CHAPTER I. THE HOME-COMING
It was still early morning when we came into the town of Mondolfo, mypeasant escort and I.
The day being Sunday there was little stir in the town at such an hour,and it presented a very different appearance from that which it had wornwhen last I had seen it. But the difference lay not only in the absenceof bustle and the few folk abroad now as compared with that market-dayon which, departing, I had ridden through it. I viewed the place to-daywith eyes that were able to draw comparisons, and after the wide streetsand imposing buildings of Piacenza, I found my little township mean andrustic.
We passed the Duomo, consecrated to Our Lady of Mondolfo. Itsportals stood wide, and in the opening swung a heavy crimson curtain,embroidered with a huge golden cross which was bellying outward like anenormous gonfalon. On the steps a few crippled beggars whined, and a fewfaithful took their way to early Mass.
On, up the steep, ill-paved street we climbed to the mighty grey citadellooming on the hill's crest, like a gigantic guardian brooding over thecity of his trust. We crossed the drawbridge unchallenged, passed underthe tunnel of the gateway, and so came into the vast, untenanted baileyof the fortress.
I looked about me, beat my hands together, and raised my voice to shout
"Ola! Ola!"
In answer to my call the door of the guardhouse opened presently, anda man looked out. He frowned at first; then his brows went up and hismouth fell open.
"It is the Madonnino!" he shouted over his shoulder, and hurried forwardto take my reins, uttering words of respectful welcome, which seemed torelieve the fears of my peasant, who had never quite believed me what Iproclaimed myself.
There was a stir in the guardhouse, and two or three men of the absurdgarrison my mother kept there shuffled in the doorway, whilst a burlyfellow in leather with a sword girt on him thrust his way throughand hurried forward, limping slightly. In the dark, lowering faceI recognized my old friend Rinolfo, and I marvelled to see him thusaccoutred.
He halted before me, and gave me a stiff and unfriendly salute; then hebade the man-at-arms to hold my stirrup.
"What is your authority here, Rinolfo?" I asked him shortly.
I am the castellan," he informed me.
"The castellan? But what of Messer Giorgio?"
"He died a month ago."
"And who gave you this authority?"
"Madonna the Countess, in some recompense for the hurt you did me," hereplied, thrusting forward his lame leg.
His tone was surly and hostile; but it provoked no resentment in menow. I deserved his unfriendliness. I had crippled him. At the moment Iforgot the provocation I had received--forgot that since he had raisedhis hand to his lord, it would have been no great harshness to havehanged him. I saw in him but another instance of my wickedness, anothersufferer at my hands; and I hung my head under the rebuke implicit inhis surly tone and glance.
"I had not thought, Rinolfo, to do you an abiding hurt," said I, andhere checked, bethinking me that I lied; for had I not expressed regretthat I had not broken his neck?
I got down slowly and painfully, for my limbs were stiff and my feetvery sore. He smiled darkly at my words and my sudden faltering; but Iaffected not to see.
"Where is Madonna?" I asked.
"She will have returned by now from chapel," he answered.
I turned to the man-at-arms. "You will announce me," I bade him. "Andyou, Rinolfo, see to these beasts and to this good fellow here. Let himhave wine and food and what he needs. I will see him again ere he setsforth."
Rinolfo muttered that all should be done as I ordered, and I signed tothe man-at-arms to lead the way.
We went up the steps and into the cool of the great hall. There thesoldier, whose every feeling had been outraged no doubt by Rinolfo'sattitude towards his lord, ventured to express his sympathy andindignation.
"Rinolfo is a black beast, Madonnino," he muttered.
"We are all black beasts, Eugenio," I answered heavily, and so startledhim by words and tone that he ventured upon no further speech, but ledme straight to my mother's private dining-room, opened the door andcalmly announced me.
"Madonna, here is my Lord Agostino."
I heard the gasp she uttered before I caught sight of her. She wasseated at the table's head in her great wooden chair, and Fra Gervasiowas pacing the rush-strewn floor in talk with her, his hands behind hisback, his head thrust forward.
At the announcement he straightened suddenly and wheeled round to faceme, inquiry in his glance. My mother, too, half rose, and remainedso, staring at me, her amazement at seeing me increased by the strangeappearance I presented.
Eugenio closed the door and departed, leaving me standing there, justwithin it; and for a moment no word was spoken.
The cheerless, familiar room, looking more cheerless than it had doneof old, with its high-set windows and ghastly Crucifix, affected me ina singular manner. In this room I had known a sort of peace--the peacethat is peculiarly childhood's own, whatever the troubles that may hauntit. I came into it now with hell in my soul, sin-blackened before Godand man, a fugitive in quest of sanctuary.
A knot rose in my throat and paralysed awhile my speech. Then with asudden sob, I sprang forward and hobbled to her upon my wounded feet. Iflung myself down upon my knees, buried my head in her lap, and all thatI could cry was:
"Mother! Mother!"
Whether perceiving my disorder, my distraught and suffering condition,what remained of the woman in her was moved to pity; whether my cryacting like a rod of Moses upon that rock of her heart which excess ofpiety had long since sterilized, touched into fresh life the springsthat had long since been dry, and reminded her of the actual bondbetween us, her tone was more kindly and gentle than I had ever knownit.
"Agostino, my child! Why are you here?" And her wax-like fingers verygently touched my head. "Why are you here--and thus? What has happenedto you?"
"Me miserable!" I groaned.
"What is it?" she pressed me, an increasing anxiety in her voice.
At last I found courage to tell her sufficient to prepare her mind.
"Mother, I am a sinner," I faltered miserably.
I felt her recoiling from me as from the touch of something unclean andcontagious, her mind conceiving already by some subtle premonition someshadow of the thing that I had done. And then Gervasio spoke, and hisvoice was soothing as oil upon troubled waters.
"Sinners are we all, Agostino. But repentance purges sin. Do not abandonyourself to despair, my son."
But the mother who bore me took no such charitable and Christian view.
"What is it? Wretched boy, what have you done?" And the cold repugnancein her voice froze anew the courage I was forming.
"O God help me! God help me!" I groaned miserably.
Gervasio, seeing my condition, with that quick and saintly sympathy thatwas his, came softly towards me and set a hand upon my shoulder.
"Dear Agostino," he murmured, "would you find it easier to tell mefirst? Will you confess to me, my son? Will you let me lift this burdenfrom your soul?"
Still on my knees I turned and looked up into that pale, kindly face.I caught his thin hand, and kissed it ere he could snatch it away."If there were more priests like you," I cried, "there would be fewersinners like me."
A shadow crossed his face; he smiled very wanly, a smile that was like agleam of pale sunshine from an over-clouded sky, and he spoke in gentle,soothing words of the Divine Mercy.
I staggered to my bruised feet. "I will confess to you, Fra Gervasio," Isaid, "and afterwards we will tell my mother."
She looked as she would make demur. But Fra Gervasio checked any suchintent.
"It is best so, Madonna," he said gravely. "His most urgent need is theconsolation that the Church alone can give."
He took me by the arm very gently, and led me forth. We went to hismodest chamber, with its waxed floor, the hard, narrow pallet uponwhich he slept, the blue and gold image of the Virgin, and the lit
tlewriting-pulpit upon which lay open a manuscript he was illuminating,for he was very skilled in that art which already was falling intodesuetude.
At this pulpit, by the window, he took his seat, and signed to me tokneel. I recited the Confiteor. Thereafter, with my face buried in myhands, my soul writhing in an agony of penitence and shame, I poured outthe hideous tale of the evil I had wrought.
Rarely did he speak while I was at that recitation. Save when I haltedor hesitated he would interject a word of pity and of comfort that felllike a blessed balsam upon my spiritual wounds and gave me strength topursue my awful story.
When I had done and he knew me to the full for the murderer andadulterer that I was, there fell a long pause, during which I waited asa felon awaits sentence. But it did not come. Instead, he set himselfto examine more closely the thing I had told him. He probed it witha question here and a question there, and all of a shrewdness thatrevealed the extent of his knowledge of humanity, and the infinitecompassion and gentleness that must be the inevitable fruits of such sadknowledge.
He caused me to go back to the very day of my arrival at Fifanti's; andthence, step by step, he led me again over the road that in the pastfour months I had trodden, until he had traced the evil to its verysource, and could see the tiny spring that had formed the brook which,gathering volume as it went, had swollen at last into a raging torrentthat had laid waste its narrow confines.
"Who that knows all that goes to the making of a sin shall dare tocondemn a sinner?" he cried at last, so that I looked up at him,startled, and penetrated by a ray of hope and comfort. He returned myglance with one of infinite pity.
"It is the woman here upon whom must fall the greater blame," said he.
But at that I cried out in hot remonstrance, adding that I had yetanother vileness to confess--for it was now that for the first time Irealized it. And I related to him how last night I had repudiated her,cast her off and fled, leaving her to bear the punishment alone.
Of my conduct in that he withheld his criticism. "The sin is hers," herepeated. "She was a wife, and the adultery is hers. More, she was theseducer. It was she who debauched your mind with lascivious readings,and tore away the foundations of virtue from your soul. If in thecataclysm that followed she was crushed and smothered, it is no morethan she had incurred."
I still protested that this view was all too lenient to me, that itsprang of his love for me, that it was not just. Thereupon he began tomake clear to me many things that may have been clear to you worldlyones who have read my scrupulous and exact confessions, but which at thetime were still all wrapped in obscurity for me.
It was as if he held up a mirror--an intelligent and informingmirror--in which my deeds were reflected by the light of his own deepknowledge. He showed me the gradual seduction to which I had beensubjected; he showed me Giuliana as she really was, as she must be fromwhat I had told him; he reminded me that she was older by ten years thanI, and greatly skilled in men and worldliness; that where I had goneblindly, never seeing what was the inevitable goal and end of the roadI trod, she had consciously been leading me thither, knowing full wellwhat the end must be, and desiring it.
As for the murder of Fifanti, the thing was grievous; but it had beendone in the heat of combat, and he could not think that I had meant thepoor man's death. And Fifanti himself was not entirely without blame.Largely had he contributed to the tragedy. There had been evil in hisheart. A good man would have withdrawn his wife from surroundings whichhe knew to be perilous and foul, not used her as a decoy to enable himto trap and slay his enemy.
And the greatest blame of all he attached to that Messer Arcolano whohad recommended Fifanti to my mother as a tutor for me, knowing fullwell--as he must have known--what manner of house the doctor keptand what manner of wanton was Giuliana. Arcolano had sought to serveFifanti's interests in pretending to serve mine and my mother's; and mymother should be enlightened that at last she might know that evil manfor what he really was.
"But all this," he concluded, "does not mean, Agostino, that you areto regard yourself as other than a great sinner. You have sinnedmonstrously, even when all these extenuations are considered."
"I know, I know!" I groaned.
"But beyond forgiveness no man has ever sinned, nor have you now. Sothat your repentance is deep and real, and when by some penance thatI shall impose you shall have cleansed yourself of all this mire thatclings to your poor soul, you shall have absolution from me."
"Impose your penance," I cried eagerly. "There is none I will notundertake, to purchase pardon and some little peace of mind.
"I will consider it," he answered gravely. "And now let us seek yourmother. She must be told, for a great deals hangs upon this, Agostino.The career to which you were destined is no longer for you, my son."
My spirit quailed under those last words; and yet I felt an immenserelief at the same time, as if some overwhelming burden had been liftedfrom me.
"I am indeed unworthy," I said.
"It is not your unworthiness that I am considering, my son, but yournature. The world calls you over-strongly. It is not for nothing thatyou are the child of Giovanni d'Anguissola. His blood runs thick in yourveins, and it is very human blood. For such as you there is no hopein the cloister. Your mother must be made to realize it, and she mustabandon her dreams concerning you. It will wound her very sorely. Butbetter that than..." He shrugged and rose. "Come, Agostino."
And I rose, too, immensely comforted and soothed already, for all thatI was yet very far from ease or peace of mind. Outside his room he set ahand upon my arm.
"Wait," he said, "we have ministered in some degree to your poor spirit.Let us take thought for the body, too. You need garments and otherthings. Come with me."
He led me up to my own little chamber, took fresh raiment for me froma press, called Lorenza and bade her bring bread and wine, vinegar andwarm water.
In a very weak dilution of the latter he bade me bathe my laceratedfeet, and then he found fine strips of linen in which to bind them ere Idrew fresh hose and shoes. And meanwhile munching my bread and salt andtaking great draughts of the pure if somewhat sour wine, my mental peacewas increased by the refreshment of my body.
At last I stood up more myself than I had been in these last twelveawful hours--for it was just noon, and into twelve hours had been packedthe events that well might have filled a lifetime.
He put an arm about my shoulder, fondly as a father might have done, andso led me below again and into my mother's presence.
We found her kneeling before the Crucifix, telling her beads; and westood waiting a few moments in silence until with a sigh and a rustle ofher stiff black dress she rose gently and turned to face us.
My heart thudded violently in that moment, as I looked into that paleface of sorrow. Then Fra Gervasio began to speak very gently and softly.
"Your son, Madonna, has been lured into sin by a wanton woman," hebegan, and there she interrupted him with a sudden and very piteous cry.
"Not that! Ah, not that!" she exclaimed, putting out hands gropinglybefore her.
"That and more, Madonna," he answered gravely. "Be brave to hear therest. It is a very piteous story. But the founts of Divine Mercy areinexhaustible, and Agostino shall drink therefrom when by penitence heshall have cleansed his lips."
Very erect she stood there, silent and ghostly, her face lookingdiaphanous by contrast with the black draperies that enshrouded her,whilst her eyes were great pools of sorrow. Poor, poor mother! It is thelast recollection I have of her; for after that day we never met again,and I would give ten years to purgatory if I might recall the last wordsthat passed between us.
As briefly as possible and ever thrusting into the foreground theimmensity of the snare that had been spread for me and the temptationthat had enmeshed me, Gervasio told her the story of my sin.
She heard him through in that immovable attitude, one hand pressed toher heart, her poor pale lips moving now and again, but no sound comingfrom them, her f
ace a white mask of pain and horror.
When he had done, so wrought upon was I by the sorrow of thatcountenance that I went forward again to fling myself upon my kneesbefore her.
"Mother, forgive!" I pleaded. And getting no answer I put up my hands totake hers. "Mother!" I cried, and the tears were streaming down my face.
But she recoiled before me.
"Are you my child?" she asked in a voice of horror. "Are you the thingthat has grown out of that little child I vowed to chastity and toGod? Then has my sin overtaken me--the sin of bearing a son to Giovannid'Anguissola, that enemy of God!"
"Ah, mother, mother!" I cried again, thinking perhaps by thatall-powerful word to move her yet to pity and to gentleness.
"Madonna," cried Gervasio, "be merciful if you would look for mercy."
"He has falsified my vows," she answered stonily. "He was my votiveoffering for the life of his impious father. I am punished for theunworthiness of my offering and the unworthiness of the cause in which Ioffered it. Accursed is the fruit of my womb!" She moaned, and sank herhead upon her breast.
"I will atone!" I cried, overwhelmed to see her so distraught.
She wrung her pale hands.
"Atone!" she cried, and her voice trembled. "Go then, and atone. Butnever let me see you more; never let me be reminded of the sinner towhom I have given life. Go! Begone!" And she raised a hand in tragicaldismissal.
I shrank back, and came slowly to my feet. And then Gervasio spoke, andhis voice boomed and thundered with righteous indignation.
"Madonna, this is inhuman!" he denounced. "Shall you dare to hope formercy being yourself unmerciful?"
"I shall pray for strength to forgive him; but the sight of him mighttempt me back with the memory of the thing that he has done," sheanswered, and she had returned to that cold and terrible reserve ofhers.
And then things that Fra Gervasio had repressed for years welled up in amighty flood. "He is your son, and he is as you have made him."
"As I have made him?" quoth she, and her glance challenged the friar.
"By what right did you make of him a votive offering? By what rightdid you seek to consecrate a child unborn to a claustral life withoutthought of his character, without reck of the desires that should behis? By what right did you make yourself the arbiter of the future of aman unborn?"
"By what right?" quoth she. "Are you a priest, and do you ask me by whatright I vowed him to the service of God?"
"And is there, think you, no way of serving God but in the sterility ofthe cloister?" he demanded. "Why, since no man is born to damnation,and since by your reasoning the world must mean damnation, then all menshould be encloistered, and soon, thus, there would be an end to man.You are too arrogant, Madonna, when you presume to judge what pleasesGod. Beware lest you fall into the sin of the Pharisee, for often have Iseen you stand in danger of it."
She swayed as if her strength were failing her, and again her pale lipsmoved.
"Enough, Fra Gervasio! I will go," I cried.
"Nay, it is not yet enough," he answered, and strode down the room untilhe stood between her and me. "He is what you have made him," he repeatedin denunciation. "Had you studied his nature and his inclinations, hadyou left them free to develop along the way that God intended, you wouldhave seen whether or not the cloister called him; and then would havebeen the time to have taken a resolve. But you thought to change hisnature by repressing it; and you never saw that if he was not such asyou would have him be, then most surely would you doom him to damnationby making an evil priest of him.
"In your Pharisaic arrogance, Madonna, you sought to superimpose yourwill to God's will concerning him--you confounded God's will with yourown. And so his sins recoil upon you as much as upon any. Therefore,Madonna, do I bid you beware. Take a humbler view if you would beacceptable in the Divine sight. Learn to forgive, for I say to youto-day that you stand as greatly in need of forgiveness for the thingthat Agostino has done, as does Agostino himself."
He paused at last, and stood trembling before her, his eyes aflame, hishigh cheek-bones faintly tinted. And she measured him very calmly andcoldly with her sombre eyes.
"Are you a priest?" she asked with steady scorn. "Are you indeed apriest?" And then her invective was loosened, and her voice shrilled andmounted as her anger swayed her. "What a snake have I harboured here!"she cried. "Blasphemer! You show me clearly whence came the impiety andungodliness of Giovanni d'Anguissola. It had the same source as yourown. It was suckled at your mother's breast."
A sob shook him. "My mother is dead, Madonna!" he rebuked her.
"She is more blessed, then, than I; since she has not lived to see whata power for sin she has brought forth. Go, pitiful friar. Go, both ofyou. You are very choicely mated. Begone from Mondolfo, and never let mesee either of you more."
She staggered to her great chair and sank into it, whilst we stoodthere, mute, regarding her. For myself, it was with difficulty that Irepressed the burning things that rose to my lips. Had I given free reinto my tongue, I had made of it a whip of scorpions. And my anger sprangnot from the things she said to me, but from what she said to thatsaintly man who held out a hand to help me out of the morass of sin inwhich I was being sunk. That he, that sweet and charitable follower ofhis Master, should be abused by her, should be dubbed blasphemerand have the cherished memory of his mother defiled by her pietisticutterances, was something that inflamed me horribly.
But he set a hand upon my shoulder.
"Come, Agostino," he said very gently. He was calm once more. "We willgo, as we are bidden, you and I."
And then, out of the sweetness of his nature, he forged all unwittinglythe very iron that should penetrate most surely into her soul.
"Forgive her, my son. Forgive her as you need forgiveness. She does notunderstand the thing she does. Come, we will pray for her, that God inHis infinite mercy may teach her humility and true knowledge of Him."
I saw her start as if she had been stung.
"Blasphemer, begone!" she cried again; and her voice was hoarse withsuppressed anger.
And then the door was suddenly flung open, and Rinolfo clanked in, verymartial and important, his hand thrusting up his sword behind him.
"Madonna," he announced, "the Captain of Justice from Piacenza is here."