THE FOOL ERRANT - World eBook Library - World Public Library

"You may trust me indeed, sir," said Virginia's father with tears, and I took my departure.
The peasant escorted me some half-mile of the road to Pistoja. He explained that Condoglia and all the country for ten miles
square about it belonged to the Marchese Semifonte, who had a palace in Pistoja, another in Florence, several villas upon the
neighbouring heights, and a fine eye for a handsome girl. It would have been at his door first of all, as to the proper and
appointed connoisseur, that the young Virginia would have knocked, with her sixteen years for sale. For, in every sense of the
word, said her father, she was his property—a chattel of his. I thanked God heartily that I had found a use for my gold piece,
and a salve for his conscience into the bargain. I felt, and told myself more than once, that any tragic fortune to that nymph of
the wild wood, not averted by me, would bring the guilt of it to my door.
I may as well confess, too, that her haggard beautiful face and thinly gowned shape were seldom out of my thoughts upon my
two days' further journeying to Pistoja. On the other hand, with curious levity of fancy, I was convinced that before I had been
many hours in that my first Tuscan city, I should be bedewing the feet of Aurelia with my tears. And so the sweet rainbow vision
of my adored mistress also danced before my eyes as I fared, and disputed with that queen of rustic misery for the mastery of
me.
CHAPTER XII. I SEEK—AND FIND
The hopes of a young man upon his travels may be lighter than feathers whirled about by the wind, but they soar as high and are
as little to be reasoned with. Going to Pistoja that fine summer's morning, my convictions of triumph were sealed to me. And
why, indeed! Because I had confronted and discomfited my redoubtable adversary of the mountain, and rescued a poor family
from hateful sacrifice, I was, forsooth! to find Aurelia in Pistoja, to fall with tears at her feet, to be pardoned and absolved, to
rise to the life of honour and respect once more. She was to rejoin her husband, I my classes and all my former bliss: all was to
be as it had been. Most unreasonable hope! Yet I declare that these were my convictions upon approaching Pistoja, and that,
far from diminishing, as I drew nearer and nearer to the city, so did they increase and take root in my mind. It was therefore as
a man prepared and dedicated that I entered the gates, as a man under orders that I took my way through the crowded street,
as a man guided by an inner light, requiring not the functions of his senses, that I paced steadfastly forward, neither asking the
way nor looking about for it, and only paused when I was before the worn portal of a great red-brick church whose facade,
never finished, presented to the world the ragged ends of bricks and mortar. Here, I say, I paused, but not for uncertainty's
sake, rather that I might take full breath for my high adventure: as a man may hold his energies curbed on the entry into battle,
or, with his hand at the chamber door, upon his marriage night; or even at his last hour, when the sands are nearly run and the
priest has done his best, and before him lies all that dark unexplored plain he must travel alone. I breathed no articulated prayer,
all my being prayed, every pulse and current in my body, every urgency of my soul tended upwards to my advocate and
guardian in heaven. I bowed my head, I made the sign of the Cross, I pushed the curtains and went in. Before me stretched a
vast and empty church, desolate exceedingly, at the far end of which, in the gloomy fog, before a lamp-lit altar I saw a woman
kneeling stiffly, with uplifted head, as if she watched, not prayed—watched there and waited, knowing full well the hour was
come and the man.
Her head was hooded in a dark handkerchief; I could see her thin hands clasped together—on the altar-rail; even as I realised
these things about her (which, besides her rigid, unprayerful pose, were all there were to see) I must admit to myself that she
bore no resemblance to my lady. That one matter of devotion, and the devotional attitude were enough to condemn her. For
Aurelia was no bargainer in church, but lent herself unreservedly to the holy commerce—her generous body, her ardent soul—
and asked no interest for the usufruct. Have I not seen her rain kisses upon the tomb of St. Antony more passionately than I
could have dared upon her hand? Had she ever risen from the outpouring of prayer without the dew of happy tears to bear
witness in her eyes to her riven heart? Her piety was, indeed, her great indulgence, so eager, so luxurious, pursued with such
appetite as I have never seen in England or France, nor (assuredly) in Padua, where there is no zest, but much decorum, in the
practice of religion. To see her in church was, as it were, to see a child in her mother's lap—able to laugh, to play, to sulk and
pout, ah, and to tell a fib, being so sure of forgiveness! No secret too childish to be kept back, no trouble too light; the
mustiness of the season's oil, the shocking price of potherbs, the delinquency of the milliner's apprentice who had spoiled a
breadth of silk. She could grumble at her husband, or impart and expect heaven to share her delight at some little kindness he
had done her. Since I have heard her speak calmly to the Madonna about some young gentleman who had followed her three
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