"That little part of my great love she took," said he to himself. "The
remainder she would have devoted to Heaven; but has left it withering
in the sun and wind. Ah! Hilda, Hilda, had you given me a right to watch
over you, this evil had not come!"
"Be not downcast, signorino mio," said the Roman matron, in response to
the deep sigh which struggled out of Kenyon's breast. "The dear little
maiden, as we see, has decked yonder blessed shrine as devoutly as
I myself, or any Other good Catholic woman, could have done. It is a
religious act, and has more than the efficacy of a prayer. The signorina
will as surely come back as the sun will fall through the window
to-morrow no less than to-day. Her own doves have often been missing
for a day or two, but they were sure to come fluttering about her head
again, when she least expected them. So will it be with this dove-like
child."
"It might be so," thought Kenyon, with yearning anxiety, "if a pure
maiden were as safe as a dove, in this evil world of ours."
As they returned through the studio, with the furniture and arrangements
of which the sculptor was familiar, he missed a small ebony writing-desk
that he remembered as having always been placed on a table there. He
knew that it was Hilda's custom to deposit her letters in this desk,
as well as other little objects of which she wished to be specially
careful.
"What has become of it?" he suddenly inquired, laying his hand on the
table.
"Become of what, pray?" exclaimed the woman, a little disturbed. "Does
the Signore suspect a robbery, then?"
"The signorina's writing-desk is gone," replied Kenyon; "it always stood
on this table, and I myself saw it there only a few days ago."
"Ah, well!" said the woman, recovering her composure, which she seemed
partly to have lost. "The signorina has doubtless taken it away with
her. The fact is of good omen; for it proves that she did not go
unexpectedly, and is likely to return when it may best suit her
convenience."
"This is very singular," observed Kenyon. "Have the rooms been entered
by yourself, or any other person, since the signorina's disappearance?"
"Not by me, Signore, so help me Heaven and the saints!" said the matron.
"And I question whether there are more than two keys in Rome that will
suit this strange old lock. Here is one; and as for the other, the
signorina carlies it in her pocket."
The sculptor had no reason to doubt the word of this respectable dame.
She appeared to be well meaning and kind hearted, as Roman matrons
generally are; except when a fit of passion incites them to shower
horrible curses on an obnoxious individual, or perhaps to stab him
with the steel stiletto that serves them for a hairpin. But Italian
asseverations of any questionable fact, however true they may chance to
be, have no witness of their truth in the faces of those who utter them.
Their words are spoken with strange earnestness, and yet do not vouch
for themselves as coming from any depth, like roots drawn out of the
substance of the soul, with some of the soil clinging to them. There is
always a something inscrutable, instead of frankness, in their eyes. In
short, they lie so much like truth, and speak truth so much as if they
were telling a lie, that their auditor suspects himself in the wrong,
whether he believes or disbelieves them; it being the one thing certain,
that falsehood is seldom an intolerable burden to the tenderest of
Italian consciences.