III
That afternoon, seated on the moss, under a tall eucalyptus tree near toFrau Brandt's pavilion, Maria Dolores received a visit from Annunziata.
Annunziata's pale little face was paler, her big grave eyes were graver,even than their wont. She nodded her head, slowly, portentously; and herglance was heavy with significance.
Maria Dolores smiled. "What is the matter?" she cheerfully inquired.
"Ah," sighed Annunziata, deeply, with another portentous head-shake, "Iwish I knew."
Maria Dolores laughed. "Sit down," she suggested, making room beside heron the moss, "and try to think."
Annunziata sat down, curled herself up. "Something has happened toProspero," she said, _de profundis_.
"Oh?" asked Maria Dolores. "What?" She seemed heartlessly cheerful, andeven rather amused.
"Ah," sighed Annunziata, "that is what I wish I knew. He has had afriend to pass the day with him."
"Yes?" said Maria Dolores. "I expect I saw his friend walking with himthis morning?"
"_Gia_," said Annunziata. "They have been walking about all day. _His_friend Prospero he calls him. But he doesn't look very prosperous. Helooks like a slate-pencil. He is long and thin, and dark and cold, andhard, just like a slate-pencil. He would not stay the night, though wehad a bed prepared for him. He is going to Rome, and Prospero has drivenhim to the railway station at Cortello. I hate him," wound upAnnunziata, simply.
"Mercy!" exclaimed Maria Dolores, opening her eyes. "Why do you hatehim?"
"Because he must have said or done something very unkind to Prospero,"answered Annunziata. "Oh, you should see him. He is so sad--so sad andso angry. He keeps scowling, and shaking his head, and saying things inEnglish, which I cannot understand, but I am sure they are sad thingsand angry things. And he would not eat any dinner,--no, not that much,"(Annunziata measured off an inch on her finger), "he who always eats agreat deal,--_eh, ma molto, molto_," and, separating her hands, shemeasured off something like twenty inches in the air.
Maria Dolores couldn't help laughing a little at this. But afterwardsshe said, on a key consolatory, "Ah, well, he has gone away now, so letus hope your friend Prospero will promptly recover his accustomedappetite."
"Yes," said Annunziata, "I hope so. But oh, that old slate-pencil man,how I hate him! I would like to--_uhhh!_" She clenched her little whitefist, and shook it, threateningly, vehemently, while her eyes fiercelyflashed. ... Next instant, however, her mien entirely changed. Like alight extinguished, all the fierceness went out of her face, making wayfor what seemed pain and terror. "There," she cried, pain and terror inher voice, "I have offended God. Oh, I am so sorry, so sorry. My sin, mysin, my sin," she murmured, bowing her head, and thrice striking herbreast.
"I take back every word I said. I do not hate him. I would not hurthim--I would not even stick a pin in him--if I had him at my mercy.No--I would do anything I could to help him. I would give him anything Ihad that he could want. I would give him my coral rosary. I would givehim"--she hesitated, struggled, and at last, drawing a deep breath,gritting her teeth, in supreme renunciation--"yes, I would give him mytame kid," she forced herself to pronounce, with a kind of desperatefirmness. "But see," she wailed, her little white brow a mesh of painfulwrinkles, "it is all no good. God is still angry. Oh, what shall I do?"And, to the surprise and distress of Maria Dolores, she burst into asudden passion of tears, sobbing, sobbing, with that abandonment ofgrief which only children know.
"My dear, my dear," exclaimed Maria Dolores, drawing her to her. "Mydearest, you mustn't cry like that. Dear little Annunziata. What is it?Why do you cry so, dear one? Answer me. Tell me."
But Annunziata only buried her face in Maria Dolores' sleeve, andmoaned, while long, tremulous convulsions shook her frail little body.Maria Dolores put both arms about her, hugged her close, and laid hercheek upon her hair.
"Darling Annunziata, don't cry. Why should you cry so, dearest? God isnot angry with you. Why should you think that God is angry with you? Godloves you, darling. Everyone loves you. There, there--dearest--don'tcry. Sweet one, dear one."
Transitions, with Annunziata, were sometimes inexplicably rapid. All atonce her sobbing ceased; she looked up, and smiled, smiled radiantly,from a face that was wet and glistening with tears. "Thanks be to God,"she piously exulted; "God is not angry any more."
"Of course He isn't," said Maria Dolores, tightening her hug, andtouching Annunziata's curls lightly with her lips. "But He was neverangry. What made you think that God was angry?"
Annunziata's big eyes widened. "Didn't you notice?" she asked, in ahushed voice, amazed.
"No," wondered Maria Dolores. "What was there to notice?"
"He made them draw a cloud over the sun," Annunziata whispered. "Didn'tyou notice that when I said I would like to--when I said what I saidabout that friend of Prospero's--just then they drew a cloud across thesun? That is a sign that God is angry. The sun, you know, is the windowin Heaven through which God looks down on the world, and through whichthe light of Heaven shines on the world. And when the window is open, wefeel happy and thankful, and wish to sing and laugh. But when we havedone something to make God angry with us, then He sends angels to drawclouds over the window, so that we may be shut out of His sight, and thelight of Heaven may be shut off from us. And then we are lonely andcold, and we could quarrel with anything, even with the pigs. God wishesto show us how bad it would be always to be shut off from His sight. Butnow they have drawn the cloud away, so God is not angry any more. I madea good act of contrition, and He has forgiven me."
Maria Dolores smiled, but under her smile there was a look ofseriousness, a look of concern.
"My dear," she said smiling, and looking concerned, "you should try tocontrol your vivid little imagination. If every time a cloud crosses thesun, you are going to assume the responsibility for it, and to fancythat you have offended God, I'm afraid you'll have rather an agitatedlife."
"Oh, no; not _every_ time," exclaimed Annunziata, and she was manifestlyon the point of making a fine distinction, when abruptly the current ofher ideas was diverted. "Sh-h! There comes Prospero," she cried,starting up. "I can see the top of his white hat above the rhododendronbushes. He has driven his friend to Cortello, and come home. I must runaway, or he will see that I've been crying. Don't tell him," she begged,putting her finger on her lips; and she set off running, towards thepresbytery, just as John stepped forth from behind the long hedge ofrhododendrons.