The Cardinal's Snuff Box

"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.