William Dean Howells: 27 Novels in One Volume (Illustrated). William Dean Howells

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      "Need it be known there that I have been a priest? Or if I tell it, will it make me appear a kind of monster, different from other men?"

      "No, no!" she answered fervently. "Your story would gain friends and honor for you everywhere in America. Did he"—

      "A moment, a moment!" cried Don Ippolito, catching his breath. "Will it ever be possible for me to win something more than honor and friendship there?"

      She looked up at him askingly, confusedly.

      "If I am a man, and the time should ever come that a face, a look, a voice, shall be to me what they are to other men, will she remember it against me that I have been a priest, when I tell her—say to her, madamigella—how dear she is to me, offer her my life's devotion, ask her to be my wife?"...

      Florida rose from the seat, and stood confronting him, in a helpless silence, which he seemed not to notice.

      Suddenly he clasped his hands together, and desperately stretched them towards her.

      "Oh, my hope, my trust, my life, if it were you that I loved?"...

      "What!" shuddered the girl, recoiling, with almost a shriek. "You? A priest!"

      Don Ippolito gave a low cry, half sob:—

      "His words, his words! It is true, I cannot escape, I am doomed, I must die as I have lived!"

      He dropped his face into his hands, and stood with his head bowed before her; neither spoke for a long time, or moved.

      Then Florida said absently, in the husky murmur to which her voice fell when she was strongly moved, "Yes, I see it all, how it has been," and was silent again, staring, as if a procession of the events and scenes of the past months were passing before her; and presently she moaned to herself "Oh, oh, oh!" and wrung her hands. The foolish fountain kept capering and babbling on. All at once, now, as a flame flashes up and then expires, it leaped and dropped extinct at the foot of the statue.

      Its going out seemed somehow to leave them in darkness, and under cover of that gloom she drew nearer the priest, and by such approaches as one makes toward a fancied apparition, when his fear will not let him fly, but it seems better to suffer the worst from it at once than to live in terror of it ever after, she lifted her hands to his, and gently taking them away from his face, looked into his hopeless eyes.

      "Oh, Don Ippolito," she grieved. "What shall I say to you, what can I do for you, now?"

      But there was nothing to do. The whole edifice of his dreams, his wild imaginations, had fallen into dust at a word; no magic could rebuild it; the end that never seems the end had come. He let her keep his cold hands, and presently he returned the entreaty of her tears with his wan, patient smile.

      "You cannot help me; there is no help for an error like mine. Sometime, if ever the thought of me is a greater pain than it is at this moment, you can forgive me. Yes, you can do that for me."

      "But who, who will ever forgive me" she cried, "for my blindness! Oh, you must believe that I never thought, I never dreamt"—

      "I know it well. It was your fatal truth that did it; truth too high and fine for me to have discerned save through such agony as.... You too loved my soul, like the rest, and you would have had me no priest for the reason that they would have had me a priest—I see it. But you had no right to love my soul and not me—you, a woman. A woman must not love only the soul of a man."

      "Yes, yes!" piteously explained the girl, "but you were a priest to me!"

      "That is true, madamigella. I was always a priest to you; and now I see that I never could be otherwise. Ah, the wrong began many years before we met. I was trying to blame you a little"—

      "Blame me, blame me; do!"

      —"but there is no blame. Think that it was another way of asking your forgiveness.... O my God, my God, my God!"

      He released his hands from her, and uttered this cry under his breath, with his face lifted towards the heavens. When he looked at her again, he said: "Madamigella, if my share of this misery gives me the right to ask of you"—

      "Oh ask anything of me! I will give everything, do everything!"

      He faltered, and then, "You do not love me," he said abruptly; "is there some one else that you love?"

      She did not answer.

      "Is it ... he?"

      She hid her face.

      "I knew it," groaned the priest, "I knew that too!" and he turned away.

      "Don Ippolito, Don Ippolito—oh, poor, poor Don Ippolito!" cried the girl, springing towards him. "Is this the way you leave me? Where are you going? What will you do now?"

      "Did I not say? I am going to die a priest."

      "Is there nothing that you will let me be to you, hope for you?"

      "Nothing," said Don Ippolito, after a moment. "What could you?" He seized the hands imploringly extended towards him, and clasped them together and kissed them both. "Adieu!" he whispered; then he opened them, and passionately kissed either palm; "adieu, adieu!"

      A great wave of sorrow and compassion and despair for him swept through her. She flung her arms about his neck, and pulled his head down upon her heart, and held it tight there, weeping and moaning over him as over some hapless, harmless thing that she had unpurposely bruised or killed. Then she suddenly put her hands against his breast, and thrust him away, and turned and ran.

      Ferris stepped back again into the shadow of the tree from which he had just emerged, and clung to its trunk lest he should fall. Another seemed to creep out of the court in his person, and totter across the white glare of the campo and down the blackness of the calle. In the intersected spaces where the moonlight fell, this alien, miserable man saw the figure of a priest gliding on before him.

XVI

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      Florida swiftly mounted the terrace steps, but she stopped with her hand on the door, panting, and turned and walked slowly away to the end of the terrace, drying her eyes with dashes of her handkerchief, and ordering her hair, some coils of which had been loosened by her flight. Then she went back to the door, waited, and softly opened it. Her mother was not in the parlor where she had left her, and she passed noiselessly into her own room, where some trunks stood open and half-packed against the wall. She began to gather up the pieces of dress that lay upon the bed and chairs, and to fold them with mechanical carefulness and put them in the boxes. Her mother's voice called from the other chamber, "Is that you, Florida?"

      "Yes, mother," answered the girl, but remained kneeling before one of the boxes, with that pale green robe in her hand which she had worn on the morning when Ferris had first brought Don Ippolito to see them. She smoothed its folds and looked down at it without making any motion to pack it away, and so she lingered while her mother advanced with one question after another; "What are you doing, Florida? Where are you? Why didn't you come to me?" and finally stood in the doorway. "Oh, you're packing. Do you know, Florida, I'm СКАЧАТЬ