin to 
 have great hopes of him."
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 363 
 
 • Montebruno passed the news on to Princess Mancelli. 
 
 Little Ursula, too, \vas well satisfied. She was incapable 
 of any violent joy or violent grief. Her appearance of a doll 
 was not wholly deceptive. But she was a doll with a will, 
 and she had set her will to work upon Cesare Carelli. She 
 intended to marry him. She knew he did not intend to marry 
 her. That made no difference. He was a great match and 
 that fact appealed to her cold little spirit. But she had an- 
 other reason for wishing to marry him. His strong dark and 
 very masculine appearance appealed to her. Although scarcely 
 capable of love she was capable of desire. She desired Cesare 
 as her husband, and she was accustomed to have her wishes 
 gratified. From babyhood she had been spoilt by a foolish 
 mother and a doting father. Not clever enough to judge 
 relative values, but sharp enough to see what an extraordinary 
 amount of deference and anxious desire great wealth arouses 
 in Italy, she thought herself a little personage of immense im- 
 portance. The arbitrary look in her bright blue eyes was 
 indicative of her temperament. As she wanted Cesare Carelli, 
 it must come about that she would have him. 
 
 She was not in a great hurry. She was very young. There 
 was no need to be in a fuss. But Cesare Carelli must learn 
 what she wanted, and then learn that he was there upon the 
 earth to give it to her. After his sudden return from the 
 Villa Sirena, Donna Ursula began to think that his powers as 
 a pupil were in course of development. This was all very 
 right and proper. She was not elated, but she was not dis- 
 satisfied. 
 
 But when Cesare's fit of temper was over he began to hate 
 more than ever the ice which was trying to take possession 
 of his fire. The cool presence of Donna Ursula made him 
 put a fresh value on Dolores. He had compared Dolores with 
 Princess Mancelli and loved her for her softness. Now he com- 
 pared her with Donna Ursula and he adored her for her 
 warmth. She was the midway perfect woman, feminine but 
 surely passionate, delicate, evasive, but how full of latent 
 promises ! 
 
 And did not that flight which had at first so angered him, 
 even that, hold out a promise? 
 
 For it surely implied fear of him! And the woman who is 
 afraid is the woman who is impressed. 
 
 He emerged at last from his fit of anger, and all the mas- 
 culine spirit in him told him that he must follow Dolores.
 
 364 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 The whole of his strong nature was now fully roused. That 
 evening under the trellis and on the vaporino had given the 
 finishing touch to his ardent passion. He had told his secret 
 under the trellis. But in the little harbor of the villa on the 
 point, when Dolores had looked at him by the light of the 
 match, he had told her another secret. Often he thought of 
 that last secret and now he was glad he had told it. He did 
 not believe in great reticence with a woman, and he knew he 
 had cleared the ground. Now Dolores knew all there was to 
 know. If she continued to be friends with him that would 
 mean all that he wished. It must now be one thing or the 
 other. The flight of Dolores might seem to indicate her in- 
 tention of putting an end to their friendship; but when Cesare 
 had emerged from his anger he often read the card she had 
 sent him. And as he looked at the words he said to himself, 
 
 " After that night she wouldn't have sent it unless " And 
 
 the blood sang in his ears though his lips were smiling. 
 
 Vv^'ithout knowing it, led perhaps by his star, he came to 
 Rome and called at Palazzo BarberinI at the psychological 
 moment. It was as if as he arrived before a door it swung 
 softly open. 
 
 When he received the note of Dolores he was conscious 
 of Vv'hat seemed a strong shock in his heart, and his whole body 
 responded to it. His nature leaped up. His youth felt as if 
 it held within it immeasurable stores of conquering vigor. 
 And he saw, like a stricken enemy at his feet, the man who 
 had been a prey, who had crept along under the chains that a 
 woman had hung about him. Now he was free indeed, free 
 to win for himself the only thing he wanted. And that note 
 which he held for so long in his hand, which he read again 
 and again, told him surely that he must win it. 
 
 At five o'clock that day he rang the bell at the door of the 
 Cannynge's apartment. 
 
 Carlino opened the door. Dolores was living with a very 
 small establishment, and had no maestro d'l casa and no foot- 
 man. 
 
 " Is the signora at home? " asked Cesare. 
 
 The boy gazed steadily with his anxious dark eyes. 
 
 "Are you Don Cesare Carelli?" he asked. 
 
 " Si." 
 
 " The signora Is at home." 
 
 "Only to me! Only to me!" thought Cesare exultantly, 
 as he laid down his hat and followed Carlino.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 365 
 
 Instinctively he braced his muscles like a man feeling his 
 strength, testing it, revelling in it. 
 
 Carlino suddenly looked round. Cesare said something kind 
 and familiar to him, and Carlino began to smile. 
 
 " Don Cesare Carelli," announced the boy at the door of 
 the green and red drawing-room. 
 
 The awnings and blinds were drav/n, and the big room was 
 rather shadowy. Cesare saw Dolores a good way off. She 
 was standing up, and at once he received from her an im- 
 pression of decision. Even her tall figure looked decisive as 
 she came to meet him. And when he saw her face just for a 
 moment he was startled. It looked, he thought, strangely pale, 
 and her eyes seemed to him intensely dark, shadowy, mys- 
 terious. This woman was not surely " Gazelle." There was 
 nothing espiegle in this face. Her hand returned his grip 
 with a sort of pressure that he thought odd from a woman. 
 It was almost like the pressure some one might give, would 
 probably give, when making a compact. And when she spoke 
 Cesare thought that even her voice held some change in its 
 tones. 
 
 " We two are all alone in Rome," she said. " Doesn't one 
 — don't you feel in this room as if we were all alone in a 
 desert place? " 
 
 For an instant he did not reply, and in that instant he was 
 aware of the completeness of the silence within the palace. 
 It almost went to his head. 
 
 "But your husband!" he said. *' Isn't he in the desert?" 
 
 " No, he's still at Frascati. But he may possibly come in 
 to-day. He comes over sometimes." 
 
 She spoke in a careless voice. Cesare was silent. For a 
 moment — he did not exactly know why — he felt almost 
 ill at ease. 
 
 " How's the little boy? " he asked, as they sat down. 
 
 What had any little boy to do with them? He had had to 
 cast about for a conversational opening. He was suddenly 
 angry with himself. He leaned forward, and before Dolores 
 was able to answer he said : 
 
 " If your husband is going to stay on in Frascati I am going 
 to remain here in Rome. There is no one here, no one whom 
 we know at least. We could scarcely find a safer place for 
 meeting in. Let me see you sometimes, and not here in the 
 palace." 
 
 He thought of Carlino.
 
 366 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 "Yes. Why not?" said Dolores. 
 
 " Why did j'ou rush away from Villa D'Este?" 
 
 He drew his chair nearer to hers. Something in her, this 
 oddness of decision, perhaps, excited him strangely, almost 
 terribly. But, after that scene in the little harbor by match- 
 light, he meant to keep himself in control, so long at least 
 as he knew, or believed, she wished it. 
 
 " I had such bad news from FrascatI about little Theo." 
 
 "That was why!" he exclaimed. 
 
 His exclamation was almost like a laugh. 
 
 *' I thought I would go back. It was kinder." 
 
 "Tome?" 
 
 " It was a sudden impulse." 
 
 " Do you yield always to your sudden impulses?" 
 
 " No. Remember I am not Italian." 
 
 She was beginning obviously to manage the conversation, to 
 turn it towards a lightness which at the moment he hated. 
 
 "Oh!" he exclaimed, and not lightly. "Don't take the 
 conventional view of the Italians. We are very much like 
 other people." 
 
 " But you are half English. You can't speak for the na- 
 tion." 
 
 " I only want to speak for myself." 
 
 "Hush!" Dolores said, in a different voice. "You did 
 that under the trellis at Cadenabbia, once and for all. You 
 let me into your life then." 
 
 " Only into a part of my life. And j^ou — you have never 
 let me into your life." 
 
 " No," she said, almost sternly. 
 
 " I wish — may I draw up one of the blinds?" said Cesare. 
 " The sun is not very strong now. It is almost evening." 
 
 "Yes. Shall we go for a walk?" 
 
 "Oh, but " 
 
 He hesitated. He scarcely knew what he wished. Then 
 he remembered her v/ords about her husband. 
 
 " And if we miss your husband? " he asked. 
 
 " It does not matter." 
 
 " Then let us go." 
 
 He went to one of the windows and pulled up the blind. 
 As he came back to Dolores she was standing before the Len- 
 bach portrait, gazing fixedly at it. He came and stood be- 
 side her. 
 
 " You are very fond of that picture? " he asked.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 367 
 
 " I admire it very much. What do you think of it ? " 
 
 " I think that old man looks as if he had seen everything, 
 and knew everything." 
 
 " The future too ? " she asked, turning and looking at him. 
 
 " No one can know the future." 
 
 " Wait a moment. I will put on my hat. I shall be very 
 quick." 
 
 She left him. 
 
 " She seems very careless about her husband ! " Cesare 
 thought. 
 
 He was still before the picture, and was still looking at it. 
 But he no longer really saw it. 
 
 " Can he — can he- ?" 
 
 His mind was occupied with Theodore Cannynge, with the 
 menace at Frascati, and with the ways of faithless husbands. 
 What had occurred at Frascati since the flight from Villa 
 D'Este? 
 
 Dolores returned with her hat on and a parasol in her hand. 
 
 " Where are we going? " she asked. 
 
 And there was a new liveliness, a new gaiety in her voice. 
 
 "Anywhere — the Villa Medici, the Borghese!" 
 
 " Let us go to the Villa Medici. I know a sculptor there." 
 
 " Not there now ? " 
 
 " Indeed he is. He has just come back from Valenciennes. 
 He has the good taste to love Rome at this time — as we do." 
 
 As they passed through the hall Dolores said to Carlino: 
 
 " I don't think the signore will come, Carlino, but if he 
 does tell him I've gone out for a stroll, and may not be back 
 for an, hour." 
 
 " Or two ! " Cesare said in English to her. 
 
 " Or two, Carlino." 
 
 They went out. And again Cesare wondered about her 
 husband. 
 
 "Why should we go to see your sculptor?" he said, as 
 they descended the hill towards the Piazza Barberini. 
 
 " I like him. And it is an excuse to go and wander about 
 that delicious garden." 
 
 " Now. I understand!" 
 
 He spoke energetically, almost joyously. 
 
 " No, but I really like to see the sculptor too," she said. 
 
 " I don't think I understand you to-day." 
 
 " Don't you? Did you at ? " 
 
 She stopped speaking. But he did not let the subject go.
 
 368 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " Did I at Cadenabbia, you mean ! Yes, that night I think 
 I did. And you understood me — il don't mean at Caden- 
 abbia — too well." 
 
 She said nothing. They crossed the piazza and came into 
 the Via Sistina. Few people were about. Two or three 
 sleepy looking men yawned in the doorways of the deserted 
 antiquity shops, and a veteran, in a long white blouse, snored 
 among a white assemblage of small plaster statuettes, with his 
 head against the pedestal of the listening Mercury. 
 
 *' You see it is the desert ! " he said. 
 
 " Yes. We shall certainly not meet any one we both know." 
 
 They walked on in silence till they came to the obelisk 
 that stands between the top of the Spanish steps and the 
 church of the Sacre Coeur. A man was leaning on the stone 
 balustrade looking out over Rome. They could only see his 
 back, broad, with rather square shoulders, a head covered with 
 thick hair, and crowned with a soft old brown hat. But just 
 as they came up to him he turned slowly round and showed 
 Dolores the face of Pacci. She was startled. With his honest 
 blue eyes he looked steadily into her face and into the face 
 of Cesare. Then, without any salutation, he resumed his 
 former position and stared steadily out over Rome. 
 
 "Do — don't you think he knew us?" said Dolores, as 
 they went on towards the ilexes and the mossy fountain before 
 the Academy of France. 
 
 " I'm quite sure he didn't. Pacci is such a strange fellow. 
 He may have been dreaming and seen us as if in his dream." 
 
 " But seen us!" 
 
 •'Why not?" 
 
 " Of course. Why not? " Dolores echoed. 
 
 She nodded and smiled at the man in livery, holding a 
 staff, who opened the gate to let them in to the villa. 
 
 "Monsieur Leronx travaille aujourd'huif " she asked. 
 
 "Oui, Madame! "^ 
 
 The gate shut behind them. 
 
 "Let us go to the studio at once," said Dolores, when they 
 had ascended in silence the little hill which leads up to the 
 big and almost wild-looking garden. 
 
 "But why? Why need we go there at all? There is 
 nobody here." 
 
 " I really want to go to the studio." 
 
 " If we do go he is sure to come with us everj^^here." 
 
 " You don't know him. He is a worker."
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 369 
 
 ** I am in your hands," said Cesare, 
 
 He drew a little nearer to her. 
 
 *' I am in your hands." 
 
 " It is the last studio but one." 
 
 In the deep shade of the great trees they turned down the 
 path to the left, and presently came to a door on which was 
 written in chalk the word " Leroux." Near this name was 
 scrawled the following legend, " La petite s'est amenee au- 
 jourd'hui a 6^ et n'a trouve personne," evidently by a model. 
 
 "Am I to knock?" asked Cesare reluctantly. 
 
 The silence, the solitude Avere so delicious to him, so tempted 
 him, so wooed him to the truth, that he hated to summon a 
 stranger from out of them. 
 
 " Please do," said Dolores. 
 
 And again he noticed an odd decision in her voice and man- 
 ner. He struck on the wooden door with his stick. There 
 was no reply. 
 
 " He isn't here," he said. 
 
 " Please try again, a little louder." 
 
 He knocked again almost violentlj^ This time he heard 
 steps. The door was opened, and a small, good-looking man, 
 with gentle dark eyes and a black beard, stood before them. 
 He wore a long sculptor's blouse, and was smoking a pipe, and 
 his hands were partially covered with claj^ When he saw 
 Dolores he bowed and smiled. 
 
 " A friend of mine, Don Cesare Carelli," she said. *' Mon- 
 sieur Leroux." 
 
 The sculptor bowed again and begged Cesare to enter. 
 
 "But, Madame, you must wait for a moment, please!" he 
 said. 
 
 " Go on, Don Cesare! " she said. 
 
 As he went in Cesare saw a naked model coming away from 
 the couch on a platform where he had been posing as a dj ing 
 man in agony. He was from the mountain village of Anticoli, 
 and had the piercing eyes of a wild animal. 
 
 As he went by Cesare into a room to the left of the studio 
 to put on some clothes, he stared at him, as an animal might 
 look at the night around it in a forest. A moment afterwards 
 the sculptor let in Dolores. 
 
 He was at work on a large statue of a nude man lying 
 in a twisted attitude on a bed, with an expression of con- 
 centrated mental anguish, but also of acute physical pain on 
 his face. In one hand, which looked flaccid, and as if life were
 
 370 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 dying out of it, was a bottle, scarcely retained by the large 
 nerveless fingers. By the feet and hands of the man, and by 
 something in the contour of his face, and the arrangement 
 of his disordered hair, his low position in the scale of hu- 
 manity was made manifest to the spectator. Nevertheless he 
 was handsome, and in his grief and pain there was something 
 of dignity, something even of pride, as if the soul held a virtue 
 which perhaps the body was expiating. A strong modern 
 realism was impressed on the whole work. 
 
 Dolores, Cesare and the sculptor stood before it, and almost 
 immediately the model, in a pair of thin trousers and a jacket 
 turned up to the chin, entered silently on bare feet, sat down 
 in a corner, and gazed at them with his fierce eyes full of 
 remoteness. Cesare asked for an explanation of the subject, 
 and the sculptor, speaking in French, with a very gentle voice, 
 said: 
 
 " It was suggested to me by a paragraph I once read in 
 the Petit Journal. A man of notoriously evil character, a 
 wrestler at country fairs, had a mistress to whom he was pas- 
 sionately attached. One night he came back from a visit to 
 a village at some distance from his home and found that his 
 mistress had deserted him for his own brother. He took 
 poison and died. He was found unclothed as he is there. I 
 have tried to show in face, even in his whole bod}-, that he 
 has within him in spite of his low origin, his brutal nature, his 
 pain, and his abject despair, the thing that can never be wholly 
 undignified." 
 
 " What is that ? " said Cesare. 
 
 "But, Monsieur — love." 
 
 " You think love cannot be undignified ! " said Cesare, 
 wheeling round and gazing at the little man in the long blouse. 
 
 " Not wholly undignified," returned the sculptor, with mild 
 firmness. " However much a flame may flicker it never loses 
 the fierce glory of fire." 
 
 On the last words his voice became suddenly sonorous. 
 
 " I like that idea," said Dolores, " and I think you have 
 shown it." 
 
 They talked together for some time. Always the model 
 remained in his corner, never removing his eyes from them 
 except once, for a moment, when he swiftly rolled and lit a 
 cigarette. The studio, in which there was not a trace of 
 luxury or of comfort, but in which there was the home-like 
 and familiar look of work well loved by the worker, was
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 371 
 
 cool. The whiteness of plaster and marble was soothing. 
 And the great deserted garden outside seemed to exhale an 
 atmosphere of peace, and even of romance, which penetrated 
 to this bare and spacious chamber and made it almost a sanc- 
 tuary. 
 
 "What would I give to be a worker!" said Dolores at 
 last, looking round her slowly. "To lose oneself In workl 
 What a comfort, what a blessing that must be." 
 
 She got up. 
 
 " I'm afraid to stay any longer here. It makes me too en- 
 vious," she said. 
 
 " I pity all those who do not work," said the sculptor very 
 simply. 
 
 *' As hundreds of misguided people pity all those who do,'* 
 said Dolores, going towards the door. 
 
 She nodded to the model, who put up one bony hand to his 
 jacket, held it under his chin, then got up, and bowed with a 
 curious alertness. 
 
 " He looks as if he could make a spring like a panther," 
 said Dolores. " Good-bye, Monsieur Leroux. How I envj'; 
 you!" 
 
 She gazed out over the garden, which from here looked al- 
 m.ost like a forest glade with its great trees, its tangle of tall 
 grass and rank growth of herbage. 
 
 *' Who could think we were In Rome? " 
 
 The sculptor looked at her, with his quiet, almost tender 
 smile. I 
 
 " I dine out here in the garden at night. I am the only 
 pensionnaire. The director, my comrades, all are far away. 
 Would " he hesitated, then added, " would you not, ma- 
 dame, and your friend, dine with me to-night? I will have 
 the table put there In the midst of the high grass. It will be 
 like dining in the depths of a jungle when the darkness has 
 come. The food will be very simple — very simple!" 
 
 He glanced from Dolores to Cesare, and he saw that the 
 pretty tall woman whom he so much admired was hesitating, 
 with her eyes fixed on the face of the handsome Italian whom 
 he had never seen before. 
 
 " Thank you, monsieur. We will come. It will be a fete 
 for us," she answered, at last. 
 
 But there was an odd something, that was akin to a dry- 
 ness, in her voice as she spoke. 
 
 " At half-past eight, when the darkness Is falling, madame."
 
 372 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 And Dolores echoed : 
 
 " At half-past eight when the darkness is falling." 
 
 When the sculptor shut his door Dolores said to Cesare: 
 
 " I will meet you under the obelisk at twenty minutes past 
 eight." 
 
 " But you aren't going now ! " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " But let us stay here till dinner-time. Where else could 
 we 
 
 " I must go home now. I wish to see if my husband has 
 come from Frascati." 
 
 "Why?" said Cesare, with an almost brutal intonation. 
 
 "At twenty minutes past eight!" Dolores replied. 
 
 And without another word she left him. 
 
 He watched her going down the path in the flickering light 
 and shade. But he did not follow her. She was rousing the 
 brutality in him by the way she was treating him. Yet he 
 only loved and desired her the more. He did not under- 
 stand her. The fact that she had sent for him, after what 
 had occurred on Lake Como, made him feel certain that she 
 not only wanted his love, but that she meant to accept it. 
 
 Nevertheless there was something in her demeanor that 
 puzzled him and made him vaguely uneasy, something elusive, 
 at moments almost repellent. She seemed now ready to defy 
 public opinion, and careless of her husband. Yet she had 
 hurried home to see if he was in the palace. Why? Cesare 
 longed to know what had recently happened at Frascati. He 
 felt as if an immense change had occurred in the life of Do- 
 lores since he had seen her on the lake. Perhaps — though 
 it seemed almost impossible — she had not understood the 
 relations existing between her husband and Mrs. Denzil, and 
 had just discovered their nature. Perhaps — could some ar- 
 rangement have been come to between husband and wife in 
 regard to their married life? 
 
 Cesare felt that his passion grew in uncertainty. 
 
 At eight o'clock he was at the top of the Spanish steps. 
 While he waited he paced up and down rather quicklj% He 
 remembered how he had contemplated, had been forced to con- 
 template, the misery, even the angry torture of Lisetta, how 
 he had felt a sort of contempt for it, as a healthy man often 
 feels — in opposition to his reasoning faculty — when he looks 
 at a man stricken with an ugly disease. 
 
 Now he began to have a creeping comprehension of sucH
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 373 
 
 mental and physical torment as he had obh'ged Lisetta to un- 
 dergo. If such a fate as hers should be reserved for him! 
 
 As this thought flashed through his mind it seemed to him 
 as if all the forces of his nature leaped up to repel it. 
 
 And just then he saw Dolores coming from the Via Sis- 
 tina. She stopped at the street corner by the house some- 
 times called " the tempietto," and gave some money to a 
 robust and cheerful one-legged man. Then she came on 
 slowly. Cesare went to meet her. 
 
 " I have been here a long time," he said. 
 
 "Have you? But am I late?" 
 
 "Did you ?" Cesare hesitated. He did not want to 
 
 ask a direct question. But something irresistible compelled 
 him to do so. "Did you find your husband at the palace?" 
 he said. 
 
 " No." 
 
 He was going to say something — he scarcely knew what — 
 when Dolores exclaimed in a lively voice: 
 
 " You don't know how I am looking forward to our even- 
 ing. I feel like a child out of school. One gets so sick of 
 always doing the same things. Every dinner in our society is 
 like every other dinner. One gets accustomed to the mo- 
 notony, of course, and scarcely notices it until one escapes 
 from it. To-night we have escaped. Are you glad?" His 
 eyes were fastened on her face. 
 
 " And this is only the beginning," he said, not answering 
 her question, except with his eyes. 
 
 " How — the beginning? " 
 
 " The beginning of your escape. You must go farther. 
 You must distance every pursuer." 
 
 " There are no pursuers. There will be no pursuers." 
 
 Again he thought of her husband. If she would only tell 
 him something! There was an air almost of recklessness 
 about her this evening. 
 
 " How do you know that?" 
 
 "What does it matter if there are? But we are both talk- 
 ing great nonsense. Bon soir! Nous voila encore une fois! 
 
 The porter smiled deferentially. Again he let them into 
 the garden, which now looked mysterious as it gave itself to 
 the warm darkness of the night, mysterious, solitary and irn- 
 mense. For its confines were no longer easily visible as in 
 the light of day. Fireflies were beginning to dance their 
 rounds. Their sparks came from the shadows like tiny musical
 
 374 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 notes out of stillness. The masses of leaves that clothed the 
 great trees were silent and motionless. The walks were de- 
 serted. A studio in the center of the garden, standing alone, 
 showed no light. 
 
 And the director and the pcnsionnaires were far away, In 
 mountain valleys, perhaps, by sandy plages, or by the banks of 
 those long rivers of France to which the poplars are faith- 
 ful. How they were far away to-night! 
 
 "There is a light! Look!" said Dolores. 
 
 They stood still on the gravel and looked through the trees 
 to the left. There, in the midst of the tall rank grass, was 
 a round yellow gleam, and by it a dark object which moved 
 and bent, and rose up and disappeared. 
 
 "Our dinner-table!" said Dolores. "Monsieur Leroux! " 
 
 She sent her voice through the trees melodiously. 
 
 And suddenly Cesare, in the calm and unembarrassed way 
 of Italians, let loose a loud tenor voice in " La donna e mo- 
 bile," throwing, apparently, his whole nature into the light- 
 hearted song, and making a noise so powerful as to be almost 
 astonishing. 
 
 "But what a voice you have!" said Dolores, when he 
 stopped. 
 
 "Why not?" said Cesare. 
 
 " You never told me you sang." 
 
 "I hardly ever do. But to-night — well, this is not like 
 other nights." 
 
 He took her hand in the shadows. 
 
 " We sing when there is something to make us sing." 
 
 Dolores drew away her hand, but gently. 
 
 " And you chose the ' donna e mobile,' " she said. " Why 
 was that? " 
 
 " I did not know at the moment. But no doubt I was 
 thinking of you." 
 
 " You think me variable ? " 
 
 " At Cadenabbia you did not take away your hand. Why 
 do you take it away to-night? When I came to the palace 
 to-day you wished to com.e here. When we were here you 
 would not stay. You hurried back to the palace. Now ' 
 
 " I am not rushing away now." 
 
 " No. But how can I tell what you will do?" 
 
 " Often we do not know ourselves what we shall do." 
 
 " But there are people who can make others do as they 
 wish."
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 375 
 
 His voice had changed. 
 
 " Do you think you are one of them?" asked Dolores. 
 
 ** Love gives some people strange powers," said Cesare. 
 
 " And from others it takes away the powers they possess." 
 
 " Powers of resistance, perhaps. Is that what you mean?" 
 
 She did not answer. 
 
 " Tell me — when you sent me that note yesterday what did 
 you mean ? " 
 
 " Monsieur Leroux! " 
 
 Dolores sent her voice again into the darkness. 
 
 "Alio!" 
 
 "Here he is!" 
 
 Their host, who had put on a dark gray suit and a lar2;e 
 and loose black tie, came to meet them, beaming w^ith pleasure 
 and cordiality that seemed very simple, led them at once into 
 w^hat he called " the jungle," and installed them at the small 
 dinner-table which was closely surrounded by grass that grew 
 over two feet high. The servant, a big and dark Italian, im- 
 mediately placed before them a bowl of smoking vegetable 
 soup, and poured red wine into their glasses. Dolores was 
 not hungry. She would rather not have eaten at all. But 
 she concealed her lack of appetite for fear of hurting her host's 
 feelings. He was deeply and openly interested in the food, 
 minutely described to his guests what they might expect, and 
 when it came took care to draw them into an ample discus- 
 sion of its merits or demerits. 
 
 " This needed an onion to make it savory," he would sa}% 
 and the talk would turn upon onions; or "they do not un- 
 derstand the use of the cabbage in Italy," and for some minutes 
 cabbages would be the theme of their discourse. And always 
 the fireflies danced their rounds above the delicate heads of 
 the grasses, and the darkness seemed to draw closer above and 
 around the globe of light that illumined the faces of Dolores 
 and the two men. 
 
 She took her share in the talk for a while, but presently 
 Monsieur Leroux and Cesare fell into a discussion from which, 
 quite naturally, she was able to detach herself. She listened 
 at first, now and then putting in a word. And she noticed 
 how easily her two companions had slipped into acquaintance- 
 ship. They belonged to different worlds, they had led lives 
 almost extraordinarily different. Yet a sort of freemasonrv', 
 the freemasonry of sex, now drew them together. Already 
 they surely understood each other, as Cesare would never un-
 
 376 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 derstand her, as even Theo, after .all these years did not un- 
 derstand her, and as, at this moment, she wished no woman to 
 understand her. 
 
 There was no moon. The night, though clear and starry, 
 was dark. Dinner was over. The servant had gone away 
 with the plates and dishes, leaving only some fruit and wine 
 on the table. Cesare was offering the sculptor a big cigar. 
 
 Dolores heard them discussing cigars. Both of them spoke 
 with an animation that seemed to her strong and unforced. 
 Cesare's eyes were often upon her. She believed that he was 
 deliberately leaving her in her silence. Did he think, could he 
 think, it would operate in his favor? Wliat did he think, 
 what must he think, after her note to him? It seemed to her 
 that as he talked his voice grew stronger, firmer, his manner 
 more animated. In the narrow circle of lamplight his gestures 
 were often only half revealed. She saw his muscular brown 
 hand, with the glow upon it, looking unusually alive, then 
 shadowy, strange, as a movement took it out into the darkness. 
 But the light always shone in his eyes. To-night she was con- 
 scious of his youth, his strength and the glory of it, as she had 
 been when he came up from the lake. She looked at the dark- 
 ness of the night, the stars, the towering forms of the black 
 trees, the soft and mysterious duskiness of the vegetation in 
 whose bosom they were sunk as in a sea; at the fireflies full 
 of an animation that was magical, and that seemed remote 
 from all earthly activities, and she could scarcely believe she 
 was in Rome, only a few minutes' walk from the palace in 
 which she had suffered so much, in which she was destined, 
 perhaps, to suffer so much more. And with a stronger force 
 than she had ever felt before fatalism seemed to sweep through 
 her like a dark and tidal wave. The night above her and about 
 her was like a decree. The stars were despotic, no longer 
 gentle in their distant wonder and beauty, A breathing of 
 will rose from this ancient garden that was like a glade in 
 some forest remote and virgin. She felt as if forces were laying 
 their hands upon her, were talcing her — whither she would, 
 or would not? She did not even know. And she felt that 
 Cesare also was dominated by these forces, though he did not 
 know it, as she did, because his temperament and his nature 
 and his intellect were different from hers. She drew her 
 chair softly a little away from the table and back into the 
 darkness. 
 
 What were they talking of? Vaguely she heard names
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 377 
 
 — Raphael, Bellini, Michael Angelo. The sculptor, warmed 
 by the generous wine, was becoming expansive. He spoke of 
 the transition when artists, no longer satisfied with the effect 
 that they could produce with marble, and seeking to express 
 religious cm.otion, became painters of Madonna, saints, angels, 
 and II Bambino. What would Cesare think of all that? But 
 he seemed interested, even intent. When she saw his eyes 
 turned upon her, however, she knew well that he did not care 
 what was said. He was with her in the night. Pie was going 
 away presently alone with her. And for him that was enough. 
 Leroux spoke of Leonardo da Vinci, of his many talents, and 
 of his love for music, and Dolores found herself listening with 
 a greater intentness, she did not know why. He mentioned the 
 nam.e of Lorenzo de Medici, and quoted, in French, Lorenzo's 
 romance : 
 
 " Oh ! que la jeunesse est belle 
 Et ephemere! Chante et ris 
 Et sois heureux — si tu le veux 
 Et ne compte pas sur demain." 
 
 " One of our pensionnaires has set it to music," he said. 
 " It was done at our concert last May." 
 
 " But It is better in my Italian," said Cesare. " Now 
 listen, and tell me if it is not." 
 
 He leaned forward a little to Dolores and the darkness, 
 and, in his firm, clear voice, and carefully giving all the music 
 of the words, he repeated: 
 
 " Quant e bella giovinezza, 
 Che se fugge tuttavia. 
 Chi vuol esser lieto, sia: 
 Di doman no c'e certezza." 
 
 " I like It very much in my language," said the sculptor, 
 who had already been in Rome two years but who could not 
 speak six consecutive words of correct Italian. 
 
 " And you? " asked Cesare of Dolores. 
 
 "And you?" he said again in a moment, for she had not 
 answered. 
 
 She had drawn her chair so far back into the darkness that 
 he could not see her face distinctly, but he saw her put her 
 hand up to it quickly. Then she said: 
 
 " I think it incomparably more charming in Italian."
 
 378 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 She paused, and then added to Leroux: 
 
 " You know how I delight in French, but this seems to me 
 much more musical, and much more real, in Italian." 
 
 " I will sing it to you," said Cesare. " There is a setting 
 of it by some Italian, I forget whom." 
 
 And he lifted up his powerful voice of a strong and young 
 man, and sang the Italian words: 
 
 " Quant e bella glovinezza, 
 Che se fugge tuttavia. 
 Chi vuol esser lieto, sia: 
 Di doraan no c'e certezza." 
 
 And to Dolores, while she listened, it seemed that in the voice 
 of Cesare at that moment there was something imperative which 
 was linked with the despotic will of the night. She felt as 
 if he was dominated, but as if he was also an instrument of dom- 
 ination. He had been chosen by forces he did not understand 
 to execute a decree of which he knew nothing. He sang the 
 verse twice, and the second time with much more emotion. 
 Evidently the true meaning of the little song had gained upon 
 him as he sang. Ah! how beautiful — how beautiful is youth! 
 Dolores forgot it was Cesare who sang. Already the tears 
 had come into her eyes when Cesare repeated the words. Now 
 they came again. She was thirtj% Her youth was slipping 
 away — for, alas ! she was a woman. And the morrow was 
 uncertain. She might live to be old. But she might have 
 only a short time to live, perhaps a very short time. She felt 
 that her hands were slightly trembling as they rested clasped 
 on her knees. If she were to die in unhappiness, misunder- 
 stood, sterile ! If she were to die and if her death were not to be 
 regretted! If she were to die and leave no gift behind her, 
 no gift to recall her each day to the memory of one she loved, 
 no gift to awaken each day gratitude in a heart that once had 
 certainly loved her! If she were to die and only be remembered, 
 if she were remembered at all, as a poor little failure! 
 
 " Chi vuol esser lieto, sia : 
 Di doman no c'e certezza." 
 
 Her heart changed. It was as if into it there burst a new 
 inmate. And when Cesare stopped singing, she said: 
 
 " What a fool the man or woman is who avoids happiness
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 379 
 
 from the fears or the scruples connected with to-morrow! 
 Don't you think so, Monsieur Leroux?" 
 
 " I do indeed," returned the sculptor, in his soft voice. 
 " But since I was a very young student in Paris I have lived 
 for the day always." 
 
 " I don't know — but I don't believe I have ever lived for 
 the day," said Dolores. 
 
 " You must learn to," said Cesare. " You could learn to. 
 One may be dead to-morrow. Chi lo saf " 
 
 And again the terror of death came upon Dolores. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 It was late when Dolores got up to go. Again and again she 
 had thought, " It is time. I must go." Again and again she 
 had looked into Cesare's face and she had postponed the moment 
 of departure. The distant chime of a clock sounding eleven 
 brought her at last to a decision. 
 
 " I must leave our jungle," she said. 
 
 She looked around, searching the darkness. She brushed her 
 fingers lightly over the heads of the tall grasses. 
 
 " I cannot believe it is in the midst of Rome," she added, in 
 a low voice, and as if speaking to herself. 
 
 "If only it were not!" said Cesare. "If only it were 
 really the jungle! " 
 
 Dolores turned, just in time to see Ce^^are glance at the 
 sculptor with a meaning that was unmistakable. By a v/ord 
 she might have nullified its effect. She knew that, and just 
 for a moment she thought of speaking the word. But the 
 new inmate in her heart told her to keep silence. 
 
 "Chi vuol esser Ucto, sia: di (Ionian no ce certezza! " she 
 thought. 
 
 And then she thought of her husband at Frascattl. Prob- 
 ably at this moment he was sitting in the red loggia with Edna 
 Denzil. 
 
 " I wish it w^ere," he said. " I wish it were really far away, 
 out in the wilds." 
 
 Monsieur Leroux shrugged his small shoulders. 
 
 " I like to pretend that it is while I am dining, but to know 
 in my heart that my studio is within a few yards. I am very 
 poor-spirited," he said.
 
 38o THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 His mild eyes were smiling, but Dolores thought she detected 
 In their smile a trace of irony. She held out her hand. 
 
 " Thank you for your festa. This has been the most char- 
 acteristic evening I have ever spent in Rome. One forgets 
 so many evenings. But yours I shall never forget." 
 
 Again she brushed her fingers over the tall grasses as if in 
 farewell. 
 
 " Thank you, Madame. Good-by." 
 
 The two men exchanged a warm hand grip. Cesare spoke 
 some words of thanks with a strong sincerity that evidently 
 delighted his host, even though Leroux's acute intelligence was 
 fully awake to the fact that the Italian's gratitude was not 
 merely aroused by a dinner. 
 
 They left him standing in the midst of the grasses with his 
 hand on the lamp, and as they walked slowly away up the dark 
 path that skirts the high wall of the garden beyond the studios 
 they saw the yellow light travel away to the left and disappear. 
 Then they heard a door shut decisively. 
 
 Cesare stood still. He drew a deep breath and looked at 
 Dolores. She had stopped beside him, almost mechanically. 
 Both of them had perhaps been arrested in their slow progress 
 through the dark by that sound, which was like a last word 
 sent after them in the night by the sculptor. 
 
 "Did you hear how he shut that door?" said Cesare. "I 
 am sure he is going to spend the night in the studio." 
 
 '^'^But ^" 
 
 " There is an inner room where the model went to dress. I 
 don't think you saw it. Probably there's a sofa there, some- 
 thing that he can sleep on. He has made us free of the garden." 
 
 " The man at the gate must be waiting for us." 
 
 " Let him wait. Which way shall we go ? " 
 
 Dolores walked on, and took the path to the right, but she 
 went slowly. Cesare could not see her face clearly now, and 
 perhaps she knew it, and felt herself safe from observation. 
 For her face was set and almost rigid, and in her forehead 
 there were two deep lines. The gentleness, the wistfulness 
 characteristic of her had disappeared. There rose to the sur- 
 face the fierceness that lies, perhaps far down, in every creature 
 that knows how to love and to sulifer. 
 
 In silence they came to the solitary studio, that was like a 
 little house in the midst of a wood. Here Cesare stopped. He 
 caught the hand of Dolores.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 381 
 
 " You are not going home yet. I shall not let you go yet," 
 he said. 
 
 His words came to her through a deep breathing, and his 
 hand was hot and hard upon hers. 
 
 " You are not to play with me," he said. " I am not going 
 to allow that. You wrote to me. You asked me to come to 
 you, after that night on the lake. You wrote that often you 
 longed to be back on the lake. I have got the letter. I shall 
 always keep it. You knew, when you wrote it, what it meant, 
 the only meaning it could bear to me after what happened at 
 Como. You are not one of the women who think they can 
 treat badly any man just because he loves them. Those are 
 mean w^omen with hateful natures — canailles — canailles. You 
 are not like that. Love — love like mine cannot be treated so 
 by a woman like you. That Is impossible. And you know 
 that as well as I do." 
 
 All the time he was speaking his hand was opening and clos- 
 ing sharply on hers. His own words made him excited, sent 
 through him a heat that was almost of anger. And this anger 
 roused within him all the arrogance that was part of the new 
 manhood which had caused him to break with Princess Mancelli. 
 
 " You think," he said, and now he closed his hand and 
 pressed hers till she felt pain, ** that I will allow myself to be 
 played with by any woman, however much I love her. 
 I know there is a sort of love which will sink to any humilia- 
 tion, will endure anything — as a dog will from its master. I 
 despise such love. I hate such love. I will never show it. 
 No, I have not made myself free for that! No, no! " 
 
 " And I ? " she thought. " Shall I humiliate myself because 
 of my love? Shall I creep to the feet of my husband to beg, 
 to fawn for his love ? " 
 
 And her heart echoed Cesare's last almost bitter exclamation. 
 
 *' Come," he exclaimed. 
 
 In front of the little house was a stone bench, with a high 
 wooden fence behind it. At each end of the bench, on a stone 
 pedestal, an antique bust coldly regarded the night. From 
 above a gigantic ilex tree sent down a protective darkness. Ce- 
 sare drew Dolores to this seat with an imperative force that 
 was almost brutal. And when he did so it seemed to her as if 
 the obscurity closed around them like shutting doors, and as If 
 the silence in the great garden became more Intense, heavier, 
 like silence In a secret place whither no one could ever penetrate.
 
 382 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 Rome seemed to withdraw to an immense distance. She no 
 lon2;er had any sensation of being in Rome. 
 
 " I told you something of my life," Cesare said, pressing her 
 hand down against his knee. " I told you what I have suffered. 
 To break away I h.ad to conquer many things, even what some 
 here in Rome would call perhaps my sense of honor. Ah! but 
 how false all that tradition is! There was really no honor in 
 the question. I had to be free. Every man has rights. I took 
 mine at last. But I did not take them for nothing. I did not 
 take them because I wanted to go into a new misery. Don't 
 you see, can't you feel how a man is, must be, after such a lesson 
 as I have had, such a thing as I have done? But can't you — 
 can't you see ? " 
 
 " Yes," Dolores said, in a very low voice. 
 
 " I've been unhappy, hideously unhappy in love," he con- 
 tinued rapidly. " I want to be happy in love. And you — 
 you want to be happy. It's the only thing in which there is 
 real happiness for us who are young, who can feel. I have no 
 one but you " 
 
 " You have Donna Ursula! " said Dolores. 
 
 She did not know why she said it. The words checked 
 Cesare's outburst as a douche of cold water checks a rising 
 flame. 
 
 There was a silence. Then he said : 
 
 " That is true. And you have your husband ? " 
 
 In the second silence something moved in the tree above 
 them. 
 
 "What's that?" said Dolores. 
 
 The leap of her nerves showed her her bodily condition. For 
 an instant she had thrilled with fear. In that instant brusqueljj 
 she had moved nearer to Cesare. 
 
 "A bird," he answered, putting one arm behind her. 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 She tried to laugh. 
 
 " We shall wake all the garden up," she added. " We ought 
 to go." But something in the touch of his arm made her wish 
 to stay. For it told her that here she was wanted, she was 
 loved, and, strangely, mysteriously, but powerfully, it told her 
 something else. In the darkness she seemed to see the eyes 
 of Lenbach's old man regarding her steadily. 
 
 " Would you give my life into the hands of Donna Ursula? " 
 Cesare said. 
 
 His voice was lower.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 383 
 
 " If you would you are more cruel than I. For I only want 
 to take you away from some one who does not love you." 
 
 " Hush! " she whispered sharply. 
 
 " Who does not love you," he repeated, inflexibly. " Who 
 does not know how to love you." 
 
 Suddenly his arm closed firmly about her, with an almost 
 hard fierceness, he leaned down and kissed her, and kept his 
 lips pressed on hers. 
 
 " That is how I love you, that is how I love you." 
 
 Dolores sat very still. She made no response. She suffered 
 his kiss. It told her much, far more than any words could have 
 told her, however true, and spoken with however great a sin- 
 cerity. And as she sat quite still, almost like one petrified, 
 she was asking herself again and again: 
 
 " Shall I accept it? Shall I take it? Shall I use it? " 
 
 The remote soul of her was speaking, and she hated its voice, 
 almost as one honorable must hate a treachery. But it was 
 ungovernable. And Cesare took away his lips and kissed her 
 again. 
 
 '* I knew I should make you love me at last! I knew I 
 should make you love me! " 
 
 There was in his voice a sound of triumph that was without 
 offense, because it was wholly natural, manly, and strong. 
 
 " All that I did, I did for you, long before you cared In 
 the least for me. Did you even know, did you suspect then — 
 all that time ago — why I needed to be free? I don't believe 
 you did. I knew I should have to wait. I was ready to wait. 
 I — I've been patient! " 
 
 Dolores drew away from his arm. Her sense of treachery 
 was increasing as Cesare's sincerity became more apparent to 
 her, as he opened his heart simply, without self-consciousness or 
 fear. She knew that he believed in the woman she essentially 
 was, and that he did not understand, nor suspect, the wom.an 
 she had become. But had she even yet become that woman? 
 Now she began to struggle against the inexorable change in her- 
 self, she began to try to be what Cesare thought she was. 
 
 " I didn't — I haven't said I cared for you. I have never 
 said it," she murmured. 
 
 Again something moved in the tree above them. There was 
 a prolonged rustle. The tiny dark shadow of a bird in flight 
 passed between them and the stars. Very far off a bell chimed 
 in some distant place below them. 
 
 " You needn't say it. After what I was, what I did that
 
 384 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 night on Como, you wrote and asked me to come to you. You 
 came here with me to-night. That is enough. If you were 
 
 another woman, any other woman " he broke off. " That 
 
 is enough ! " he said again. 
 
 This triumph that flowed out of faith almost horrified Do- 
 lores. 
 
 " Don't believe in me! " she said. 
 
 But against her will, her voice pleaded for belief. Too much 
 she wanted to rest on something. She had not the courage 
 to throw away such a great gift, to fall back into the void of 
 her life. And yet she had not as yet the other courage to be 
 determined and ruthless in evil, to take what was offered to 
 her with selfishness so that she might have something. Perhaps 
 she would have summoned up the first courage but for the 
 thought that had gnawed at her mind so long, and that had re- 
 ceived a new and a terrible strength from the touch of Cesare's 
 arm, of his lips. She dared neither to go into the room, nor 
 dared she to shut the door and remain outside. 
 
 And she got up from the stone bench slowly, and trembling. 
 
 "Don't go! You mustn't go!" 
 
 Cesare sat still and seized her hand, with the gesture surely 
 of a master. To-night for the first time she realized com- 
 pletely what she had let loose in him. Long ago she had 
 mysteriously known that he might have an influence on her life. 
 But she had not known what an influence she might have upon 
 his. Perhaps her ignorance had been owing to the fact that 
 she had not cared to know. 
 
 " Why should you go? " 
 
 If she could have given him the true reason! 
 
 "Let us walk a little. I don't know — that bird moving 
 about has made me feel restless. I can't sit still here in the 
 dark." 
 
 He got up. 
 
 "Were vou reallv startled?" 
 
 "Yes."' 
 
 "Frightened, with me beside j'ou!" 
 
 " I believe I was." 
 
 " How strange women are! " he said, almost with a boyish- 
 ness. 
 
 Instinctively she had found just the words to check his 
 passion without seeming deliberately to repress it. She had 
 made him feel protective, had put herself almost in the place of 
 a child.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 385 
 
 " If I could be always beside you ! If I could always pro- 
 tect you! " he said, adoring her softness, and thinking of Lisetta 
 Mancelli. 
 
 Almost savagely the understanding of their lack of true 
 liberty rushed upon him. The moment was deceitful, had 
 tricked him. Rome lay around them. How soon would come 
 the light, when all eyes would open, when the staring city 
 would be revealed. He had a violent longing, which tore him, 
 to take Dolores away and make her his, and keep her his. 
 Secrecy was hateful to this love of his, and instinct told him 
 that the immense difference between Dolores and Princess Man- 
 cell! would make a situation in the heart of hypocrisy — such 
 as his for long years with Lisetta — impossible with Dolores. 
 There was something too sensitive in her to endure that. 
 
 " If I could take you away! " he added, almost in a tone of 
 despair. 
 
 And again Dolores was almost horrified by the simplicity 
 with which he assumed from her recent actions that her love 
 was akin to his. She walked towards the great open space, the 
 more formal garden, that stretches away from the arcade of 
 the Academy of France. 
 
 " Don't let us think of impossibilities," she said. 
 
 "Where are you going?" 
 
 " I don't know. I want to get away from the trees for a 
 moment." 
 
 "But why? And we may meet Leroux." 
 
 " You said you were sure he was going to sleep in the 
 studio." 
 
 " He may not. He may change his mind. If he does, he 
 must come this way to go to his room in the palace." 
 
 "What does it matter if we meet him? He knows we are 
 walking about in the garden." 
 
 " How can he know? " 
 
 After a slight pause Dolores said: 
 
 "I saw you look at him just before you said good-by to 
 him." 
 
 He thought there was resentment In her voice, and he felt 
 as if suddenly she were trying to elude him. Yet she remained 
 in the garden with him at this hour. But she did not turn 
 towards the gate. The Italian In him told him that her conduct 
 must mean one thing and one alone, and that he was a fool, 
 and less than a man, not to act brutally upon his knowledge. 
 But the Englishman In him whispered something else. And
 
 386 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 the clash of the two voices sent doubt and confusion through 
 him. 
 
 " It Is true. I did. I was afraid he might think it his 
 duty to accompany you to the gate. And I could not stand 
 that. I had to seize the opportunity. I have waited so long. 
 I have given up so much." 
 
 ''What?" 
 
 " For a long while I have lived as none of my friends live 
 in Rome," he said, in a low, but firm voice. 
 
 Dolores was sharply conscious of a certain brutality in 
 Cesare's nature, which grated on her sensitiveness, the deli- 
 cacy of the good woman in her, but which gave more force 
 to, and as it were proved just, the conviction which was now 
 forever with her. She thought of Nurse Jennings. In that 
 moment she linked Cesare and the nurse together in her mind. 
 They stood together for certain things, unabashed, almost terri- 
 bly frank, clotlied in naturalness. 
 
 " Perhaps you cannot realize what it has cost me," he said. 
 " For years it is true that I was like a man in prison. But at 
 least I was not alone there. And I was loved there, too much 
 loved, persecuted by love. Ever since then, since I broke away, 
 I've lived as men of my age don't live and I've been lonely — 
 lonely." 
 
 He paused. Then he repeated, with evidently growing ex- 
 citement, and an accent that was almost savage: 
 
 " I've been lonely. You've made me lose, waste, throw away 
 like a lot of rubbish, months of my youth. We can't get any- 
 thing back, once it's gone. But — and it's the only thing we 
 can do — we can live doubly to make up. Dolores, you owe 
 me reparation." 
 
 His voice was almost choked. 
 
 "You owe me reparation! " he repeated. " No! Don't let 
 us go out there! " 
 
 "Yes, yes!" 
 
 He seized her hand, held her where they were under the 
 trees. By his touch she knew the anger that was boiling within 
 him, a sort of rage of Italian youth and strength determined 
 to wipe out that sterile past of which he was perhaps even 
 secretly ashamed. All the smiles of his gay companions were 
 with him now in the night. All their joys of the flesh, and 
 of the spirit gained through the flesh, clamored about him. 
 He looked on the lost months lying, like withered leaves, at 
 his feet*. And something that was almost like fury seized him.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 387 
 
 It was perhaps mainly physical. It was perhaps the revenge 
 of nature upon him. 
 
 *' Only you can make up to me for all I have lost. Are 
 you going to make up to me? " 
 
 In his voice there was a sound that was almost threatening. 
 By that sound, by the rage that was sweeping him beyond all 
 conventionalities, that was stripping him to the natural man, 
 Dolores was able, was forced, to understand what she was In 
 his life. With an almost frightful swiftness she compared 
 herself In relation to Cesare with herself in relation to her hus- 
 band ; the woman wanted, angrily, even with rage, desired ; 
 the woman unwanted, neglected, put gently, persistently aside, 
 very often perhaps forgotten. And she had no anger for Ce- 
 sare. But she had some fear. Till now she had not fully 
 realized what Cesare was. And she feared her own loveless- 
 ness. Her honesty awoke, was cruel, fighting with longings she 
 would not avow. And his hot recklessness woke in her some- 
 thing responsive, that was not love but that was connected with 
 love; a desire to be happy for a moment at all costs, to forget 
 for a moment at all costs, to lose herself in the storm, to let 
 love beat upon her with all his winds and his lashing rains, 
 play about her with all his lightnings, fill her ears with his 
 thunders unrestricted. 
 
 In that moment she knew why good women sometimes yield, 
 and are condemned. She felt as if, by a searchlight, she saw 
 down to the bottom of human nature. 
 
 Acting wholly on Impulse, she drew her hand violently from 
 Cesare's. But directly she was free she came nearer to him, 
 she put both her hands on his shoulders, and looked Into his 
 face. 
 
 " Cesare," she said, " I understand. I understand all. But 
 you've been too honest with me, I think." 
 
 She shivered a little. 
 
 "Too honest?" he said. 
 
 He stood perfectly still, almost like a boy, looking Into her 
 face. 
 
 " Yes, yes." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " I'm not worth It." 
 
 " Zitto ! " he exclaimed. 
 
 And he moved. But she pressed her hands down on his 
 shoulders. And he remembered the strange grip of her hand 
 when he had come into the twilight of the great room In Pal-
 
 388 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 azzo Barberini. Some force that he did not understand was 
 hidden in her softness. 
 
 " No, no, I'm not worth it. I oughtn't to have asked you to 
 come. I oughtn't to have written that I longed to be back on 
 the lake." 
 
 He looked straight into her eyes, and said: 
 
 " ' Chi vuol esser lido, sai; di doman no c'e certezza.' You 
 are thinking of to-morrow, I can see it in your eyes. And 
 yet you said only to-night that the man or woman who avoids 
 happiness from the fears or the scruples connected with to- 
 morrow is a fool." 
 
 " Yes, but — if I am thinking of to-morrow not for myself, 
 but for you ! " 
 
 A strange look had come into her eyes, a look of troubled 
 sincerity that went right into his heart. He caught her face be- 
 tween his hands. 
 
 " Oh, Dolores! " he whispered. " How I want you! How 
 I want you ! " 
 
 And suddenly tears rushed into his eyes, tears born out of 
 fire. 
 
 " How I want you — want you ! Do you feel it ? Do you 
 feel it?" 
 
 His hands on her cheeks were burning. She felt a strange 
 sensation, as if Cesare were everything and she were nothing. 
 
 " You have blotted out everj-body, everything," he went on, 
 always whispering, and with the tears still shining in his eyes. 
 "How is it? How can it be? How can such power be? 
 Everything gone — but j'ou! It's terrible. But I won't be 
 your slave — never ! Don't think it. I've learnt, I've suffered. 
 I'm a man now, the real thing. I'd rather kill myself and have 
 done with it than be under even your feet. What are we going 
 to do? V/hat ai'e we going to do? Now you see how it is! 
 But vou ahvays knew ! " 
 
 "No! "she breathed. 
 
 "You knew! You knew! Such a thing can't be hidden. 
 And I alwa3^s meant you to know." 
 
 " Not till to-night — not really ! " 
 
 " And " the whispering voice nearly died away. '' Even 
 
 to-night not really — yet." 
 
 She took her hands from his shoulders, put them on his hands, 
 and released her face. The serious woman who had said, 
 " You've been too honest with me," was gone. The intensity 
 of his emotion, the bravery — so it seemed to her — with which
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 389 
 
 he showed it, caught away brain and heart from watchfulness, 
 from quietude. That feeling of Cesare being everything, her- 
 self nothing, increased upon her. But she was still able to be 
 conscious that it was dangerous. 
 
 As she stood free of Cesare she was aware of a soft noise 
 in the warm and scented night. It came from the fountain that 
 plays In the open space before the Academy of France. Again 
 a bell chimed in the distance below. It was answered by other 
 bells. Rome was there, speaking in the night, calling from 
 tower to tower, while fountain whispered to fountain through 
 all the gracious city. These sounds suddenly — she did not 
 know why — brought her husband before Dolores, not as an 
 accusing, but as an indifferent figure, intent on something 
 which had killed In him the observant faculty. He seemed to 
 be standing close to her and to be gone. 
 
 She shuddered and went out from the trees before Cesare 
 could prevent her. He followed her, almost with a spring. 
 
 *' It's true! It's true! " he said, coming up with her. 
 
 She stood still again. Beyond the darkness of the trees 
 she felt less lost in the desire of another, though still It was 
 very dark. But she saw the stars, and faint forms of palm 
 trees standing back behind great hedges of box; she had more 
 sense of possible freedom, 
 
 " Why did you miove? " he said, almost sternly. 
 
 "The fountain. I heard it! And the bells! I felt — I 
 realized suddenly that we are In Rome. I — I don't know ! I 
 realized Rome." 
 
 "What are we to do? Will you throw ever}'thing up and 
 come awav with me ? Will you, Dolores ? " 
 
 "Hush — don't!" 
 
 She moved again, and went to the terrace that extends along 
 the right-hand end of the palace to a balustrade from which 
 the domes and towers of Rome are visible looking toward St. 
 Peter's. By the balustrade she stopped, and turned. 
 
 " Just now," she said, " when I heard the fountain and the 
 bells, it seemed as if I saw some one near me." 
 
 " Some one ! Whom? " 
 
 " My husband ! " 
 
 "What are you saying?" 
 
 He turned his head sharply and stared into the dark. 
 
 "And if you had seen him! " he said, looking again into her 
 eyes. " Hasn't he let you see him for years with Mrs. Denzil? 
 Hasn't he taken you to Frascati in order that you might see him
 
 390 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 with her there? He arranges his h'fe to suit Mrs. DenziL 
 He would arrange your life, too, to suit her. All Rome knows 
 it. He is her lover, of course. He has been her lover for 
 years." 
 
 By the sound of his voice Dolores knew that he believed him- 
 self to be merely expressing a truth probably long ago in her 
 possession. 
 
 " If he had seen you," he added, " perhaps it would have 
 been best. Or are you afraid ? " 
 
 She made no answer. 
 
 " Tell me, are vou afraid? " 
 
 "Afraid of what?" 
 
 " Of your husband knowing." 
 
 " I don't know whether I am afraid or not. I don't know 
 anything to-night." 
 
 Abruptly she desired to make him understand something of 
 her helplessness, because she knew that he loved her. 
 
 " There's so much that one can never understand. [Why 
 should you care for me ? You scarcely know me." 
 
 " I know you better than he does, because I care." 
 
 She looked down, bending her head a little, and the move- 
 ment, the line of her neck, woke again within him the rage of 
 excitement, of impotent anger against the wasted months of 
 which he had spoken to her. They came, like successful ene- 
 mies, in procession before his mind. And in his heart he cursed 
 them. 
 
 ** Dolores, don't let us ask each other questions. What does 
 it matter why — or how? Youth isn't made for questions. 
 
 It's given us to enjoy. I can't go on " His dark face was 
 
 suddenly distorted. " No, I can't go on. I've come to the end 
 of that!" 
 
 He began to speak almost incoherently, and as If to himself, 
 to the mind that understood what no other mind could fully 
 understand. 
 
 *' To the end — to the end ! " he repeated, almost furiously. 
 "From to-night all that's Impossible. Why should I — how 
 could any man — no! no!" 
 
 His lips twisted, his brows came down over his eyes. For 
 an Instant his face was like a bitter mask. 
 
 " Feel ! " he exclaimed. 
 
 He seized the right hand of Dolores and held It against his 
 heart. 
 
 " D'you ask me to deny that any longer?"
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 39i 
 
 For a moment her hand was still, and felt the beating that 
 was his life. Then it twisted in his grasp. 
 
 " No, no, he's coming." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Monsieur Leroux 1 " 
 
 "No!" 
 
 But even as he spoke he heard a faint footstep on the tiny 
 stones of the terrace. 
 
 " We must speak to him," Dolores said. 
 
 "No, no!" 
 
 He tightened his grasp on her hand. 
 
 " But he will pass close to us." 
 
 "No, no!" 
 
 " Cesare! " she said. 
 
 She bent and looked into his face. At once he let go her 
 hand. 
 
 "Forgive me! But " 
 
 A sigh, that was almost a sob, came from him, and he turned 
 his face away from her. A shadow emerged slowly from the 
 darkness. The footfall was louder. 
 
 "Monsieur Leroux!" called Dolores. "Are you going to 
 bed?" 
 
 There was no answer, but the shadow drew slowly nearer. 
 
 " If it were not Leroux! If it were my husband ! " Dolores 
 thought. Her mind flashed back to the party at Mrs. Eld- 
 ridge's, to the conversation about the donna deUnquente, to her 
 
 thought, " If What would Theo be like? What would 
 
 Theodo?;' 
 
 "Monsieur Leroux! Monsieur Leroux!" she called, more 
 sharply and insistently. 
 
 "Alio!" 
 
 " We are here, looking at Rome." 
 
 The sculptor came up. 
 
 " You are going to bed ? " 
 
 " Yes, madame." 
 
 " Do me a favor. Come with us to the gate of the villa, 
 just to show the attendant we were really dining with you, and 
 that you are partly responsible if we have kept him too late out 
 of bed. Will you." 
 
 " But with pleasure, madame." 
 
 She began to walk quickly away from the palace. 
 
 " It is so lovely here on a summer night. We could not resist 
 staying for a few minutes."
 
 392 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 Oh, what a poor, feeble h}-pocrite she felt as she made those 
 banal remarks, unworthy of the garden, of tlie night, unworthy 
 of hate, of love, of life! It was as if she concentrated in a 
 couple of sentences all the insincerity and the clap-trap of the 
 world. And after that look which Cesare had sent to the sculp- 
 tor! But her life, she knew, had trained her in conventionality, 
 and the v/ords had come mechanically. 
 
 But what must Cesare be thinking of her? 
 
 At the gate they parted from Leroux. The gate swung 
 slowly to. The servant was liberally tipped and wished "Bonne 
 nuitJ " They walked on towards the Sacre Cocur. And Ce- 
 sare never spoke. 
 
 " We shall £nd a fiacre at the top of the steps, don't you 
 think?" 
 
 She spoke almost with timidity. He did not answer. 
 
 " If not, we had better go down into the Piazza. There is 
 sure to be one there." 
 
 Still he did not reply. She walked on a little faster. There 
 were no fiacres before the Sacre Ccrur. She hesitated for a 
 moment, then turned and began to descend the steps. Cesare 
 followed her. They came into the Piazza di Spagna. It was 
 deserted. Dolores stood for a moment, looking to right and 
 left. 
 
 " Then I must walk! " she said, at last. " It doesn't matter. 
 It was only that I " 
 
 She broke off, looking towards him. His silence began to 
 beat upon her like a v\'eapon. The complete withdrawal of the 
 man who had poured forth his nature with such almost reckless 
 sincerity but a few minutes before left her in a strange, in an 
 almost alarming, solitude. And she felt a sensation of guilt 
 that troubled her. 
 
 " We had better go by the Due Macelli now, I suppose," 
 she said, with an effort to rid herself of the sensation. 
 
 As he said nothing, she added: 
 
 "Hadn't we? Hadn't we?" 
 
 " Whatever you please," he almost muttered. 
 
 'He did not look at her. She walked on with him at her 
 side. And neither of them spoke till they had passed the Salone 
 Margherita, and were in sight of the white and illuminated 
 tunnel that leads from the Via Tritone to the Via Nazionale. 
 There, close to the Select Hotel, they met a wandering fiacre. 
 
 " Carrozza! " Dolores called. 
 
 The coachman drew up and Dolores got into the fiacre.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 393 
 
 Cesare stood beside it, still looking down. Then he followed 
 her. 
 
 " You will allow me to see you home, of course," he said, 
 formally. 
 
 " But it takes you out of your way, and really It isn't neces- 
 sary." 
 
 " I couldn't leave you, at this hour. I'm sure you will under- 
 stand that. Palazzo Barberini! " he said to the coachman. 
 
 The fiacre moved on, and again there was silence between 
 them. It lasted without a break till the fiacre came to the great 
 gate that divides the garden of the Palazzo Barberini from Via 
 Quattro Fontane. Then Cesare called out, " Don't drive in 1 " 
 
 The man stopped the horse with a jerk. Cesare touched his 
 arm. He turned and Cesare paid him. 
 
 " But why not keep him ? " said Dolores. 
 
 " I'll walk home. I prefer it." 
 
 " Well, then " She was about to hold out her hand, 
 
 when he said, still with formality: 
 
 " I'll accompany you to your door, of course." 
 
 The gate was opened. They walked towards the arcade. 
 Dolores was beginning to feel frightened, not so much of Cesare 
 as of the vague; circumstance, life, fate, all that surrounds us 
 and that we do not understand, combinations cast out ruthlesslj^ 
 by the unknown. Under the arcade Dolores stopped. 
 
 " We can say good-night here." 
 
 " No, I must take you to your door." 
 
 " I have my key." 
 
 She showed it. 
 
 *' I have only to walk upstairs and go in. You don't think 
 I shall be murdered between the garden and my door? " 
 
 " You must not be alone till you are safe In your apartment." 
 
 Was she so precious in his sight? Or was there another 
 reason for his persistence ? She hesitated. But she f it he 
 
 meant to mount the long and faintly lit stone sta ■-- with 
 her, she felt that even If she forbade him to come VvvA her, 
 still he would come. Nevertheless, she said, wit' - t^p re- 
 luctance partly due to his almost freezing formal . 
 
 " But my husband may be at home. I have no reason to 
 think so, but he might have come in to stay the night." 
 
 "I wish to God he were in!" Cesare said, with sudden 
 violence. " I should like to have to do with a man to-night! " 
 
 " Aren't you forgetting me? " she said, but very gently. 
 
 " There is a limit to things," he replied.
 
 394 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " Good-night." 
 
 " No." 
 
 "But " 
 
 " No, no." 
 
 He went toward the great gaping staircase, and she was 
 almost obh'ged to follow him. His steps rang on the stone, 
 as if he were the master resolutely ascending to what belonged 
 to him. Were they two going, she wondered, up to a great 
 crisis in her life? Now she felt completely in the grasp of 
 events. If her husband by chance were within, she felt 
 that he must see at a glance all that had happened between her- 
 self and Cesare In the garden at Villa Medici. She did not 
 argue that that was Impossible. She felt absolutely that so 
 it would be. And then — her mind stopped short there. 
 
 Cesare waited and looked around. She joined him. And 
 they went on without a word till they stood before the door 
 of the apartment. Then he held out his hand. 
 
 "Your key!" 
 
 She gave him the key. He thrust It, roughly she thought, 
 Into the keyhole, turned it, and opened the door into the empty 
 hall, which was dark till Cesare lit it. 
 
 "Now — good-night," she said. "And thank you." 
 
 When she said that, without again holding out her hand, 
 Cesare's face changed. All the formality, the freezing, unnat- 
 ural restraint dropped awav from him. 
 
 " Dolores! " he said. " Dolores! " 
 
 She stood and looked at him. In opening the door he had 
 stepped inside, holding it, as if to let her pass in. But she was 
 still outside on the stone of the landing. 
 
 "What is ?" She began, and stopped. 
 
 " Let me come In ! " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Let me come In, just Into the drawing-room where I met 
 you the other day, when you asked me to come ! " 
 
 " No, I can't. I mustn't." 
 
 " Do you understand ? Haven't I made you understand all 
 that you mean to me ? " 
 
 " Forgive me ! Forgive me ! And — and I will forgive 
 you." 
 
 " Let me come In, only for a moment. Just let me sit with 
 you for a moment, talk with you for a moment. That's all. 
 That shall be all. Let me do that. I promise that shall be 
 all."
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 395 
 
 " I mustn't. I mustn't! " 
 
 She whispered the words. She looked Into the hall. Then 
 listened for the sound of an opening door, for the sound of steps. 
 And still she felt in the grasp of events, helpless, deprived of all 
 genuine volition. 
 
 " Dolores, you have my promise — for to-night." 
 
 He moved a little from the door, he took her hand, but now 
 less like a lover than like a man of honor giving his word, 
 clinching a compact to which he would hold at all costs. 
 
 " My promise, my promise! " he repeated. 
 
 " Why — why — what could we say ? What can we have 
 to say?" 
 
 " My promise ! " 
 
 " But we don't know — we can't know whether " 
 
 Suddenly, she never knew how — she was like a leaf moved 
 by the wind — he drew her within and the door was shut. 
 
 They stood together in the hall looking into each others* 
 eyes. 
 
 " He isn't here! " said Cesare, whispering. 
 
 Dolores did not answer him, tell him to go again. Now 
 she felt that anything she could do would be useless, that to- 
 night a certain combination of events was decreed in which she 
 was to be involved, like a body in a mass of fiercely revolving 
 machinery. 
 
 " Let us go to your drawing-room! " 
 
 He spoke aloud. Dolores passed him, and went on till she 
 came to the green and red drawing-room. As she touched 
 the button of the electric light, and the room sprang Into view, 
 the eyes of Lenbach's old man met hers. They seemed to be 
 saying, " I have waited. I shall not have to wait much 
 longer! " 
 
 And as she steadily returned the gaze of the portrait she 
 felt dazed. What seemed foreknowledge was alive In her. 
 And yet something was within her ready to fight It, to deny 
 its identity even. 
 
 She sat, almost dropped down, on a sofa opposite to the pic- 
 ture, and looked at the floor. She heard Cesare sit down close 
 to her. 
 
 " Your promise! " she said. " Your promise! " 
 
 " I will keep it." 
 
 He did not touch her, but she felt as if all that was really 
 him was stretching out to touch her, grasp her, make her his 
 own. And her husband? Was he at FrascatI, or within the
 
 396 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 palace? Once he had come from Frascati quite unexpectedly, 
 and very late, and had slept in the palace. He had had a rea- 
 son. She had forgotten what it was. He might have had a 
 reason to-night. He might at this moment be either in his 
 bedroom, or be up reading in his library. Or he might have 
 fallen asleep over a book while waiting for her as on that night 
 when she returned very late from the bridge tournament. 
 'Without saying a word to Cesare she got up, crossed the room, 
 and softly opened the door into the library. Darkness con- 
 fronted her. She waited for a moment, then turned on the 
 light. The room was empty. She turned off the light, shut 
 the door gently, and softly went back to the sofa. And all 
 this she did with intention, and yet with a vagueness in which 
 any real purpose lay surely drowned and inert. She sat down. 
 
 " He isn't here! " said Cesare. 
 
 " We don't know," she answered, with a sort of almost dull 
 obstinacy. 
 
 He was silent for quite a long while. She did not look at 
 him. Presently she began to wonder, but always vaguely, why 
 he had been so fiercely determined to enter. Perhaps he had 
 wished to find her husband there, to force on a tragedy re- 
 gardless of her reputation, her future. She knew now that, 
 despite his usual air of calm, even of almost serene self-posses- 
 sion, he was capable of complete recklessness when driven by 
 yiolent feeling. Till to-night she had not known him. 
 
 " Dolores ! " he said at last. 
 
 She looked up. 
 
 "Why did you come in?" she said. "What was the use? 
 lYou might have ruined me. Did you wish to ruin me? What 
 did you wish ? And my husband may be here." 
 
 She paused. Then she added: 
 
 *' I believe he is here." 
 
 " That is only a fancy." 
 
 " No. I believe he is here. I feel as if he were in the 
 palace." She spoke without emotion, slowly, almost calmly. 
 
 " Why did j^ou come in ? " 
 
 " I could not leave 3'ou like that, In the street." 
 
 "The street!" 
 
 ■"I felt I must be with you, see you — look at 5'ou, look at 
 you — a little longer, at all costs. Can't you understand? 
 'Directly I'm away from you — now — darkness will come 
 down on me, and nothingness. Don't you understand ? And I 
 shall be In darkness, nothingness, till I'm with you again."
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 397 
 
 She gazed at him in silence, and, while she gazed, she was 
 wrapped in the truth and concentration of his emotion as in a 
 fur through which no touch of the cold could ever penetrate. 
 
 " That was my reason ! I think that was my only reason. 
 But if your husband had met us at the door I believe I should 
 have been glad. I can't help it. For if he had met us wouldn't 
 it have given me a right over you? " 
 
 "How could it?" 
 
 " If he had fought me there I should have beaten him. If 
 we had a duel I know I should " 
 
 "Hush!" 
 
 " And if — neither, then I should have taken you away." 
 
 " He might have believed the truth." 
 
 "The truth!" 
 
 She looked towards the door by which they had come in. 
 
 " If he came in now " she paused, almost as if expecting 
 
 the door to be opened, " he might believe it now. I " She 
 
 looked down at the floor. Her face was set. And again the 
 almost dull obstinacy came into her voice. 
 
 " I have never been untrue to my husband." 
 
 "And you think ?" _ 
 
 He stopped. An expression of strong astonishment came 
 Into his face. 
 
 " You don't always understand how things are," she said. 
 
 Ever since, in the garden that night, he had spoke of her 
 husband's faithlessness, as if it were a matter of course, known, 
 smilingly understood by all the world, she had felt as if her 
 silence on that subject had been almost wickedness. 
 
 "What do I not understand?" 
 
 He leaned towards her. 
 
 " Tell me." 
 
 " You don't understand about Mrs. Denzil and my hus- 
 band." 
 
 " And what is it that I have misunderstood?" 
 
 " My husband goes to Frascati only " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " Only for the children." 
 
 After a pause he leaned back, and said: 
 
 "Si?" 
 
 And at that word for the first time a genuine doubt of her 
 husband's faithfulness entered into the mind of Dolores. That 
 his love was rapidly slipping from her, she believed. That, 
 unless the miracle happened, she would lose it entirely, she be-
 
 398 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 lieved. Even that, released from her, it would eventually go 
 to the mother at Frascati she believed. Again and again, while 
 she had been resolutely winning success as a mondaine, while 
 she had been striving to fill her life and Theo's with various 
 interests, she had looked forward, with a leaden dread, to the 
 day when she would have lost Theo forever. And she had 
 seen him standing by the fruitful vine. But could Cesare be 
 right? Was it possible that she had all this time been de- 
 ceived? Was it possible? No; even now she rejected one 
 doubt. Till Denzil's death there had been nothing. She 
 knew that as certainly as she knew that she was living. But 
 since his death? Her last conversation with Mrs. Masslng- 
 ham recurred to her. And another thing recurred to her; the 
 way in which Edna Denzil and her husband had gone together 
 across the loggia to bend over little Thco ; hovv they had sat 
 down beside him, how they had talked and laughed with him ; 
 the difference when she had gone over to little Theo. 
 
 And then she saw again a darkness with a patch of white 
 against it, which she had first seen as she drove down the hill 
 alone into the Campagna. 
 
 Had she been living in a fool's paradise? And did every 
 one know it? Something within her seemed to flame and turn 
 icy cold. But she said dully, obstinately: 
 
 " My husband loves little children." 
 
 " Si? " Cesare said, again. 
 
 She looked at him. He was leaning back against the high 
 sofa. There was no sarcasm in his face. His black eyes were 
 fixed upon her. In them she saw what seemed to her an expres- 
 sion of almost blank pity, compassion with a great naked won- 
 der behind it. 
 
 And she went down into a great darkness. Struggling out 
 of it with a terrible effort she got up slowly. 
 
 " I am so tired," she said. 
 
 Cesare got up. He took both her hands. 
 
 " Let me go now ! You will let me go ? " 
 
 He pressed her hands in silence. There was no wonder 
 now in his eyes. There was only the something else. 
 
 " Never, never has there been any woman so much a woman 
 as you," he said at last. " That is why I love you as I do. 
 That is whv I am going." 
 
 "Yes — yes." 
 
 Her figure drooped, almost like a tired child's. 
 
 " That is why I shall come back."
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 399 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 He went away so quietly that she did not hear him go. She 
 only knew that her hands were no longer held. And presently 
 she felt as if the room had grown much colder. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 Dolores stood where she was for a long time, but she did not 
 know how long. At last she lifted her head, and looked to- 
 wards the door by which Cesare had gone out. She listened. 
 A profound silence reigned in the palace. She looked at the 
 clock. It was after midnight. But she did not go to bed. 
 She sat down again on the sofa opposite to the portrait, and re- 
 mained there, like one waiting. It seemed to her as if the 
 events of the night were not finished yet. And sleep was im- 
 possible. She could not Imagine that she ever had slept, or 
 ever would sleep again. As she sat still there she seemed to 
 see a great darkness by the aid of a strong light, Theo's lack of 
 love for her by Cesare's love for her. To-night she knew 
 something, she knew what a man's love can be. That knowl- 
 edge was a possession that could never be taken from her while 
 she lived. It made life different, it quickened life, it gave her 
 a strange new sense of value. 
 
 Darkness, nothingness — without her! Cesare had said that, 
 and with a voice, an expression in his eyes, which had made her 
 believe it. 
 
 Darkness, nothingness! 
 
 How far down she had been into darkness. What a terri- 
 ble effort she had had to make to fight her way up before she 
 was able to say, " I am tired ! " Then that new sense of value 
 was of little use to her? It ought to be as a weapon in her 
 hand. But was it? 
 
 In the deep silence which reigned in the palace she heard 
 again and again Cesare's voice. And it said only one word — 
 "Si?" Incredulity, amazement, pity, perhaps even a faint 
 and creeping contempt, all in one little word, the irresistible 
 ejaculation of a mind. 
 
 " But Theo does love little children. He adores children. 
 He has alwavs longed to have children. It is that. It is only 
 that." 
 
 She formed the words with her lips. But her mind was
 
 400 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 shaking like an uncertain hand. Cesare had shown the power 
 of his nature to her that night. Was power likely to be blind, 
 mistaken? How frightful that one human being never can be 
 sure of knowing another human being! If Theo had deceived, 
 betrayed her, how should she know it ? " 
 
 She got up from the sofa. All this time the thoughts and 
 feelings that had passed through her mind and heart had shifted 
 over one immovable base, the belief that either Theo had been 
 to the palace v/hlle she had been away, that he was in it now, 
 or, if not, that he would come to ft that night, late though the 
 hour was. 
 
 Now she meant to find out at any rate whether he was within 
 the palace. She went, with precaution, through the suite of 
 reception-rooms. All were deserted. Then she stood before the 
 door of the bedroom which her husband now occupied when he 
 slept in the palace. The empty bedrooms in the apartment 
 were usually kept locked. Dolores tried the handle of the 
 <ioor. It turned, and the door yielded to her pressure. Im- 
 mediately she was aware of this fact she dropped her hand. 
 The door was now a very little way open. She looked at the 
 aperture, and saw that within the room there was a dim light. 
 She stood still, staring at this faint section of light, which 
 showed her the outline of a picture frame on the wall just 
 beyond the door, and thinking that Cesare had only just gone 
 away. 
 
 Theo was in the room. She felt sure of that. But what 
 was he doing? And Vk^-hat had he been doing during the last 
 half hour? Apparently he had not heard the handle of the 
 door tried and the door opened. For no sound came from 
 wnthin. She pushed the door again, stepped just inside the 
 room, and again listened. And this time she heard a sound, 
 soft, regular, very tranquil, sound of a human being calmly 
 breathing in profound sleep. 
 
 Had any one been watching her at this moment he would 
 have seen an ugly expression of acute irony deform her face 
 and die away from it. 
 
 " U amour veillel" she thought. 
 
 And the whole palace seemed full of sleep, lethargy, pro- 
 found indifference. 
 
 Agonize, tear yourself to pieces, fly into sin if you like, go 
 down Into the nameless places where the nameless deeds are 
 done! But let me sleep! 
 
 She shrank back — to laugh. Then she went into the room.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 401 
 
 Just beyond the door, and below the picture which she had 
 seen by the faint light, there was a straight chair set against 
 the wall. She sat down softly upon it and looked across the 
 big room. The bed was opposite to her. Its head was against 
 the wall in a line with the door. Beside it stood a little old 
 table, with sturdy, twisted legs, which she had picked up in an 
 antiquity shop close to St. Peter's. The light in the room came 
 from a shaded candle which stood on the table. By It lay an 
 open book. Another book lay on the coverlet of the bed. 
 Gogol, no doubt, with the translation, at hand ! Before Theo 
 had fallen asleep he had been studiously going on with his 
 Russian. 
 
 She longed to utter a loud cry, to utter a shriek. Her lips 
 never moved. She sat quite still and looked at the bed. 
 
 She saw her husband. He was lying on his left side with 
 his face turned towards her, but in such a position that she 
 saw only his head and forehead clearly. In sleeping, perhaps, 
 he had tucked in his chin, and shrunk down towards the bottom 
 of the bed, which was a very long one made specially for him. 
 As Dolores looked at his thick disordered hair she thought of 
 Vi's little hands carefully, possessively at work upon it. 
 
 Now his conscious mind was dead. She wondered where 
 his sub-conscious mind was, what It was doing. Perhaps it had 
 gone to Frascati to convey some message to Edna Denzil. 
 
 If only she could know ! 
 
 How happy Edna had looked the other day — had not she? 
 iWhen she had glanced up from little Theo's chair her lips were 
 smiling! The corners of her mouth had turned up. Even her 
 mother had said that she was getting over the death of her hus- 
 band. She would not have got over such a tragedy unless Theo 
 had been at hand to assist her. Always it is the man who 
 assists the woman, the man who teaches the woman to forget. 
 Never is It the woman who assists, who teaches the woman. 
 
 Never — never! 
 
 Dolores heard her teeth grinding one row upon the other. 
 
 Her gaze made no Impression upon the sleeping man, al- 
 though she was deliberately trying to wake him. If she did 
 wake him what was she going to say to him? What was she 
 going to do? She did not know, and now she began to won- 
 der. What still astonished her was that it had been possible 
 for Theo to return at night, to find her out, and to go quietly 
 to bed and to sleep. For surely he must have called Carlino 
 and asked him where she was. And Carlino must have said
 
 402 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 ' — but then she suddenly remembered that she had left the 
 palace alone. Carlino must have said that, then. And Thea 
 would surely be astonished, uneasy at her being out alone in 
 the night. 
 
 But no! The quiet music went on. And she listened, 
 hating it. 
 
 'Had Theo been asleep when she had seemed to see his figure 
 close to her In the garden of Villa Medici? That wraith 
 ■ — existing only In her imagination, of course — had looked 
 strangely Indifferent. 
 
 Her husband stirred in the bed, muttered something Inco- 
 herent, threw out one arm and tucked In his chin still more. 
 She thought perliaps he was going to wake up, and a faint 
 feeling of fear stole through her. 
 
 Yet all this time she had been " willing " him to wake up. 
 His brown hand hung down over the edge of the bed with out- 
 spread fingers, looking grotesque. If it belonged to a dead 
 man could it look like that ? 
 
 If Theo were dead, instead of asleep, and she were a free 
 woman like Edna DenziU What would she feel? tWhat 
 would she do? 
 
 He moved again. Suddenly it occurred to Dolores that she 
 still had on her hat. She got up softly, and stole out of the 
 room, went to her own room, quickly undressed, put on a 
 white wrapper, and returned to Theo's room. As she came 
 beyond the edge of the open door she saw his eyes fixed on 
 her. They were widely opened. When she saw them she 
 stopped short. And she felt as If her heart had stopped too. 
 She stood quite still, and her husband continued to stare at 
 her with his face sideways on the pillow. There was no pene- 
 tration in his look at first, but gradually consciousness dawned 
 in his eyes, and with it surprise. 
 
 He lifted his head. 
 
 "What is it?" he said. 
 
 He sat up on the bed. 
 
 "Doloretta!" 
 
 "Theo!" 
 
 " What Is the matter? " 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 ** But what are you doing here then ? What time is it ? " 
 
 He felt for his watch. While he was doing this a clock In 
 the hall struck one, 
 
 ** One o'clock! " he said. " What made you get up? "
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 403 
 
 "Get up!" 
 
 " Yes, get up out of bed? " 
 
 "Well, I — I'm not at all sleepy. And I thought — It 
 seemed to me, I don't know why, that you were in the palace." 
 
 " Perhaps, without being aware of it, you heard me when I 
 came to your room." 
 
 She drew a chair to her and sat down, but not very near 
 to him. 
 
 " Did you come to my room? " 
 
 ** Yes, as soon as I arrived." 
 
 " What time was that? " 
 
 " Not late. But I suppose the servants had gone to bed. 
 I let myself in. It was between ten and eleven. I expected 
 to find you still up." 
 
 "And you came to my room?" 
 
 " Yes. But I walked softly. I only just opened the door 
 and when I found you were there I went off to bed. What 
 is it?" 
 
 " Nothing. Why do you ask? " 
 
 "Are you — there's nothing the matter?" 
 
 " Of course not. Did you bring a light with you when 
 you came to my room? " 
 
 " Oh no. I only opened the door and listened. When I 
 heard you were asleep I came away at once. But even that 
 may have disturbed you." 
 
 " You heard — did I seem to be sleeping soundly? " 
 
 " I don't know. I came away immediately for fear of 
 startling 5'ou. You must have gone very early to bed." 
 
 " But why did you come in to Rome and at night? I didn't 
 ex you never said vou were coming." 
 
 "I didn't know it."' 
 
 He leaned one arm on the pillow and shifted his position 
 slightly. 
 
 " It's rather a nuisance," he said, speaking in a casual sort 
 of way, " but I've got to run over to England." 
 
 "To England!" 
 
 " Yes. I shall get away to-morrow." 
 
 "You're going to England to-morrow!" 
 
 " I just said so." He still kept up the casual tone. " The 
 fact is — but talking so much at night will drive sleep right 
 out of us." 
 
 " Never mind if it does. What does it matter? Why must 
 you go; 
 
 ,?"
 
 404 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 "Well, you know about those — but no, of course you 
 don't. It's not very interesting. But Edna has two houses 
 in London which Francis left to her. A good part of her 
 income comes from them. They're large houses, one in West- 
 bourne Terrace and the other in Lancaster Gate. But I'm 
 sure " 
 
 "No, do tell me!" ^ 
 
 " Well, the tenant in Lancaster Gate has Just gone smash 
 and bolted. Edna's solicitor has telegraphed, and I'm going 
 over at once to see what's to be done to get things straight. 
 The fellow had the house on a twenty years' lease and has only- 
 been in seven months." 
 
 "Only seven!" 
 
 " There! now you know almost as much as I do." 
 
 " But why must you go to England?" 
 
 "But I've just said why! I must look into the matter, 
 and see Edna's solicitor. It's a serious thing for her if she 
 loses her rent even for a short time. And between ourselves, 
 I'm not very satisfied with the way her solicitor has managed 
 certain affairs for her. But I can't go into all that at this 
 hour of night. I'm very thankful Theo's so much better. 
 Otherwise, I don't think I could have gone." 
 
 " You said you wouldn't go to England this summer. Don't 
 you remember? " 
 
 " Of course I didn't intend to go again." 
 
 "I said — 'when are we going?' — and you " 
 
 " This is duty not pleasure. Even at this time of night I'm 
 sure, if you think, you can see the difference." 
 
 A faint smile flickered over her face and died away. 
 
 " I'm tired of thinking," she murmured. 
 
 And she looked down. 
 
 " Then much better go to bed." 
 
 " Yes. Good-night, Theo." 
 
 She got up and left the room without looking at him again. 
 
 And she shut the door firmly behind her. 
 
 On the following day Sir Theodore started for England. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 Two days after Sir Theodore's departure for England a cer- 
 tain innkeeper in Olevano Romano, between thirty and forty
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 405 
 
 miles distant from Rome, was in excellent spirits. That sum- 
 mer, for some mysterious reason which the good man could 
 not discover, but which he was quite sure had nothing to do 
 with any fault of his, his season had been a poor one. The ar- 
 tists who in the summer months of the year often make Olevano 
 their home, had not arrived at Casa Truschi. It was really 
 as if they had boycotted the little house with its white walls 
 and its green shutters, its long pergolas, its arbors, its earthen 
 terrace set with roses and geraniums. Yet there had been no 
 change in the management of the inn. Erminia still made 
 those omelettes, not unlike small squares of blanket, which so 
 many poor painters had eaten with relish. The veal that had 
 followed them for a year and a day, and much longer, Erminia 
 was quite ready to send after them still, with its companion po- 
 tatoes cut into large lozenges, and fried in oil of the olive. 
 The thin red wine was there "Fino del Paese/" as Erminia al- 
 ways called it, when any indiscreet inquirer demanded its name, 
 and the heavy, dark-colored bread. The uneven brick floors 
 were dusted. The beds were duly made, and lay proudly on 
 the wire mattresses. Bees hummed lazily in the arbors, among 
 ivj^ roses and canes. Below the garden, on the long slopes 
 of the sun-kissed hills, the olives displayed their subtle beauty, 
 delicate, almost shrinking, of silver green and green silver. The 
 songs of the sun-browned peasants came up from the trees, with 
 the cries and the laughter of children, and the tocsin of bells 
 from the little town clustered about the mass of gray rock, 
 with its dark green clothing of shrubs and herbage, and its 
 ruined tower. 
 
 Olevano had not changed. Still, near the road to Subiaco, 
 the oaks of the Serpentara rustled their leaves as if in a chorus 
 of thankfulness to the romantic artists who saved them. And 
 the Sabine mountains held towards evening, as of old, strange 
 messages of light from the declining sun, messages precious and 
 beautiful sent surely to those mountains alone, as friends sends 
 heart-words to friend. Valmontone, home of the castle, San 
 Vito, Rocca di Cave, sent up their smoke to catch the last rays, 
 that even it might be turned to pathos and glory, to something 
 that stirred the imagination of those who beheld it streaming 
 forth into the limpid magic that the twilight was creeping near 
 to embrace. 
 
 And Casa Truschi had not changed. But, as Benedetto 
 Truschi had said many times that summer, '* times had changed." 
 He had groaned indeed so often over tempi passati that his
 
 4o6 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 cronies in the town to which he often descended from his remote 
 eyrie high " above everything," as he was fond of declaring, 
 were quite astonished now that he smiled and looked gay. 
 They asked him the reason for his altered mood. . Were the 
 painters coming at last? or had the breeze traveling over the 
 heads of the olives from the Alban mountains or the sea, whis- 
 pered of English spinsters, with small means but strict notions 
 of honesty and weekly settlements, packing at Ostia, Nettuno, 
 or Rocca di Papa, preparatory to a raid on Olevano? 
 
 Benedetto shook his large and round head, pulled first one 
 and then the other of his big brown ears, and uttered a loud, 
 macche! That did not tell the gossips much, but it was 
 all the innkeeper chose to tell them. He was living alone in 
 the inn with his daughter, the before-mentioned Erminia. 
 Erminia did not come down into the town just then. So she 
 was not questioned. But the sudden good temper of Benedetto 
 was shrewdly associated by more than one gossip with a gray 
 torpedo-shaped motor which had flashed through the town the 
 day before, driven by a man who looked made of cap and gog- 
 gles, and which, after a very short stay in the neighborhood — 
 just where was not generally known — had flashed back in a 
 cloud of white dust down the road to Rome. 
 
 Those who knew Benedetto best felt sure that his gaiety 
 was connected with his pocket, and they surmised that the dar- 
 ing motor-man, who had driven so fast but so skilfully, and who 
 had looked like a representative figure of modern progress and 
 audacity, was connected very possibly with both. 
 
 They were right. 
 
 The man who had driven the torpedo-shaped motor from 
 Rome to Olevano Romano was Cesare Carelli, and he had 
 written to Benedetto, an old acquaintance of his, to meet him at 
 a certain place in the road beyond the village. It was not possi- 
 ble for a motor to gain the terrace in front of Casa Truschi, 
 which was approached only by a long footway roofed by a per- 
 gola. So Benedetto had descended to hold a colloquy, but not 
 to the garden gate. 
 
 " It was Don Cesare Carelli," he told his widowed daugh- 
 ter when he came back to the lonely house on the height. 
 " Who used often to stay with me when he was a lad and I 
 was at Terracina. It was duck-shooting he came for then in 
 the Pontine Marshes." 
 
 " He doesn't come here for duck-shooting, does he, papa?" 
 observed Erminia, fixing a pair of eyes, which looked as if they
 
 THE FRUITFUL VIXE 407 
 
 had recently been carefully oiled, on her father. " And in 
 summer, too! " 
 
 " No. He's come here for something different. And there's 
 no cause for us to make a great talk about it. Just you come in 
 here!" 
 
 At the moment the little inn was quite empt}'. Benedetto 
 had been speaking to his daughter on the terrace which over- 
 looked an immense view, and the town. Now he led the way 
 heavily and rather mysteriously up the outside staircase of 
 stone to a balcony under a pergola. The one sitting-room of 
 the inn opened on to this balcony by French windows. When 
 his daughter had joined him there he stood still for a moment. 
 Then he said: 
 
 " In here ! " and entered the sitting-room. 
 
 This fastness had a tiled floor of very faded pink bricks, 
 large and uneven. The ceiling of wood was colored with a 
 sickly pinkish hue and was not high. On the walls was a 
 venerable paper displaying a pattern of magenta on a pale gold 
 ground. Against it were nailed many pictures. Here was to 
 be seen the Holy Father, Pius the Tenth, with white hair and 
 a grave, almost sad, expression, clad in a red cloak over white, 
 and adorned with a gold chain from which depended a pearl 
 cross. Round about him were pictures of women in ruffs with 
 dark hair and pointed noses. And almost immediately oppo- 
 site to him was a portrait of a cardinal with a red cloak and 
 a cross, beneath which was written in heavy black letters: 
 *' Scipio Cardinalis Burghesius in hac Domo moratus est Anno 
 1779." Near him was fixed a large mandolin. A mirror with 
 a red rose painted on its surface reflected part of the room. 
 Beneath it on a ledge covered with yellow-green plush, was a 
 plaster group of beggars in attitudes of penury and despair. A 
 red sofa invited repose. There were two pink armchairs, with 
 white antimacassars on backs and arms, several chairs up- 
 holstered in green and in yellow rep ; and near to the Holy 
 Father there was a handsome cardinal's chair covered with red 
 damask, much worn and faded, but still dignified with its high 
 back, wooden arms, and carved knobs heavily gilded. A good 
 sized table covered with a clean white cloth stood exactly in 
 the middle of the floor. 
 
 The most characteristic features of this room were, how- 
 ever, supplied by the doors. Evidently the painters, who had 
 in prosperous times frequented the inn, had been moved by 
 emotions of gratitude, or perhaps by fantasy, to embellish these
 
 408 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 with the ripe fruits of their genius. One, no doubt religiously 
 inclined, had painted on the door near " Scipio Cardinalis 
 Burghesius " a long procession of young girls in white, wreathed 
 with unknown tlowers, winding up with submission to a bishop 
 who extended large hands in blessing. The touching effect of 
 this culmination was not increased by the anti-clerical demon- 
 stration of a painter of a different way of thinking, who had 
 filled part of the benign sky above the procession with a number 
 of fiercely-tinted boys, whose almost devilish faces and prancing 
 puppet-like limbs, suggested acute derision expressed with an 
 ardent impiety. On another door, at the back of the room, 
 out of the Pope's range of vision, a post-impressionist had 
 yielded to his sense of reality and truth. Here a masher, 
 realistically thin, and indeed almost concave in the region of 
 the lower waistcoat buttons, sunk prostrate in a cane arm- 
 chair of vivid scarlet, his top hat tilted to the front of a melon- 
 shaped bald head, dreamed over his high white collar on a 
 green lawn starred with immense white blobs. In his bone- 
 less left hand he sustained, as by some miracle of the will with 
 which the physical body had no connection, a large cigarette. 
 And he extended towards the universe a pair of enormous feet 
 encased in gold colored boots. Near him a balloon-shaped 
 mauve woman, with a tiny head, fell forward to smell a 
 standard somiCthing erupting in a disease of pink spots. In the 
 distance two trees, like two goUywogs, in yellow pots, the same 
 color as the boots of the masher, declined to cast any shade. 
 
 Standing with one hand on the table in the center of this 
 room, and pulling at his ear, Benedetto said to his daughter: 
 
 " There's some one coming here to-morrow." 
 
 " Is there? How many? " 
 
 I' It's a lady.'; 
 
 " How long is she going to stay? " 
 
 " Chi lo sa? It seems she's been ill, or upset, or something, 
 and she wants to be quite quiet." 
 
 " Well, it's quiet here." 
 
 " Si, si ! That's why she comes. She wants the whole 
 mn. 
 
 " There's nothing against her Having It, is there ? " 
 
 " Nothing at all. We must do the best for her, make her 
 very comfortable. She's accustomed to be very comfortable.'* 
 
 " Most ladies are." 
 
 " Si, si ! But this one's a very special lady, and wants special 
 comfort."
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 409 
 
 " There's always the veal and " 
 
 "No, it's the rooms." 
 
 " She's bringing some one with her, I s'pose? " 
 
 " Some one with her? " 
 
 " Won't she have a servant ? " 
 
 "Macchi!" 
 
 The oiled eyes of Erminia regarded her papa with robust 
 curiosity. 
 
 " What should any one want with a servant out here? She'll 
 come just as she is, and you must do your best to make her 
 comfortable, without talking about it. Here's a chance for 
 us to finish up as if v^td had artists all the summer." 
 
 " I'll make her comfortable. Where does she come from? " 
 
 " Naples. I fancy she's an American, come by sea." 
 
 "What time is she coming?" 
 
 " Any time to-morrow afternoon. Have the bedrooms 
 ready." 
 
 Before Erminia could make any further remark her father 
 w^ent out of the room with decision. 
 
 On the following afternoon about two o'clock, when a haze 
 of heat hung about the flanks of the mountains, and every 
 peasant and townsman who respected himself was lost in the 
 siesta, Benedetto, looking down from the terrace of Casa 
 Truschi, saw a gray motor car skim over the bit of white road 
 that Vv^as visible below near the Albergo Roma, and vanish 
 among the trees on the hill that led upward to the town. 
 
 " Erminia," he called, turning. 
 
 " What is it ? " cried a harsh voice from the depths of the 
 house. 
 
 "Come here!" 
 
 In a moment his daughter appeared under the pergola at 
 the top of the steps. 
 
 " The principino v.'ill be here in a moment. I've just seen 
 the motor car pass below." 
 
 "The principino! He's not going to sleep here, is he?" 
 
 " Not that I know of. But " 
 
 " Is the lady with him ? " 
 
 " Chi lo saf But anj'how he's sure to come in and loolc at 
 the rooms. I'll go to the gate now to meet him." 
 
 And Benedetto hurried off along the path, and disappeared 
 under the tunnel of vines and creeping plants that extended 
 down the slope to the road. Within a few minutes he returned, 
 walking respectfully, but talking quite familiarly, with Cesare
 
 '4IO THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 Carelli, who wore a pale yellow linen motor coat and a cap 
 protected with a linen covering, and who was white as a miller 
 with dust. 
 
 Cesare did not pause even for a moment to look at the mar- 
 velous view. He cast a swift glance around him over the 
 terrace and the small garden below it, went into the ivy-cov- 
 ered arbor near the steps, saw that it was empty, came out, 
 and at once mounted to the sitting-room, followed closely by 
 Benedetto. 
 
 There were pink roses on the table in the middle of the room. 
 The floor had been thoroughly swept that morning, clean anti- 
 macassars sewn on the red armchairs, the pictures dusted. 
 Cesare stood still for a moment with one muscular hand rest- 
 ing on the table. The silence of summer in this eyrie of the 
 hills was beautiful. It was broken only by the humming of the 
 bees, by the very faint rustle of leaves in the pergola over the 
 balcony, as a momentary breath of wind touched them, by the 
 sound of a church bell below rising out of the valley. The bell 
 ceased almost at once. The little wind died away. Only the 
 bees hummed on, traveling slowly from flower to flower. 
 
 Cesare sighed, and took his hand from the table. 
 
 " The bedroom is ready? " he asked. 
 
 " Eccellenza, si ! I will call my daughter." 
 
 "No, no, don't! [Where is It?" 
 
 The inn had only the floor on which they were, with cel- 
 lars and ofKces below. Benedetto opened a door to the left 
 near the French windows and showed Cesare into a single bed- 
 room, which communicated with another slightly larger room 
 containing two beds. In each of these rooms vases of closely 
 packed small pink roses had been placed. The floors were of 
 brick uncarpeted. Beside each bed lay a small yellow and 
 red rug. Three or four straw chairs were carefully set back 
 against the walls. There v/as no attempt at comfort. But 
 cleanliness reigned, and the beds looked as if they were good 
 ones. 
 
 The second bedroom opened by a French window on to a 
 narrow balcony, which ran along one end of the house at right 
 angles to the w^indows which looked out upon the terrace, and 
 commanded a splendid view of the rugged Sabine mountains, 
 and of the near hillsides, covered with olive trees, and inter- 
 sected by winding paths. Far below the white road could be 
 seen, the road leading from, leading to, Rome. Immediately 
 beneath this balcony a garden path sloped gently down, then
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 4" 
 
 turned abruptly and ran back below a stone wall to the sunken 
 garden beyond the terrace. A thickly overgrown pergola cov- 
 ered, and entirely concealed the second section of the path, so 
 that any one standing upon the balcony saw only a roof of canes, 
 ivy and climbing roses, and people descending from the terrace, 
 on their way to the sunken garden, disappeared from view di- 
 rectly they turned the acute angle of the path. 
 
 Cesare came out on this balcony, and stood there for several 
 minutes with his motor cap pulled down over his eyes. He 
 looked first at the roof of the long pergola. Beneath it was 
 a narrow stone bench which he knew of. There one could sit 
 in shadow, hidden, looking out over Nature's heart-gladden- 
 ing wildness. There one could listen to the loud songs of 
 the sun-browned peasants, see their robust figures passing below 
 on those winding paths of the rich, warm earth. His eyes 
 traveled away. The road to Rome was marked out by some 
 black-green cypresses. They held his eyes. But suddenly they 
 were obscured by a dense cloud of white dust which arose from 
 the road, which moved rapidly on, which slowly dispersed in 
 the golden air. His eyes shone. He turned round and saw 
 Erminia looking at him over her father's fat shoulders. 
 
 " Buon giorno!" he said, quickly. 
 
 " Eccellenza, buon giorno!^* 
 
 " The lady will be here in a moment. Her motor has just 
 gone by. Get her a good cup of tea. You know how to make 
 good tea?" 
 
 *' Eccellenza si ! AH the signorl and the signore who " 
 
 *' That's it ! Make it very good, with lemon and biscuits. 
 And do everything you can for the signora. She wants to be 
 X^ery quiet. Let her alone. Don't bother her. But make her 
 comfortable. She isn't bringing a maid." 
 
 He held out his hand. As he disappeared Erminia stood re- 
 garding a fifty lire note with a broad smile of rapture. 
 
 "Is the principe staying here too, papa?" she asked, swing- 
 ing round to her father. 
 
 " No, of course not. He has only come to see that the lady 
 IS comfortable." 
 
 " And is he going back to Rome to-day? " 
 
 "What does it matter to you?" 
 
 After a minute, he added, in a surly voice: 
 
 ** Don Cesare has put up at the Roma." 
 
 iWith a shrug of his shoulders he left the room. 
 
 Almost at the same moment a taxi-cab stopped at the gate
 
 412 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 of the garden, and a tall woman swathed in a voluminous white 
 veil, got slowly out. As she did so Cesare opened the gate. 
 She passed in quickly under the pergola and v/alked straight on, 
 followed in a moment by Cesare holding a dressing-case, and 
 by the chauffeur who carried a bag with an unusual amiability 
 that had been produced in the usual way. The woman, who 
 was Dolores, did not enter the inn. She walked to the ter- 
 race, and while the two men carried in bag and dressing-case 
 she stood with her back turned to the house looking out over 
 the view towards Rome. She had slowly unfastened and un- 
 wound her veil. Quite still she stood till she heard on the 
 stone steps descending feet, and Cesare's voice saying: " That's 
 enough! You can go now!" Then she turned sharply, and 
 opened her lips. The chauffeur took off his cap in parting salu- 
 tation. 
 
 " Wait a moment! " she said. 
 
 "Signora?" 
 
 " What is it ? " asked Cesare. " Can he do anything more 
 for vou? " 
 
 "No, no." 
 
 She turned quickly away. She had not meant the man to 
 see her face, into which now a slow and faint Hush of red was 
 creeping. 
 
 She heard him going away down the path. 
 
 " You've got his address ? " she said. *' Where is he 
 going?" 
 
 " Back to Rome. Yes, I've got his address. A telegram 
 will bring him over at any moment to fetch you. And my 
 motor is at the Roma." 
 
 " I can't use that." 
 
 " He can always come in two hours." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 She stared out over the view. 
 
 "Do you want to see the rooms? Or would you rather 
 come into the arbor and have tea there? " 
 
 She glanced to the right and saw the soft dark of the shady 
 place. 
 
 " Let us have tea in there." 
 
 He smiled at the " us." Till that moment he had been 
 looking grave, almost troubled. Now his face cleared, changed 
 marvelously. 
 
 " Yes, yes. It's shady and cool. You will rest, you'll love 
 it. Come in."
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 413 
 
 Dolores obeyed him and went into the arbor. 
 
 The ivy had grown for years very thickly over it, and made 
 now what was almost a twilight within it. A table, con- 
 structed of a block of gray stone set on a sturdy pedestal of 
 brick and dried earth, stood in the middle, with chairs, brought 
 there by the thoughtful Benedetto, beside it. Through the 
 opening by which they entered the glory of the sun seemed 
 trying to follow them. But the soft twilight prevailed against 
 it. Quickly Cesare drew forward the chairs. 
 
 " I wish they were better ones," he said, almost angrilj\ 
 
 " Never mind. What does it matter? " 
 
 " I must get something else. I'm certain they have a sort 
 of chaise longue. Only one minute ! " 
 
 He took her hand, kissed it, held it long to his lips. Then 
 he let it go and hastened away. 
 
 Dolores let her hand fall on the table and lie there on the 
 stone. She was sitting with her back to the path by which 
 she had com.e up to the inn, and her face towards the green 
 wall of the arbor which partially shut out the great view to- 
 wards Rome and over the town of Olevano. As she sat there 
 she heard faint sounds rising up to her from out of the midst 
 of the tall and narrow houses, faint human sounds. The little 
 world vras waking from its siesta. She leaned forward against 
 the stone slab and listened intently. Now she thought she 
 heard cries of children. Bells sounded and ceased. But the 
 human noises persisted. Children playing! Yes, she heard 
 that. She got up, went over to the farther side of the retreat, 
 and looked down through the roses and canes, and the ivy leaves. 
 Immediately beneath her was a slope covered with olive 
 trees, leading straight to the first habitations, crowded against 
 other high houses which clustered about the great mass of rock 
 on the top of which rose the fragment of tower. From the 
 farther edge of this rock a sort of spine of houses disappeared 
 in the direction of the valley. Although now bathed in a 
 glory of sunshine Olevano at this moment to Dolores looked 
 both wild and sad. In coming to it she had passed Palestrina, 
 Genazzano with its fortress of the Colonnas, Cave. And they, 
 too, had seemed to her wild and sad, with their swarming 
 populations of dark-eyed, staring people. The chauffeur had 
 made a mistake in entering Genazzano and had deviated from 
 the road. To get back he had made an almost complete cir- 
 cuit of the town and had passed at the foot of the gigantic 
 bastions of the fortress. From a window far above her Dolores
 
 414 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 had seen a big, brown woman lean out holding a baby at her 
 breast and suckling it. 
 
 She thought of that woman now as she heard the children 
 playing beneath her in some hidden place. Beyond Olevano, 
 over its yellow-tiled roofs, a great stretch of gently rising 
 country, rich in color, hazy and romantic, stretched out, end- 
 ing in a line of hill which, depressed towards the center, sug- 
 gested sea waves beyond, and to right and left rose into moun- 
 tain summits. Somewhere over that line, was Frascati, was 
 Rome, was Palazzo Barberini. 
 
 But children were playing — playing. Their soft cries 
 filled her ears. Where were they? She could not discern any 
 running and leaping forms, restless, driven by the warm young 
 blood within them. She lifted her hands, parted the canes, 
 the roses. But no, she could not see those children, as she had 
 seen the baby at the breast of the leaning woman in that old 
 Colonna fortress. 
 
 She heard a step. She started and turned. And even as she 
 did so a voice in her ear seemed to whisper, " children — chil- 
 dren — they must be born ! A child — a child must be born I " 
 Quite clearly she seemed to hear it speaking close in her ear. 
 
 Cesare stood in the entrance of the arbor, carrying a folding 
 chair. Under his left arm was a striped red and yellow cushion. 
 
 "I've got it," he began. "But — how startled you lookl 
 Did I startle you ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " You were looking at the view? " 
 
 "Yes, at the town. It — it seems to be full of children. 
 Don't you hear them? " 
 
 She slightly lifted her right hand. 
 
 "Little rascals — birichini! They always make such a row. 
 But who has the heart to stop them? " 
 
 He arranged the chair. 
 
 "Are you fond of children?" she asked, with her big eyes 
 always fixed upon him. 
 
 " Yes, of course. Let me put you into j'our chair." 
 
 She knew how he was forever longing to touch her. She let 
 him touch her, draw her down into the chair with a strong 
 pressure which was a caress through which almost his soul 
 seemed speaking to her. He arranged the cushion behind her 
 little dark head, from which she removed her hat. Then he 
 stood for a moment at the back of the chair motionless where 
 she could not see him.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 415 
 
 " What Is it? " she said, " What are you doing? " 
 
 He bent and kissed her hair. 
 
 "I am — I am — Dolores!" 
 
 There was a sound of china rattling. Quickly he went over 
 to the other side of the table. 
 
 " Here is your tea! " 
 
 Erminia came with the tray. There were two cups upon 
 it. She set it down on the stone carefully, then stood staring. 
 
 " That's all ! " said Cesare. " We don't want anything 
 else." 
 
 "Erminia!" 
 
 Benedetto's rough voice was heard calling loudly. Erminia 
 went slowly away. 
 
 " Don't move. I will give you your tea. I will do every- 
 thing for you." 
 
 He poured the tea out with care, as if ft were a precious 
 liquid, and brought her the cup. 
 
 " I'll put It here on the arm of the chair. Will you have 
 lemon ? " 
 
 "Please!" 
 
 He cut the big lemon in two, and squeezed the juice of one 
 half into her cup. He had taken off his coat and cap, and got 
 rid of the dust which had covered him. 
 
 *' I scarcely ever take tea, but to-day " 
 
 He poured some out for himself. 
 
 " You took it that day on Como." 
 
 *' Yes, after my swim. How long ago that seems ! " 
 
 *' Yes. That seems very long ago." 
 
 He brought his chair nearer to hers. 
 
 " I can't have the table between us. Is it pretty good — 
 the tea?" 
 
 " I think so. I'm glad to have it." 
 
 "If only we could have come here together! I can't bear 
 you out of m.y sight." 
 
 " Don't say that." 
 
 " Why mustn't I say it?" 
 
 " I don't — you mustn't feel like that," 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because — think of the future." 
 
 Violently almost he replied : 
 
 " I will not. To-day it would be madness to think of it. 
 
 The man who can't live for " he broke of¥. " You know 
 
 why it would be madness!" \
 
 4i6 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " Yes," she said in a changed voice. " It would be. No, 
 don't let us! Don't let us! We must shut it out." 
 
 She closed her eyes for a minute. When she did that the 
 children's voices below seemed to grow much louder. 
 
 " That's easy to-day — and it will be easier presently," he 
 said. 
 
 She opened her eyes and looked at him. 
 
 " I feel as if I should never quite understand you," he added, 
 looking down into her eyes. 
 
 " Don't try to. It's — it's better not." 
 
 *' But I feel as if I would give half my life really to under- 
 stand you." 
 
 " You never could." 
 
 "I! And any one else?" 
 
 Dolores thought of Nurse Jennings. 
 
 " If any one ever could," she said, " it would not be a man." 
 
 " Surely you don't want to be understood by a woman? " 
 
 " But does it matter what we want ? Oh no ! " 
 
 " To us it matters." 
 
 " To us — but that's nothing, nothing." 
 
 He moved in his chair, almost, she thought, like a big uneasy 
 boy. Now and then, often indeed, she was conscious of the boy 
 in Cesare, despite his intensely masculine physique. But uneasi- 
 ness was rare in him. And she had never seen him look self- 
 conscious. 
 
 " Nothing? What do you mean? I think it is everything." 
 
 The uneasiness seemed to drop away from him. His power- 
 ful m.anhood asserted itself. 
 
 " Only want enough," he said in his firm and strong voice. 
 " I mean with all you are, and you are nearly, or quite, the 
 whole way to getting it. But some people, many people, don't 
 really care. I didn't, I think, for years and years. And then 
 — I did, I did ! " He drew in the fingers of his left hand hard 
 till the back of the hand was ridged. " And then I did. 
 And — " he lowered his voice. " I'm here with you." 
 
 " You think it is really enough to want with all one's 
 force? Perhaps it is. I don't know that I had ever thought 
 of that before." 
 
 She frowned, like one who is thinking, or wishing, pro- 
 foundly. 
 
 " But no, it isn't," she said. 
 
 She paused. 
 
 " I remember " she began, and stopped.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 417 
 
 "'What? What?" 
 
 " Long ago, when I was far away from Rome, It seemed 
 to me as if some one, at a great distance off, was influencing 
 me." 
 
 " Some one? Did you know who it was? " 
 
 *' I felt as if it were you." 
 
 The blood rushed to his face, the triumphant blood. 
 
 "I influencing you! When was it?" 
 
 "It was in the summer — last summer." 
 
 " When I put an end to " 
 
 He thought of Lisetta and was silent. Suddenly he remem- 
 bered her passion, her intense, almost insane jealousy, her de- 
 spair when he broke with her. And he remembered her look, 
 the sound of her voice in the Giamarchos' drawing-room when 
 she said, " You were kind enough to bet a thousand lire to five 
 hundred against me. I only wanted to thank you. Good- 
 night, Carelli! " 
 
 If Lisetta knew! If she could see him now! 
 
 *' Why do you look so grave?" said Dolores, slowly. 
 
 She lifted her cup from the arm of the chair and drank 
 some more tea. Was the cloud coming down on him too? 
 
 " I — it was stupid of me to go to the gate and meet you," 
 he replied. " Because of the chaufEeur." 
 
 " I wondered that you did it." 
 
 *' But you said nothing." 
 
 " No — when it was done what was the use ? " 
 
 " I oughtn't to have let him see me, know that I was here. 
 But when I knew you were there I forgot everything. But I 
 don't suppose it matters. Oh, how I hate all the things that 
 tie us down, that prevent us from being free! But we won't 
 think of them to-day." 
 
 His voice changed. The grave, almost sad look went out 
 of his face. 
 
 " No one will come here now. We are on the top of the 
 world." 
 
 He stood up. 
 
 " Will you have some more tea? " 
 
 "No, thank you." 
 
 She got up, too, as if in reply to his restless movement, his 
 changed voice. They had sought the shade. But surely they 
 needed the sun. 
 
 "Let us go out!" she said. "I have seen nothing here 
 yet."
 
 4i8 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " I will show you everything." 
 
 She did not put on her hat, but opened her parasol and went 
 out on to the terrace. A low coping of stone, perhaps a foot 
 and a half high, ran along it. Red geraniums bloomed in iron- 
 clamped tubs close to the house. Some small pollarded trees 
 threw patches of shade on the wrinkled earth. 
 
 Erminia and her father had disappeared. The inn, with its 
 green wooden shutters closed, was like a deserted house asleep. 
 Nothing moved but a white cat, which looked as if it had just 
 v/ashed itself for the year, so exquisitely clean was it. Slowly, 
 and walking with a peculiar delicacy, it crossed the far end of 
 the terrace and vanished, going down the slope which led to 
 the pergola of the lower garden. 
 
 " Shall I show you the house first? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 He led the way up the steps. 
 
 " This is the sitting-room." 
 
 Dolores shut her parasol and stepped inside. Directly she 
 was in the room, she said: 
 
 " The Pope here ! " 
 
 "Why not? You will find his portrait in hundreds of 
 houses of this kind through all Italy." 
 
 " How sad he looks! And all these women in ruffs, and the 
 doors! What a strange little room!" 
 
 She sat down by the table and laid her parasol on the white 
 cloth. 
 
 " Is it true," she said, " that at Genazzano, on the way here, 
 there is a famous madonna, the Madonna del Buon Consi- 
 glio?" 
 
 " Of course, quite true. But " 
 
 " As I was coming out of Genazzano a man, who was direct- 
 ing the chauffeur, said, 'Does the lady want to visit the chapel 
 of the Madonna del Buon ConsigUof " 
 
 " Coming out of Genazzano ! But it is off the road ! You 
 ought never to have gone there." 
 
 '* But we did. The chauffeur made a mistake. And so I 
 did go there. But I did not see the madonna." 
 
 "What does it matter?" 
 
 She did not answer. She got up from the table. 
 
 " Your room is in here," Cesare said, opening the door to 
 the left, near the French window. " The farther room is 
 the best, because of the balcony." 
 
 She went in. He stood for a moment, as if undecided.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 419 
 
 Then he came away from the door, and walked around the 
 sitting-room examining the pictures. He lit a cigarette, went 
 out to the balcony, and stood by the rail staring into the dis- 
 tance. 
 
 Surely he had chosen well. This place was remote, although 
 Only two hours by motor from Rome. And it was in a mag- 
 nificent position. No one would come. The inn was tiny, 
 and Dolores had the whole of it. They were in an almost 
 perfect solitude. The blood quickened in his veins. But Do- 
 lores had strangely altered his mood since she had arrived at 
 the inn. Never had he felt her to be so strange, so mysterious, 
 as now. The nearer he drew to her, the more intimately he 
 came into her life, the more passionately he desired her, the 
 more strongly he was conscious that she was mysterious, that 
 she eluded him. He had never felt thus with any other woman. 
 And in her mystery was there not a curious, an inexplicable, 
 sadness? 
 
 Lisetta had held no mystery such as this, clever, brilliant 
 woman of the world though she was. He had been so sure of 
 Lisetta. Perhaps — soon — he would feel again that sense of 
 sureness, of dominating manhood, which he now desired to feel, 
 which a man ought always to feel. Yes. To-morrow all 
 would be different. 
 
 Again the blood leaped in his veins. And he flung away 
 the faint uneasiness which had begun to tarnish his joy, his 
 triumph. And when, presently, Dolores returned to the sitting- 
 room, the cloud had lifted from his face, from his bearing. And 
 he looked like a man who, at last, had his hands on his greatest 
 desire. 
 
 " The rooms are very simple," he said. " I've been so 
 accustomed to roughing it, living anyhow when I've been 
 shooting, that perhaps I'm a bad judge for you. Do you hate 
 them? " 
 
 " No. I have been out on tKe Halcony." 
 
 " It's a great view, isn't it ? " 
 
 *' Wonderful. Take me to that pergola under the balcony. 
 I've been looking down on its green roof." 
 
 " It's a regular hiding-place. And there's a bench. Come." 
 
 They went out, turned the angle of the inn, descended the 
 sloping path beneath the balcony of Dolores' room, and came 
 into the pergola. 
 
 " Let us sit down here," Cesare said. 
 
 " Yes. And then, presently, I'll rest till towards evening."
 
 420 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 He touched, but only just touched, her hand with the back of 
 his, almost as if by accident. 
 
 " You shall rest. I'll leave you. I'll go down to the Roma 
 for a little, over the slope here. There's a path that takes you 
 to the inn without going through the town. But need I stay 
 away from you very long? " 
 
 He felt, and strangely considering the circumstances, the 
 delicacy of her womanhood, the atmosphere of sensitiveness in 
 which she always seemed to move. Oh, the difference between 
 her and Lisetta! And he asked the question gently, trying not 
 to show too plainly his desire. But he wished with an ardor 
 which was almost savage that the sun would sink and the dark- 
 ness fall about them. 
 
 Dolores sat down on the narrow bench and he sat beside 
 her, but not quite close to her. He did not dare to do that 
 just then, because of his nature. She looked down over the 
 olivo-covered slopes that stretched away below the pergola; 
 and she saw the white road far off with its faithful cypresses 
 near it. Some peasants were passing on a winding path, singing 
 in chorus as they went. They disappeared, slowly, among the 
 trees, but their voices were audible, floating up through the 
 sparkling air, after they were gone. They left their song be- 
 hind them, like a kind and light-hearted message. 
 
 " I must have a little rest," Dolores said. " Do you go down 
 there to that road ? " 
 
 "Yes. That's where the Roma is." 
 
 ** I'm glad I came up here instead." 
 
 " You could not have stayed there. It is right on the 
 high road. But at this time of year every one is away. No 
 one we know would pass." 
 
 Directly he had spoken, from the road arose a cloud of white 
 dust. 
 
 It traveled quickly, dispersed, disappeared, floating back 
 from a small dark object. 
 
 "There's a motor coming! " said Dolores. 
 
 " Not here. No one will come here. You have the whole 
 house." 
 
 " But to an inn -" 
 
 " No one shall disturb j^ou. I have spoken to Benedetto." 
 
 But Dolores still looked fixedly down at the place where the 
 dust had been. And the light-hearted song died away into 
 silence.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 4Zi 
 
 " That's some one going to Subiaco, no doubt," said Cesare, 
 nrmly, cheerfully. " Subiaco is quite near here." 
 
 " I know." 
 
 " Why do you always look at that road ? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 She got up restlessly. 
 
 " Let us go back to the terrace. And then I think I will 
 rest. You see, it was a long, hot drive. I've brought a book. 
 I can sit out and look at the view, and read, till you come back." 
 
 " When may I come, Dolores? " 
 
 She waited, looking at him. Then she said: 
 
 " On the terrace I'll tell you." 
 
 " Don't you like this pergola? I like it better than any other 
 part of the garden." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 *' Because the house is hidden." 
 
 " Yes, but I don't know. I think, when I am alone, I will 
 sit on the terrace." 
 
 She did not tell him that under the pergola she could not 
 hear the children's voices, and that she needed to hear them 
 again. 
 
 He took her back to a wooden bench which had its back 
 against the ivy-covered arbor in which they had had tea. She 
 looked quickly away to the town, which was now full of voices. 
 
 " Yes, I'll sit here." 
 
 " I'll get the chaise longue'* 
 
 " No, don't. I like this bench.'* 
 
 He stood for a minute. 
 
 " Shall I fetch you your book?" 
 
 " Will you ? I left it on a chair on the balcony." 
 
 He went to fetch it, and glanced at the title as he brought 
 it to her. It was the second part of Goethe's "Faust." She 
 thanked him, and said: 
 
 " You are good to me." 
 
 "Be good to me!" he whispered, leaning down to her. 
 *' When may I come ? " 
 
 She looked away to the little town fixedly. Then she said 
 in a low voice: 
 
 1 a, luvv vuici- . 
 
 " When it's evening." 
 
 He turned away slowly and left Eer.
 
 422, THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 When he had gone, Dolores opened her little book. She 
 glanced at a page near the end of the volume and her eyes lit 
 on the words, " Magna Peccatrix." Immediately she shut the 
 book. Why had she brought it? In coming away from Pal- 
 azzo Barberini she had caught it up Vv^ithout even reading the 
 title. Her thought had been merely, " I must have some- 
 thing." But to-day she did not want philosophy, the ruthless 
 working out of punishment of sin, the tragedy of women 
 brought before her mind. She laid the book down on the 
 earth at her feet, and, turning on the bench, she gazed at Ole- 
 vano. From this bench, away in the town she could see an 
 open space surrounded by tall, narrow houses, the playground 
 of the children whose voices filled her ears now Cesare was 
 gone. She saw children, diminished by distance to tiny shapes, 
 rushing hither and thither, crossing and recrossing the space, 
 vanishing, reappearing, never still even for one instant. A 
 fury of life seemed to govern them, life that came out of 
 mothers, life that fathers had helped to bring into being. At 
 that moment, as she gazed at the little darting shapes, almost 
 for the first time in her life Dolores felt herself to be rather 
 the minute fragment of a gigantic whole than an isolated Indi- 
 vidual. 
 
 "Do I matter?" she thought. "Except as that fragment 
 without which the whole would be Incomplete — perhaps? Do 
 I matter?" 
 
 Considerations of good and evil now dropped away from 
 her. It was as If her tired mind shed them, no longer able to 
 bear their burden. She sank into a curious condition of con- 
 templative lethargy, during which her whole being seemed to 
 her to be stretched out, extended, till it was like something 
 very fragile and thin that, almost as a mist, permeated great 
 spaces. Faintly, very faintly and vaguely, she felt that she be- 
 longed to the inn and the garden, to the olive slopes, to the 
 little town there below her, to the open space and the calling 
 children, to the valley sleeping In a golden haze, to the delicate 
 lines and folds of the ranges of hills, to the naked and barbaric 
 flanks of the Sabine mountains. 
 
 Magna Peccatrix. But how can any sinner be great, or any 
 sin? Both surely were small as those children moving, almost 
 like hurrying Insects, In that space hemmed In by tall houses.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 423 
 
 Dolores had taken a step that was fateful. She was on her 
 way perhaps to ruin, certainly to sin. And she was not a bad 
 woman. She ought no doubt at that moment to have been In 
 a condition of febrile excitement, " strung up," lashed by mad 
 Impulse, carried away Into some region In which all values were 
 changed. 
 
 But she was not. On the contrary, now that she was alone, 
 her normal amount of feeling seemed lessened. Presently she 
 felt almost sluggish, like — she fancied — one of those Italian 
 women who, with crossed arms and staring eyes, lean forever 
 upon the sills of windows looking Into the street. 
 
 But she looked not Into the street, but Into the world, 
 this great world of woods, of slopes, of valleys, plains, hills, 
 mountains, that was only a minute fragment, almost Infinites- 
 imal, of the whole. 
 
 As the afternoon waned, her eyes did not wander any more 
 over the mighty landscape. The children's playground held 
 them. Life seemed to concentrate Itself In that small space 
 hemmed In by dwellings, where the little forms ran and 
 leaped, and the little voices sent forth their shrill cries of hap- 
 piness and energy. What are women meant for? she thought. 
 And there came, like a sigh, through the silver-green olives the 
 answer, ''To give life — to hand on the torch — to people the 
 playgrounds of the world." 
 
 When the evening was falling Cesare returned, coming up 
 by the slope below the long pergola. The white cat accompa- 
 nied him on to the terrace, lifting her tail, arching her back, 
 walking on tiptoe, and pressing against his legs, her yellow ej^es 
 dull of a musing desire. 
 
 " You are rested ? " he said. 
 
 " Yes, quite." 
 
 " I think It must be dinner-time." 
 
 He looked towards the Inn, and saw the broad form of Er- 
 minla moving In the sitting-room. 
 
 "Yes, she's laying the table. Nobody has disturbed vou?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " You see, I chose well for us." 
 
 " Chose ! " she said, 
 
 " Yes, when I thought of Olevano and Casa TruschI," 
 
 Ermlnia tinkled a bell. They walked towards the house. 
 Soup was smoking on the table, between the Holy Father and 
 the cardinal. Although artificial light was not yet necessary, 
 a lamp was lighted, and shed a dusky yellow glow over the vase
 
 424 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 of pink roses. The door into the bedroom was carefully shut. 
 Dolores sat at the cardinal's side of the table, Cesare at the 
 end, with his back to the post-impressionist's vision of spring 
 and of love. He helped the soup. 
 
 That evening he felt it impossible to make conversation. To 
 do that would be to treat Dolores as a casual acquaintance. 
 They, he and she, were surely beyond the impotent regions. 
 He scarcely spoke. And he never felt the silence to be awkward. 
 The dinner was a bad one. He noticed that fact, and had no 
 wish to apologize to Dolores. What did it matter on such 
 a night as this? 
 
 Erminia poured out red wine, " Vino del Paese," into the 
 thick glasses. Her feet were noisy upon the uneven bricks as 
 she went, rather heavily, to and fro. Benedetto passed below 
 on the terrace, and the strong, raw smell of the black cigar 
 he was smoking penetrated into the room. Bells sounded in 
 the hidden town. Was it the Angelus ringing? No, surely 
 it was too late, and the hour of the Angelus was gone with 
 the warm, bright day. The red wine was thin, but not disa- 
 greeable, rather sweet. Perhaps Benedetto had opened a 
 special bottle. Cesare noticed that Dolores did not touch her 
 glass. 
 
 "Aren't you going to try the wine of the country?" he 
 asked her. 
 
 "No." 
 
 " But Benedetto will be jfjuite hurt if you don't." 
 
 "Benedetto?" 
 
 " Our landlord." 
 
 " I don't want to hurt his feelings, but I don't care for any 
 wine to-night. Is it good ? " 
 
 " Not bad." 
 
 Erminia brought in the veal. Cesare was not very hungry, 
 but he ate quickly. Dolores ate very little. 
 
 Night fell. The dinner was finished. Only a plate of 
 oranges remained on the table. The little room looked differ- 
 ent now that the light of day had left it. The women in ruffs 
 who were arranged on the wall behind Dolores seemed to re- 
 gard Cesare with a stronger expression, a slightly greater in- 
 telligence. Dolores glanced up and met the eyes, the sad eyes, 
 of the Holy Father. She thought of him, a prisoner in his 
 immense palace beyond the curving line of the hill which shut 
 in the view from the terrace. She wondered if, in his many 
 prayers, he often prayed for poor women. Then she thought
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 425 
 
 of the Madonna del Buon Cons'iglio at Genazzano. She had 
 not visited the Madonna. The Madonna would not offer a 
 prayer for her soul to-night. 
 
 " Have you quite finished? " said Cesare. 
 
 " Yes, quite." 
 
 " Shall we go out ? Then Erminia can clear away. I dare- 
 say she and her father go to bed early. Or perhaps he goes 
 down to the town at night." 
 
 " Yes, let us go out." 
 
 She got up. 
 
 "Don't you want a wrap?" 
 
 " Oh no, I don't think so." 
 
 She went to the balcony and stood by the rail for a moment, 
 looking very tall, very slight. Cesare watched her, standing 
 in the room. She turned. 
 
 " No, it's quite warm." 
 
 She descended the steps. Erminia appeared by the door at 
 the back of the room. 
 
 " You can clear away," said Cesare. " The lady won't want 
 anything more to-night." 
 
 " Eccellenza, si." 
 
 He looked at her. Then he said: 
 
 " Do you lock up at night?" 
 
 " Come vuole. Nobody comes up here." 
 
 " It isn't necessary, of course. Meglio cosi*'' 
 
 He went out. 
 
 Erminia cleared away slowly, shook out the clotH, spread ft 
 again over the table, set the lamp on it, went out to the back 
 regions, and shut the door behind her. 
 
 Very late that night, when Olevano slept profoundly, a gleam 
 still shone from the inn, but not from the sitting-room window. 
 It was seen by a man who, very slowly, and as if weak or op- 
 pressed, made his way in the gentle starlight up the slope that 
 led from the road by the cypresses, to the long pergola beneath 
 the balcony of Dolores' bedroom. Before starting on his 
 walk up the hill this man had written and despatched a letter 
 to a woman, addressing it to a palace in Rome, and putting in 
 one corner the words, "Far segiure" 
 
 The night was still and undisturbed by any wind. The air 
 was warm on the lower slopes of the hills, but grew fresher as 
 the man ascended. But he did not notice this fact. He did 
 not look at the dim outlines of the mountains. He did not 
 look up at the stars. His eyes were bent on the ground, or
 
 426 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 roved around searching for the way, until they perceived the 
 light in the inn. Then they fixed themselves steadily on that. 
 
 It was just after one o'clock when the man drew near to 
 the lower walk of the inn garden. Before entering the garden 
 he paused, and gazed up at the light. It shone faintly, 
 but steadily, from the French window, which gave on to the 
 balcony of Dolores' bedroom. This window was a little way 
 open, and was protected by a green shutter. The light shone 
 through the aperture, not through the shutter. But almost 
 immediately after the arrival of the nocturnal wanderer and 
 his prolonged pause not far from the window, it was pushed 
 more widely open, and the figure of a man came out upon the 
 balcony. He stood looking out to the night, and the man 
 among the olive trees near by, motionless and unseen, stared 
 up at him. Then he turned, spoke to some one in the bedroom 
 behind him, went in and closed the French window. 
 
 As soon as the window was shut the man standing outside 
 moved less cautiously, and as if with a renewal of strength of 
 purpose, forward into the garden, and arrived at the entrance 
 to the pergola where Cesare and Dolores had sat in the after- 
 noon. He kicked his foot against the stone bench, bent, felt 
 it with one hand, and sat down upon it, leaning his back against 
 the wall. He was close to the entrance of the pergola, and be- 
 neath the French window and the balcony, but divided from 
 them by the narrow descending path which was nearly level 
 with the pergola roof. When he was seated he sighed, took off 
 his soft hat, laid it down on the bench beside him, then felt in 
 his hip pocket, found something, drew It out, and laid that 
 also down on the stone, very carefully and gently. This done, 
 he sat still for a very long time with his head slightly bent, 
 apparently listening, or waiting for something. Under the per- 
 gola it was dark and perfectly silent. There was not a sound 
 In the night. 
 
 Presently, somewhere far away, a bell faintly sounded the 
 hour. It was two o'clock. The man slightly shifted on the 
 stone. His head drooped forward a little more. And again 
 he sighed profoundly. Then he put forth his hand and felt 
 for an instant at the object he had taken from his hip pocket 
 and laid so carefully beside him. Satisfied apparently, he re- 
 moved his hand and dropped it on his knee. Then again he 
 was perfectly still, as if attentively listening for something. 
 Nearly another hour passed by without incident. Then sud- 
 denly the man started violently, and uttered a hoarse exclama-
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 427 
 
 tion in a harsh and almost shrill voice. A white cat had stolen 
 Into the pergola, and had rubbed against his legs. In a mo- 
 ment he had seized and strangled it. Then he fell back, 
 breathing heavily. Far away the bell sounded three. And di- 
 rectly afterward there came from above the grating sound of a 
 badly fitting window being pushed open. The man in the per- 
 gola wiped his face and his hands with a handkerchief, got up, 
 took hold of the thing he had laid on the bench, lifted it, and 
 moved to the entrance of the pergola. 
 
 There was the sound of a shot. He fell, dropping the pistol. 
 
 Dolores came out upon the balcony, stood, moved in — a flash 
 of white in the light from the lamp — and came to Cesare, who 
 was in the act of leaving the sitting-room by the balcony that 
 led to the outside staircase. She caught his arm. 
 
 "You heard?" 
 
 "What was it? Where did it come from? Was it " 
 
 " A shot — the pergola under the window." 
 
 "Hush! From the pergola?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 They stood looking at each other. No one stirred in the 
 inn. Benedetto and Erminia, sleeping at the back, made no 
 sign. 
 
 " I must go to see what's happened, who it is ! " 
 
 His face was sternly grave, troubled. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " But " he paused. 
 
 " I'll come with you ! " Dolores whispered. 
 
 " No." 
 
 She clung to his arm. Very quietly he took hold of her 
 hand. And his was firm, warmly protective. 
 
 " Carissima — wait! In a mom.ent I'll be back. Don't stir, 
 unless you hear any one coming in the house. If you do, go 
 back to the room, turn out the lamp, get into bed, pretend to 
 be sleeping. Hush! Zitto!" 
 
 He dropped her hand and disappeared in the darkness. 
 
 Dolores remained where she was. She was shaking. Bend- 
 ing her head forward she listened. What seemed to her an 
 immense time went slowly by. The inn was always wrapped in 
 silence. Benedetto and his daughter had not stirred. At last 
 she heard what sounded like a creeping footstep outside, and 
 Cesare re-entered the room. Dolores sprang to him. He put 
 his arm round her and drew her into the bedroom. She 
 looked at his eyes.
 
 428 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 "Oh, what Is It? Who " 
 
 ''Hush!" 
 
 He made her sit down on the bed. 
 
 " It's a suicide." 
 
 "Under the pergola?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " That man — the landlord ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 His face frightened her. She drew close to him, with a 
 strange deeper feeling of horror. 
 
 " It's Montebrunol " 
 
 *' Montebruno ! Here ! " 
 
 "It's he!" 
 
 "And he's—?" 
 
 " Dead — there on the path," 
 
 She said nothing. Her white face looked for a moment com- 
 pletely stupid. 
 
 " He's dead. Nothing to be done for him. But — you ! " 
 
 He put his hands to his head, took them away. 
 
 " I must get away Immediately," he whispered, " before any- 
 thing Is discovered. It must never be known I was here with 
 you to-night." 
 
 "No,^no. Oh, but !"^ 
 
 "Wait — wait! I'm thinking about you, your position to- 
 morrow — no, to-day, when — he's found. You must get back 
 to Rome to-day, very early, before the authorities are fetched 
 from the town. You must be gone before they come, if pos- 
 sible." 
 
 "How? How?" 
 
 " You'll have to go back In my motor," 
 
 "But " 
 
 " My man will drive you. He'll never speak. He's always 
 
 been with me. I'll send him early, with a letter for Bene 
 
 No, wait! That w^on't do! Gran Dio!" 
 
 " Let me go now ! I'll go now ! " 
 
 "No! No!" 
 
 "Yes, I'll go now! I can't stay here with — him. I'll go 
 now!" 
 
 She tried to spring up. He held her down on the bed. 
 
 "Dolores!" 
 
 She yielded, trembling violently. 
 
 " If you go away now you'll be ruined. It Is I who must: 
 go."
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 429 
 
 But I can't 
 
 " You must. Unless • 
 
 Suddenly he seized both her hands. 
 
 " Unless you will face it all, let it all be known, let me stay; 
 till the dawn, protect you " 
 
 An expression of horror distorted her face. 
 
 "Never! Never!" 
 
 She drew away her hands. 
 
 " I'll stay alone here. I'll stay. He — he meant to ruin 
 me." 
 
 '^'He?" 
 
 She pointed to the window. 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 " He always made me afraid." 
 
 She shook more convulsively. Her teetH chattered. He 
 tried to put his arm round her. 
 
 "No, no! Don't touch me now!" 
 
 " Then" — his low voice was almost stern — "you must 
 do this." 
 
 " Anything — anything you tell me! " 
 
 " When I go, you must get into bed. Try to rest. Keep 
 the window open." 
 
 "Yes, anything, anything!" 
 
 " Directly you hear Benedetto moving, directly he finds the 
 body, and you hear him call out, go to the balcony. Speak to 
 him before any one else can. You know nothing. But when 
 he tells you, make him understand that you must get away, 
 that you can't be mixed up in such a thing, that he's not to go 
 to the town till you are gone. He'll understand. And — you 
 must tell him he will have money." 
 
 Dolores felt physical nausea. 
 
 " I'll settle it with him later. It's the only thing to be done. 
 Then you must go on foot down the slope till you reach the 
 road. The motor shall fetch you. My man shall be there. 
 Go back to Rome at once." 
 
 "My things!" 
 
 " Can you carry the dressing case with you? " 
 
 "Yes! Yes!" 
 
 " Give me the bag now. I'll take it with me. And my man 
 will manage about it. Don't think of all that. Trust to me." 
 He touched her sleeve. " You must get this into the dressing 
 case." 
 
 " Yes, yes."
 
 430 THE FRUITFUL .VINE 
 
 "And now " 
 
 " My things! My things!" 
 
 Cesare went to the window and stood there in silence, looking 
 out toward the pergola under which lay the corpse of Monte- 
 bruno, while Dolores thrust into the bag the few things she 
 had brought with her from Rome. He did not offer to 
 help her. He did not look at her. Something within him 
 told him just then to let her alone. His dark face was grim 
 and set. At this moment he was raging against the fate which 
 had turned this night into tragedy and fear. 
 
 "They are m!" _ 
 
 Dolores was whispering. He turned, bent, shut the bag, 
 took it up and tested its weight. 
 
 " Now I must go. Do you quite understand ? " 
 
 "Yes! Yes!" 
 
 " 1 11 get back to Rome somehow. That won't be difficult. 
 iYou had better get out in Rome and take the first taxicab you 
 see to the palace. My man can pretend something's gone 
 wrong with his machine and that he has to make you get out 
 and change. Tell Benedetto that I — II Principino — shall 
 communicate with him at once. He will understand. Now — " 
 he made a movement to take her in his arms. She shrank 
 back. 
 
 " But — but that woman! " she whispered. 
 
 "Woman!" 
 
 "Here in the house!" 
 
 " Benedetto's her father. He'll see to her." 
 
 "But If she gets up first! If she finds him! What shall 
 I do?" 
 
 " Seem to be asleep till she calls her father. Then j'ou 
 must get him alone before he goes to the town. The great 
 thing is to make him understand about the mone3^ Then 
 he'll silence his daughter. But you must do that before either 
 of them has any opportunity of talking. If I could stay 
 and " 
 
 "No, no! Go now! Go!" 
 
 He moved towards her. 
 
 "No, no!" she whispered sharply. "Not now!" 
 
 His brows came down till his eyes were almost concealed. 
 Then he lifted the bag and left the room without another word. 
 Dolores went to the French window and looked out. In a mo- 
 ment she saw the dim figure of Cesare below, walking slowly 
 and softly, his right arm lifted, the bag against his shoulder.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 43 1 
 
 By the movement of his head she knew he looked up at her. 
 He descended the sloping path till he reached the point where 
 it turned abruptly. She shuddered. She knew that now he 
 was close to the corpse. He did not go into the pergola, but 
 descended to the left, and was taken by; the darkness among the 
 olive trees. 
 
 As he disappeared from her sight Dolores felt a great horror 
 of utter loneliness sweep over her spirit. She shrank away 
 from the window. Behind her was the open door between the 
 first bedroom and the sitting-room. Beyond that, she knew, 
 was the open French window leading to the outside steps. 
 She was almost out of doors. What protection had she against 
 the night and — it? She saw Montebruno's bloodshot and ex- 
 hausted eyes regarding her with pitiless scrutiny. She saw the 
 wrinkles moving busily, like living individualities, on his domed 
 forehead. She saw his hanging, puckered cheeks, his drooping 
 lips. She heard his voice out there in the darkness saying: 
 *' There is not much room in life for pity." And she felt sick 
 with repulsion and dread. Yet at first she dared not go into 
 the sitting-room to shut the window. She sat on the edge of the 
 bed, with her hands tightly clenched, listening, waiting. Now 
 she wished almost that she had not let Cesare go. He was ready 
 to stay. He was unafraid of opinion, of scandal, of condem- 
 nation. Ah ! but he was a man, and loved her. And she was 
 a woman, and did not love him. How she hated, abhorred her- 
 self at that moment ! She felt sick because she was alive, because 
 such a woman was alive. The abrupt intrusion into this high 
 and lonely place, into this dead hour of the night, of one whom 
 she knew, and of whom Instinctively she had always felt afraid ; 
 the mystery of his presence, of his inexplicable and frightful 
 action, seemed to have shaken the soul of her out of a region 
 of mania in which it had long been dwelling. She felt like one 
 who by a violent blow had been not stunned, but recalled to 
 her true self. 
 
 Her true self! Magna Peccatrix! Magna Peccatrix! 
 
 But the fear of the dead man increased upon her till she could 
 no longer remain where she was. And, making an intense 
 effort of the will, she stole into the dark sitting-room. The 
 night air met her at the window like a vv^atcher who knew what 
 she had done. It felt at her face — surely with fingers of the 
 blind that are eyes — as quickly she drew the window towards 
 her, and softly secured it. Then she fled back into the bedroom. 
 Swiftly she gathered together the things that belonged to her
 
 432 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 dressing-case. She must be ready to start directly she had 
 spoken with Benedetto. She did her hair. 
 
 And all the time the dead man was with her, attentive to 
 what she was doing, as if he had traveled far to keep Avatch 
 about her that night. [When at last she had everything ready, 
 she obeyed Cesare and got into bed. But she left the lamp 
 burning. She had not the courage to put it out, although she 
 knew well ft would be wiser to do so. The light Indicated 
 wakefulness to any one who looked at the inn. She got out 
 and closed the window of the bedroom. Surely through the 
 shutters the light could not penetrate. But then, directly she 
 had done this, she was afraid she might not hear Benedetto stir- 
 ring outside In the- morning. And she re-opened the window a 
 little way. She must put out the light. She realized that. 
 But still she hesitated. She knew what the dark would bring. 
 For nearly ten minutes she stood by the lamp, listening, always 
 striving after the necessary courage. 
 
 Then a bird uttered a faint call outside. Instantly she 
 turned out the lamp. Trembling she felt her way into bed, and 
 drew the clothes about her. 
 
 If Benedetto did not come! If he v/ere not the first person 
 to find the body! A peasant going to work might come upon 
 it, or see it from the slope; might go Into the town, might bring 
 up the authorities before she could do anything. She would be 
 questioned. There would be a scandal. She had known jMon- 
 tebruno. She v/ould have to say so. She v/ould be asked why 
 he was there. They would think she must know. Every paper 
 would be full of the matter. Her name, the answers she gave, 
 everything would be published and read by every one. 
 
 Why was Alontebruno there? 
 
 That was the thing Inexplicable. 
 
 And why had he come to this lonely place to kill himself? 
 
 Dolores could not find a reason, but her Instinct told her 
 that Montebruno's presence at Olevano was not fortuitous, that 
 It must be connected with herself and Cesare. She felt posi- 
 tive of this, and of this only. The dead man had known they 
 were here. He had followed them, why she did not know. 
 And then he had killed himself. Why? What could such an 
 act have to do with herself and Cesare? 
 
 Something seemed to v/hlrl round In her head. She shut her 
 eyes. She lay very still. The v/ords " Magna Peccatrix " 
 formed themselves In pale yellow edged with pale flame-like 
 blue before her shut eyes. She read them diligently till a gray-
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 433 
 
 ness fell on her eyelids, and she knew that the dawn had come. 
 
 Then she opened her eyes, and waited for the sound of steps 
 in the inn. 
 
 The light grew stronger, revealing the bare, uncarpeted cham- 
 ber, the ugly lamp with a blackened chimney revealing to the 
 sun the dead man under the pergola. Birds chirped and pres- 
 ently sang. On the brick beside the bed of Dolores a sunray 
 pointed. But no one came. There was no sound in the house. 
 
 She longed to get up, to dress, to take her bag and fly from 
 the inn. But Cesare had told her not to. She must obey 
 him. He knew better than she. And controlling herself she 
 lay still, listening, always listening. 
 
 And at last she heard the dull sound of movement some- 
 where within the house. It seemed to come from the back. 
 Surely a door had been roughly opened by some one. She could 
 no longer lie still. And she got up and crept over to the French 
 window, stood back against the Venetian shutter, leaned for- 
 ward and looked out. 
 
 After waiting for two or three minutes she heard a step 
 Outside, and saw Benedetto yawning and stretching as he came 
 very slowly from some back region of the inn. He walked 
 directly towards the pergola. Dolores drew quite away from the 
 opening of the window behind the shutter. Almost instantly 
 she heard a cry, " Gesu Maria! Gesu Maria! " The second 
 time it was loud. She thought of what Cesare had told her to 
 do, went out on the balcony just as she was, leaned over, and 
 called in Italian: 
 
 "Who's there?" 
 
 "Gesu Maria! Madonna! Madonna!" 
 
 " Who's there ? W^hat is it ? What's the matter ? " 
 
 Her voice sounded shrill in her ears. Benedetto appeared, 
 raising his arms. 
 
 "Madonna! Madonna!" 
 
 He came under the balcony gesticulating, with a horrified 
 expression upon his face. 
 
 "Madonna mia!" he cried, looking straight up at Dolores, 
 with both his arms lifted towards her. 
 
 "Oh, what is it?" 
 
 " Venrra! Venga! " 
 
 She hurried away through the sitting-room, trying to act 
 without thinking. As she went, she knew that she was wonder- 
 ing about the woman, Ermlnla. Why did she not come? Why 
 had she not heard the cries of her father ?
 
 434 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " Venga! Lei venga! " 
 
 Dolores ran to Benedetto. He seized her by the arm roughly, 
 pulled her after him down the path beneath her window, stopped 
 before a dark, prostrate mass, and cried: 
 
 " Ecco! Ecco una bella cosa! " 
 
 Dolores recoiled. She scarcely looked at the dead man, yet 
 with an almost preternatural swiftness she saw him clearly. 
 She even noticed details of his hideous appearance. She noticed 
 the dreadful stillness of those lines in his great forehead which, 
 when he was alive, had almost always been in movement, the 
 length of the teeth exposed in a sort of grin, the disgusting livid 
 color of the hands which she remembered so well dealing the 
 cards at the Glamarcho bridge tournament. 
 
 And she saw on the path just beyond the dead man the white 
 cat, which had pressed against Cesare, lying stark, with its head 
 near the hand that had strangled it. 
 
 Afterward she knew that it was the sight of the dead beast 
 which had lashed her into a sort of violent determination, 
 resembling strength. 
 
 She seized Benedetto's arm. 
 
 " Come here! " she said. 
 
 When they were out of sight of the corpse she said: 
 
 "Where's your daughter?" 
 
 " Gone to get milk in the town." 
 
 " Very well. Now, listen to what I am going to say, and 
 obey me strictly — strictly, you understand ! " 
 
 "Signora!" said Benedetto, looking at her with a sudden 
 amazement, which showed her that his mind had for the moment 
 left the dead man. 
 
 ** You have got to do something for me! " 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 A WEEK later, when all the Italian papers were still full of 
 the suicide of Marchese Montebruno, Dolores received the fol- 
 lowing note, the envelope of which bore the postmark of Torino: 
 
 *' If you continue to see Don Cesare Carelli alone, your hus- 
 band will be informed that you were with him at Casa Truschi, 
 Olevano Romano, on the night of September the twenty-second. 
 Absolute proof of it exists, and is in my hands. — L. M."
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 435 
 
 Dolores knew at once that this note came from Princess Man- 
 celli. She had read it in the evening. In the morning, when 
 the post had come, she had looked quickly to see if there was a 
 letter from Theo. On finding there was not, she had left all 
 her letters on the writing-table in her sitting-room, and had 
 gone out to spend a long day with Lady Sarah. 
 
 Since the visit to Olevano she had felt afraid to be alone. 
 Indeed, since her abrupt return to Palazzo Barberini, she had 
 been perpetually encompassed by fear. 
 
 She had dreaded lest, despite all that had been done, Bene- 
 detto should speak ; or that, if he was circumspect or greedy 
 enough to keep silent, his daughter should be less wary. And 
 other terrors assailed her. There was the chauffeur who had 
 brought her from Rome to Olevano. What was to prevent him 
 from gossipping? Or the authorities at Olevano might find out 
 for themselves that she had stayed at Casa Truschi that night 
 and had vanished mysteriously at dawn. On the way down to 
 the road, after her interview with Benedetto, she had met only 
 one old man, gentle-eyed, smiling, courteous. He had offered 
 to carry her dressing-case. She had quickly refused. But she 
 had thanked him, forced a smile to her lips, anxious — she 
 scarcely knew w'hy, unless it was that at the moment she was 
 a craven — to leave a good Impression upon him. 
 
 That old man 1 might he not tell ? Would he not be sure to 
 tell of the mysterious iorestiera with the burden who had come 
 to him through the olive trees? It seemed to Dolores impos- 
 sible that her presence at the inn should not become known in 
 the town of Olevano; that. If It did become known, the fact 
 should not get into the newspapers in connection with the sui- 
 cide of Montebruno. 
 
 Nevertheless, a whole week had passed, and, so far as she 
 knew, there had not been a hint of any woman being connected 
 with the tragedy. Upon the body of Montebruno had been 
 found a paper, written by him. In which he had coldly stated 
 that his death would be self-inflicted, and that his action would 
 be owing to his recent complete and final ruin at the Monte 
 Carlo gambling tables. There was therefore no question of 
 murder in connection with his death. But the papers had 
 voiced the general astonishment that it should have taken place 
 where It did. A taxicab driver in Rome had stated that Monte- 
 bruno had engaged him on the day of the tragedy, and had 
 ordered him to drive by Palestrina to Subiaco. From Subiaco 
 Montebruno had returned to Olevano in a carriage with one
 
 436 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 horse by night, after visiting the Albergo Dell'Aniene, where he 
 had written a letter. He had paid and dismissed the driver In 
 the road not far from the Albergo Roma. Afterwards he had 
 been to the Roma, but only for a very few minutes. The land- 
 lord had not known who he was. He had ordered a cup of 
 black coffee and a glass of brandy, had drunk them quickly, and 
 had immediately left the inn. From that moment, until his 
 body was found at the entrance to the pergola, nothing was 
 known of his actions. 
 
 But as the days had gone by, the fear of Dolores, instead of 
 subsiding, had increased. And she knev/ — had she not known 
 from the beginning? — that it was a fear whose seat was in 
 her ov/n conscience. She was afraid, yes, of consequences, of 
 a hideous publicity, of social ruin. What woman is not? But 
 behind all the ugly, the common fears, was one greater than 
 them ; the good woman's fear of the other v/oman who had done 
 the deed. 
 
 Dolores was afraid of herself. And in that terror was con- 
 tained another terror, lest Theo should ever become aware of 
 the existence of the woman who was not good. 
 
 Swiftly indeed upon the wrong action had come punishment. 
 At once, ere the night was over, she had been plunged into the 
 sordidness of sin. Never, even if she lived to be very old, 
 would she be able to forget those Vv'ords of her lover, spoken in 
 darkness, " You must tell him he will have money." 
 
 Bribery! Was that to be the first action of the new life, 
 that was divided inexorably from the old life of the woman 
 who had kept herself out of the mud ? And then had come the 
 necessary plunge into lies. 
 
 Dolores had lied to Lady Sarah. 
 
 When Lady Sarah had spoken of Montebruno's suicide, and 
 of Olevano Romano, Dolores had said, in a panic of fear, that 
 she had never been there, and knew nothing about that region. 
 
 Afraid to remain alone, after her return to Rome she had 
 sought out Lady Sarah. In doing so she had both dreaded, 
 and longed after. Lady Sarah's transparent rectitude. She felt 
 just then that she dared not meet Nurse Jennings. It seemed 
 to her that the nurse's calm, searching eyes, if they looked upon 
 her, must know. And she felt as if Lady Sarah were too remote 
 from all sin to know, as if the atmosphere of simple goodness 
 in which she habitually moved must keep her from knowledge 
 unless she were told all the truth. 
 
 Lady Sarah had welcomed her, as she always did, warmly.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 4-37 
 
 She had never lost her tendresse for Dolores, She had never 
 resented Dolores' reserve with her, a reserve which had suc- 
 ceeded that moment of revelation on the Pincio, and the fev/ 
 impulsive words spoken before the housewarming dinner in 
 Palazzo Barberini, But she had felt surprise at the diligence 
 with which Dolores now sought her out. And she had not 
 failed to notice the peculiar terror which Dolores now evidently- 
 had of being alone. 
 
 Something was verj^ wrong. The elder woman was sure of 
 that. She felt agitation, turmoil, hidden distress, when Do- 
 lores was with her. But though Dolores came to her day by- 
 day, they only talked of indifferent things, pleasantly, with 
 friendliness, but without even the amount of frankness which 
 once had existed between them. They visited sights. They 
 lunched at the Constantino. They spent one day a long time in 
 the Villa Mattei. But they were never really intimate during 
 their intercourse. 
 
 Lady Sarah was very delicate in mind. She was incapable of 
 taking action to force a confidence from any one. Sometimes, 
 secretly, she had almost blamed herself for this. She was not 
 sure that she did not deserve blame now. Two small incidents 
 which occurred during the last week specially troubled her. For 
 she thought they indicated a distress that must be connected with 
 the very deepest things of a heart and nature. 
 
 During her visit with Dolores to the Villa Mattei — which 
 Dolores had never before seen — Lady Sarah led her to the walk 
 overlooking the view to the Alban mountains. They sat down 
 together on the wooden seat against the carven sarcophagus, 
 beneath the small trellis which there casts a patch of shade. 
 And they talked quietly to each other. At that moment Dolores 
 seemed less sad, less distressed than usual. The peace of the 
 beautiful antique garden, perhaps, laid a delicate hand on her 
 spirit. But presently she turned her head to look at the 
 sarcophagus. "There's something written here!" she said. 
 "What is it, I wonder?" And before Lady Sarah could 
 speak she read aloud: "Qui San Filippo Ncri discorreva coi suoi 
 dlscepoU delle cose di Die." Instantly she got up from the 
 seat. She made no comment on the words. But it seemed to 
 Lady Sarah as if she fled from them, like one disturbed, or even 
 terrified. 
 
 The second incident which sadly impressed Lady Sarah oc- 
 curred on a Sunday afternoon, Dolores and she had taken a 
 walk on the Pincio. On their way home, as they drew near
 
 438 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 to the church of the Sacre Coeur, Lady Sarah was moved to 
 say: 
 
 " Do you remember once, a long while ago, I asked you to 
 come to church with me here ? " 
 
 "Did you?" 
 
 " Yes. And you answered that you were obliged to go to 
 tea at the Excelsior with Countess Boccara." 
 
 " I remember. I was engaged to her." 
 
 " You aren't to-day? " Lady Sarah asked, smiling. 
 
 " But she isn't in Rome. 
 
 They were now in front of the church. 
 
 " Then won't you come in with me to-day, and hear the nuns 
 singing? " 
 
 Dolores hesitated. In her large dark eyes Lady Sarah surely 
 saw a combat between opposed feelings. But at last she said: 
 
 "Very well!" 
 
 Her voice was low, and her manner strangely reluctant. 
 Yet she mounted the steps with a quickness that seemed almost 
 eager. And together they entered the church, took seats quite 
 at the back, and kneeled down. The service had already begun. 
 The organ, placed in the gallery behind them, sounded softly. 
 A calm, and a very pure music penetrated through the dim 
 church, in which so many young hearts of children have felt 
 their first ecstasies of aspiration, have gone forward, with rever- 
 ent, yet almost amorous feet towards the ideal that ever recedes. 
 
 And then the nuns sang softly. 
 
 There were few people in the church. No one came in or 
 went out, as often happens, disturbing the peace of the worship- 
 ers. And Lady Sarah forgot Dolores, forgot the hour of 
 her life. She was back in the past with her children, with the 
 two girls who had died. 
 
 She was recalled by a hard, low sound. She listened. She 
 heard it again. It was a sob, and came from Dolores, who at 
 this moment got up quickly from her knees and, without a look 
 or word, went out of the church. Lady Sarah follov/ed, and 
 found her on the steps. 
 
 There were no tears in the eyes of Dolores. As Lady Sarah 
 came to her, she said: 
 
 " Dear Lady Sally, do please stay! I'm so sorry to have 
 disturbed you. But the church is too airless for me. It made 
 me feel quite ill, as if I were being choked, almost. I mustn't 
 go there again. Good-by. I'm so sorry." 
 
 By a movement in her long throat Lady Sarah saw that
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 439 
 
 another sob was coming. She turned sharply and descended the 
 steps. 
 
 And Lady Sarah went back to the church, and while the nuns 
 sang softly she prajed for the soul of Dolores. 
 
 She prayed, but she did not ask Dolores why her prayers 
 were so sorely needed. 
 
 Had she stood by Dolores now, and read the words of Prin- 
 cess Mancelli, she would have known why. 
 
 " If you continue to see Don Cesare Carelli alone, your hus- 
 band will be informed that you were with him at Casa Truschi, 
 Olevano Romano, on the night of September the twenty-sec- 
 ond. Absolute proof of this exists, and is in my hands. — L. M.^' 
 
 'Dolores read the note again. Still keeping it in her hand, she 
 sat down on the sofa which was placed opposite to the Lenbach 
 portrait. On this sofa she had sat with Cesare when he brought 
 her home from Villa Medici. 
 
 So the shame of her life was known, and by a woman in her 
 own world! Who had told of it? Her mind went at once to 
 Montebruno. She read the note again and again dully. Then at 
 last she put it down, carefully, on the sofa beside her. She was 
 trying to consider it and her situation, but her mind felt heavy 
 and empty. Perhaps it was affected by her body. She did not 
 feel well to-night. That morning, when she had got up, she 
 had been conscious of a faint and horrible nausea, but of late 
 she had been so nen'ous, so excited mentally, in such a condition 
 of apprehension, unrelenting and perpetual, that she had given 
 small heed to her body. 
 
 Princess Mancelli openly threatened her. Bribery, flight, 
 subterfuge, lying; such had been her portion since her visit to 
 Olevano. The gutter had received her. And now a sword was 
 suspended above her head. She remembered what Cesare had 
 told her in the garden at Cadenabbia, and she understood the 
 Princess fully at last. The Princess had suffered terribly, and 
 now she was near to crying out. But why did not she cry out? 
 W^hy did not she place the proof of which she wrote in the hands 
 of Sir Theodore? Why should she wait? 
 
 Dolores felt that there was a reason. She even felt that 
 it was an obvious one. But she could not find it. And now it 
 seemed to her that it was her curious physical malaise which 
 rendered her stupid, and so prevented her from making the 
 very simple discovery.
 
 44Q THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 Was she going to break down physically because of the cruel 
 strain she had been undergoing, a strain which this note beside 
 her increased? 
 
 Theo would be coming back very soon. He might arrive 
 any day now. She did not wish to be ill when he came. 
 
 How would she meet Theo? 
 
 Her physical discomfort was increasing. Or, perhaps be- 
 cause her mind was so sluggish, she was able to be more con- 
 scious than usual of bodily thmgs. 
 
 " But what do they matter? " she said to herself, witH a sort 
 of anger. 
 
 What is bodily discomfort, when the mind is held fast in 
 anguish? She looked again at the note, but without taking it 
 into her hand. 
 
 During the days since her return from Olevano, she had not 
 seen Cesare. Directly she had arrived at the Palace she had 
 written him a short note, which she had posted herself. It con- 
 tained these words: 
 
 *' Don't come to see me, please, till I ask you to. I want 
 to be quiet for a few days, and shall not receive any one. Do 
 not answer." 
 
 He had obeyed her. He had not come, and he had! not 
 replied. She did not even know if he was in Rome. Probably, 
 she thought, he had left Rome, to make things safer in connec- 
 tion with the tragedy of Olevano. But she knew if she did not 
 write soon again he would come. She knew the Impetuosity of 
 his nature. 
 
 Among all her miseries, a small thing which troubled her was 
 this. She had lost her latchkey to the front door of the apart- 
 ment. She had last seen it when Cesare had thrust It into the 
 keyhole on the night of their return from Villa Medici. Prob- 
 ably Cesare had it. She had meant to ask him about it, but 
 In the turmoil of events in the last days she had not remembered 
 to do so. Even when they were together at Olevano she had 
 never thought of It. Her mind had been steadfastly fixed on 
 one thing, almost like the mind of a maniac. And since she 
 had returned to Rome she had not chosen to write to Cesare 
 about it. She had feared to write such a thing, lest her letter 
 should fall into the wrong hands. 
 
 As she now sat looking down at the few words which held 
 such a volume of meaning, she realized that they not only
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 44i 
 
 suspended a sword over her head, but raised up a barrier between 
 herself and Cesare. And she knew that she wished such a 
 barrier to be raised up. She knew that she did not wish to see 
 Cesare again. That fact made her the more disgusting to her- 
 self, increased the heavy burden of her sin. But it inspired 
 her also with a desire for action, and suddenly quickened her 
 mind. 
 
 She got up, took the note, and went to her writing table. 
 Sitting down there, she wrote at the top of the Princess's 
 paper: 
 
 " Received to-day." Then she hesitated. She was thinking 
 of the loss of that key. After a moment she added: " If you 
 have kept something of mine by mistake, please return it." 
 She put no name. But she did not try to disguise her hand- 
 writing. She thought of doing so, but the idea sickened her 
 and she rejected it. She enclosed the note with its additions in 
 an envelope, addressed it to Cesare in Rome, sealed the envelope, 
 and got up. Her intention was to go out at once and to post 
 it herself. And she resolved that this should be her last written 
 communication with Cesare that might not be seen safely by 
 all the world. 
 
 Each time she did something surreptitious now", It seemed to 
 her as if she sank down a little deeper into the mud. The 
 shock that had recalled her to her true self had given to her 
 the good woman's capacity of moral suffering. The atmosphere 
 In which most women capable of doing what she had done could 
 have breathed with comfort almost suffocated her. Her instinct 
 was to fight her way out of it. And now, as she moved to go 
 out with the letter, she had a strange sensation almost of relief. 
 The first thrill of the nerves, the first shudder of apprehension 
 over, was she not almost glad that the Princess knew? The 
 dullness had now lifted from her mind, and she understood why 
 Princess Mancelli did not cr}^ out, would not cry out, unless 
 her admonition was defied. She believed, no doubt, that to 
 speak would be to separate Dolores from Sir Theodore. And 
 what then? Cesare was waiting. Dolores realized that the 
 Princess would keep silence, perhaps forever, unless she were 
 driven into action. If the Princess kncv/ that she was shutting 
 the door upon a past v/hich the woman v^'hom she thought she 
 was punishing already longed to wipe out! If she knew that 
 she was helping the woman she hated ! Tlien surely she would 
 speak at once. But she would never know. 
 
 With the letter in her hand, Dolores was crossing the draw-
 
 442 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 ing-room on her way to the door, when she was overtaken by a 
 strange sensation of physical discomfort, this time accentuated. 
 Her head swam. All about her the room seemed abruptly to 
 fade. The outlines of the furniture grew dim before her eyes. 
 The damask-covered walls swayed as if they had no solidity, 
 and were played upon by a wind. 
 
 She sank down on the sofa, mechanically grasping the letter. 
 She felt as if the only part of her body over which she had any 
 power was the hand that held it. And such will as she pos- 
 sessed she strove to direct to that hand. 
 
 " Keep hold of it! Keep hold of it! " her mind was saying 
 to the hand as she let her head fall against the back of the sofa. 
 She shut her eyes, remained still, and found herself thinking of 
 Nurse Jennings. 
 
 "I want Nurse Jennings! I want Nurse Jennings!" 
 
 Now the voice in her mind was saying that. She had quite 
 forgotten the hand and the letter. Her instinct was going to 
 be justified. It had been a prophetic instinct. She was going 
 to have some severe illness. No one but Nurse Jennings would 
 be able to help her through it. If only the nurse were with her 
 now! If only she could get to the bell, summon Carlino, send 
 him in search of the nurse! Faintness increased upon her. 
 She felt herself enveloped by it as by a garment. Then it died 
 away — or fell away — from her. The turmoil of her brain 
 subsided. She opened her eyes. They met the eyes of the old man 
 in the portrait. She sat up. She stared at those painted eyes, 
 consciously seeking a message from the soul which she had 
 always felt to exist behind them. Knowledge seemed trembling 
 at the threshold of her mind, feeling for an entrance door with 
 hands a little vague, though the knowledge itself must surely be 
 tremendous. And the old man regarded her with his expression 
 of intense and almost horribly complete intelligence. And his 
 eyes now said to her, "What? You do not know your own 
 secret ? " 
 
 " My secret ? " she thought. " My secret ? " 
 
 The faint and sickly sensation crept about her again. But 
 she did not sink into the cloud. The walls did not sway. The 
 Outlines of the things about her remained distinct. And she 
 kept her eyes on the eyes of the old man, till those feeling hands 
 found the door. It opened. And, like a wave, a certainty 
 entered, flooded her heart and her brain. She had believed 
 knowledge was at the door. No, this was not knowledge, hard 
 knowledge. Impossible that it could be that. It was the mys-
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 443 
 
 tical certainty of a woman, and seemed far more wonderful 
 than knowledge to Dolores. 
 
 The old man had waited, and now it was to be! Reward or 
 punishment! How would it come upon her when all the days 
 were accomplished and all the sufferings endured ? How ought^^ 
 she to feel ? Did conscience speak ? Where was the moral 
 sense? Was it active? Was it searching her out like the sur- 
 geon's knife in a shrinking body? 
 
 Magna Peccatrix! Magna Peccatrix! 
 
 She thought of the words, but they seemed to mean very 
 little or nothing. Her own blindness, her own forgetfulness, 
 now almost coldly astonished her. But she had walked in night- 
 mare ever since that shot had rung out under the pergola at 
 Olevano. She had been astray in a world of abominable 
 shadows. But what a reality was she now approaching! 
 
 " Yes, yes," she looked at the old man. " You have waited. 
 You will not have to wait much longer." 
 
 She must have moved her hand. For the paper of the note 
 on the sofa made a slight noise. And she remembered what she 
 had been going to do when the sensation of illness overcame her. 
 She had been going to post a letter to Cesare Carelli. 
 
 A tide of red went over her face, ebbed, flowed again. She 
 took up the letter, laid it in her lap, looked at the address. 
 And as she looked she tried very consciously to go back, to 
 return upon her steps, to feel exactly as she had felt when she 
 had written in it. But she could not. All values seemed dis- 
 placed. She asked herself whether now she could post that 
 letter, what attitude she was to take toward Cesare, what was 
 to be her future conduct. She felt terribly excited, and unable 
 to judge properly of anything, because she was irretrievably con- 
 centrated on one tremendous thought. She was no longer 
 afraid of herself, as she had been ever since the episode at 
 Olevano. It seemed to her just then that she was unable to be 
 either afraid or unafraid. She said to herself, " Long ago I 
 knew this would be. Long ago I foresaw this." But she felt 
 that she had never known or foreseen it. The shock of sur- 
 prise was as intense, as overpowering, as if no strange and 
 guiding conviction, no avowed purpose, had ever led or moved 
 her. 
 
 Carlino knocked at the door between the two drawing-rooms. 
 She did not hear him. He knocked again more loudly, and then 
 entered with something on a salver. He came quite close to 
 Dolores before she realized that any one was in the room with
 
 444 '-IHE FRUriFUL VINE 
 
 her. But she did not start. She only stretched out a hand that 
 was now very cold, and took the telegram he had brought. 
 And as she took it she said to herself, " Theo." 
 
 As soon as Carlino was gone, she opened the telegram and 
 read : " Business much involved, obliged to stay on perhaps 
 three or four weeks. — Theodore.'" 
 
 Three weeks more without Theo, without being obliged to 
 meet his bright and critical eyes! She was conscious of a sense 
 of relief. But if Theo did not return, if it were known that 
 he was not in Rome, would not Cesare be almost sure to come 
 to the palace? She must go out and post that letter. Then 
 surely he would not come. He would not dare to risk bringing 
 social ruin, domestic ruin, upon her. 
 
 It was getting late. She postponed the hour of dinner, put 
 on her hat, and went out with the letter. She walked all the 
 way to San Silvestro to post it, moved by a childish fancy that 
 it would go more safely from there than from any smaller 
 postoffice. Then she took a fiacre, and ordered the driver to 
 go to an address in Vicolo Carcano outside Porta Salaria. 
 Nurse Jennings was there at this time, attending a nervous case, 
 an Italian lady v/hom Dolores knew. The horse, a thin and 
 lethargic animal, probably half starved, went almost at a walking 
 pace. It was dark night when they reached the big house, 
 which stood high, with a private road around it. Dolores rang, 
 and asked for Nurse Jennings, after inquiring if the mistress of 
 the house were better. 
 
 " Much better, Eccellenza. The nurse is leaving to-mor- 
 row," said the young footman with a smile. 
 
 He asked her to w'alk in, but she refused, and remained stand- 
 ing at the door while he went to fetch the nurse. Since he had 
 spoken she had come to a sudden decision. If Nurse Jennings 
 w^ere really free to-morrow, and had no other case in hand, she, 
 Dolores, would ask her to come away for three weeks, till Theo 
 returned from England. What a relief ir would be to get out 
 of Rom.e, to be in some lovely quiet place with that woman of 
 calm, common sense, clear-eyed, cool-brained, capable. Dolores' 
 fear of Nurse Jennings had left her since the event of that after- 
 noon. 
 
 In the distance of a large and dimly lit hall she saw a figure 
 moving rather softly, and Vv'ith a certain firmness that suggested 
 character, towards her. 
 
 "Lady Cannynge, is that you? There now! What is the 
 matter?"
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 445 
 
 The steady eyes searched Dolores' face. But the light was 
 very dim at the door. 
 
 " You wouldn't have come all this way for nothing, I 
 know."^ 
 
 " Is it true that you are leaving to-morrow? " 
 
 " Yes. The Countess is getting along splendidly now." 
 
 "Will you do something for me?" 
 
 *' I'm sure I would be very glad to. What is it? " 
 
 She leaned for\vard a little. 
 
 "You're not ill?" 
 
 Dolores, moved by a strange impulse, put her face close to 
 the nurse's. 
 
 " Tell me, do I look ill? Different? " 
 
 " My goodness ! But any one would think you wished me to 
 say yes ! " 
 
 " I only want the truth." 
 
 Nurse Jennings studied the face of Dolores for a moment. 
 Then she said : 
 
 " There isn't much light here to go by. But you don't look 
 to me quite natural. And what is it you want ? " 
 
 " My husband is in England for three weeks. I want to go 
 away, but I won't go alone. If you are free, will you come 
 with me, just for three weeks?" 
 
 She laid her hand on the nurse's arm. 
 
 " I want you, I want you very badly to come." 
 
 " I'm glad to think it, I'm sure — Lady Cannynge." 
 
 She paused. 
 
 " Well, I don't see why not," she said. " It would be quite 
 a treat. And where should we go? " 
 
 " I'll think, to-night. You will come, then? You promise? " 
 
 " Well, I should like it. And I don't see why not. But to- 
 morrow would be rather quick work, wouldn't it? " 
 
 There was a faint sound of caution in the nurse's voice. 
 
 " Let me come round and see you to-morrow, and talk it over. 
 And, if we do go, we might start the next day." 
 
 " Very well. Good-bye, nurse." 
 
 " Well, but wait a minute. Lady Cannynge. You haven't 
 told me why you came here ! " 
 
 " I want you to come away with me," 
 
 "But how could you know I was leaving here to-morrow? 
 Didn't the man tell vou at the door? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Well then !"
 
 446 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " I wanted to see you. I felt I must see you. It doesn't 
 matter what I wanted. Good night, nurse ! " 
 
 She got into the fiacre and drove away. 
 
 When she reached home, and was eating her small dinner 
 with scarcely any appetite, she considered where they should 
 go. She was sure that the nurse would consent to go with her. 
 It seemed to her that the choice she was about to make was very 
 important. Her head was now clear, but she still felt unwell. 
 And a sense of unrest gnawed her. She would not lose It till 
 she was away from Rome. When dinner was finished she went 
 to the drawing-room. Where should they go? Capri, Sor- 
 rento, Amalfi? No, no. Perugia cam.e before her mind with 
 its soft and almost tender view, those long lines of Umbrian 
 hills which suggest the lives of the saints. And mentally she 
 rejected Perugia. That region was not for her. She remem- 
 bered the words she had read in the garden of Villa Mattei, she 
 remembered the voices of the nuns in the church of the Sacre 
 Coeur. And she dared not seek at this moment the country of 
 the saints. 
 
 " I will leave it till to-morrow," she thought. 
 
 As she lay awake in the dark the conviction which possessed 
 her was like a personality companioning her. She had prayed 
 when Denzil was dying, but she had not prayed to-night. 
 When at last sleep began to approach her, she seemed to be 
 again on the high terrace at Olevano, to hear rising up over the 
 slopes and the crested olive trees the voices of children, to see 
 darting tiny shapes before her in an open space hemmed in by 
 houses. 
 
 And presently, as she was sinking down into the gulf of 
 sleep, she heard the sighing whisper that had come to her 
 through the olive trees: 
 
 "To give life — to hand on the torch — to people the play- 
 grounds of the world." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 In the morning the fever of desire to be gone from Rome 
 burned more strongly in Dolores. From moment to moment 
 she dreaded the arrival of Cesare. If he were in Rome that 
 letter, posted the night before, had reached him. On an ordi- 
 nary man it would act as a shackle, keeping him from Palazzo 
 Barberini. But Cesare was not an ordinary man when his
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 447 
 
 passions were aroused. She realized now, in the light of morn- 
 ing, that instead of deterring him from visiting her, the Prin- 
 cess's warning might spur him into some immediate and vio- 
 lent action. The impression made upon her by his recklessness 
 after the dinner at Villa Medici was not effaced. He had 
 wished that night to provoke a scene with her husband. What 
 might he not wish now? But he must follow her desires. 
 After what had occurred he was bound bj' the law of honor 
 to submit himself to her in any matter affecting her reputation. 
 She called in Carlino, and told him she was expecting a visit 
 from a lady, the nurse who often came. She was not in casa 
 to any one else. Carlino, looking ^txy serious, quite under- 
 stood. As he said so he fixed upon her his large and rather sad 
 eyes. And Dolores was uneasy. Hastily she said: 
 
 "Va bene, Carlino!" 
 
 When he had turned away she was conscious of a sense 
 of distinct relief. She had been overtaken by the feeling that 
 she was transparent. And that feeling was often to be with 
 her in the days that were at hand. 
 
 But though she had given that order to Carlino she was not 
 at ease. She was sure Cesare had kept her latchkey. What 
 was to prevent him from using it? He ought not to use it. 
 Perhaps he would not dare to. But she could not feel sure of 
 anything in connection with him. A love as violent as his 
 might carry him bej^ond all conventions, might induce him to 
 break through all bonds. If only Nurse Jennings would 
 come! As she sat in the drawing-room Dolores listened per- 
 petually for sounds in the hall. She had set the doors that 
 divided her from the hall wide open, lest she might be taken un- 
 awares by Cesare. 
 
 To-morrow she would leave Rome, whether Nurse Jennings 
 came with her or not. And she would stay away until her 
 husband's return. How she would meet him she knew not. 
 Just now she dared not think of their meeting. Perhaps she 
 would find ways to tutor herself, to arm herself when she was 
 away from Rome. She tried to fasten her faith upon the 
 period of three weeks which divided her from the moment when 
 she would have again to take up what would seem her ordi- 
 nary life. How she would strive during all that time to regain 
 control of her mind, to learn to dominate her heart, and so to 
 obtain outward self-confidence, lest the envelope should betray 
 the contents of the letter it held. It was between two and 
 three o'clock when Nurse Jennings arrived, looking strong,
 
 448 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 healthy, calmly self-confident, as if she were suckled per- 
 petually at the breast of Mother Nature. 
 
 As Carlino was going away after showing her in Dolores 
 reminded him of her order. 
 
 '" I am not in casa for any one. I don't care who it is." 
 
 " Sissignora ! " 
 
 " You quite understand.'* 
 
 " Ma si ! " returned the child in a plaintive yoice, and almost 
 with an air of being offended. 
 
 " Grazie, Carlino," said Dolores. " I know I can alwaj^s 
 have confidence in you." 
 
 Carlino's face lighted^ and he went out not without self- 
 importance. 
 
 "And are you in the same mind, Lady Cannynge?" in- 
 quired Nurse Jennings, sitting down opposite to Dolores, and 
 looking at her with very frank scrutiny. 
 
 " About going away — yes. I should like to go to-day. You 
 are coming?" 
 
 " Well, I came round to talk it over, as I said I would last 
 night." 
 
 "Talk it over! But will you com.e?'" 
 
 She got up, went to the window, did something to the curtain 
 that hung by it, and came back. 
 
 "Are you coming? That's what I want to know." 
 
 "And if I don't?" 
 
 " Then I shall go av/ay by m5^self to-day. I shan't wait 
 till to-morrow. I need a change at once." 
 
 '* Where would you go to ? " 
 
 " I can't make up my mind.'* 
 
 She frowned. 
 
 " But do you want to go far or near?;"' 
 
 "Far — far!" 
 
 "What, for only three weeks!'* 
 
 " It needn't be very far. I don't mean hundreds and hun- 
 dreds of miles, of course!" 
 
 There was a sound of intense nervous irritation in her voice. 
 Nurse Jennings scrutinized her more closely, almost severely. 
 
 "But tell me, please, will you come or not? Then I can 
 decide where to go." 
 
 " Yes, I will come. T shouldn't care for you to go oflf all 
 alone," said Nurse Jennings, but almost with coldness. 
 
 " Oh, thank you, thank you, nurse I I ^ — it would be so 
 ghastly to go all alone."
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 449 
 
 For an instant Dolores looked almost happy. She sat 
 down. 
 
 " Now, where shall it be ? " 
 
 *' I must leave that to you, of course. I suppose you have 
 some preference." 
 
 Dolores was silent for a moment. She looked down. The 
 nurse watched her closely. 
 
 " I want it to be beautiful," Dolores said, still looking down. 
 " And quiet. It must be very quiet. I wonder what is the 
 most beautiful place within reach of Rome." 
 
 Nurse Jennings reddened very slightly under her freckles, 
 and a faintly self-conscious expression came Into her face. 
 She raised and depressed her light-colored eyebrows several 
 times, and twisted her nose almost like a child. Then, clearing 
 her throat, she observed: 
 
 " How d'you mean — within reach, Lady Cannynge ? " 
 
 ''Well, not more than twenty-four hours away." 
 
 *' I have heard " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 Dolores glanced up. 
 
 *' I have heard — a patient of mine, one who had traveled^ 
 too, told me once the most beautiful spot on earth was Taor- 
 mlna." 
 
 ]; In Sicily!" 
 
 " lust so. Lady Cannynge." 
 
 "Did he really say that?" 
 
 "Well, I'm sure! However should you know It was a 
 man?" 
 
 " I do know." 
 
 Nurse Jennings reddened more. 
 
 "But I expect that's much too far?" she said. "And I 
 daresay you've seen it." 
 
 " No." 
 
 " And it may be very hot." 
 
 "Tell me — will you be very happy If I take you to Taor- 
 mina? Will you?" 
 
 " Well, I must say it is my dream to get there — Lady 
 Cannynge." 
 
 " We will go. We'll start to-morrow. It takes less than 
 twenty-four hours." 
 
 As she spoke, a burden seemed for a moment to be lifted 
 from her heart. Her pale face brightened, then suddenly 
 changed, became set, drawn.
 
 '450 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 "What is it. Lady Cannynge? "Why, whatever is the 
 matter?" 
 
 " Don't ycu hear " 
 
 She got up. Bending down, she whispered quickly: 
 
 ** Nurse, I'm going to my bedroom. If any one comes in 
 now, at once, say I can't see any one. Say I am ill, gone to 
 lie down. It's true ! " 
 
 "You do look " 
 
 "Say you're a nurse! Say that! But not a word about 
 our going away to-morrow ! " 
 
 She left the room by way of the library. As the library 
 door shut behind her. Nurse Jennings heard a distant sound 
 of voices, and almost immediately Carlino entered, looking 
 very disturbed. On seeing Nurse Jennings alone he stared. 
 
 "What is it?" said the nurse, attempting Italian with a 
 touch of the brogue. 
 
 "Where is the signora?" 
 
 *' She's in her bedroom lying down. She's not well. Non 
 Sta bene! Non sta bene!" 
 
 " There's a signore who says he must speak to her, a sig- 
 nora who has been here before. I can't get him to go away." 
 
 "I'll get him." 
 
 (Nurse Jennings walked into the hall, and found Cesare 
 Standing there. He looked at her with fiery eyes. 
 
 "Do you wish to see Lady Cannynge?" 
 
 ** If you please," he said, with a sort of hard obstinacy. 
 
 " I'm sorry you can't." 
 
 "But " 
 
 ** Nobody's to. Lady Cannynge is unwell." 
 
 " The servant didn't say so." 
 
 " I say so. I'm a nurse, fetched in to attend to Lady 
 Cannynge." 
 
 Cesare's face changed. 
 
 "A nurse! She is ill? What is it? Is she very ill?" 
 
 *' She needs complete rest. And I mean to take care she 
 has it. That's what I'm here for." 
 
 They looked at each other for a moment. Then Cesare 
 took up his hat. 
 
 " I'll write," he said in a very low voice. 
 
 He bowed to Nurse Jennings, opened the door, and was gone. 
 
 Two days later, towards noon, Dolores and Nurse Jennings,
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 451 
 
 with but little luggage, and no maid, got cut of the train 
 at Giardini Station, and drove up the long hill, by the Duke 
 of Bronte's garden, and by Santa Caterina, through the Mes- 
 sina Gate into Taormina. The Hotel Timeo had just opened 
 its doors after the summer siesta. They put up there, in the 
 rooms with a private terrace over the smoking-room on the 
 top floor. 
 
 And Nurse Jennings entered into her dream. 
 
 She had always had w^hat she v/ould have called "a great 
 liking" for Dolores. But now Dolores had won her forever. 
 Without a word of explanation, v/ithout an attempt at forcing 
 her confidence, Dolores had understood the way of her heart, 
 had almost eagerly enabled her to realize a romantic desire. 
 For beneath Nurse Jennings's sturdy independence there 
 lurked a strain of romance. On the day when they came to 
 Taormina the two women drew nearer to each other. The 
 nurse in her delight did not fail to realize the deep trouble 
 of her companion, though she had not been enlightened fur- 
 ther as to its cause. And Dolores, in her strange, and now 
 very still, sadness, sympathized with the other's joy. 
 
 When the streak of blue sea divided her from Italy she was 
 conscious of a great change in her feelings. She passed into 
 a region devoid of events, except of those which occur in the 
 heart and imagination. No one knew where she had gone. 
 She had said at the palace that she would send her address 
 when she v/anted her letters. Cesare had not written yet. 
 Theo did not know of her departure from Rome. A sense of 
 freedom encompassed her. She was liberated for the moment 
 from the prison of action and let loose in the imm.ensity of 
 thought. It seemed to her, just at first, that she sank into 
 rest. Horrors dropped away in this world of beauty. The 
 serpent gave no sign of its presence in this Eden. The still- 
 ness of sorrow was almost like joy because it was still. The 
 garden of Villa Medici, the terrace of Olevano Romano — they 
 were in a far country, where people loved greatly and greatly 
 suffered, where they were driven by the Furies, where they 
 were the prey of Life that was a devouring beast forever unap- 
 peased. But, here, far countries sank away into legend, and, 
 here, the Furies profoundly slept, under shadows cast over 
 them by roses in a region of dreaming blue. 
 
 On the day after their arrival, despite the heat, Nurse Jen- 
 nings started out verj^ early in the morning to " look about 
 her." She returned at half-past twelve in a state of enthu-
 
 452 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 siasm. She had been to the Greek Theater, had visited the 
 antiquity shops and the Badia Vecchia, " The Piazza," the 
 garden of San Domenico. She had even been on donkey-back 
 up to the ridge between Mola and the Castello. 
 
 " And I've found a place for you. Lady Cannynge," she ex- 
 claimed, as they prepared to go down to lunch. 
 
 " I shall be satisfied with the theater and the terrace here." 
 
 " But if you ever want to be hidden away from every one." 
 
 "What have you found?" 
 
 " I'll show you this evening after tea, when you're quite 
 rested, and it's not so hot. My freckles will be worse than 
 ever to-morrow, I expect. But who cares ? " 
 
 " There is nobody here who is likely to criticize us." 
 
 "Oh, I don't know about that! You never saw anything 
 like the eyes all down the main street I " 
 
 " I don't think I shall mind those eyes." 
 
 That evening Nurse Jennings, true to her promise, took 
 Dolores to a mountain garden, hidden away in a cleft of the 
 hills to the right of the path to Mola. It was not large, and 
 was constructed in terraces, the last and longest of which was 
 divided by a rail overgrown with roses from the stony bottom 
 of a gully. Orange and fig trees, pepper trees, the eucalyptus 
 and the almond tree, gave to it their shade. On the lowest 
 terrace a fountain played in front of a rose-covered arbor. 
 And nestled under a great gray stone wall above was an open 
 pavilion, with a sloping red roof and brick columns, facing a 
 far-off view of the sea and the magical coasts of Calabria. 
 Round the sides of this pavilion ran a bed from which masses 
 of wild maidenhair ferns lifted their fairylike heads. Roses 
 clung round the columns. Roses and harba di Giove streamed 
 over the roof. Steeply, on the far side of the gully, rose the 
 uncultivated mountain side, covered with cactus, and with grass 
 now seared by the heat of summer. An old aqueduct closed 
 in the garden where the gully narrowed. In front, long slopes 
 covered with olive and almond trees, with vines, and with 
 fruit trees, led gradually down to far-away bushes of wild 
 oleander, that nodded over the clear crystal depths of a sea 
 all silver shot with pale blue where the rocks protected it, 
 and where it slept by the shallow shore. And above, in the 
 quivering sky, like a thing disdainful of earth yet bound for 
 a time to earth's topmost peak, Mola soared toward the sun. 
 
 For the sun had not j^et departed, though already the light 
 of evening lay over the little garden.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 453 
 
 Only the Sicilian gardener was there. He welcomed the 
 two strangers with a hospitable smile, and assured Dolores 
 that his absent padrone would be willing for them to enjoy 
 the garden. He led them with pride to the pavilion, brought 
 them comfortable basket chairs, promised them that the fountain 
 should always be set playing when they were there, and then 
 disappeared to a hidden terrace, leaving them to watch the 
 coming of twilight over the sea. 
 
 "Well, what do you say now, Lady Cannynge?" asked 
 Nurse Jennings, with the air of a discoverer. 
 
 " I have nothing to say," said Dolores. 
 
 She could just hear the whisper of the fountain. 
 
 " But I know I shall come here every day," she added. 
 
 " I would ! " said the nurse. " Do you know, I think my 
 fr — my patient that I told you of was quite right." 
 
 "Yes, he was." 
 
 On that first day how profoundly the Furies slept I 
 
 The visit of Cesare to Palazzo Barberini had not been dis- 
 cussed between the two women. Nurse Jennings had simply 
 told Dolores that an Italian gentleman had wanted to see 
 her, that he had been made to understand it was impossible, 
 and that he had gone away. He had said he would write. 
 
 His letter must surely be lying now on a table In Rome. 
 
 As the first freshness of the changed mode of life faded, 
 Dolores could not put the thought of that letter away from 
 her mind. It seemed to link two lands, two lives. She had 
 written to Theo in England, explaining her sudden Heparture 
 on the ground of health, and of a desire to fill up her time 
 pleasantly while he was away. But she had not had the 
 courage to write to Rome to give her address. Each day she 
 resolved to write. Each day she put ofE the task. More than 
 a week had gone by. And she had not written. Then there 
 came a telegram from Theo In London. 
 
 " Stay on Taormina I will come over and fetch you HacL** 
 
 The message revived in Dolores the intention she Had formed 
 in Rome, to spend the weeks of her husband's absence in 
 a strict preparation for her meeting with him v/hen he re- 
 turned. She was to find ways to tutor herself, to arm her- 
 self. More than a week was already gone, and what had she 
 done? She had been sunk in a strange lethargy, the victim of 
 reaction. She took the telegram with her to the pavilion in 
 the garden. Nurse Jennings was walking In the hills.
 
 454 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 Since Dolores had been in Sicily, she had been feeling better 
 physically, but the mystic certainty had never left her for a 
 moment. Now and then, when she had met the clear gaze 
 of Nurse Jennings, she had wondered whether the nurse was 
 guided by any instinct to a suspicion of her conviction. She 
 could not decide. And now was not she armed against the 
 nurse? For she knew the way of her heart. That little 
 fact gave to Dolores sometimes an odd feeling of safety when 
 the nurse's eyes held a searching expression. 
 
 Nicola, the kind gardener, hastened to the lower terrace 
 to set the little fountain playing, and Dolores went into the 
 pavilion and sat down on a chaise longue. She rested her 
 feet against the bar of the chair. The high back supported 
 her head. Almost directly she heard the whisper of the foun- 
 tain beginning. Through the rose-covered columns she looked 
 at the distant sea, at more distant Italy. 
 
 Theo's telegram lay on her lap. 
 
 A white sail appeared on the sea, the only speck that broke 
 the flawlessness of the blue. Imperceptibly it moved, going 
 from the straits, where a city lay dead in the deep blue dis- 
 tance. Was it voyaging to the Fortunate Isles? As Dolores 
 watched it, an intense yearning, an aching desire, stole through 
 all her being. That little white sail, she knev/ not why, made 
 her long to be happy, just to be happy and at peace, to be 
 understood, to be cherished because she was understood. She 
 felt that she was traveling, like that sail. She knew not the 
 length of the journey. Di doman no ce certezza. She had 
 been in tempest and night, black night. And now whither was 
 she going? To what port was she shaping her course? 
 
 She longed almost desperately to tell some one all the truth 
 of what she had done. And suddenly memory placed before 
 her a man, a priest, whom she had once seen for a moment, 
 whom she had scarcely then been aware that she saw. He 
 had stood en the Pincio looking towards St. Peter's on the 
 day when she had spoken frankly to Lady Sarah. His lips 
 had moved, perhaps in a prayer. If he were in Taormina 
 she might perhaps make her confession to him. It seemed 
 to her that she would never be able to feel cleaner, till she had 
 told the truth to some one. 
 
 Theo's telegram had made her keenly alive again. The ne- 
 cessity to arm herself frightened her. She saw fierce mental 
 effort in front of her. She must prepare herself for hypocrisy. 
 
 And that little sail was so white! Was that why it v/as 
 permitted to voyage through the flawless blue?
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 455 
 
 Qui San F Hippo Neri discorreva coi suoi discepoli delle cose 
 di Dio. The things of God. The fingers of Dolores closed 
 convulsively on the paper in her lap, and the telegram was 
 torn. She threw it down on the pavement of the pavilion. 
 And as she did so, she was overtaken once more by the peculiar 
 feeling of faintness which had assailed her in Rome. And the 
 white sail vanished for a moment quivering from before her 
 eves. 
 '"Cooee!" 
 
 A sturdy w^oman's voice, full and cheerful, dropped down 
 to her from somewhere above. She did not answer. The cry 
 came again twice. But she shut her eyes and lay perfectly 
 still. Presently she heard steps, then again a voice. 
 
 "Lady Cann3-nge! Didn't you hear me?" 
 
 She opened her eyes. Nurse Jennings, her hands full of 
 mysterious green plants that she had picked in the hills, was 
 standing between the columns looking in at her. 
 
 " Yes," Dolores said, with some difficulty. 
 
 "And you wouldn't answer? Would you rather be alone, 
 perhaps? Shall I leave you in quiet?" 
 
 "No, don't — don't!" 
 
 " What is it ? " The nurse stepped in. " How yellow and 
 drawn you look! " 
 
 She laid down the plants on a little straw table that stood 
 by Dolores' chair. 
 
 "Lady Cannynge, is there anything wrong with you? But 
 I know there is. Wouldn't you like to tell it to me? It 
 might ease you." 
 
 She did not disclaim curiosity, but if she had any, Dolores 
 knew it was the affectionate curiosity of the heart, which is the 
 tribute of a warm and disinterested feeling. 
 
 " I am all for you," she continued. " And I'm sure you 
 feel that. Dying for people is nonsense, and I don't believe in 
 nonsense. But after what you've done " 
 
 "What I've done!" said Dolores. 
 
 She moved, sitting straight up in the chaise longue. 
 
 " Bringing me to Taormina, I mean ! " 
 
 « Oh — yes." 
 
 " I shall always be glad to do my best for you — in any 
 way." 
 
 Dolores was silent for a minute. Then she said: 
 
 " Nurse, do sit down. Sit close to me." 
 
 " Whv not?" returned Nurse Jennings, drawing up a chair. 
 
 She took a hand of Dolores in hers, and calmly held it.
 
 456 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " I don't feel very well. I think my nerves are all wrong. 
 And besides ' 
 
 " What is it ? If you say exactly, I daresay I can very soon 
 tell " 
 
 " No. I want you to tell me something." 
 
 "Me!" 
 
 " That friend who told you about Taormina! " 
 
 "Well, I never!" 
 
 "Where is he now?" 
 
 '* In England, I believe.'* 
 
 "Don't you know?" 
 
 "Well, he is in England." 
 
 "I wonder " 
 
 "Whatever do j'ou wonder?'* 
 
 " I wonder if you will! " 
 ■ "Oh — Lady Cannynge!" 
 
 " I should like you to be happy, how I should like that! " 
 
 "You are good!" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " But why do you want me to be happy? In such a special 
 sort of a way, I mean ? " 
 
 " I think it's because I'm so unhappy," 
 
 "Are you?" 
 
 " Very, very unhappy." 
 
 " Is it always what you told me ? " 
 
 " No " Dolores looked at the white sail. " It's much 
 
 more than that now." 
 
 She shut her eyes. Nurse Jennings' face changed. It had 
 been emotional. It became suddenly professional. She leaned 
 over Dolores. 
 
 " Tell me what you're feeling like," she said. " Tell me 
 exactly." 
 
 Dolores told her. There was a long silence. 
 
 The nurse made no comment on what Dolores had told her. 
 
 Dolores asked her for no opinion. 
 
 At last Dolores said: 
 
 " To-day, when you were out, I got a telegram from my hus- 
 band. When he leaves England he is coming here to take me 
 back to Rome." 
 
 " Shall you wish me to go when he comes? " 
 
 " I don't think so. I want you near me. And I shall 
 "want you much more presently." 
 
 She was silent.
 
 THE FRUITFUL yiNE 457 
 
 "You'll like my husband when you really know him," she 
 added after a moment. 
 
 "I don't know that!" 
 
 " He's always nice to everybody." 
 
 " Except you, by what you've told me." 
 
 " I feel perhaps I ought never to have told you. But I 
 couldn't help it." 
 
 " And why do you help it now? " 
 
 " Nobody could ever understand." 
 
 " I don't know about understanding. But I think I know."" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Well — the gentleman you sent me to speak to in the hall I 
 When he gave me a look, by that, and the way you went out 
 of the drawing-room, I knew a good deal, I think." 
 
 *' I don't want to see him again. I don't want ever to see 
 him again. And that very thing, my not wanting to, is wicked- 
 ness now, after what I have done. And now my husband is 
 coming here. And — and when I have to tell him " 
 
 She broke off. 
 
 " You mean to tell him, then ! " said Nurse Jennings, quite 
 simply, apparently neither rejecting Dolores as a sinner, nor 
 accepting her as a moral problem. 
 
 " I shall have to — at last. How can I help telling him? "■ 
 
 "But — what do you mean?" 
 
 " I shall have to tell him about — about the child. And! 
 then — nurse, can you help me? Can any one help me?" 
 
 Suddenly she broke down, and completely. Nurse Jennings 
 went quickly to Nicola, and begged him go on an errand to 
 the town. Then she returned to the pavilion. Before the 
 two women went back to the hotel she knew the truth of the 
 episode at Olevano. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 After that day Dolores felt a certain sense of relief, but not 
 because of anything Nurse Jennings had said to her. The re- 
 lief came from the fact that she no longer bore the burden of 
 her secret uncompanioned. Cesare did not know it, but only a 
 part of it. Nurse Jennings of course had spoken words in 
 accord with her character. She had stated certain facts. And 
 facts had gone over the spirit of Dolores as a traveling wind 
 goes over grass, leaving it just as it was when the world was
 
 458 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 still. Nurse Jennings soon saw that, and did not attempt 
 any further combat against the conviction of Dolores. She 
 had had patients with fixed ideas before, and knew how diffi- 
 cult it was to " shift " such ideas. And, perhaps, though she 
 did not show it then, Dolores' belief had made some impression 
 upon her. 
 
 The natures of the two women were very dissimilar, and 
 in that dissimilarity Dolores had found the path which sustained 
 her feet as she went to confession. Once the confession was 
 finished, and Nurse Jennings had " had her say," on what she 
 picked out at the moment as the main fact of importance, Do- 
 lores and she seemed to fall back into their habitual relations. 
 Dolores did not treat her as penitent treats priest. And Nurse 
 Jennings did not express any opinion on the moral question in- 
 volved. That lack of expression gave to Dolores a deeper con- 
 fidence in the nurse. She needed neither condemnation nor 
 absolution from any human being just then. What she needed 
 was acceptance, to be accepted with in her hand the gift of her 
 sincerity. She knew the nurse accepted her. And often she 
 remembered the simple words, " I am all for you." 
 
 It was perhaps that scene in the pavilion which nerved 
 Dolores to write to the Palazzo Barberini, asking that any 
 letters should be forwarded, but forbidding the servants to 
 give her address to any one. Italian and Sicilian posts are 
 slow. Four days elapsed before she had any reply. Then a 
 packet arrived. She undid it quickly, and at once saw three 
 letters in Cesare's handwriting. There was also a letter from 
 Theo, written before he knew she had gone to Sicily. She 
 read Theo's letter first. How calm it seemed! She felt ab- 
 surdly as if his complete ignorance of all that she knew was 
 unnatural, as if he had sunk into childishness. But how could 
 he know? 
 
 He mentioned the house In Lancaster Gate, and took her 
 back to the bedroom in Palazzo Barberini. As long as she 
 lived could she ever forget that house in Lancaster Gate, and 
 its effect upon her destiny? 
 
 So — that was Theo! 
 
 A sensation of sad irony possessed her soul as she laid his let- 
 ter down. She sat looking at the three unopened letters of Cesare. 
 If she had done what she wished to do at that moment, she 
 would have destroyed them unopened, passing a sponge over the 
 slate on which terrible words were written. She did not want 
 to face the truth that she had conjured up. She was a coward.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 459 
 
 and worse than a coward. For she had done the unforgivable 
 thing. She had used love without returning it. And she saw 
 Cesare now as a victim rather than lover. But at last she 
 opened one of his letters. She read it quickly and put it down. 
 Then she opened the second. 
 
 She was sitting on the high terrace before her bedroom win- 
 dow. It was about three o'clock in the afternoon. The heat 
 was great. But the sky was gray. Etna looked peculiarly 
 volcanic under that gray sky, with a waveless, gray sea at its 
 foot. No smoke v/as visible streaming out of the crater. And 
 to-day the absence of smoke suggested danger to Dolores. The 
 monster seemed to brood, v.nth carefully covered fires, medi- 
 tating som.e dreadful deed. And Sicily lay around it like a land 
 stricken with fear, its radiant beauty vanished. 
 
 She read the second letter and the third. Then she sat back 
 and looked at Etna. 
 
 Despite her knowledge of the volcano's terrific powers, since 
 she had read Cesare's letters she felt as if the power in a fully 
 awakened human soul made all other forces seem negligible. 
 
 How had she ever dared to use the feeling in a human soul 
 as she had used Cesare's? 
 
 She deserved that he should punish her. Would he punisK 
 her in spite of all she could do ? The terrible thing was that in 
 his sincerity he persistently assumed hers. He took it for 
 granted that she loved him. 
 
 His first letter was short, and expressed anxiety about her 
 health, begged for an interview directly she was able to see any 
 one, and in a veiled manner indicated that it was essential 
 the interview should not be long delayed. She understood 
 that in this letter Cesare had tried to govern himself, to attain 
 the discretion she would wish for, to sink the passionate lover 
 in the man of the world. 
 
 The second letter was longer and much less prudent. Al- 
 most violently he asked why there had been no reply to his 
 first letter. He wrote that he must see her, and that unless 
 he received an answer of some kind — a word only if she were 
 really unwell — he should come again to the palace. He fixed 
 the time of his delay at twenty-four hours. 
 
 And then there was the third letter, written, after another 
 visit at the palace, and his discovery of her departure without 
 leaving any address. 
 
 Dolores sat looking at Etna, and feeling as if that third 
 letter had scorched her like a flame from its molten breast.
 
 46o THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 There was something ungovernable in Cesare. She had been 
 aware of it more than once; terribly aware of it on the night 
 when he had taken her back to the apartment while Sir Theo- 
 dore slept. But never — not even then — had she realized it 
 as she did at this moment. His passion might pass away. 
 She had heard people say of the Italian character that it was 
 full of heat, but of heat that was not lasting. She did not know 
 whether this was true. But she knew that she had aroused 
 an intensity which, though it might die away, might cause 
 destruction before it died. She felt the fixed attention of a 
 heart concentrated upon her. And it was like an eye that 
 would never be weary of watching. It began to terrify her. 
 
 The third letter had evidently been written in a mood of 
 red-hot excitement. A bitter sense of injury flamed out of it. 
 But still the man who had written it believed in the woman's 
 love. It was incredible to Cesare that Dolores could have done 
 what she had done under any influence save that of passion. 
 But evidently he suspected a sharp reaction of fear, a creeping 
 palsy of prudence. Evidently he thought he detected great 
 danger to his love in this reaction. And he fought against this 
 supposed danger with an energy that was fierce. Almost as 
 his touch, his kiss, had spoken to her in the garden of Villa 
 Medici did his written words speak to her now. But how dif- 
 ferent was her response! 
 
 In Villa Medici she had nearly been carried away by the 
 intensity of his desire. In that moment when he had seemed 
 all, she nothing, she had known how the desire to be needed 
 sometimes betrays good women. 
 
 But there was a gulf fixed between that woman and the 
 woman now sitting on the terrace at Taormina. 
 
 And never would Cesare bridge it. 
 
 There was, as he suspected, reaction. 'But it was reaction 
 which had carried a nature back to its own essential truth. 
 
 And Cesare did not know the strange and mystical convic- 
 tion which, almost like that gray sea down there, waveless at 
 Etna's foot, enveloped the soul of Dolores, changing it, giving 
 to Its course a new direction, towards the region of unknown 
 fate. Even now. In her terror of what Cesare was, of what 
 he might do, she felt herself to be a woman apart. For out of 
 the sin, the terror, the sordidness, must arise a flower white with 
 innocence. 
 
 And suddenly there came to her the thought, " Possibly
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 461 
 
 this child had to be born, not for me, not for Theo, not for 
 Cesare, but for the world ! " 
 
 It was a thought perhaps fantastic, progeny of a dreaming 
 woman carried on in the bark that no man can ever enter, the 
 bark of the white sails that are set towards the flawless blue. 
 But it was a thought that henceforth was never quite to die in 
 the mind of Dolores. And ft was a thought that lifted her. 
 In the moment of its becoming, above both her sense of sin and 
 her sense of fear. 
 
 But the gray lay above Etn^^ and the gray slept at its foot. 
 And she returned Into fear. 
 
 iWhat must she do before she went back with Theo to Rome ? 
 'How was she to govern the nature she had roused, to tread 
 down Into the earth the armed man born of the dragon's tooth 
 she had sown ? 
 
 Nurse Jennings, whose bedroom Opened on to the terrace 
 where Dolores was sitting, was enjoying a siesta. A very 
 strong and active woman, and now taking an unexpected holi- 
 day, she was up early In the morning and, unwearied In sight- 
 seeing, made expeditions each day, but always returned to the 
 hotel to lunch with Dolores, who spent her mornings quietly, 
 sitting with a book In the Greek theater, or on the lower ter- 
 race of the Timeo, under the palm trees. Presently Dolores 
 got up and went to the window of the nurse's room. The 
 white mosquito net was closely drawn about the bed. Dolores 
 stood In the aperture of the window, and softly said: 
 
 "Nurse!" 
 
 There was no reply. 
 
 " Nurse ! Are you awake? '* 
 
 " What ? " said a muffled voice. 
 
 There was a movement on the bed. 
 
 ** Did some one speak? " said the voice, still drowsily. 
 
 Dolores stepped Into the room... 
 
 "Don't move! Don't undraw the net. I'll sit down out- 
 side. I want to speak to you." 
 
 " It's you. Lady Cannynge ! I don^t know what's come to 
 me to-day. I feel quite heavy with sleep." 
 
 " It's only the scirocco. Lie still, and let ms sit here for a 
 little. The post has come, and I've had some letters." 
 
 " Letters! Are there any for me? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 "Well, d'you know I'm glad? I don't seem to want any
 
 i|62 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 letters and such things here. But yours! I hope they're nice 
 ones?" 
 
 She moved again and put her hand to the net. 
 
 " Nurse, please don't draw back the net. I'd rather you 
 aidn't." 
 
 Nurse Jennings lay still. 
 
 *' Just as you like, Lady Cannynge," she said. 
 
 [Now her voice was quite wide awake. 
 
 "I've had some letters that have — they've made me very 
 anxious. They've frightened me. I don't know what to do 
 about them," 
 
 " I'm sorry. But it's always a mistake to be frightened. It's 
 that brings things about." 
 
 " Brings things about? " 
 
 " Brings things on to people, I believe. I've noticed it often 
 with patients. Be afraid of some particular illness, or some par- 
 ticular operation, and as often as not it comes on you." 
 
 " I don't think I believe in all that." 
 
 " Well ! I thought you were more inclined to it than I 
 am!" 
 
 " Once perhaps I was. But I tried to bring something 
 about by thinking, desiring, and it didn't happen. I don't 
 think we can do very much for ourselves, even against our- 
 selves." 
 
 ** Can I help you about those letters? " 
 
 " iYou're the only person in the world that can, I think." 
 
 " I'll do my best. You may depend on that." 
 
 " You can do nothing here. But v/hen my husband comes, 
 and we go back to Rome, I think perhaps you might." 
 
 She drew her chair a little farther away from the mosquito 
 net. 
 
 " iWhen we get to Rome, do you think you could go and see 
 some one for me? " 
 
 " I don't see why not." 
 
 *' It's — it would be the person who came to visit me when 
 you were with me the other day." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Dolores was silent. She did not know how to go on. Al- 
 though she had told Nurse Jennings much, she had not told her 
 everything. But if the nurse were going to help her, must she 
 not tell everything? 
 
 " I have had some letters from him," she said at length. 
 *' iHe doesn't understand — things. And I'm afraid, unless
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 463 
 
 something Is done, he might do me a great deal of harm. I'm 
 afraid he might ruin my life utterly." 
 
 " He sha'n't do that," said the voice behind the mosquito cur- 
 tain with great decision. " Not if I can stop him at any rate! " 
 
 "I — I don't mean my social life," Dolores continued. " I 
 don't really care about that. What I mean is my life with 
 my husband." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 " I suppose — I daresay any one might think, after what has 
 happened, that my life with my husband must mean very little 
 to me. That isn't so. It means everything. And it's that — 
 I know quite well " 
 
 She stopped. The trying to speak the plain truth brought its 
 horrible meaning home to her with a clearness that hurt her 
 like too fierce light. She felt as if she could not put that 
 truth into words even to Nurse Jennings. And perhaps, 
 since that conversation after dinner in Palazzo Barberini, the 
 nurse understood everything, even what had not been plainly 
 told. 
 
 " Nurse," she began again, " the person I want you to see 
 thinks me better than I am. He doesn't understand at all how 
 bad I am. I want you to make him understand. He — he 
 thinks I love him. That would have been some excuse for 
 me," her voice became lower; "I want him — I feel he must 
 know that — that I hadn't that excuse. When he knows that, 
 I think he will hate me. I am sure he must. I suppose I am 
 hateful." 
 
 *'' Don't say that." 
 
 *' Perhaps since I spoke to you that night In Palazzo Bar- 
 berini you understand a little — - 1 don't know. Perhaps no 
 one ever could. I don't know — now whether I can under- 
 stand. But it's done. Only — only If my husband should 
 ever know, I don't feel I could live any longer. He thinks I 
 am a good woman." 
 
 Suddenly she got up and went to the window. 
 
 " Oh ! I don't know how I can see him again ! " she ex- 
 claimed. " I dread his coming." 
 
 Nurse Jennings thrust aside the mosquito net and emerged 
 Into the room, with her red hair in disorder about her flushed 
 and freckled face. 
 
 " Couldn't you nerve yourself to tell your husband — Lady 
 Cannynge?" she said, bluntly. 
 
 "But — I told you! It's my husband I love!"
 
 464 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 ** Then couldn't you trust him ? " 
 
 "Trust hi'm!" 
 
 *'With just the truth?" 
 
 " He would never speak to me again. That's how men 
 are." 
 
 And Nurse Jennings, after an instant of silent reflection, 
 said: 
 
 " I s'pose it is how they are, God help them ! " 
 
 " And I think " Dolores said, looking away from the 
 
 nurse, " I think I would rather, even now, that they were like 
 that." 
 
 Nurse Jennings gazed at her steadily. But neither wonder 
 nor sarcasm came into the sunburnt and freckled face, only a 
 yery human tenderness. 
 
 " I don't see how your husband could help but love you," 
 she said. 
 
 Dolores turned round, came to the nurse, and touched her 
 shoulder. 
 
 " Save me from losing him! " she said, with an accent almost 
 of terror. " When you get to Rome, go to Don Cesare Carelli 
 and make him understand. Try to make him forgive me, leave 
 me alone. Only try! But — if he doesn't! If he won't! " 
 
 "Hush! Hush! Now, my dear, we'll go to the garden 
 and be quiet. Didn't we come here to be quiet? I've no idea 
 of spoiling my little holiday, I can tell you, with a lot of black 
 fancies that for almost certain won't come to anything. Time 
 enough to grizzle when things do happen. Now, you put on 
 your hat and take a book, and we'll go and sit by that fountain. 
 I do just love its odd little noise! " 
 
 And when they were in the garden Nurse Jennings, using a 
 subtlety natural to women, whether subtle or not, turned the » 
 will of Dolores towards quietude by the speaking of one sen- 
 tence only. When Nicola had duly set the fountain playing, 
 she remarked: 
 
 " There are times in a woman's life when she doesn't owe 
 it only to herself to keep herself from grizzling and fretting, 
 but to some one else too." 
 
 Dolores looked at the nurse without saying a word, but the 
 expression in her eyes showed that she had understood, and that 
 the Avords had sunk Jeep into the soft nest of her heart. 
 
 Did the nurse, too, believe? 
 
 At that moment Dolores felt as If her mystical belief had 
 received the crude acquiescence of Mother Nature. She did
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 465 
 
 not realize that the truest of women may deceive for a pur- 
 pose connected with one whom she has learned to love and to 
 pity. 
 
 Dolores did not answer Cesare's letters. She dared not. 
 [What could she write that would satisfy him, still his fierce 
 excitement? And she dared not let him know where she was. 
 'He would come over to seek her. Till Nurse Jennings returned 
 to Rome things must be left as they were. Dolores hated to 
 treat Cesare with what must seem to him a monstrous, an un- 
 pardonable, contempt. Still, ought he not to have some con- 
 sideration for her state of fear after the receipt of the Princess's 
 warning? She tried to think so. She even did think so. But, 
 secretly, she pardoned everything because of his love for her. 
 And she felt that she alone was the sinner. To protect herself 
 from the terror of any more letters she telegraphed to the palace 
 that nothing more was to be forwarded, that she m.ight return to 
 Rome any day. This done, she resolved to detach her mind 
 from the great fear of the future. She resolved to use the time 
 remaining to her in Sicily in preparation for something else. 
 She must find courage and calm. She had sought beauty, quiet, 
 with a strange purpose which she had never told to any one, 
 and now she was not using them. She would use them. She 
 would give herself to them. Silently she strove to summon 
 about her the spirits of the hills and of the sea, the spirits of 
 the olive and almond groves, and of the still sea caverns where 
 the red fire of the coral hides in the glassy deep. To a paradise 
 she had come with a deliberate intention. And now she re- 
 solved to fulfill it. 
 
 She sank into stillness. But it seemed to her always that it 
 was the stillness which precedes storm. It happened that a suc- 
 cession of days of scirocco came to Sicily just then, reminding 
 her often of that winter evening when she had driven to visit 
 the Princess Mancelli. Ever before her eyes Etna brooded with 
 covered fires, smokeless, terrific. Now and then the gray silence 
 that brooded about " La Montagna " was riven by a dull and 
 far oR detonation, the voice of the mountain speaking. Then 
 the silence closed again. But the voice still echoed in a woman's 
 memory. To Dolores it seemed like a voice that arose from the 
 molten depths of the things unseen to threaten her. " There is 
 no debt that shall not eventually be paid to the uttermost far- 
 thing. There is no secret thing that shall not one day be 
 known." So the meuntain seemed to speak through the still 
 gray weather to the woman who watched it from the high ter-
 
 466 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 race above the still gray sea. And Its voice was as a greater 
 voice, using temporal means to express the eternal truths. 
 
 Some weeks had passed. And Sir Theodore was coming. 
 He was on his way. Dolores was not sure why he made the 
 journey to Taormina instead of meeting her in Rome. It might 
 be because he had not yet seen Taormina. Or it might be for 
 another reason ; from a gentlemanly desire to pay a delicate at- 
 tention to his wife after leaving her for several weeks on an- 
 other woman's business. Theo was sometimes very careful in 
 little things. Detail often appealed to him. This journey from 
 Rome to Taormina might possibly be detail. 
 
 How was she going to meet him? 
 
 Nov/ that she knew he was actually on his way, rushing to- 
 wards Sicily by day and night, she could no longer control her 
 mind. An intense nervous agitation took possession of her. 
 But she tried to govern it. And specially she tried to conceal 
 it from Nurse Jennings. She showed it mainly by her sudden 
 desire for perpetual occupation. Now she could not be still. 
 She rose early in the morning. She accompanied Nurse Jen- 
 nings in expeditions mounted on donkey-back. They went to- 
 gether to Monte Ziretto, to the summit of Monte Venere. 
 They descended to the sea, took a boat, visited the caves and 
 rowed along the curving shores. And the time passed with a 
 fearful swiftness. And the day of Theo's arrival dawned. 
 
 "He cannot know!" Dolores said to herself. "He shall 
 not know." 
 
 But she spoke to herself without conviction. Now she did 
 not feel afraid of the Princess's telling the truth. She did not 
 feel afraid of Cesare's revealing it, by some reckless lack of 
 caution or by some act of violence. She did not even look for- 
 ward into the future, and wonder what she would do when her 
 mystical conviction was translated into fact. What she feared 
 was her own revelation now. How could she conceal the 
 change in herself from Theo? How could she cover her se- 
 cret as Etna covered the tremendous fires? 
 
 She looked at herself in the glass. Surely her appearance 
 v/as changed. Surely the most casual eyes must see the woman 
 she had become. And Theo's eyes had seen her for more than 
 ten years, while she had been a good woman. A sickening 
 dread possessed her. Since she had sinned she no longer be- 
 lieved in Theo's unfaithfulness to her. She felt that she had 
 never believed in it. She knew now that if Theo had actually
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 467 
 
 sinned against her he could never have taken her to Frascati, 
 spoken of Edna to her as he had spoken. 
 
 She had ordered a carriage and had intended to go down to 
 the station of Giardini to meet the train from Messina. But 
 when a servant came to tell her the carriage was waiting at the 
 door she could not make up her mind to go in it. And she 
 called Nurse Jennings. 
 
 "Nurse," she said — she was near to trembling, but con- 
 trolled her body with an effort — " will you do something for 
 me? Will you go down and meet ray husband?" 
 
 *' Don't you feel up to going? " 
 
 Dolores shook her head. 
 
 "Wouldn't it be better to go and get it over?" said Nurse 
 Jennings. 
 
 She spoke calmly, even cheerfully. 
 
 "Yes. But — I can't go." 
 
 " Then I will," said the nurse. 
 
 "Thank you. And — and say something to him. Say I'm 
 really not very well, or of course I would have come. Explain 
 — prepare him for — he may find me changed." 
 
 " You must not give way, or he will." 
 
 " It will be all right, if I just get this hour alone." 
 
 Nurse Jennings came close to her, held her hand, gave her a 
 kiss, and went away to the carriage. In a moment Dolores 
 heard the sound of a whip cracking, of wheels and of horses 
 trotting. She went down to the farther of the two terraces 
 below, and walked up and down in the sun. For the scirocco 
 had lifted, and the sun was shining that da5\ 
 
 No one was there. She paced to and fro for a long time. 
 But the movement seemed to increase her nervous agitation, and 
 at last she went upstairs, and sat down once more on her own 
 terrace. She sought almost frantically in her mind for some 
 subject on which she could fix her attention. And, as people 
 often do when they find themselves in desperate circumstances, 
 she told herself that nothing really matters in the life of the 
 world. 
 
 " I am nothing! It is all nothing! " he said to herself. " It 
 will pass away and be forgotten almost directly. Soon I shall 
 be gone forever. Theo too! And those who will condemn 
 me, if what I have done is ever known, they are all hurrying 
 into darkness. We are shadows. It doesn't matter what hap- 
 pens to us here! It doesn't matter at all what happens to me,"
 
 468 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 And all the time she felt that it mattered more than anything 
 had mattered since the beginning of the world. 
 
 She tried to recapture the world-feeling which she had had 
 now and then. She looked at Etna — to-day showing a plume 
 of white smoke — and at the vast panorama of peaks, and ra- 
 vines, of rock and plain and sea. " There is the truth," she said 
 to herself. " That remains — endures. Etna saw Empedocles, 
 and is here still. In a few years I shall be dust." 
 
 But she felt as if she were much more than Etna in God's 
 great scheme. And then, abruptly as it had happened before, the 
 strange weariness and malaise beset her. For a moment she 
 was overcome by a sense of remoteness, as if she were with- 
 drawn to a great distance. She closed her eyes. And the 
 world-feeling came to her, not in connection with nature and 
 nature's glory, but in connection with something helpless, frail, 
 that might be put out almost with a breath, and that, when it 
 came, would depend on God through her. She had found what 
 she needed. She fastened her mind upon it. She thought, 
 " Not for me, not for Cesare, not for Theo — but for the 
 world ! " She brooded over that thought, keeping her eyes 
 closed. She sank down into that thought. It was like cloud 
 and fire about her. 
 
 Down the narrow road that led to the piazza she heard 
 cheerful noises, the determined cracking of a whip, the rolling of 
 wheels, the trot of horses' feet. Theo was coming. But still 
 she kept her eyes shut. And the thought had not left her even 
 now. The noises grew loud and ceased. She heard voices — a 
 deep bass voice that brought all her married life about her. Her 
 heart beat quickly. But she sat still and clung now to her 
 thought, as if that alone could bring her salvation. She heard 
 steps on the stairs, the bass voice saying, "Which is it?" a 
 rather loud knock on the door. She turned her head, without 
 opening her eyes, and tried to call, " Come in! " 
 
 "Doloretta!" 
 
 Had she called? The door was open. She was looking at 
 Theo's tall figure, brown hands, bright eyes, thick silvered hair. 
 And he seemed to her new, because of her sin. He crossed the 
 room and came out to the terrace. 
 
 "What's this? You are ill!" 
 
 Bending down he took her hand. She looked up at him 
 steadily, keeping her thought in her mind. 
 
 "Not ill!"
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 469 
 
 " But you've got Nurse Jennings, and she tells mc you really 
 are not well. And if you've brought her with you " 
 
 " I brought her as company — chiefly." 
 
 He sat down near her. His eyes were searching her face. 
 She saw that, and clung to her thought more firmly, almost 
 fiercely. 
 
 " But you do not look " he began. 
 
 He stopped. An almost puzzled expression came into his 
 eyes. 
 
 " What ? " said Dolores. " What ? " 
 
 She never took her eyes from his. 
 
 " Not exactly ill! " he said. 
 
 For a moment he seemed, she thought, embarrassed. He 
 moved his chair round till he faced the view. And he gazed at 
 It in silence. 
 
 " Marvelous! " he said. " People are right. Old Newman 
 was right, and Goethe, when he wrote ' Kennst Du das Land ? ' 
 here." 
 
 Still looking at the view he repeated the first verse, almost 
 under his breath, in a muttering voice. At the end he sighed. 
 
 " Wonderful !" he said. 
 
 He turned again towards Dolores. His face had changed. 
 It held a look of strong, very genuine emotion. 
 
 " A change from — Lancaster Gate! " he said. " Who shall 
 dare to say that life is not worth living? But, the worst of 
 it is a place like this makes one — such is the eternal voracity 
 of human nature, eh! — long for more, for other. Doesn't it? 
 Have you ever noticed, Doloretta, that we really are fashioned 
 for Eternity, whatever the materialists, the atheists say? We 
 know it in a place like this, where we are given — well, almost 
 the ultimate beauty, and where we desire, and just in conse- 
 quence of that, more, more of everything. Well, now to un- 
 pack!" 
 
 He got up, rather brusquely, then stood looking down on her 
 earnestly. 
 
 " More of everything! " he repeated. 
 
 He bent down and kissed Dolores. Then he went into his 
 bedroom which adjoined hers. And while he unpacked, she 
 heard him humming, " Kennst Du das Land? "
 
 470 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 That evening after dinner Sir Theodore said to his wife: 
 " You are coming to sit on the terrace? And you, nurse?" 
 " In a moment, Theo. I must go and get a wrap." 
 " D'you think you'll need one?" 
 " A very light one. We'll be down directly." 
 She went away followed by Nurse Jennings. Sir Theodore 
 strolled out to the terrace and lit a cigar. 
 
 The night was warm, like a night of summer in a land of 
 the sun. 
 
 There was no wind. Not even the lightest breeze moved 
 the heavy leaves of the palm trees, the climbing roses that hid 
 the columns. Far away below the murmur of the sea was just 
 audible. Like fireflies above the water shone the torches of the 
 fishermen, as they put out from Giardini for their toil on the 
 deep. Just below the terrace, beyond the garden of the hotel, 
 Sir Theodore saw a dark mass of trees. And as he stood 
 with his hand on the rail that protected the terrace from some- 
 where below and beyond him the voice of a man rose up. 
 
 " A mezzannott' appunto 
 Si sente un gran rumore, 
 Sono ]e gariolandi la la la la 
 Che vanno a labora. 
 
 Quest'e la via del ponte 
 
 Dove quel traditore 
 
 Venne a tradir la bionda la la la la 
 
 Con un bacio d'amor." 
 
 Slowly the voice traveled, as the hidden singer moved on amid 
 the trees, going towards the promontory above the sea where 
 ■Gcethe sat — it is said — when he wrote his wonderful song. 
 It grew more plaintive as it grew fainter. From the lighted 
 town spread out on the hills bells sounded. Etna, like a gigan- 
 tic shadow, lifted itself towards the myriads of stars. The 
 penetrating scent of flowers stole up from the garden below. 
 And Sir Theodore stood quite still watching, listening, held, 
 body and mind, by the spell of place and of night, subjugated 
 by Sicily. 
 
 In a room above him Nurse Jennings was saying to Dolores : 
 
 " Yes, that's it. I will start back to-morrow. It's better 
 
 so. And I'll make him understand. Now, my dear, don't 
 
 worry. Remember what I said to you about thinking for an-
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 471 
 
 other. It may be. Who's to know? Trust it to me. And 
 go down now, or he'll be getting impatient. Men always do." 
 
 " But you are coming! " 
 
 " No, I'll stay up here." 
 
 "But " 
 
 " No, indeed. I can tell you that this last night I shall 
 have my own thoughts, and plenty of them." 
 
 " I understand," said Dolores. " You've had your dream." 
 
 " Owing to you." 
 
 " And it's only the beginning, I think." 
 
 "Who's to know?" 
 
 The two women exchanged a kiss. Dolores went down. 
 She saw Nurse Jennings no more that night. 
 
 As she came out, and shut the glass door behind her, she 
 saw the tall form of her husband on the farther terrace, mo- 
 tionless. She stood for a moment watching him, and wonder- 
 ing why at that moment it was not to him that she felt herself 
 traitress but to Cesare. She hesitated to approach him. He 
 had seemed to accept the new Dolores that day. He had even, 
 in this new environment, been much more like the Theo of 
 old than he had been since their first coming to Rome. There 
 had been a softness, almost a tenderness in his manner to his 
 wife. Dolores had feared an instinctive recoil on his part. 
 But he had seemed freshly attracted by her. He had seemed 
 to wish to draw near to her. The prophesies of her tormented 
 heart had been falsified. 
 
 And this fact made Theo strange to Dolores that evening. 
 Now she went towards him, walking softly among the little 
 chairs and under the spiky leaves of the palms. She stepped 
 down on to the second unsheltered terrace, roofed only by the 
 stars. And she came up to him. Without turning he said: 
 
 " What a place ! I believe in Ulysses, I believe in " He 
 
 moved, and looked at his wife. " Doloretta, depend upon it 
 this was the Isle of Calypso. Look! Listen to that sea! " 
 
 After a moment he quoted, " ' It was a scene to fill a God 
 from Heaven with wonder and delight.' Yes, it must have 
 been here that Calypso offered immortality to Ulysses. Calypso ! 
 What a name! And there are people who say a word can't be 
 beautiful! But how could Ulysses go?" He paused. 
 
 " But where's Nurse Jennings? " he said, in a changed tone. 
 
 " She's not coming down any more to-night." 
 
 "Isn't she? Let us sit down — here by the railing. One 
 hears the wash of the sea."
 
 472 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " She's decided to start back to Rome to-morrow." 
 
 " But I don't want to drive her away. She seems a nice sort 
 of woman, dependable, I should think." 
 
 " I like her very much indeed. I look upon her as a real 
 friend." 
 
 " Well, no doubt we shall see her again in Rome. But 
 don't let us think about even Rome to-night." 
 
 " Theo," Dolores said, after a silence. " What made you 
 come here to fetch me back? Was it because you had never 
 seen Taormina ? " 
 
 " Not wholly. Why do you ask? " 
 
 " I only wondered, a little." 
 
 " I thought I should like to see Sicily with you, after such 
 a lot of Lancaster Gate." 
 
 "With me! Did you?" 
 
 The sound in her voice moved him to draw his chair closer 
 to her. He did not know why, or even how, but it seemed to 
 him that his wife had changed subtly. And there was some- 
 thing in the change which affected him, which — yes, he ac- 
 knowledged it to himself under the stars — which fascinated 
 him anew. Always she had been peculiarly feminine. But 
 now she seemed to be of the very essence of woman, strangely 
 appealing and yet strangely mysterious. He said to himself 
 that perhaps the marvelous beauty of the cadre in which he 
 found her affected his outlook upon her. But something in his 
 heart denied it. There was surely a change. And it was a 
 change that could not leave a sensitive man wholly unmoved. 
 
 "Are you surprised, Doloretta?" he said. 
 
 "I don't know. And — and that was your only reason?'* 
 
 " That was my reason. Don't be like Elsa to-night. Don't 
 ask too much." 
 
 " It is a mistake to ask too much of any human being. Yes. 
 How true that is ! " 
 
 " But — could I ask you too much?" he leaned a little to- 
 wards her. " I don't think so, Doloretta. You have a look of 
 mystery, but I don't think in all your mystery I could ever 
 come upon a repugnant thing." 
 
 She said nothing, but she drew her white wrap more closely 
 about her. 
 
 " No," he continued. " It is quite true, I suppose, that one 
 human being can never completely know another. But one 
 human being can absolutely know certain things about another." 
 
 " Certain things?" 
 
 I
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 473 
 
 " As for instance I absolutely know that there are some things 
 which you are incapable of doing." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " You seem surprised ! " 
 
 " When you say that we can absolutely know • !" 
 
 " Do you mean to say I don't absolutely know you are 
 Incapable, for instance, of a betrayal of trust — of my trust, 
 let us say ? " 
 
 "Oh — hark! There is some one singing!" 
 
 She got up and stood by the rail. He came and stood be- 
 side her. He took her hand. 
 
 " The Isle of Calypso ! " he murmured. " The enchanted 
 Isle." 
 
 When the voice died away he said : 
 
 " Shall we go up to the upper terrace, our own terrace?" 
 
 " If you like, Theo." 
 
 Even her voice seemed to him to have subtly changed, to 
 be more appealing than it had ever been before. 
 
 When they passed through her lighted bedroom to go out 
 to the high terrace, which belonged exclusively to them, he 
 stopped, and looked closely into her eyes. 
 
 "What — your eyes look so strange to-night, Doloretta!" 
 he said. "So strange! But, why are there tears in them 
 now?" 
 
 She bent her head. She did not say a word. He drew 
 her to him till her face was hidden against his body. 
 
 The light in Nurse Jennings' room was extinguished. 
 
 " What is it? " he almost whispered. " But what is it? " 
 ' " Don't ask — there are so many things! " 
 
 " Have I — is it my fault? Have I hurt you? Have I ? " 
 
 " Let me cry, Theo! I — can't help it to-night." 
 
 He drew her down on a sofa close to the window, and held 
 her for a long time. And as he held her he thought: 
 
 "What have I been doing all this time? Perhaps " 
 
 That night he returned to Dolores. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 The day after Nurse Jennings' return to Rome she took a cat> 
 and drove to the palace in the Corso Umberto Primo where 
 Cesare Carelli lived with his parents. She had not written to 
 say she was coming, but she had quite decided that if Cesare
 
 474 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 were in Rome he would be obliged to receive her and to listen 
 to what she had to say. She arrived at the palace at ten 
 o'clock in the morning. As she got out of the cab an old man 
 with a very red face and a dazed expression, issued heavily 
 from the porter's lodge on the left of tlie entrance, and told 
 her to go up to the third floor. Vaguely he offered her the 
 use of the lift. She sturdily refused it, mounted the great 
 staircase, and rang an electric bell beside a tall door painted 
 black. It was opened by a large manservant. 
 
 " I want to see Don Cesare Carelli, please," said Nurse 
 Jennings with calm decision. 
 
 The man looked at her with surprise. 
 
 " Ma " he began. 
 
 *' Is he in Rome? " interrupted the nurse. 
 
 " Si." 
 
 " Is he in the house? " 
 
 " Si, signora. Don Cesare is in the house, but " 
 
 " Kindly say I must see him, and give him this." 
 
 She handed to the servant a card on which she had written 
 " Nurse Ida Jennings." 
 
 " Don Cesare knows me and will see me," she added. 
 
 The servant asked her to walk into the hall, and, still look- 
 ing rather solemnly surprised and doubtful, went away with 
 the card. After being away for several minutes he came back, 
 and asked Nurse Jennings if Don Cesare had met her recently. 
 
 " Yes. Please tell him quite recently, when I was attending 
 a patient in Rome." 
 
 The servant took this message and almost immediately asked 
 the nurse to walk into a large sitting-room, evidently a man's 
 room, and to sit down. 
 
 " Don Cesare will come at once," he added. 
 
 The nurse did not sit down. She felt active. She felt 
 braced up for a conflict. Before she left that room she was 
 determined to secure Dolores from the danger of any persecu- 
 tion at the hands of the man with the fiery eyes. 
 
 She looked about the room, which was comfortable but not 
 artistic, and was rather dark in tone. The big armchairs vrere 
 of black leather much worn. And there was a huge black 
 leather sofa standing against a solid writing-table edged with 
 a brass rail. There were bookcases, which to Nurse Jennings' 
 not unintelligent eyes looked as ii they contained that type of 
 literature forever unread by any one. On a small table lay 
 three or four neatly folded newspapers. The high dark red
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 475 
 
 walls, which went up to a painted and coffered ceiling, were 
 decorated with a few pictures; dim and mysterious oil land- 
 scapes, dim and mysterious oil ancestors, some clever sketches 
 of horses still and in movement over obstacles, several pairs 
 of foils and two outrageous caricatures of Roman young men, 
 marvelously clever and marvelously audacious, by Cirella. A 
 large photograph of the Duke of the Abruzzi had an inscription 
 at the bottom. Not far from it there was a photograph of 
 Queen Margherita, also with an autograph. Upon the writ- 
 ing-table lay a book on the use of aeroplanes in war, Le Roi a 
 French comedy, and Paul Bourget's Mensonges. Between the 
 leaves of this last was thrust a large ivory paper knife. 
 
 The door opened, and Nurse Jennings, turning, was con- 
 fronted by the man she had already once faced and got rid of. 
 
 " Good morning! " she said. 
 
 Cesare came up to her, and took her hand. 
 
 " Good morning." 
 
 He dropped her hand, which he had taken formally, even 
 stiffly, and added: 
 
 " I hope you will sit down." 
 
 " Thank you," said Nurse Jennings." 
 
 She sat down on the black leather sofa. 
 
 " How is Lady Cannynge? " said Cesare. 
 
 As he spoke he lowered his brows. Nurse Jennings saw that 
 he was violently excited, though his voice did not show it. 
 
 " I suppose you are still with her? " he added, before she had 
 time to reply. 
 
 " No, I have come away. Lady Cannynge Is with her hus- 
 band now." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 The word came from his lips fiercely. He looked angry, as 
 if with himself, and hastily continued: 
 
 " No doubt Lady Cannynge has come back to Rome." 
 
 " No. Her husband has gone to her." 
 
 He said nothing. 
 
 "They are in Sicily!" added the nurse. 
 
 "In Sicily!" said Cesare, as if struck with a stern amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 " I came from there yesterday. That is I got here yes- 
 terday." 
 
 Cesare sat down. 
 
 " Lady Cannynge has been In Sicily ever since she left 
 Rome?" he said.
 
 476 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 He looked straight at Nurse Jennings. His black eyes had 
 become piercing, his handsome face almost ugly with suspicion. 
 When he was not speaking his mouth was set and obstinate. 
 And as his expression changed, and the attraction of his youth 
 and comeliness slipped almost mysteriously away from him, 
 Nurse Jennings felt herself change towards him. She began 
 to pity him and to feel something that was almost liking for 
 him. 
 
 " Yes. We went off suddenly. She was not well. She 
 needed a rest." 
 
 After a short pause, during which his steady eyes never left 
 her face, Cesare said: 
 
 " May I ask why you are kind enough to come here? Per- 
 haps you have a letter? " 
 
 "Oh no, indeed!" 
 
 He frowned. 
 
 " What is it then, please? " 
 
 " Well — Lady Cannynge wished me to come." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 Nurse Jennings felt an uneasiness, even a strong discomfort 
 that shook her usual composure severely. She did not know 
 how she was going to tell this man what she had come to tell 
 him. And she almost feared what would happen when she 
 spoke plainly. 
 
 " Lady Cannynge had some letters from you, according to 
 her, when she was at Taormina." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " They upset her very much." 
 
 "Did they?" 
 
 He spoke rather loudly, and with little expression. In a hard 
 voice. 
 
 " Terribly." 
 
 " And so she spoke to you about my letters! " 
 
 " Yes, she did. And she was very right. A woman who 
 has been through what Lady Cannynge has must speak. If she 
 has a true friend. We aren't like men." 
 
 Cesare said nothing, but sat still and stared hard into the 
 nurse's face. 
 
 " I'm bound to tell you something," Nurse Jennings went on 
 with difficulty. " I know all about It." 
 
 " All about what? " said Cesare in the same unnatural voice. 
 
 " About Lady Cannynge and you." 
 
 "Yes?"
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 477 
 
 Suddenly Nurse Jennings felt that she must do something 
 to break through the ugly awkwardness of this interview. 
 
 " It has all been a dreadful mistake," she said, letting her 
 Irish vivacity have free rein. " But you won't let it be any 
 worse than that! You won't ruin the life of such a sweet 
 creature as she is! And so unhappy, too, for years! " 
 
 "I only want to make her happy!" he said sternly, with 
 pride. 
 
 Since Nurse Jennings had begun to speak frankly he had 
 called pride to his aid. And now, for the first time, the nurse 
 felt the difference between his rank and her station. 
 
 " You never can," she blurted out, bluntly. " And I am 
 here to tell you so." 
 
 Cesare got up. 
 
 ** What do you mean ? " he said fiercely. " What are you 
 talking about ? " 
 
 " What I know. You never can do anything for her happi- 
 ness. For she's one as can only be happy through love, and 
 she doesn't love you." 
 
 " You know nothing about it! " 
 
 He spoke now with arrogance. But the nurse did not re- 
 sent it. She felt that he was only trying to clothe himself in 
 armor. 
 
 " I know this, that Lady Cannynge loves no one but her 
 husband, and that she sent m.e here to tell 3'ou so." 
 
 " If that is true " 
 
 " It is true. Don't I say she's sent me here to tell you so ? 
 How could I know it, how could I have come here, if she 
 hadn't told me in so many words, and begged me to come here? " 
 
 " If that is true, I say, then Lady Cannynge — then Lady 
 Cannynge has " 
 
 He broke ofF, almost as if he were choked. All the time 
 he had never taken his eyes from the nurse's face, and she 
 had seen the ready suspicion of the Italian fade into a con- 
 viction that was cruel. Cesare was too intelligent to be able 
 to doubt complete sincerity. The nurse saw that, against his 
 will, he believed what she had said. His manhood had re- 
 ceived the last insult. But though for a moment he could 
 not go on speaking, he retained his arrogant expression. Even 
 his body looked stiff with pride as he stood in front of the sofa. 
 
 " She didn't know," said Nurse Jennings, but now with a 
 certain feebleness, as of one pleading a lost cause. " She was 
 carried away."
 
 478 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " By what ? " said Cesare, in a tone of bitter contempt. 
 
 Nurse Jennings looked down. 
 
 " She was carried avv^ay," she repeated, almost dully. 
 
 Cesare turned and walked to the window. 
 
 He longed to vent his sense of outrage, his fury, upon the 
 nurse, because she knew, and because she had dared to come 
 to his house and to tell him such a thing. And he longed, 
 he felt as if he absolutely needed, to commit some violent action, 
 to let his body go in some tremendous demonstration. He 
 stood by the window and looked down into the courtyard of 
 the palace. And an ugly red stain disfigured his clear v/hite 
 complexion. That such a thing should have been said to him, 
 and that it should be true. But was it true? Could it be 
 true? He did not know this woman, this paid nurse. She 
 might have told him lies. What her motive could be, if it 
 were so, he could not divine. He was in no condition to seek 
 it. But he would not believe her — he would not. 
 
 "Basta! Basta!" he said to himself. 
 
 He turned round, and the nurse thought he looked almost 
 old, and quite ugly. 
 
 " I don't believe what you say," he said. " I don't believe 
 Lady Cannynge is the woman you are trying to make out." 
 
 Nurse Jennings flamed up. 
 
 " I'll thank you not to speak against Lady Cannynge to 
 me! " she exclaimed hotly. 
 
 " It is you, not I, who have spoken against her. You know 
 that quite well. You have accused her of an abominable 
 action." 
 
 "How dare ?" 
 
 " Of a caprice any woman might be ashamed of. I don't 
 believe Lady Cannynge is capable of such conduct, of such a 
 caprice. I will never believe it, until she either tells me per- 
 sonally that what you have said is true, or until she writes 
 to me to say so. Perhaps you will be kind enough to tell her 
 this from me. I suppose you are going to see her again. If 
 she does not send for me, or write to me, I will call upon her 
 directly I hear she is in Rome." 
 
 As he was speaking the last words he walked towards the door 
 and opened it. 
 
 " I am much obliged to you for coming," he said. 
 
 Nurse Jennings got up and went out without saying another 
 word. In the hall she met the maestro di casa who escorted 
 her to the front door.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 479 
 
 Within a week Cesare received the following note written 
 by Dolores: 
 
 " All that she told you is true, and I sent her to tell it to 
 you.— D. C." 
 
 A few days later the " tout-Rome " was interested to learn 
 that Don Cesare Carelli had decided to marry, and that his 
 choice had fallen upon Donna Ursula Montebruno. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX 
 
 One day early in the following February Sir Theodore drove 
 over to Frascati, where the Denzil family was still living with 
 ]\Irs. Massingham. The object of this particular visit was to 
 come to a definite arrangement about little Theo's immediate 
 future. He was to go to a preparatory school in England after 
 Easter. Sir Theodore had been gathering particulars concern- 
 ing several likely schools from English friends, and had in 
 his hand a small packet of letters as he got out of the motor 
 at the top of the steps leading down to the house with the red 
 loggia. 
 
 He was wrapped up in a fur coat. After an unusually warm 
 and radiant winter the weather had suddenly changed and be- 
 come intensely cold. The sky was a blackish gray, and a strong 
 wind blew in his face from the melancholy Campagna. 
 
 He found all the Denzils indoors, Mrs. Massingham was in 
 bed with an attack of influenza. Vi had a cough. But Iris 
 and little Theo were in their usual health and spirits. After 
 a romp with them, and a talk with Mrs. Massingham, who 
 now treated Sir Theodore as a sort of cherished relation, and 
 did not even mind his seeing her with her hair in some con- 
 fusion, Edna and he retired to the sitting-room which opened 
 on to the loggia to read and discuss the letters. The French 
 windows were shut. A stove heated the rather ugly, but not 
 uncomfortable room. Edna Denzil and Sir Theodore drew up 
 their chairs to a small table near it, and began the discussion. 
 
 As a rule Sir Theodore was very much what Edna called 
 " on the spot " in conversation. His mind seldom wandered 
 from the matter in hand. And when the children were being 
 talked about his interest was singularly alert. Edna, was, there-
 
 48o THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 fore, rather surprised now to find that he was occasionally ab- 
 sent-minded. It seemed to her that he had to make an effort 
 to throw himself into this affair of the schools, that he was 
 really inclined to think of something else. Nevertheless he 
 read her all the letters and considered their contents. His 
 preference was for a school near Ascot. The only thing against 
 it was the fact that it was more expensive than the other 
 schools. 
 
 " If you really believe it to be the most healthy I think Theo 
 had better go there," said Edna Denzil at last. " I will man- 
 age somehow. And you know I am a little richer this year. 
 The house in Lancaster Gate ! " 
 
 She smiled at him. 
 
 " That sale was a real benefit to me." 
 
 "To be sure!" he replied. "I have never regretted my 
 run over to England in September. But it was a stroke of 
 luck finding a buyer at such a price." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Well then, Ascot let It be ! " 
 
 He put the letters into a leather case and the case into his 
 pocket. 
 
 " Hov/ extraordinary this cold is!" he said. "Coming so 
 suddenly! " 
 
 He drew his chair close to the stove. He was looking 
 straight before him. Edna Denzil took up a piece of work. 
 
 " Yes," she said. 
 
 There was a silence. She regarded her friend with a cer- 
 tain curiosity. He looked, she thought, unusually grave, yet 
 not sad. She felt that he was strongly concentrated upon 
 some thought, perhaps some problem, that she knew nothing of. 
 For once she and her little family were remote from his mind. 
 As she realized this she also realized what a friend he had 
 always been to her and her children, w^hat a prop and stay 
 to their lives and fortunes. And she longed to show — quickly, 
 then, at that very moment — that her heart made a return 
 of golden gratitude. Driven by this impulse she said : 
 
 " Theodore, if I ever can do anything for you, help you, 
 sympathize with you, in any sorrow or joy, don't shut me out. 
 You have done so much for me, for us." 
 
 He turned a little and looked at her. 
 
 "What makes you say that, just now, Edna?" 
 
 " I scarcely know. But I felt — I don't know " 
 
 "Yes, but tell me!"
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 481 
 
 " I felt as if you had something very much on your mind. 
 I don't mean I thought it was sad. If there was a fire instead 
 of a stove how you would have been looking into it a minute 
 ago!" 
 
 " Yes, that's true." 
 
 He shifted and leaned back in his chair. 
 
 *' You don't come often to Rome," he said. " But has the 
 complete change in Doioretta's way of life ever struck you as 
 strange?" 
 
 " You mean her staying so much at home? " 
 
 " She has given up the world entirely. She never touches 
 a card, never will go to a dance. Even dinners she never 
 goes to unless it is something that interests me. She has 
 absolutely ceased from caring for society." 
 
 " Yes, I heard she scarcely ever went out now. Dear 
 mamma has been iquite upset over it. You know she always 
 looked upon Dolores as a sort of queen in the Roman world. 
 But do you regret that Dolores has got sick of it all ? " 
 
 "No — oh no! On the contrary! But I am puzzled — 
 puzzled by it. And I have been thinking " 
 
 He broke off. A strange, almost furtive expression had come 
 into his face. 
 
 " You know, Doloretta changed from the time we were to- 
 gether in Sicily," he said, after a rather long pause. 
 
 " She never took up her gay life again after that?" 
 
 " Never. From the time we returned to Rome after that 
 visit to Taormina she has always seemed to me a changed 
 woman." 
 
 " But hovv changed, exactly? Is she happier or sadder? " 
 
 " She is stiller. There is an extraordinary stillness about 
 her." 
 
 Now his bright eyes seemed questioning Edna. 
 
 " She loves quiet. Even she seems to love solitude. She sits 
 alone for hours. It — it really is strange." 
 
 ]| She isn't ill?" 
 
 " No, I don't think so. But that nurse — Nurse Jennings 
 — is very often with her when she doesn't wish to be alone. 
 Doloretta has taken her as a sort of dame de compagnie it 
 seems to me." 
 
 " Is she a nice woman, do you think? I know her so little. 
 And when I met her, well, I couldn't notice things." 
 
 " She seems a very good sort of woman, and simply devoted 
 to my wife. But — but there's something I don't understand."
 
 482 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " Why not speak frankly to Dolores, if there's anything that 
 troubles you? " 
 
 The furtive look showed more plainly in his face. 
 
 " No, no. I couldn't do that." 
 
 "To the nurse then?" 
 
 " I had thought of that — but no. Besides, I don't want 
 to make myself ridiculous." 
 
 He leaned again towards the stove. Edna Denzii noticed 
 that he changed color. The blood had gone to his face. 
 
 " How ridiculous? " she said, very simply. 
 
 He got up abruptly. 
 
 "After all these years, I — I daren't expect " 
 
 He flushed deeply. 
 
 "Theodore!" Edna Denzii exclaimed. "Oh, Theodore! 
 You don't think it is that! " 
 
 Her face, now decidedly plain, flushed too. She got up. 
 An extraordinary human expression, tenderness, understanding, 
 wonder, quite transfigured her for a moment, made her beauti- 
 ful. 
 
 "You really think — oh, how glad I should be!" 
 
 " I don't know. I can't believe that — impossible to know 
 perhaps! What I feel is that perhaps Doloretta thinks it. 
 Lately she has seemed to me to be waiting, always waiting. 
 There's — but it can't be! It can't be! I'm a fool to think 
 of it." 
 
 " She would tell you of course if she knew." 
 
 " She doesn't know! '* he said decidedly. " Or, of course, 
 she would have told me." 
 
 "Then " 
 
 " Why has she given up the world ? Why has she ceased 
 from caring for all her usual pleasures and occupations? Why 
 does she take such care of herself? " 
 
 "Care of herself?" 
 
 " Of her health. You have no idea how she studies her 
 health now ! But not in a silly way. It's in a sort of beautiful 
 way. It's all so strange, Edna, all so strange. If you knew 
 how the apartment seems altered." 
 
 " But when did you begin to notice it all? " 
 
 " Of course I always must have noticed the alteration in 
 Doloretta's mode of life. But it's only quite lately — within 
 the last few days in fact — that I've been so tremendously 
 struck with the whole thing. I can't understand it." 
 
 " It may be. I wish I had seen Dolores oftener of late."
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 483 
 
 " You think you " 
 
 " I don't know. But sometimes we women " 
 
 "Yes, yes. You are terribly divinatory!" 
 
 He smiled and suddenly changed the conversation. A sort 
 of reserve took him, kept him. Edna did not attempt to break 
 through it. When he was going she said: 
 
 " Peep in on mamma again, just for a moment. She will 
 love It. 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 When he came back after some minutes he said : 
 
 " She's getting on. She's quite lively. Full of a paragraph 
 in the Italie." 
 
 " Dear mamma ! What is it now ? " 
 
 " It seems Cesare Carelli has delayed his return from his 
 travels, and the wedding with Donna Ursula Montebruno is 
 not to take place till next August or September. The future 
 bride has decided that matter, according to the Italie/' 
 
 " Oh," said Edna, without any display of interest. " And 
 where is Don Cesare ? " 
 
 " Shooting in East Africa, I believe. Your mother's quite 
 excited about it all. She wonders if they really care for each 
 other." 
 
 They both laughed a little. And so they parted. 
 
 Not many days before this conversation took place Dolores 
 felt for the first time the new life she held within her. And 
 it was like the fluttering of a bird. As she felt it she seemed 
 to see the dark shadow of a bird in flight pass between her 
 and the stars. She nearly fainted and lay still. And she found 
 herself thinking of the old man's eyes in the Lenbach portrait. 
 He knew. He had always known. 
 
 Presently she went into the drawing-room and she looked at 
 the old man for a long time. As she turned to go out of the 
 room she glanced at the " Donna guardando il mare." And 
 she saw the white foam of the sea, and the storm coming from 
 the horizon. A week later, when she was alone with her hus- 
 band in the evening, she said to him: 
 
 " Would you mind if I made a slight alteration in my room? " 
 
 " Of course not," he answered, gently. " Which room do 
 you mean ? " 
 
 " My sitting-room." 
 
 "And what alteration?*' 
 
 " I should like to get rid of that picture * La donna guar- 
 dando il mare.' "
 
 484 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " I thought you were fond of it." 
 
 " Yes, in a way. But it's a very sad picture." 
 
 " We'll take it away, send it right out of the apartment." 
 
 " Oh no. You have it, if you like." 
 
 "What!" he said, smiling, and still with exceptional gen- 
 tleness, "am I to have all the sad things?" 
 
 " No, no. It's only that I don't want to have it always 
 before me just now." 
 
 *' Doloretta! " he said. His face became strongly expressive 
 almost emotional. " Why are you so strange ? " 
 
 She looked startled. 
 
 "Strange! I!" 
 
 "Aren't you?" 
 
 " In what way? " 
 
 " You have changed all your life." 
 
 " That ! Oh, I got tired of all the parties, society. What 
 does it give one, after all ? " 
 
 " Very little, I know. But once you seemed to delight in it." 
 
 " No, never. Not really. I only wanted to fill up my 
 time." 
 
 " And you don't need to fill up your time now ? Why is 
 that?" 
 
 She looked at him. She saw at once what his thought was. 
 She looked down. Should she tell him now, at once? She had 
 not meant to tell him perhaps for another month. But was it 
 not best to give him the truth he seemed already to have di- 
 vined ? She stood still, looking down always. 
 
 " Why is that? " he repeated. 
 
 He came closer to her. He took her hand. Then he took 
 her into his arms. 
 
 " Doloretta — is it? Can it be? " 
 
 She did not speak. 
 
 "After all these years?" 
 
 He heard a strange voice say: 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She felt his lips on her hair, kissing her, with reverence. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 From that moment when her husband knew, the life of Do- 
 lores was strangely altered. All that she had lost, or had
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 485 
 
 seemed to lose, she had again, and much more. Sir Theodore 
 was concentrated upon her, as he had never been even in the 
 first days of their married life. Then she had been to him the 
 girl whom he loved. Now she was a precious thing, an ex- 
 quisite mystery and wonder, life within life to be doubly wor- 
 shiped, doubly cherished. Already he adored in her not only 
 his wife but his child. His kiss upon her hair had been reveren- 
 tial. From that day his treatment of her was reverential. His 
 joy now was in proportion to the sorrow he had endured in 
 his long disappointment. He was a changed man. 
 
 At once the family at Frascati took the second place in his 
 affections. He loved Edna and the children still. He went 
 to them still. They did not suffer neglect at his hands. 
 They had become and would remain part of his life. But they 
 were not his own. And now, with the radiant instinct of the 
 monopolist, he was looking forward, and his heart held the two 
 precious words, " My own." Often he found himself repeating 
 them, with an addition — " My own son," " my own daugh- 
 ter," " my own child." 
 
 Dolores had what she had yearned for, the almost exclusive 
 love of her husband. But the fact that she possessed it only 
 through hypocrisy tarnished the gift. Even as Theo had kissed 
 her hair she had known that it was to be so. She had sinned 
 with an object. With the attainment of that object she compre- 
 hended the punishment attached to the sin. Theo poured forth 
 his love on the woman she was not. The woman she was suf- 
 fered under that outpouring. It was so beautiful, but it was 
 not hers, not really hers. It belonged to the woman she had 
 been. 
 
 She was no longer afraid of events. She did not fear Prin- 
 cess Mancelli, Cesare. The incident at Olevanto had not de- 
 stroyed her in the eyes of the world. She did not now believe 
 that she ever would be so destroyed. All that she had once 
 dreaded unspeakably in connection with Montebruno's suicide 
 had never come to pass. The Princess had held her hand from 
 vengeance. And now she had surely no reason for vengeance. 
 Cesare was far away and he was engaged to Donna Ursula. 
 He had passed out of the life of Dolores as a lover. 
 
 But he remained in her life as a father, the father of the 
 child that was soon to be born. 
 
 Sometimes Dolores felt as if he must know, almost as if 
 he were near to her. Sometimes she felt as if she had wronged 
 him even more terribly than she had wronged her husband.
 
 4^6 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 She might have sunk under the torture of her own unworthl- 
 ness but for her m^^stical sense of her own greatness, a sense 
 which had never abandoned her since the moment when the new 
 life had faintly fluttered within her. 
 
 The child took her hand and was with her in the great 
 darkness. And she concentrated herself upon the child. 
 
 Sir Theodore had said that she was strangely still. Now 
 she sank down into a deeper stillness. 
 
 She saw very few people. She took no part in the feverish 
 life of the Roman season. Her husband had asked her whether 
 she wished to leave Rome, to go to the Riviera, to England, 
 now, at once. She refused. She felt that the child for which 
 she had longed so passionately in Rome and for which she had 
 sinned, must be born there, in the house where her husband had 
 broken the long silence, and had shown to her the emptiness 
 of his heart. He assumed that of course when the child was 
 born they would be elsewhere. 
 
 " We will choose some delicious hom.e, Doloretta," he said, 
 " where you can look on lovely things, where you won't feel the 
 heat of July." 
 
 She did not tell him that probably her child would not be 
 born in July, and that the place of its birth must surely be Rome. 
 But she told Nurse Jennings that she meant to stay in Rom.e 
 till the child was born. 
 
 " Why ever should you do that? " said Nurse Jennings. " It 
 would be much better on all accounts to be In some quieter, 
 fresher place. And besides " she stopped. 
 
 "Yes?" said Dolores. "Besides what, nurse?" 
 
 " Besides I should have thought that, with all that's hap- 
 pened, you would be much happier away at such a time." 
 
 " That doesn't matter." 
 
 "What doesn't?" 
 
 " About my being happier. But I can't argue about it. I 
 feel it must take place here. In my home." 
 
 "Yes, my dear?" said Nurse Jennings gently. "Well, It's 
 natural you should have your fancies at such a time. And 
 they've got to be humored. You want to be happy where 3'Ou've 
 heen unhappy. I see," 
 
 She did not see. But Dolores did not attempt an exact 
 explanation. 
 
 The days grew warmer as spring approached, and Dolores 
 often drove out to enjoy the sun. Sir Theodore usually accom- 
 panied her, but one day she went alone in the victoria. It
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 487 
 
 was a Monday. There would be no music on the PIncio. 
 She told the coachman to take a turn in the Villa Borghese, 
 and then go to the Pincio and draw up on the terrace before 
 the kiosk. Had the band been playing she would not have 
 gone there. She disliked crowds, the crush of carriages and 
 motors, the noise of popular airs, anything in fact that troubled 
 the stillness in which she desired perpetually to live. 
 
 There were many people walking. But when she arrived on 
 the terrace she found few carriages. The sky was cloudless, 
 the sun brilliant. When the horses stopped she sat for some 
 time, almost dreaming, in the carriage. 
 
 But presently she felt more vivid, more conscious. And 
 she remembered Nero. Here she had sat with the dog on her 
 knee. She could almost see his domed head, his sulky and sticky 
 eyes, the uneasy movement of his blunt and humid nose. 
 
 When she thought of the dog she no longer regretted her 
 sin. She could not regret it, though she felt as if she were 
 earnestly trying to. Cesare, even Theo, sank away into an 
 obscure twilight. Only the child remained with her. And 
 she thought again, " Yes, it had to be born. We know scarcely 
 anything, or nothing. But some one knows for us. Some one 
 has known for me. Plis world, perhaps, needs my little child." 
 
 Then she asked herself, " Am I immoral to think like this? " 
 
 And she could not decide. Even she did not care. The 
 child had hold of her soul. 
 
 A veiled voice spoke at her side. She did not hear it. In 
 a moment it spoke again. 
 
 " You won't know me any more! What have I done? " 
 
 Dolores heard it now and turned round. 
 
 "Lady Sally!" 
 
 " Yes, it is I ! Come back to Rome at last." 
 
 " I knew you had been away," Dolores said, vaguely. 
 
 " All the winter. My brother-in-law wanted me in Eng- 
 land." 
 
 " Doctor Ides? But do get in for a little." 
 
 Lady Sarah stepped into the carriage. 
 
 " It is nice and quiet to-day," said Dolores. 
 
 She looked at Lady Sarah. 
 
 *' Do you remember a day, long ago, when I told you some- 
 thing here? " 
 
 " Yes, very well." 
 
 The kind gray eyes searched the face of Dolores for a mo- 
 ment.
 
 488 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " I have something to tell you now." 
 
 " Is it good news ? " asked Lady Sarah. 
 
 And surely doubt crept into her voice. 
 
 " It is this — I am going to have what I longed for." 
 
 " My dear ! " said Lady Sarah, almost in a whisper. 
 
 Her hand sought the hand of Dolores, pressed it, held it. 
 But the kind eyes again searched the face of her friend. And 
 presently her clasp relaxed. 
 
 She said nothing more. Dolores Immediately spoke of other, 
 indifferent things. And Lady Sarah did not attempt to lead 
 the conversation back to the only subject. But when the day 
 was waning, and the Angelus rang in the towers of Rome, she 
 said to Dolores: 
 
 " Now we are going to the church of the Sacre Coeur, are 
 not we? " 
 
 " Yes, to-day I will go." 
 
 They drove to the church. They entered. They kneeled 
 down side by side. And while the nuns sang Dolores prayed 
 for the coming child, that its life might be happy, forever shel- 
 tered from sin and from every trouble. 
 
 But Lady Sarah still prayed for the soul of Dolores. 
 
 After that day Lady Sarah sometimes came to sit with Dolo- 
 res. She was very kind, even tender in her manner, and Dolo- 
 res almost loved her. But Dolores was never quite at ease 
 with her. She knew that the goodness of this singularly pure 
 and transparently sincere nature had felt the touch of some- 
 thing which caused it, in despite almost of itself, to recoil. And 
 she was punished by this recoil. iWhat Lady Sarah suspected, 
 whether she suspected anything, Dolores did not know. But 
 she felt that there was now a thin barrier between them. Some- 
 times she longed to overstep it^ she longed to be sincere. She 
 felt that, if she did speak, Lady Sarah had a heart as well as a 
 brain that could understand. But she knew that Lady Sarah 
 would say, " You must tell your husband." And she knew 
 that never could she tell Theo. Rather would she He to the 
 end, though her whole nature hated lies. 
 
 All her life now was a lie. Yet she was able to endure it. 
 For she was able already to live for her child. With a reso- 
 lute, an almost inflexible will she banished from her mind all 
 that might too greatly trouble her peace and so do harm to the 
 child. At first she had often much difficulty In keeping herself 
 within the circle of calm which must aid the coming life. But 
 day by day her power of self -governance increased. Day by
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 489 
 
 day the mother in her became more dominant. Her husband 
 noticed a dawning change in her, and one night he said, almost 
 with a touch of whimsical jealousy: 
 
 " I have had you to myself all these years, and now, do you 
 know what I think sometimes?" 
 
 "What, Theo?" she said. 
 
 " I think I am going to lose you." 
 
 She looked at him with a sudden intense gravity, 
 
 "Lose me! How?" 
 
 "But — 'what is the matter? Why do you look like that?" 
 
 " To-day when I was driving I went to San Lorenzo." 
 
 "Why there? To visit the church?" 
 
 " No, I went into the Campo Santo." 
 
 " What made you do that? Was it wise? " 
 
 " I don't know that it was. But I felt obliged to go. While 
 I was there I saw a monument. It was a woman lying dead. 
 A little child was pulling at her hand. Underneath was writ- 
 ten ' Mamma dort' " 
 
 He was silent for a moment. An expression of keen anxiety 
 had come into his face and his eyes were fixed upon her. 
 
 "What has such a monument to do with us?" at last he 
 said, almost harshly. 
 
 " Nothing. But what did you mean just now? " 
 
 " I meant that you must not be too much mother to be 
 wife. I have heard of men becoming jealous of their own 
 children." 
 
 " You could never be that." 
 
 "No. But " He lowered his voice. "But you know 
 
 how much I love you." 
 
 Her lips formed a word which he could not hear. It was, 
 " Now." 
 
 "What did you say, Doloretta?" he asked. 
 
 She looked at him steadily. 
 
 " You must let me be as I wish to be all these days, Theo," 
 she said. " I want to be such a mother as there has never been 
 before." 
 
 She said the last words almost with passion. 
 
 " I must be that! " she added. 
 
 She was seized with a longing to expiate her sin, to buy back 
 at any price, however great, her lost virtue. That night she 
 prayed. 
 
 "Let me suffer!" she prayed. "Let my travail be bitter 
 with my child. Let me pass through the darkness. I deserve
 
 490 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 it. I deserve the greatest punishment. But let me have peace, 
 joy with the child w^hen it comes." 
 
 After she had prayed she felt that she ought not to expect 
 to have peace, joy of a child begotten in sin. Yet somehow she 
 did not then fear the future. She felt as if the child must be 
 to her as a light banishing the darkness in which for so long 
 she had lived. 
 
 She had sinned for Theo. 
 
 But surely she had conceived the child for herself. 
 
 As the days drew on she was beset by the egoism of the 
 mother, an egoism partially animal. Less often now did she 
 think of the coming child in connection with the world. 
 
 " It is for me," she sometimes said to herself. " It had to 
 be born for me." 
 
 About this time Cesare Carelli took ship at an East African 
 port to return to Italy and Donna Ursula. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI 
 
 Cesare arrived in Europe at the beginning of June. Physi- 
 cally he was in splendid health, thin, lithe, hard, keen, burnt 
 by the sun almost to the color of a desert Arab. He looked 
 more male even than when he had quitted Italy. And he 
 looked years older. His mental health had not kept pace with 
 his bodily condition. In the superbly sound body there was 
 housed an embittered soul. Dolores' treatment of him had 
 stung into alertness all that was worst in his strong nature. 
 He had left Italy an almost desperate man. He returned to 
 Italy a hard man, cynical, careless of the happiness of those 
 about him ; not unready, perhaps almost anxious, to wound, res- 
 olutely selfish, a determined egoist. One woman had taken 
 him when he did not really love her, had kept him like a prey 
 v/hen he was struggling to get free from her, had driven him 
 almost to despair by her love. Another, whom he passionately 
 loved, had taken him and immediately flung him away. He 
 was resolved to hate all wom.en. He believed that he hated 
 Dolores. He said to himself that he had been a fool, that 
 those men are right who put women on a low plane, who even 
 deny to them souls. Nerves, uneasy sharp vanity, an animal 
 desire to please, the craft of low natures, sensuality, even feroc- 
 ity when their passions are roused — such are the attributes of
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 491 
 
 women. So Cesare reiterated to himself. Henceforth they 
 should be to him as are the women of the East to their Eastern 
 masters, ministers to his pleasure, perhaps often base. But 
 they should be nothing more. Into his real life they should 
 not enter. Not one should ever again even suspect his best 
 part, that part which knew how to love and to suffer. He 
 would marry the greatest dot in Italy. A woman should make 
 his material life something for his friends and acquaintances to 
 wonder at and desire. Women had used him. Now he would 
 use them. 
 
 He returned to his country alertly at his worst. 
 
 Donna Ursula had quitted Rome and was staying with his 
 people in Lombardy. The date and the details of his marriage 
 were now to be decided. Little Donna Ursula had what is 
 called " a level head," and was far too sure of herself ever to 
 be in a fuss. But she considered that the time had arrived for 
 her to take Cesare. He had been amusing himself long enough. 
 From henceforth he must think about amusing her. 
 
 When he reached Genoa he found telegrams informing him 
 that he was expected at the Castello near Monza, He read 
 them, re-read them, and instead of getting into the train for 
 Milan he got into the train for R.ome. 
 
 " By God ! " he said to himself. " They shall see I'm not 
 tied to a string, to be pulled wherever they choose ! " 
 
 At least he had been free in East Africa. Already he felt 
 the shackles of civilized life weighing upon him. Instinctively 
 he braced himself up to fling them off with a hardy fierceness. 
 
 " I'll go to jMonza when I choose," he thought. " Not a 
 minute before." 
 
 In far away regions it seemed that he had lost the well-bred 
 Roman's care for the convenances. 
 
 He arrived in Rome. The season was over. Many people 
 had already gone away to the lakes and elsewhere. But there 
 were still some left. Cesare went to the club and was soon 
 surrounded, soon heard much of the gossip of Rome. But he 
 did not chance to hear anything about the Cannynges. And 
 he did not choose to make any inquiries about them. The men 
 whom he met were mostly Romans and chattered of Roman 
 doings. 
 
 He wrote to his people that he was detained for two or three 
 days by important business. He wrote to Donna Ursula po- 
 litely. He had never pretended to any love for her. She had 
 meant to marry him. In a fit of rage and of wounded pride
 
 492 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 he had given her to understand that he would be her husband 
 — some day. That was quite enough for her. And of course 
 he meant to carry out his part of the bargain. Nevertheless 
 this return to Rome, after his long absence, made a strong im- 
 pression upon Cesare, almost against his will. It recalled many 
 memories, of Lisetta and his escape, of Dolores and his passion. 
 As he looked up, and saw the line of the Academy of France 
 cutting the brilliant blue, he remembered the fireflies in a gar- 
 den by night. As he heard the bells of Rome he remembered 
 the bells ringing in the valley beneath the terrace of Casa Tru- 
 schi. And the city in which he had been born caressed him 
 and chastised him, woke again the gentler part of his nature, 
 yet at the same time stirred the fierceness within him till it 
 glowed with a stronger life. It was as if some one moved the 
 embers. Through the crust of his hardness wrath broke forth 
 once more. But beneath the wrath was hidden a softness of 
 longing, though he would have denied it. 
 
 Two days after his arrival, towards evening, when he was 
 walking along the Corso, and was near to Aragno's, he met Sir 
 Theodore Cannynge. 
 
 "Hullo, Don Cesare!" said Sir Theodore. 
 
 His voice was cordial. He held out his hand. Cesare was 
 ^immediately struck by a change in him. Happiness, a joyous 
 •expectation, shed through him something that was almost like a 
 renewal of youth. His eyes, always bright, beamed with con- 
 tentment. His deep and. melodious voice was resonant with a 
 strong satisfaction. And immediately Cesare's mind bristled 
 with a curiosity in which there was an alloy of suspicion. 
 
 " You've been away a long time, I suppose? " said Sir Theo- 
 dore. 
 
 " Some months. And you are in Rome so late?" 
 
 *' Yes. We aren't leaving just yet." 
 
 It seemed to Cesare that Sir Theodore looked at him with 
 expectation. Of what? 
 
 *' I was going to have a cup of coffee at Aragno's," Sir Theo- 
 dore continued. 
 
 " I'll come with you, if you'll allow me." 
 
 " Do." 
 
 They sat down on a couple of chairs by a table outside the 
 caffe and gave their order. 
 
 "I hope Lady Cannynge is quite well?" said Cesare for- 
 mally. 
 
 A surprised expression showed in Sir Theodore's eyes.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 493 
 
 "There is something I don't know," Cesare thought. 
 " Something he thinks I know ! " 
 
 " Thank you," Sir Theodore said, with a slight touch of 
 reserve and hesitation. " Thank you! Oh, here's the coffee." 
 
 He busied himself with it for a moment. Then he said: 
 
 " How long have you been back? " 
 
 " A couple of days." 
 
 "Only that! I see." 
 
 " I've heard little or nothing of all that's been happening in 
 my absence. There isn't anything very extraordinary, I sup- 
 pose, that I ought to know? " 
 
 Almost unconsciously he fixed his black eyes on Sir Theo- 
 dore with a scrutiny which was unusual, which was perhaps 
 scarcely pardonable. It showed too plainly the suspicion which 
 now had hold of him, and which he himself did not understand. 
 
 " Only the usual marriages, deaths and births, I believe," 
 Sir Theodore replied, with a certain new carelessness. 
 
 He began to talk more rapidly, but with less vivacity, of 
 casual topics of the day. And as soon as they had drunk their 
 coflFee the two men got up and parted. 
 
 But Cesare now believed that he knew what Sir Theodore 
 had not told him. His mind had surely darted upon the truth. 
 But he must find out, he would find out at once, whether the 
 surmise which filled him with an excitement that was almost 
 ungovernable was well founded or not. And If It were! If 
 it were! 
 
 Fate favored him. The next day by chance he met la 
 vecchia. Lady Sarah Ides. He saw her before she was aware 
 of him, and his resolution was immediately taken. He went 
 up to her, greeted her, and walked quietly along beside her. 
 After talking for a few minutes of his travels and sports, he 
 said: 
 
 " Now I'm trying to gather up the threads again, meeting 
 some of my friends. Yesterday I had coffee at Aragno's with 
 Sir Theodore Cannynge." 
 
 "Did you?" 
 
 "How well and jolly he looks, years younger! I suppose 
 
 this unexpected event " He paused, with his eyes on her 
 
 face. 
 
 Had his arrow hit the mark? 
 
 "You mean — his hopes?" said Lady Sarah. 
 
 "Of course!" 
 
 "You have heard of them already?"
 
 494 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 There was a sound of doubt, almost of distrust, in her voice. 
 
 *' .Well, one hears rumors. And directly I saw him I knew 
 they were well founded. As the English say, he gave it away. 
 'His whole look, manner, seemed to me to proclaim great tid- 
 ings." 
 
 " Really! I should hardly have thought Sir Theodore would 
 be so exuberant. .Well, I am turning off here." 
 
 " Let us hope it v/ill be a son," said Cesare. 
 
 He took off his hat and left her. She walked on slowly. 
 The face under her thin veil, put on awry as usual, was very 
 grave and troubled. 
 
 As soon as he had left her Cesare walked swiftly home. 
 He shut himself in alone, and told his servant that he would 
 dine at home in his library and that he was not in casa to 
 any one. 
 
 The library Vv'as the room in which he had received Nurse 
 Jennings. He went into it now, sat down on the great black 
 sofa and stared at the floor. But he only sat thus for a mo- 
 ment. Then he sprang up, went into the adjoining bedroom, 
 unlocked a red-leather despatch-box in which he kept things 
 that he specially valued, opened it, searched for a moment, 
 then drew out a key. He relocked the box, took the key, and 
 returned to the sofa in the further room. There he flung him- 
 self down with violence and stared at the small object in his 
 hand. His heavy brows came down over his eyes. His face 
 began to work. He set his teeth together. But his lower jaw 
 quivered. Furiously he grasped it with his left hand. 
 
 The latchkey that had belonged to Dolores! It had made 
 all the African journey with him. H the happy man he had 
 met in the Corso knew that he possessed it ! The happy man ! 
 
 Sir Theodore's face rose up before Cesare. He saw the 
 bright eyes full at first of expectation. He had been expected 
 to utter his congratulations, no doubt, he, the father of the 
 child that was about to be born ! 
 
 Not for a moment did Cesare doubt the paternity of the 
 coming child. He knew it was his. All his body and all his 
 soul declared it to him as he sat there looking at the key in 
 his hand. And that man with the silvered hair whom he had 
 met in the Corso, that man v/ho had been a childless husband 
 for more than ten years, that old man, was he to — By God, 
 no ! That would be too much ! 
 
 Cesare thrust the key into his pocket and began to pace his 
 room. This new fact had brought back all the almost sacred
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 495 
 
 energy of his bitterness, sacred because it was surely the part of 
 a man treated as he had been to rise up in revolt. Treated as he 
 had been! But the whole matter was not in the past. The 
 present, the abominable present was with him calling his man- 
 hood to arms, to action. He had returned in bitterness. But 
 he had returned having, as he supposed, forever closed his life 
 against Dolores. Now she entered it again bringing a child, 
 his child, with her. She thought, perhaps, that she was without, 
 but it was not true. The child brought her into his life defi- 
 nitely, whether with, or against, his will. 
 
 What was he going to do ? 
 
 The afternoon closed in. The evening fell. The night ap- 
 proached. And the hours had fled by Cesare with a swiftness 
 he only realized when his servant came in to lay the dinner 
 table. 
 
 "What? Is It eight?" he said, with an almost startled 
 movement. 
 
 " Five minutes to eight, Eccellenza." 
 
 " Very well." 
 
 He went to his bedroom and washed his face and hands In 
 cold water. He did not change his clothes, but dined quickly 
 just as he was, ordered coffee, got rid of his man, and was 
 alone once more. But now it was night and he felt much more 
 alone. 
 
 A child — his child — the child of himself and Dolores! 
 He brooded over that thought in a darkness lit only by the 
 flaming end of his cigar, and by the pallor of the hot black 
 night at the open window. This fact changed everything. He 
 had resigned the woman. But he was resolved not to resign 
 the child. It was not that he felt as yet at his heart-strings 
 the tug of fatherhood. He was too conscious of being wronged 
 to be tender. What he felt was that there was a conspiracy 
 against him to keep what was his, what was more absolutely 
 his than anything he had hitherto possessed. And he was not 
 the man to be the tame victim of such a conspiracy. 
 
 He did not know what he would do. But he did know that 
 he was not going to let the man he had met in the Corso father 
 his child. There must be a way out. He could not find it. 
 He wondered when the child was going to be born. His mind 
 went back to Olevano. 
 
 Excitement increased in him. He ceased from brooding. 
 The flaming mind cannot brood for long. 
 
 If he could see Dolores alone! He thought again of the
 
 496 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 latchkey. With It he could enter the apartment of Palazzo 
 Barbenni at anj'^ hour of the day. But Cannynge was there. 
 If only he would leave Rome, even for a day! But Cesare 
 remembered his face, his manner. No, he would not go. He 
 was waiting on the threshold of fatherhood! 
 
 Cesare broke into a laugh letting his cigar fall on the floor. 
 The irony of the whole business! He picked up the cigar and 
 went to the window. He stood by it for a long time leaning 
 out, and looking down into the deserted courtyard of the palace. 
 
 And Donna Ursula? 
 
 When he thought of her Cesare realized that the incident of 
 the child had hurried him back, as if along the ways of the past, 
 towards the woman he had loved. He could not now say to 
 himself that he hated Dolores. No. And suddenly his real 
 desire leaped up in his mind, whole, almost barbarously simple. 
 
 What he wanted to do was this, to come forward openly, 
 ruin Dolores In the eyes of her husband and the world, and then 
 take possession of her and of the child. He wanted them to be 
 cast out. Till they were he could not give them shelter. His 
 child he would have. On that he was resolved. And the 
 mother — did she not, must she not go with the child? 
 
 It was not done with, that episode which had culminated 
 at Olevano. He had accepted his dismissal from the woman. 
 But fate was working against the woman. 
 
 If only he could see Dolores alone! 
 
 He lingered on in Rome through the sunny days of June. 
 His mother wrote at first plaintively, then indignantly urging 
 him to come to them In Lombardy. 
 
 " If this sort of thing continues," she wrote, " you will lose 
 Ursula. No girl will stand such treatment, and Ursula has 
 a great deal of character. Think what such a loss would mean. 
 She is the best match In Italy, and one of the best In Europe. 
 Come to us at once." 
 
 But since he had met Sir Theodore, Donna Ursula, with her 
 primrose-colored hair, her staring blue eyes of a doll, had be- 
 come as nothing to Cesare. Once she had meant to him a com- 
 pact little will, at least that. But now she faded into those 
 shadows which shroud the spectres of the real. 
 
 She did not write. But though she was deeply offended, 
 even indignant In a cold way, she was waiting. Cesare had got 
 to be hers. That was how she put it to herself. And hers he 
 was certainly going to be. 
 
 In the past Cesare had proved that despite the secret vehe-
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 497 
 
 mence of his temperament he could be patient. He had once 
 been patient with Dolores. And now, in the lengthening days, 
 he forced himself to be patient for his child. He looked at 
 the latchkey but he did not use it. He never called at Palazzo 
 Earberini. He trampled the flames in his heart. He waited. 
 
 And, in an old palace of Rome, a woman was waiting too 
 for the birth of the coming child. 
 
 This woman was Princess Mancelli. She only suspected 
 what Cesare was so sure of. Her jealousy suspected. If at 
 the appointed time — the time she had calculated — the child 
 was born, she was resolved to stay her hand no longer. She 
 did not reason. She had reasoned. She had held her hand. 
 The lovers had been divided, the engagement between Donna 
 Ursula and Cesare brought about. But now the surface of 
 things was changed. 
 
 She had heard of Cesare's return from Africa. She knew he 
 was in Rome. She knew he had not visited Lombardy or taken 
 the trouble to greet his fiancee. 
 
 So the end was not yet. Her action, it seemed, had not ac- 
 complished all that she had intended it to accomplish. Her 
 jealousy wove combinations which kept her sleepless by night. 
 She saw herself tricked by the woman with the wistful eyes, 
 whom she had studied, whom she had striven to sum up, whom 
 she had certainly never penetrated, never comprehended. In 
 that apparent gentleness of Dolores Cannynge there must be 
 hidden a hard will. Beneath the seeming sincerity there must 
 lurk the heart of a clever trickster. The Princess remembered 
 their conversation when Pacci came, and her remark to Do- 
 lores, " Perhaps you know how to jouer le monde far better 
 than we Latins do despite our apparent suppleness of mind." 
 She remembered, too, that murmured sentence of her visitor, 
 " To get and — to keep." It had touched her on the raw then. 
 But now the remembrance of it seared her as if a hot iron 
 was applied to wounds that were open. Those words, combined 
 with recent events, seemed to tell her plainly that she had been 
 deliberately played with, that Dolores had only seemed to 
 relinquish Cesare at her — the Princess's — bidding; that every- 
 thing, his engagement, his departure, his long absence, the new 
 " honeymoon " of the Cannynges which had been observed by 
 all Rome, everything which had occurred to reassure her had 
 been merely part of an elaborate plan to throw dust in her 
 jealous and scrutinizing eyes. 
 
 Well — she laid her hand in the night on a letter, the letter
 
 498 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 which Montebruno had written just before he committed sui- 
 cide. That was her weapon. And with every day that passed 
 she was gathering w-ill to use it. 
 
 She had only to put it in the post, with Sir Theodore's name 
 and address on the envelope, and Dolores Cannynge would be 
 ruined. 
 
 What would happen after that she did not know. And in 
 her present mood she did not care. She had cared, so much 
 that she had not yet sent the letter, the sending of which might 
 give Dolores to Cesare. But now she was willing to risk that, 
 to risk anything, rather than to go on shielding the woman who 
 had wrecked her life, and who, she began to believe, was playing 
 a long comedy to trick her. 
 
 Perhaps it was even Dolores Cannynge who had made Cesare 
 propose to Donna Ursula to cover her own intrigue. Since she 
 had heard of the child Princess Mancelli had passed out of 
 the region in which she had been able to think cleverly and 
 reason calmlj'. Hidden in the darkness the little dawning life 
 had already cast out its influence, the tremendous influence 
 which appertains only to that in which God has put a part of 
 Himself. It had changed four lives. It had given joy, still- 
 ness, a fiame, a sword. 
 
 When Princess Mancelli had first heard of the hopes in 
 the Cannynge household she had felt as if a sword entered her 
 heart. In that moment of keen and exquisite suspicion she was 
 conscious that she knew for the very first time just how much, 
 and how, she loved Cesare. She loved him mainly with the 
 flesh, and the flesh repaid her In its own hideous fashion. 
 Never — she felt it violently — never, till now, in this new 
 suspicion, had she fully grasped the fact of the whole meaning 
 of her lover's connection with Dolores Cannynge. Never till 
 now had she known the whole meaning of jealousy. 
 
 Let the child be born at the tim.e she had calculated and the 
 blow should fall. She cared nothing for consequences. All 
 that she cared for w^as to strike, and to strike at the moment 
 when the blow Vv^ould prove deadly. 
 
 Meanwhile in Palazzo Barberini Dolores v.-as preparing her- 
 self for the sacred act of woman, for the handing on of the 
 torch. 
 
 With the sure instinct of her sex — guided no doubt by the 
 inflexible hand of the great Mother — she had found the way 
 of release from those mental tortures which, if endured by 
 her at this period, must have harmed the budding life.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 499 
 
 She had given herself wholly to the child. Secretly, mys- 
 teriously, she had abandoned lover, husband, even her old self, 
 and had stolen away to the child. With it already she was 
 enclosed as in some hidden refuge, known only to the child and 
 herself. The few who saw her noticed the great change in 
 her. And to more than one it now seemed like a withdrawal. 
 Often now to her husband she gave a strange impression of 
 remoteness. 
 
 " You must not abandon me wholly because of our child," 
 he said to her once, half playfully. 
 
 She was surprised by the subtlety of his instinct, which had 
 so seldom led him aright in the days that were gone. But she 
 only said gravely: 
 
 " Till it is born I must think only of it, live only for it." 
 
 " Yes, till it is born ! " he answered, with a gravity akin to 
 hers. " You are right. We men can't understand these 
 things." 
 
 " No." 
 
 "I only meant — " he took her hand — "don't go too far 
 away from me." 
 
 " But I'm always with you." 
 
 " You know I mean in spirit." 
 
 She did not answer. He said no more. And by degrees he 
 became more accustomed to the change in her, more reconciled 
 to it. He even at last came almost to love it, connecting It 
 with the mystery of motherhood. And one day, standing be- 
 fore the picture attributed to Luini, he said to himself, as he 
 looked at the pale Madonna leaning over the Holy Child : 
 
 " All true mothers descend from her. My Doloretta too ! " 
 
 And tears came into his eyes. 
 
 And from that day he never tried to combat the gentle re- 
 moteness, the still indifference to the life and the people around 
 her, that seemed to emanate subtly from Dolores, changing all 
 the atmosphere of his home. The reverence he had felt when 
 he kissed her hair increased upon him. Day by day he was more 
 conscious of the sacredness of womanhood. By his wife's ap- 
 parent coldness to him he measured her passion for the child. 
 
 " Let the child have everything now," he said to himself. 
 " Everything to make it perfect." 
 
 And it seemed to him that the feeling of Dolores would 
 help to form it, to make its tiny limbs exquisite, its little face 
 beautiful, even its nature tender and good. 
 
 Nurse Jennings, at the urgent request of Dolores, had now
 
 500 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 come to live in the palace. Sir Theodore thought her an 
 excellent nurse, and a highly competent young woman. But 
 he did not quite like her. He never felt completely at his ease 
 u^ith her, found little to say to her, and was generally conscious 
 of a slight sense of relief when she was out of his sight. And 
 he came actually to dislike being in a room with both the nurse 
 and his wife. A sensation of antagonism then beset him, as 
 if the two sexes were, and must always be, inevitably at war, 
 and as if man were the inferior fighter. He hid this feeling 
 carefully, and was always specially polite to the nurse. But 
 he looked forward eagerly to the time when she would be no 
 more with them. 
 
 She seemed sometimes to stand between him and his wife, 
 to emphasize the latter's withdrawal from him, to will that 
 he should remain in an unpleasant, almost an unnatural soli- 
 tude. 
 
 "Only a few weeks now!" he said to himself one evening. 
 
 But he was beginning to be haunted by anxiety. For two 
 or three days he had seen very little of his wife. She had 
 passed much time in her bedroom. Nurse Jennings had advised 
 him to leave her alone as much as possible, to let her have per- 
 fect quiet. 
 
 "But what is the matter?" he asked, on this evening. 
 " Surely — Is she suffering? " 
 
 " Everything Is quite normal. Sir Theodore," the nurse re- 
 plied, coldly he thought, and looking at him with her steady 
 eyes. " There is no need for any special anxiety." 
 
 But Sir Theodore was not satisfied. 
 
 " We ought not to have remained in Rome," he said. " This 
 languid air must be exhausting her, doing her harm. I always 
 wanted to take her away." 
 
 " Yes, Sir Theodore. But she took It Into her head that it 
 must be here. It was best to humor her." 
 
 " But think of the heat of July ! Several weeks more, and 
 already " 
 
 The nurse said nothing, and made a slight movement as if 
 to step back Into Dolores' bedroom. But Sir Theodore stopped 
 her. 
 
 " Wait a moment, nurse! " 
 
 He went on, whispering: 
 
 " It Isn't too late I " 
 
 "What for. Sir Theodore?" 
 
 " To get her away."
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 501 
 
 ** She must remain here," the nurse replied, with a decision 
 that sounded stern. 
 
 " But why ? I don't mean far." 
 
 *' Quite impossible." 
 
 " But to Frascati, or Anzio! At Anzio she would have splen- 
 did sea air. I could easily get a villa, and we could go by 
 motor car slowl)^ It is quite near." 
 
 " Lady Cannynge must not be moved till the child is born." 
 
 Again the nurse turned away, and again Sir Theodore 
 Stopped her. 
 
 " But — I don't understand " 
 
 The word " premature " had suddenly come into his mind, 
 almost on to his lips. 
 
 " Let me " he said, and made a movement towards the 
 
 bedroom. 
 
 " She's tired to-night and was just dropping ofE to sleep 
 when I left her," said the nurse, inflexibly. 
 
 He stopped. 
 
 " Oh, then " 
 
 " There is nothing to fuss about Sir Theodore. If you will 
 only be calm, and just wait, without worrying or disturbing 
 Lady Cannynge, there is no reason that I can see why all 
 should not go quite as it ought." 
 
 After a moment of silence, he said: 
 
 " Very well. I trust your experience." 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 "But if — if " 
 
 He broke off. He had been about to say, " If you are de- 
 ceiving me ! " 
 
 But what reason could the nurse have for deceiving him? 
 And to say those words would be to insult the woman on whom 
 his wife relied. 
 
 *' I trust your experience and devotion," he said. 
 
 And he turned and walked rapidly away. 
 
 Nurse Jennings went softly back into the bedroom. 
 
 As she was shutting the door from within there came a 
 sound that was like a gasping sigh. It was followed by a cry: 
 
 "Nurse! Oh, nurse! nurse!" 
 
 In the early morning of the following day, the twenty-ninth 
 of the month, after eight hours of agony, Dolores gave birth to 
 St male child.
 
 502 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 CHAPTER XLII 
 
 For years Sir Theodore had longed to have a child, and had 
 Imagined the first jo3^s of fatherhood, the pride, the triumph, 
 the tenderness a man must surely feel, who holds in his arms 
 the result of his love for the woman he has chosen to be the 
 companion of his life. Always he had imagined joy in con- 
 nection with fatherhood. Never had he gazed into shadows, or 
 confronted a great darkness. 
 
 Yet now that he himself at last attained, as he supposed, 
 his greatest desire, he knew a fear keener than any which had 
 assailed him in the past, a fear which overshadowed his tri- 
 umph, which opened an abyss at his feet into which he gazed 
 with horror. 
 
 Supposing the birth to be premature his very first anxiety 
 had been for the child. He feared that the child might not be 
 normal, healthy, strong, perfect. The doctor and Nurse Jen- 
 nings reassured him. And his own eyes bore witness to the 
 truth. 
 
 The infant had no blemish, was indeed a perfect specimen 
 of a baby, such as might have gladdened the heart of the most 
 exacting or doubting father. 
 
 That first fear banished, a greater fear came upon him. 
 
 It was created by the condition of Dolores. 
 
 Although this was her first child the after pains were ter- 
 rible, and lasted for nearly forty-eight hours. 
 
 During all this time Sir Theodore never slept and seldom 
 rested. Kept out of his wife's room, where Nurse Jennings 
 was in charge, a second nurse having been hastily sent for to 
 take care of the child, he paced the immense apartment, going 
 from chamber to chamber, but incessantly returning to the 
 lobby where hung the picture of the Madonna and Child close 
 to his wife's door. Posts came, but he read no letters. They 
 lay heaped on the table in his study. Cards v.-ere left, but he 
 did not even glance at the names upon them. He told the serv- 
 ants almost fiercely that he would see no one and must be left 
 entirely alone. From time to time he ate a morsel of food. 
 Often he went to gaze at the tiny child with its strange black 
 eyes that seemed looking inward at things no one on earth had 
 seen. Then he resumed his walk or, throwing himself on a 
 chair or sofa, closed his eyes and strove to be calm, to combat 
 his grov/ing fear.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 503 
 
 Why had he never envisaged this possibility of the mother 
 giving her life for the child? Or had he envisaged it? He 
 remembered vv^ell his conversation with Dolores when she had 
 described her visit to San Lorenzo. For a moment, then, he 
 had been troubled, had thought of death in connection with 
 birth. But he had put the thought away almost at once. And 
 even then surely his mind had only said to itself, " Such a thing 
 might happen but not to Doloretta, never to Doloretta, to 
 my wife, the woman whom I love so much and who has been 
 my companion for so many years." 
 
 Now he did face this fearful possibility. Perpetually he 
 thought of that monument in the Campo Santo of San Lorenzo, 
 of the mother lying dead, of the tiny child pulling at her hand, 
 of the words, " Mamma dart." 
 
 Driven by thought he sprang up, again went from room to 
 room. But his mind was more feverishly active when he was 
 in movement. It was as if the black thoughts walked with him, 
 keeping him company with an assiduous eagerness, passing with 
 him through the high doorways, standing with him before the 
 pictures, listening with him outside that room in which v.as a 
 tortured woman. 
 
 And when the night fell the troop of the thoughts increased, 
 till he felt himself in the midst of a crowd of moving things 
 draped in black and with terrible hidden faces. 
 
 With a sort of frightful carefulness, a precision almost cold 
 and petty, he laid before him a life Vv^ithout Dolores. She 
 was dead. Her bedroom was empty. All the things she had 
 been accustomed to use stood in their places, gathering dust. 
 Her gowns hung in the wardrobes, growing old-fashioned. Her 
 hats lay in the drawers and boxes. And how silent the room 
 was! In her drawing-room the piano was shut. 
 
 Softly he went into her drawing-room, and stood there look- 
 ing at everything, and saying to himself, " She is dead. And 
 how Is it here? " Lenbach's old man met his eyes, still fiercely 
 alive though Dolores was dead. He looked round, missing 
 something. Then he remembered. The " Donna guardando 
 il mare " was in his library now. A conversation came back 
 to his mind in connection with that picture. Dolores had asked 
 him to take it out of the room. She had said : " You have it, 
 if you like." He had answered, "What! Am I to have all 
 the sad things?" But he had taken the picture, and he had 
 kept it. 
 
 All the sad things! If it were true? If he were fated to
 
 504 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 endure great sorrows, perhaps the greatest that a man can un- 
 dergo? But, here, once more man's strange and unreasoning 
 optimism for a moment returned to him, and he said to him- 
 self, " No. Other men may be destined to such a fate but it 
 Is not possible that I am." Nevertheless, immediately after- 
 wards he continued carefully to imagine his life in Rome as a 
 widower: the waking up In the morning without Dolores, the 
 frightful freedom, no one to consult as to the laying out of 
 the day; the coffee taken alone, the walk, the return to lunch 
 In solitude; the stretching afternoon, tea-time with no Dolores 
 sitting beside him to pour out tea, to give him his cup ; the 
 closing In of the evening, the lighting up of the rooms, the din- 
 ner hour, the silence, the deadly silence of the night. He 
 shuddered. The cold precision became Impossible to him. Such 
 a life could not be In store for him. 
 
 Then he thought of the child. Even If he lost the mother 
 the child would be left. No longer a husband there would 
 remain to him the life of a father. 
 
 But now he, who had so almost desperately desired a child, 
 recoiled from the thought of being left alone with a child 
 which had killed its mother. No doubt he was affected by his 
 gnawing anxiety, by his lack of sleep. The second night of 
 Dolores' agony had fallen around him. His body was begin- 
 ning to suffer severely under the strain of the mind's painful 
 and almost sinister activity. Perhaps for this reason he was 
 now companioned by a morbid horror, horror at the Idea of 
 being the father of a child which had caused Dolores such tor- 
 ment, a torment which still continued, and which might end 
 In her death. In vain he said to himself that all this was or- 
 dained, was the mysterious work of Nature, was necessary — 
 why, no man knew or would ever know on this side of the veil 
 — served some hidden purpose. In vain he dwelt upon the 
 absolute Innocence of the little child, now sleeping calmly while 
 he could not sleep. The horror remained with him and became 
 more threatening, till at last came the thought, " If Doloretta 
 dies I shall hate the child, my child! " 
 
 In that moment he knew how deep his love for his wife 
 must be. Or was It really his love for the mother of the child? 
 Certain It was that the Dolores In agony meant more to 
 him than the sleeping child, far more. He felt that he would 
 allow the child to die If Its death could save the mother. He 
 no longer recognized himself. This man, wakeful In the dead 
 hours, was like a stranger, with feelings he — Theodore Can-
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 505' 
 
 nynge — was aware of with amazement, with desires he surely 
 could not share. Yet he was, somehow, identified with these 
 feelings, these desires. They were not his — and his. 
 
 He strove to detach his surely murderous thought from the 
 child, fearing himself almost as a potential assassin. What is 
 man that he can live till middle age and never know himself? 
 
 This stranger was frightful to Theodore Cannynge. 
 
 He went very softly to the lobby outside the room of Do- 
 lores. It was two o'clock in the morning. He turned on a 
 light which shone just above the picture he thought a Luini. 
 He gazed at the Mother and Child. 
 
 " She suffered ! " he thought, as his eyes dwelt on the Virgin. 
 How calm she looked ! He felt comforted in that moment. 
 Surely Dolores would emerge from the darkness and the pain 
 as millions of mothers had emerged. We wrestle with Death 
 and how often we overcome him. There is a destined hour. 
 Till that hour strikes Death may want us but he cannot have us. 
 
 And if the mother lived how he would love the child! 
 
 As he was about to extinguish the light the door of Do- 
 lores' room opened, and Nurse Jennings came quickly out. 
 iWhen she saw Sir Theodore she shut the door behind her 
 swiftly, but gentlj% 
 
 " Oh, Sir Theodore! " she said, with reproach, but with pity 
 too. "Why don't vou go to bed?" 
 
 "I can't!''' 
 
 " But this is the second night vou " 
 
 "I can't!" 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "How — how — ?" he whispered. 
 
 The nurse sighed. 
 
 " The pains are beginning to go off a little." 
 
 *' Well then — then that's good — hopeful ! " 
 
 " Yes, of course." 
 
 "Why do you look like that?" he whispered sharply. 
 
 " She's so weak ! " the nurse said. 
 
 They looked at each other for a moment in silence. Then 
 Sir Theodore turned away. He went back to the suite of sit- 
 ting-rooms and resumed his unquiet walk. 
 
 A little before five o'clock in the morning he heard a faint 
 rustling and a step somewhere in the distance. In a moment 
 he saw Nurse Jennings coming towards him. 
 
 "What is it?" he exclaimed. "She isn't ?" 
 
 He dared not finish the sentence. He stood still, staring.
 
 506 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " You might come and see her," the nurse said. 
 
 He caught her arm. 
 
 " Then she's better! " 
 
 " The pains are over." 
 
 "And she asked ?" 
 
 " No. She hasn't said anything." 
 
 Cold seized him. 
 
 "Not said !" 
 
 *' She's very much exhausted, terribly exhausted. The doc- 
 tor will be back almost directly. I'm expecting him every 
 minute." 
 
 Sir Theodore's hand closed on her arm. 
 
 "Why have you come for me?" 
 
 " Because I thought you'd like to see her for a moment. 
 .Wouldn't you?" 
 
 His hand dropped. 
 
 " Yes — of course." 
 
 He looked on the ground. He was trying to combat the 
 cold. 
 
 " Go in to her! " Nurse Jennings said in a very low voice. 
 
 Again Sir Theodore stared at this woman. At this moment 
 it seemed to him as if she held in her hands the keys of life 
 and of death. Then he went into the bedroom. He did not 
 notice whether the nurse followed him, whether the door was 
 shut behind him or not. As he came into the room there flashed 
 into his mind a scene of the past: Dolores trying on hats when 
 he sought her to tell her about the illness of Francis Denzii. 
 He remembered the ugly impression that scene had made upon 
 him. Then he had been thinking of death, dreading death. 
 And a trivial incident connected with the lighter side of life 
 had almost shocked him. Dolores and the room looked differ- 
 ent novv-. If only he could see her in activity I If only he 
 could hear her voice now asking: 
 
 " Do you think yellow becoming? " 
 
 The big room was dimly lit by a lamp burning near the bed. 
 He approached slowly. There was no sound to welcome him. 
 He saw Dolores. She was lying on her back. Her tall figure 
 was stretched straight out on the bed. Her hands and arms 
 were hidden under the coverlet. Her dark hair lay in heavy 
 bunches on the low pillow. Her white face looked very small. 
 
 " Doloretta! " he said softly. 
 
 Her eyes were open and gazed at him. She did not say 
 anything. Without bending over her, kissing her, touching
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 507 
 
 her, he sat down near the bed. Then he made a movement. 
 His instinct was to take her hand. But her hands were still 
 hidden. 
 
 She looked tired, terriblj' tired. But it was not that fact 
 which held him still in a coldness of fear. The expression in 
 her eyes, and, so it seemed to him, in her whole face, over- 
 whelmed him. There was intelligence in it, not keen, but 
 profound, brooding, heavj^ And this intelligence was remote 
 and stern. She gazed at him, and she gazed as if she certainly 
 saw him. He felt quite sure she had watched his approach, 
 had noted his actions, knew who he was and Vvhy he was there. 
 He even felt sure that she knew what he was feeling in that 
 moment. 
 
 But he, and what he did, what he felt, where he was, no 
 longer affected her, no longer mattered to her at all. To her 
 he perhaps appeared like a dot in the foreground of some im- 
 mense scene, which stretched away into a distance so vast that 
 he, and such as he could not even conceive of it. 
 
 He sat quite still for some time, he did not know how long, 
 without taking his eyes from his wife's face. He did not dare 
 to move, or to speak again. He feared to disturb this tremen- 
 dous contemplation. As he watched he noticed that the eyelids 
 of Dolores frequently closed and opened again, as the eyelids of 
 human beings ordinarily do. And he found that this fact pres- 
 ently gave him a very faint feeling of relief. Once, for an 
 Instant, the eyelids remained closed, and he saw the long curl- 
 ing lashes against the Vv'hite cheeks, and remembered his first 
 moment of love for Dolores. Then the eyes opened, he 
 thought more widely. The expression in them seemed to him 
 to change, to become less brooding, and more imperative. 
 
 " She wants the child ! " he said to himself. 
 
 He turned round. The bedroom door was a little way open. 
 He got up, went to it and looked out into the Iobb3\ 
 
 Nurse Jennings was there. He joined her. 
 
 " Fetch the child ! " he whispered. " She wants the child." 
 
 Without a word Nurse Jennings went awaj^ Sir Theodore 
 remained in the lobby, waiting for the child to be brought. 
 When Nurse Jennings returned, carrjn'ng against her breast a 
 white bundle, in the midst of which a tiny, dark face could 
 be discerned, he preceded her into the room, and went up to 
 the bed. This time he dared to bend down over his wife. 
 
 " You wanted the child," he said. " We have brought him." 
 
 Dolores turned her eyes towards the white bundle. Nurse
 
 5o8 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 Jennings was about to sit down by the bed when Sir Theodore 
 said: 
 
 " Give me the child." 
 
 She made a slight movement, as if of protest. But he took 
 the baby from her, with delicate care. He felt that only he 
 knew what Dolores wanted, that only he could gratify her tre- 
 mendous desire. 
 
 As he took the baby the sleeping eyes opened and stared 
 at him gravely. 
 
 He kneeled down by the side of the bed. With a slow ef- 
 fort Dolores raised herself. She moved her arms, drawing them 
 up, and lifting herself on her elbows. Her white hands 
 emerged from beneath the coverlet. Sir Theodore held the 
 baby in front of her, so that she could look down on him. For 
 a moment she gazed into his large black eyes, and he gazed up 
 at her. Then her expression slightly changed, softened a very 
 little, became a little less remote. Her lips moved. Sir Theo- 
 dore leaned nearer to her, and heard her say, under her breath, 
 " Not for me." 
 
 " Doloretta — what?" he whispered. "But look! It is 
 our child! " 
 
 He paused, scrutinizing her. 
 
 *' It is your child," he almost faltered. 
 
 She turned her eyes slowly from the baby, and looked at 
 her husband. 
 
 " Not for me ! " she repeated, with a deep sigh. 
 
 The stern expression returned to her face. She sighed 
 again faintly. Her elbows slipped. Her hands disappeared 
 beneath the coverlet. Her head dropped sideways upon the 
 pillow. 
 
 The baby closed his eyes and slept once more. 
 
 But Sir Theodore did not notice It. He was gazing at two 
 tears, which had welled up In those stern eyes of the woman 
 he loved and hung for an Instant on her long eyelashes. 
 
 " Doloretta! " he whispered. " Doloretta! " 
 
 Nurse Jennings took the baby from his arms with a trem- 
 bling swiftness. 
 
 " Oh, Sir Theodore! " he heard her say behind him. " She's 
 gone! " 
 
 He turned his head towards her. 
 
 "Gone?" he said. 
 
 The nurse began to sob, bending down over the baby. 
 
 Then he understood. He turned. He leaned over the long
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 509 
 
 figure on the bed, kissed the wet eyelids and closed the eyes of 
 Dolores. 
 
 It was the day after the funeral of Dolores. She had been 
 buried near Francis Denzil in the English burial ground out- 
 side the walls of Rome. Now the sun shone to greet the man 
 who must rise and face his new life. 
 
 Sir Theodore made his toilet and dressed mechanically. 
 Nurse Jennings was still in the house, but intended to leave 
 that day. Since the death of Dolores her manner had changed 
 towards Sir Theodore. She had seen his grief. She could not 
 feel towards him quite as she had formerly felt. Nevertheless 
 she was anxious to be away. A singularly frank, and almost 
 bluntly truthful \voman, now that Dolores, whom she had really 
 loved, was gone she wished to get out of the insincere atmos- 
 phere which, it seemed to her, must forever brood about the 
 child that remained with Sir Theodore. And she had insisted 
 on resigning the charge of the child to the second nurse who 
 had been engaged. In bed, after the funeral, she had " cried 
 herself nearly sick," Now she, too, got up and began to make 
 her last preparations. 
 
 After his pretense of breakfast Sir Theodore wandered 
 through the rooms. His shoulders were a little bowed. His 
 head drooped. His face was lined and haggard. To-day he 
 did not feel exactly sad. He felt strange, dull, vague and 
 hopeless, but scarcely sad. 
 
 The rooms seemed immense as he went through them, hor- 
 ribly immense. He made up his mind to give them up as soon 
 as possible. He would go away. He would take the child to 
 England. 
 
 At the funeral there had been very few people besides him- 
 self and Nurse Jennings, Edna Denzil had come and little 
 Theo. Lady Sarah had been there. As Sir Theodore WRS 
 leaving the burial ground he had seen Cesare Carelli getting 
 quickly into a motor car, and had faintly wondered what the 
 young man was doing in that neighborhood. It had never 
 occurred to him that Carelli might be there in connection with 
 the burial of his wife. 
 
 Lady Sarah, too, had seen Cesare, and her face had quiv- 
 ered under her veil. 
 
 Just before Sir Theodore drove away she had taken his hand, 
 and had said in a low voice :
 
 510 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 " Could I be of any use? I loved her." 
 
 " Thank you," he had replied. 
 
 She held his hand. 
 
 " Would you like me to come to-morrow? Can I help at all 
 with the child. I have had children of my own though I have 
 none now. And I — I care very much for little children." 
 
 " Yes, thank you. Do come," he had answered. 
 
 He had hardly known what he was saying, but he had been 
 conscious of a slight sensation of comfort and support at the 
 moment. 
 
 To-day, however, he had forgotten all about the matter. 
 
 Presently, after gazing at many things which had belonged to 
 his wife, after opening her piano, handling her music, stand- 
 ing for a long while before her writing-table on which lay 
 several unopened letters addressed to her, he v/ent to his library. 
 The table there was heaped with letters. He had not looked 
 at one since the birth of the child. 
 
 Mechanically he sat down at the table. All these letters to 
 read and to answer! And what was the good of it all? He 
 rested his head on his hand, leaning his elbow on the blotting 
 pad. He felt fearfully tired, in the body and in the soul, as 
 if all his forces were burnt out, as if only gray ashes were left. 
 Even the child meant nothing to him at this moment. It had 
 killed the mother. He had imagined that deed, and himself 
 left alone with the child. He had imagined that he might hate 
 the child. To-day he was incapable, as he supposed, of hatred 
 or love. Indeed it seemed to him quite impossible that any- 
 body ever could possess enough energy for either the one or 
 the other. 
 
 As he rested his head on his hand he looked down at the 
 pile of unopened letters. He saw Edna Denzil's handwriting 
 on an envelope which had arrived that morning, and at last, 
 with a sigh, he lifted his head, and laid his hand on it. He 
 opened it, and read a very tender message of loving friendship 
 and intensely sincere sorrow. The last words were: 
 
 " You have been like a father to my fatherless little ones. 
 Can I not help you by showing my love for your motherless 
 child? Tell me presently what I may do. Your friend, 
 Edna Denzil." 
 
 This letter, though it did not stir in him any deep emotion, 
 gave a certain impetus to his hitherto stagnant mind. He
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 511 
 
 began to think and to remember, to realize more strongly life 
 and himself in life. But this increasing power of thought 
 alarmed him. He feared the bourne whither it might be tend- 
 ing. And, determined to distract himself, he hastily, at hap- 
 hazard, stretched out his hand and took up another letter. It 
 was written in Italian, and enclosed within it was a note, which 
 dropped down from his uncertain, almost nerveless fingers, as 
 he extracted it from the envelope. He let the note lie, and 
 began to read the letter. 
 
 Hotel Dell'Axien-e. 
 SuBiACO, September 22, 19 — . 
 My dearest Lisetta: 
 
 I shall not see 3^ou again. You are the last person I shall 
 ever write to. I came to Rome last night from Nice. 
 I am ruined. You will think that is nothing new. This 
 time, however, the ruin is final. I have no further re- 
 sources. There is no way in which I can obtain the com- 
 mand of any money, though, if I could, I still believe the 
 luck would turn, and I might win back all my losses and 
 more. I am tired of it all, and have resolved to end it. 
 And I should have ended it in Rome but for something 
 that occurred to-day. As you know I am not a senti- 
 mentalist but rather a materialist. Nevertheless we are 
 not always our own masters. Nor can we feel and act 
 always according to the dictates of the brain, I love you, 
 and have found mj^self quite unable to root out this love. 
 And this love leads me to hate your enemies. The great- 
 est of these is Cesare Carelli " 
 
 At this point Sir Theodore, yielding to an ungovernable im- 
 pulse, picked up the note he had dropped on the table, and read : 
 
 "Dear Sir Theodore Cannynge : 
 
 I enclose a letter which I think must interest you. It 
 explains itself and needs no comment from me. But I 
 will ask you specially to mark its date. 
 Yrs. sincerely 
 
 Lisetta Mancelli." 
 
 The date at the top of this note showed that it had been writ- 
 ten on the day of the child's birth, the child having been born 
 in the early morning. 
 
 Sir Theodore laid it down and went on reading the letter. 
 " The greatest of these is Cesare Carelli. When he be-
 
 512 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 came your lover I hated him. But since he abandoned 
 you for Lady Cannynge I have loathed him." 
 
 A torrent of red rushed over Sir Theodore's face. The letter 
 shook in his hand. He made a movement as if to throw it 
 away, checked himself, laid it down, bent over the table with 
 both hands on it, and read on to the end. 
 
 " To-day I happened to be near the Porta San Sebastiano 
 when I saw Carelli go by in a motor towards the open 
 country. He was driving himself at a tremendous rate. 
 But I saw his face quite clearly. As you know I have not 
 lived in the rooms at Monte Carlo for years without 
 learning to judge minds accurately enough from the faces 
 which often try to conceal them. The face of Carelli put 
 me on the track of something. I knew Lady Cannynge 
 was in Rome, and that her husband was in England. I 
 connected the excitement and hurry of Carelli, his rapid de- 
 parture from Rome, with her. Why? My instinct was 
 at work. And my instinct was right. Almost directly 
 after Carelli had disappeared I met a taxi-cab, on which 
 was some luggage, going in the same direction as Carelli's 
 motor. Inside was a tall woman. She was wrapped in a 
 veil. But I thought, indeed I felt almost sure, that I 
 detected Lady Cannynge. Then, Lisetta, it occurred to 
 me that possibly I might do you a last service, before get- 
 ting out of this world, which refuses to offer me anything 
 more worth the taking. I went into Rome, engaged a taxi- 
 cab, and told the chauffeur to drive me out of the city by 
 the Porta San Sebastiano, and to go on till I gave him fur- 
 ther directions. When we were opposite to the flying 
 ground at Centocelle I stopped him, and inquired of a man 
 with a wine cart, who was coming in from the direction of 
 Colonna, whether he had met a gray torpedo-shaped motor 
 car on the road. He told me he had, and that it was going 
 much too fast and had smothered him with dust. I gave 
 the fellow some money and got out of him another piece of 
 Information. He had also met a taxi-cab with a tall lady 
 in it, and luggage outside, and had been asked by the driver, 
 and the lady, if they were going right for Olevano Romano. 
 The lady, he said, spoke well but he was sure she was one 
 of the English. Having ascertained what I wanted I told 
 my driver to take me to Olevano Romano. Not far from
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 513 
 
 there I met a returning taxi-cab, stopped it, and — by 
 the usual means — learnt from the driver enough to be 
 quite sure that Carelli and Lady Cannynge are at this mo- 
 ment at Casa Truschi, the inn above Olevano on the hill, 
 and that they have gone there to stay the night. In order 
 that I may not meet them by chance, or be known by 
 them to be in the neighborhood, I have come on here. But 
 when night falls I shall return. What am I going to do ? 
 Something for you, Lisetta, and something also for myself. 
 For even now I think of myself. I know Casa Truschi 
 and the land about it. As a boy I was often there. I 
 meant to make an end of things in Rome, I have changed 
 my mind. When the night comes I shall go up the hill 
 and I shall die where these two must know of my death, 
 where they shall be the first to find me, where they shall be 
 involved in the publicity that will follow my end. There 
 is a pergola just below the balcony of the room which they 
 must occupy. That is the place I have chosen. A pistol 
 shot, and their secrecy is blown to the winds. So, you 
 will see, at the very end I shall serve you and strike those 
 who have made you suffer, who have treated you, Lisetta 
 Mancelli, with cruelty, indignity, treachery. 
 
 Addio. I make no last protestations. You have helped 
 me. You have paid debts for me; I shall pay something 
 into your account to-night, and something into my own, 
 
 MONTEBRUNO. 
 
 'Having finished the letter Sir Theodore got up from the 
 writing-table. But he did not leave it. For several minutes 
 he stood beside it with his hands upon the letter. 
 
 The date — the date! He was trying to make a calculation, 
 but he was unable to make it. His brain was clouded, and there 
 was a buzzing in his ears. Nevertheless he felt almost furiously 
 obstinate. He w^ould stand there till he was able to make that 
 calculation. The blood had now retreated from his face, leav- 
 ing a strange and hideous pallor which showed underneath the 
 brown tint of the skin. But the exhausted feeling had left him. 
 Although his brain for the moment was clouded his body felt 
 strongly alive. 
 
 A very faint and distant cry disturbed the silence of the 
 library. And immediately his mind was clear. He listened. 
 The soiind was not repeated. But he had known it for the cry 
 of his child.
 
 514 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 His child? He moved quickly away from the writing-table 
 with the intention of going into the room which had been 
 turned into a nursery. But when he reached the door, and had 
 opened it, he stopped. He felt that he dared not go to the child 
 just then, till he had thought, considered, till he had recovered 
 complete possession of himself, till he had arrived, perhaps, 
 at some conclusion. And he left the door open and went back 
 to the library. ' 
 
 Now he was able to make that calculation which, just be- 
 fore, had been impossible to him. And his face showed a 
 greater pallor. 
 
 Yet he did not believe a word of all this. With contempt 
 he told himself so. He repeated it to himself again and again. 
 
 His wife and Cesare Carelli ! Why, they had scarcely known 
 each other. They had been the merest acquaintances. And, 
 apart from that, who that had ever really known Doloretta 
 could for a moment suspect her of such an action. She rose 
 up before his memory. It was as if he saw her standing in 
 the room, with her large and wistful eyes, her almost sad lips, 
 and slightly down-drawn brows. He thought of the nick- 
 name some had given her. Gazelle. He heard again the sound 
 of her voice. How could such a woman commit such an action 
 as this letter attributed to her? Why her whole being would 
 shrink from the mere thought of it. Body and soul she would 
 abhor it. And, besides, she had loved him. She had certainly 
 loved him deeply, always. 
 
 Had not she? 
 
 Suddenly he rememoered how often, before his going to 
 Sicily, he and Dolores had been separated. He remembered 
 the life at Frascati, his wife's departure to Como, her long stay 
 in Rome alone later on in the almost deserted palace. He 
 remembered his visits to England, his pre-occupation with the 
 aifairs of Edna Denzil, and with the children. Not for a 
 moment, even now, did he blame himself. But he remembered 
 that Dolores had declined to go on living at Frascati, and he re- 
 membered that she had been very often alone. 
 
 Had she been alone all that time? 
 
 He snatched at the letter again. He re-read It, forming 
 every word with his lips. Montebruno had killed himself in 
 that pergola at Casa Truschi. The whole Roman world had 
 wondered why. But no names had been mentioned in connec- 
 tion with his death. There had been no scandal. Nothing had 
 ever been hinted of a woman at the inn that night. Why,
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 515 
 
 after all, what did this letter show? Merely that Montebruno 
 had thought that the woman who drove in a taxi-cab to the inn 
 was Dolores. He had only seen her veiled. His assertion that, 
 after speaking with the returning chauffeur, he was quite sure of 
 the Identity of this woman, carried no conviction. How should 
 a taxi-cab driver know? And, anyhow, those fellows will say 
 anything for money. And Montebruno had given him money. 
 
 How dark the child's eyes were — black eyes! 
 
 It would be very easy to order a motor now, to go to Olevano 
 Romano, to make inquiries. But what was the good, when 
 he was sure, absolutely sure, that his dead wife was incapable 
 of such an action? She hardly knew Carelli. She hardly 
 knew him. 
 
 Sir Theodore repeated this to himself again and again, with 
 a sort of desperate anger, which he believed was directed against 
 a dead slanderer, Montebruno. 
 
 That Princess Mancelli should send such a letter to one who 
 was almost a stranger! He looked again at the date of her 
 note. She had sent it when Dolores was alive, when there was 
 no reason to suppose Dolores was in any danger of death. 
 
 Then Princess Mancelli absolutely believed that Dolores had 
 betrayed him. She had proved it by being content that he 
 should confront his wife with the letter of Montebruno. She 
 had proved It by allowing him to know of her own shame. 
 
 He began to pace his room. 
 
 If he had opened that letter when first it reached the palace ! 
 He could have taken it to his wife's room, he could have said 
 to her, " Here Is a slander. Deny It, only deny It, and I will 
 never think of It again. The letter shall be burnt and forgot- 
 ten." 
 
 Ill as she was she would have denied It. Even when she was 
 at the point of death, when she had looked at him with those 
 strangely stern eyes, when she had had no words for him, if 
 he had told her of that slander she must have understood. 
 Such an accusation would have recalled her spirit from the re- 
 mote region It had gained. She would have understood, have 
 returned, have denied. 
 
 He remembered his arrival In Sicily. 
 
 How different Dolores had seemed to him In Sicily! While 
 he had been away In England she had subtly changed. He had 
 noticed It directly. And, that night in Sicily, when he took 
 her In his arms, how she had cried 1 
 
 Why had she cried like that?
 
 5i6 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 Again the blood rushed to his face. If it were true! If 
 his dead wife had really taken a lover! If — the terrible date 
 flamed, as if written in fire, before his mind. 
 
 Nurse Jennings! 
 
 He stood still. A memory had arrested his activity, the 
 memory of his conversation with the nurse when he wished to 
 take his wife out of Rome, believing that a month must elapse 
 before the birth of the child. She had said the journey was im- 
 possible, and she had said, " Everything is quite normal." If 
 the child that was then about to be born had been his, and if 
 everything had been quite normal, then such a journey as he had 
 proposed would not have been impossible. He had felt as if 
 the nurse were trying to deceive him. He had even almost said 
 so. His instinct had led him right. He was sure of it now, 
 suddenly sure of it. Nurse Jennings had known before, long 
 before, when the child must be born, and she had kept him in 
 ignorance. She had not dared to tell him. 
 
 He turned sharply, went out of the library, traversed the 
 green and red drawing-room and the adjoining chamber, and 
 came into the hall. As he was about to go down the passage 
 to the right, in search of Nurse Jennings, whose bedroom was 
 there, he heard a slight noise, and stopped. Some one was in- 
 serting the latchkey into his front door. He stood facing the 
 door. The key turned, the door opened inwards, and Cesare 
 Carelli stood before him, pale, hard, resolute, with unflinching 
 eyes, the eyes of a man devoured by purpose, by the' desperate 
 will to act. 
 
 When he saw Sir Theodore he showed no surprise. He drew 
 the key out of the keyhole and shut the door behind him. 
 
 The two men stood for a moment face to face in silence. 
 
 "How did you get possession of the key of my door?" 
 at last said Sir Theodore. 
 
 " Your wife gave it to me." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 " On the night before you started for England last year." 
 
 He paused. Sir Theodore looked at him in the eyes, and 
 he continued, in a low, hard voice: 
 
 " We had been dining together at Villa Medici. I brought 
 her home. She gave me the key that I might open the door. 
 And I have kept it ever since." 
 
 He laid the key down on the hall table. 
 
 " That's a lie," said Sir Theodore. " I was here that night." 
 
 " I know. Here — asleep ! "
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 517 
 
 " My wife was at home. I visited her room and heard her 
 sleeping before I went to bed." 
 
 " No. She was with me in the garden of Villa Medici till 
 midnight." 
 
 " I heard her sleeping." 
 
 A look of contempt — or was it pity? — flitted across Cesare's 
 face. 
 
 " Because you thought she must be," he said. 
 
 "You dare to say ? " 
 
 " I came in with her that night." 
 
 " You " Sir Theodore made a slight movement for- 
 ward, checked himself, and stood still. 
 
 " Against her will. I only stayed a few minutes." 
 
 There was an unmistakable accent of truth in the voice. 
 That, and the unexpectedness of the last words, evidently made 
 on Sir Theodore an immense, and terrible, impression. The 
 man who could say that, in that way, was a man of truth. 
 
 " She did not wish you to come in? " 
 
 " She did not wish me to come in, to be with her that 
 night." 
 
 Sir Theodore hesitated, with his eyes always fixed upon 
 Cesare. Little drops of sweat burst out on his forehead. 
 Twice he opened his lips and did not speak. At length, with 
 a difficult effort, he said: 
 
 " What have you come here for now? It is not to see her. 
 She is dead. 
 
 " I have comiC to claim my child." 
 
 Again the silence fell between them. In It there took place 
 a fearful resurrection. The potential father, stricken down in 
 Sir Theodore for the moment by the illness and death of Do- 
 lores, rose as if from the grave at the last words " My child," 
 with an almost wild beast desire to spring upon and make an 
 end of the man who had uttered them. A rage of possession 
 took hold of him. He had lost the mother. Was he going to 
 lose the child? Was he going to be left with nothing? At 
 that moment he no longer debated the fearful question. He 
 no longer asked himself whether or not the child was his! 
 The child had been born in his home, of his wife, and it should 
 be his. He would close his ears to evidence and his mind to 
 reason. He would not argue, listen or see. He would repel 
 and he would hold. The child should own him as father. He 
 would take the child to England, or to some distant land, 
 where no evil tongues would ever whisper a doubt as to his
 
 5i8 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 paternity. Even the fury of jealousy and of humiliation sank 
 away at that moment from his heart. Even Dolores vv^as for- 
 gotten. Every other feeling was trampled down by the deter- 
 mination to keep possession of the child. 
 
 He took up the latchkey and put it into his pocket. 
 
 " You talk like a madman," he said. " I must ask you to 
 go." , ^ ^ 
 
 Cesare stood looking at him. 
 
 " You must give up my child." 
 
 " Go." 
 
 " Do you want evidence? I was with your wife at Olevano 
 Romano on the night of the twenty-second of last September, 
 the night Montebruno killed himself there." 
 
 " Go ! " repeated Sir Theodore. 
 
 But Cesare drew out a letter-case and took from it a folded 
 sheet of note paper. 
 
 " If you do not believe me look at that." 
 
 He held towards Sir Theodore Princess Mancelli's note of 
 warning to Dolores. 
 
 " Your wife sent that to me directly she received it. You 
 will see that she has written some words on it." 
 
 Sir Theodore read the note and tore it up. 
 
 "Go! "he said. 
 
 " You must give up my child." 
 
 " I shall not part with the child." 
 
 " Do you still believe the child is yours? " 
 
 Sir Theodore clenched his hands. 
 
 " I shall not part with the child," he reiterated, doggedly. 
 
 " I will have it! " said Cesare. 
 
 A wicked look came into his face. 
 
 *' She took me and threw me away, as if I and my love were 
 nothing," he said ; and now his voice was shaken as the memory 
 of his wrong boiled up in him. " If she had lived I don't know 
 what I should have done. It's difficult for a man to fight 
 against a woman. But she's gone, and we men are left. Be- 
 fore she went she gave a child to me — to me. His voice 
 suddenly rose, and he struck his breast violently. " Not to you. 
 D'you hear? And I'll have what she gave me, what belongs to 
 me. 
 
 He moved forward violently, then stood still. 
 
 " Ah ! " he said. 
 
 He looked down the passage on the right. There was a 
 slight rustling sound and Nurse Jennings appeared, dressed to
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 519 
 
 go away. Before she could speak Cesare was beside her, and 
 had seized her by the arm. 
 
 "You knew! She told you!" he said. "Tell him who is 
 the father of the child." 
 
 Nurse Jennings looked at Sir Theodore without speak- 
 ing. 
 
 Under the steady eyes of the woman, eyes that were still red 
 with weeping for his dead wife, something within him seemed to 
 collapse. All the doggedness melted, was swept away under a 
 torrent of conviction, of humiliation, of despair. He felt im- 
 potent, no more a man, incapable of further assertion of any 
 right — if he possessed it — incapable of any struggle of any 
 further resistance. His head dropped. He looked suddenly 
 years older. 
 
 An electric bell sounded. Carlino appeared, staring with his 
 anxious eyes. He went to the front door and opened It. Me- 
 chanically Sir Theodore looked up and saw on the threshold 
 Lady Sarah. Slowly he went to her and took her hand. Hold- 
 ing it tightly he turned towards the nurse and Cesare. 
 
 "Let her take the child! " he said in a loud, unsteady voice. 
 " If she will — let her — let her — she has told me — she told 
 me yesterday — she cares very much for little children." 
 
 He dropped Lady Sarah's hand, and left them. He went 
 into the dead woman's room, and sank down on the sofa. He 
 felt terribly tired, finished. 
 
 How long he sat there alone he did not know. But pres- 
 ently he heard a knock. It was reiterated, but he did not 
 reply to it. And at last the door was opened and Nurse Jen- 
 nings came in. She shut the door behind her and came to the 
 sofa. 
 
 " Sir Theodore ! '* she said. 
 
 He did not speak or look ud, 
 
 "Sir Theodore!" 
 
 She sat down, very near him. 
 
 " I am going away, but I couldn't go without speaking to 
 you." 
 
 " Will she take the child ? " he said, without moving or 
 looking at her. " Is she going to take the child ? " 
 
 "Yes, I think she w-ill. She loves little children." 
 
 He shivered. 
 
 "Then — then there's nothing more to say." 
 
 " Yes, there's just this. I don't want to hurt you, but I 
 must say it. For I feel I owe it to her. All this has come
 
 520 THE FRUITFUL VINE 
 
 about because she loved you too much, more than a man de- 
 serves to be loved, I think, and you'll forgive me! " 
 
 *' Loved me too much ! " he muttered. " Loved me too 
 much ! " 
 
 " Yes. One night, when you were living at Frascati, I was 
 alone with her here, and she told me — as good as told me. 
 She had been playing the piano, and she quite broke down. 
 ' I've always been pretending,' she said. And with that she 
 cried as if her heart was near to breaking. And at last she 
 said, * I want to have a child! ' " 
 ! Sir Theodore lifted his head and looked at the nurse. 
 
 "" I said, * Many women want that.' ' Not like me,' she said. 
 * I can't bear it, not having a child.' And then she said, and 
 her voice — well, it really was terrible — ' I need to have a 
 child ! ' And then, presently, she told me — she told me " 
 
 The voice of the nurse shook. 
 
 "What?" said Sir Theodore, "What?" 
 
 " She told me she needed the child for you." 
 
 "Forme?" 
 
 " Yes. She said, ' Because I haven't given my husband a 
 child he doesn't care for me any more.' And last of all she 
 said : * He will never care for me again unless I can give him 
 a child. He blames me because we have no child. He doesn't 
 say it, but he makes me feel it, every day and all the time.' 
 And then she cried again, and let me know how terribly she 
 cared for you, and how terribly she felt it, your being always 
 with that family. And at last I said " 
 
 "What?" asked Sir Theodore, in a strange voice, an awak- 
 ened voice. 
 
 " I said, * I should like to bring it home to your husband 
 what he's made you suffer.' " 
 
 There was a long silence. Then the nurse got up. 
 
 " She made me give my on honor promise never to tell you. 
 Well, I've broken it, and I had to. And this I will say. Sir 
 Theodore, that never was there a man loved better than you 
 have been, nor one that understood the way of a woman's love 
 less than you. And this I will say, too, that whatever she may 
 have done, the real reason of its doing was you. Pretty well 
 all the big things women do are done for men, I believe. Fool- 
 ish it may be, but I suppose it's human nature. We are made 
 so, and must put up with it." 
 
 She paused. Tears were running down her cheeks. He sat 
 gazing at her without a word.
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE 521 
 
 " Good-bye, Sir Theodore." 
 
 She pulled out her handkerchief. 
 
 .With an eflfort he got up. He did not take her hand, but 
 she took his. 
 
 " I'm sorry," she said. " But I had to tell you, promise or 
 no promise. I felt I owed it to her." 
 
 " Yes, you owed it to her." 
 
 " And through it all, to my thinking, she never was bad. 
 No, she was good right up to the end. She was, she was! " 
 
 *' She was better than I ! " he answered. 
 
 The nurse gripped his hand and left him. 
 
 As she went out of the room he sank down again on the 
 sofa, and leaned forward, with his elbows on his knees and his 
 head in his hands. 
 
 " Better than I ! " he repeated. " Better than I ! " 
 
 THE END
 
 FOREIGN .WORDS AND PHRASES TRANSLATED 
 
 PAGE 
 
 2 passeggiata — walks, paths. 
 
 3 canzonettiste — singers (performers). 
 9 ambiente — environment. 
 
 14 Per piacere due the — Tea for two, if you please. 
 
 21 Donna giiardando il mare — Lady watching the sea. 
 
 25 sur la tranche — on the wing, unsettled. 
 
 29 C'est un Anglais, e basta — He's an Englishman, that's sufficient. 
 
 30 gaffe — "break." 
 
 31 una buona donna di casa — a good housewife. 
 
 43 ben tornata — welcome back. 
 
 44 mauvaise langue — slanderous tongued. 
 48 potlns — gossip. 
 
 60 faiblesse — weakness. 
 
 70 I'illegg'tatura — summer season. 
 
 75 Ma che bella donna! Che donna simpatica! — Oh! What a 
 
 beautiful woman! what an attractive woman! 
 
 47 Chi lo saf — Who knows? 
 
 77 numero un — A, number one. 
 
 88 coute que coute — cost what It may. 
 
 60 maestro di casa — major-domo. 
 
 104 ben venuta — welcome. 
 
 105 Bene cost — That will do. 
 
 110 jouer le monde — to play the game of life. 
 
 111 buona sera — good evening. 
 
 112 Ebbene! — Well! 
 114 Lo so — I know it. 
 
 114 Tienti pure nella guiete. Non lasciarti turbare dalla tempesta. 
 Piu che iu sentirai di essere uomo piu ti assomiglierai agli 
 Dei — Keep perfectly calm. Don't let yourself be disturbed 
 by the storm. The more you feel yourself a man, the more 
 you are like the gods. 
 
 126 Madame, croyez moi, nous commen<ions a peine — Believe me, 
 
 madame, we have scarcely begun. 
 
 127 peau de chagrin — piece of leather. 
 
 132 es ist ivirklich ganz ivunderschon — it is really quite beautiful. 
 
 132 No hay que decir hijila; mas hermosas son las Chilenas — I don't 
 see any girls here more beautiful than the Chilians. 
 
 137 Piu e grande la sensibilita, piu e forte il dolor e. Grande Mar- 
 tire! — The deeper the feeling the stronger the pain (grief). 
 Oh, great martyr! 
 
 148 3e 'vous ai dit que vous fumez trop — I've told you, you smoke 
 too much. 
 
 522
 
 FOREIGN WORDS AND PHRASES 523 
 
 PAGE 
 
 154 Us allumalent bien leur petite lanterne, seulement c'etait comme 
 celle des vers luisants. Elle ne rechauffait rien et eclaira'it 
 a peine — They light their little lantein, only the light is 
 like the glowworm's — no warmth, and scarcely any illumina- 
 tion. 
 
 163 Buon giorno — good day. 
 
 174 Giu seduto! Giii! Giii! — Down-seated! (a fencing term; evi- 
 dently the fencing-master admonishing his pupil to crouch 
 lower and lower to get on his guard). 
 
 177 Prego — I beg of you. 
 
 180 Lo capisco — I understand. 
 
 201 Nu Zampugnaro 'e nu paesse, etc. — A song in the Neapolitan dia- 
 lect describing the life of the piper — telling how lazy he is, 
 and how he spends his days in sighing for his wife or sweet- 
 heart, and in sighing and piping idles away his time. 
 
 201 E ullero, ullero! etc. — Popular ditty of a ribald, almost sacrile- 
 gious nature. 
 
 203 une desenchantee echappee du Harem — a runaway from the 
 Harem (referring to "Les Desenchantees," by Pierre Loti). 
 
 303 Elle va patiner! Mon dieuf Man dieu! Si elle tombe, c'est 
 fini. Nous aurons uii cadavre dans la maison — Good 
 heavens! She's going to skate. If she falls it's all over. 
 We'll have a corpse in the house. 
 
 207 Maintenant il est bon pere de famille — He has become a good 
 father of a family. 
 
 215 Tons ces Grands Dues m'ennuient tellement! — All these grand 
 dukes bore me to death! 
 
 220 cliches — copies. 
 
 230 La petite jalouse est tout bonnement furleuse! — ^The jealous little 
 thing is simply furious! 
 
 230 impayable — extraordinary. 
 
 243 sguardo Imperiale — Imperial bearing. 
 
 245 Cantava I'usignolo stamattina colla 'vocina sua gentile e fina — 
 "The nightingale sang this morning with its fine, noble voice." 
 
 256 Ma come e ancora qui questo signoref — What! Is that gentleman 
 still here? 
 
 256 A casa! A casa! — Home ! Home ! 
 
 259 "Donna Delinquente" — (The Criminal Woman), title of one of 
 Lombroso's works, 
 
 266 "Mon cceur s'ouvre a ta voix" — "My heart opens to thy voice." 
 Famous aria from Saint Saens' "Sanson et Dalila." 
 
 303 vaporino — launch. 
 
 303 Come ama il sua signoref — How she loves her signore! 
 
 305 Davvero! — In truth, yes! 
 
 308 Va bene — All right. 
 
 320 La signora e tin po' stranaf — The lady is a little odd! 
 
 365 espiegle — frolicsome. 
 
 368 Monsieur Leroux travaille aujourd'hui? — Monsieur Leroux is 
 
 working to-day? 
 
 369 La petite s'est amenee aujourd'hui a 6} et n'a troui'i pcrsonne • 
 
 The little girl came at a quarter past six and found no one.
 
 524 FOREIGN WORDS AND PHRASES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 373 Bon solr! Nous 'voila encore une fois! — Good evening! Here we 
 
 are again ! 
 377 Quant e bella glovinezza, etc. — 
 
 "Oh, how beautiful is youth — 
 
 But ever slipping away. 
 
 Would'st be merry? — be so; 
 
 For of to-morrow naught is certain." 
 393 fflrrozzfl— carriage. 
 400 L'amour 'veille! — Love watches! 
 
 405 tempi passat'i — by-gone days. 
 
 406 macche — an exclamation. 
 425 come vuole — as we like. 
 435 megl'io cos\ — better so. 
 
 425 jar seguire — please forward. 
 
 433 Venga! Venga! — Come! Come! 
 
 434 Venga! Lei venga! — Come! Let her come! 
 
 434 Ecco! Ecco una bella cosa! — Here's a pretty state of things! 
 437 Q^i San Filippo Neri discorreva coi suoi discepoli delle cose di Dio 
 — "Here St. Philip Neri discoursed with his pupils on the 
 things of God." 
 481 dame de compagnie — companion. 
 489 Mamma dart — Mama sleeps. 
 467 A mezzannott appunto, etc. — 
 
 At midnight precisely 
 
 Is heard a great uproar 
 
 It is the gariolandi, la la la la 
 
 Going to work. 
 467 Quest" e la lia del ponte, etc. — 
 
 This is the street of the bridge 
 
 Where that traitor 
 
 Came to betray the fair-haired one, la la la la 
 
 With a love-kiss.
 
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