"What a heavenly old man," he said.
In the garden Sister Scholastica and Emilia were still walking
together.
They halted, when Peter came out; and Emilia said, "With your
consent, Signore, Sister Scholastica has accepted me as her
lieutenant. I will come every morning, and sit with Marietta
during the day. That will relieve the sister, who has to be up
with her at night."
And every morning after that, Emilia came, walking through the
park, and crossing the river by the ladder-bridge, which Peter
left now permanently in its position. And once or twice a
week, in the afternoon, the Cardinal would drive up in the
brougham, and, having paid a little visit to Marietta, would
drive Emilia home.
In the sick-room Emilia would read to Marietta, or say the
rosary for her.
Marietta mended steadily day by day. At the end of a fortnight
she was able to leave her bed for an hour or two in the
afternoon, and sit in the sun in the garden. Then Sister
Scholastica went back to her convent at Venzona. At the end of
the third week Marietta could be up all day. But Gigi's
stalwart Carolina Maddalena continued to rule as vicereine in
the kitchen. And Emilia continued to come every morning.
"Why does the Duchessa never come?" Peter wondered. "It would
be decent of her to come and see the poor old woman."
Whenever he thought of Cardinal Udeschini, the same strange
feeling of joy would spring up in his heart, which he had felt
when he had left the beautiful old man with Marietta, on the
day of his first visit. In the beginning he could only give
this feeling a very general and indefinite expression. "He is
a man who renews one's faith in things, who renews one's faith
in human nature." But gradually, I suppose, the feeling
crystallised; and at last, in due season, it found for itself
an expression that was not so indefinite.
It was in the afternoon, and he had just conducted the Cardinal
and Emilia to their carriage. He stood at his gate for a
minute, and watched the carriage as it rolled away.
"What a heavenly old man, what a heavenly old man," he thought.
Then, still looking after the carriage, before turning back
into his garden, he heard himself repeat, half aloud "Nor knowest thou what argument
Thy life to thy neighbour's creed hath lent."
The words had come to his lips, and were pronounced, were
addressed to his mental image of the Cardinal, without any
conscious act of volition on his part. He heard them with a
sort of surprise, almost as if some one else had spoken them.
He could not in the least remember what poem they were from, he
could not even remember what poet they were by. Were they by
Emerson? It was years since he had read a line of Emerson's.