II
Seated at one of the open windows of the pavilion beyond the clock,Maria Dolores (in a pale green confection of I know not what airy, filmytissue) looked down, and somewhat vaguely watched them,--herselfconcealed by the netted curtain, which, according to Italian usage, washung across the casement, to mitigate the heat and shut out insects. Shewatched them at first vaguely, and only from time to time, for the restgoing on with some needlework she had in her lap. But by-and-by shedropped her needlework altogether, and her watching became continuousand absorbed.
"What a singular-looking man!" she thought, studying Winthorpe. "What anascetic-looking man! He looks like an early Christian martyr. He lookslike a priest. I believe he _is_ a priest. English priests," sheremembered, "when they travel, often dress as laymen. Yes, he is apriest, and a terribly austere one--I shouldn't like to go to him forconfession. But in spite of his austerity, he seems to beextraordinarily happy about something just at present. That light in hiseyes,--it is almost a light of ecstasy. It is a light I have never seenin any eyes, save those of priests and nuns."
Winthorpe, while that "almost ecstatic" light shone in his eyes, hadbeen speaking.
Now, as he paused, John, with a glance of gay astonishment, halted, andturned so as to face him. John's lips moved, and it was perfectly plainthat he was exclaiming, delightedly, "Really? _Really_?"
Winthorpe joyously nodded: whereupon John held out both hands, got holdof his friend's, and, his pink face jubilant, shook them with tremendousheartiness.
"The priest has received advancement--he is probably to be made abishop," inferred Maria Dolores; "and Signor Prospero is congratulatinghim."
The men resumed their walk; but for quite a minute John kept his hand onWinthorpe's shoulder, and again and again gently patted it, murmuring,"I am so glad, so immensely glad." Maria Dolores was quite sure thatthis was what he murmured, for, though no word could reach her, John'sbeaming face spoke louder than his voice.
At last John let his hand drop, and, eyebrows raised a little, asked aquestion.
"But how did it happen? But tell me all about it," was what he seemed tosay.
And Winthorpe (always with something of that ecstatic light in his eyes)proceeded to answer. But it was a longish story, and lasted through halfa dozen of their forward and backward ambulations. Apparently,furthermore, it was a story which, as it developed, became less and lessagreeable to the mind of John; for his face, at first all awake withinterest, all aglow with pleasure, gradually sobered, graduallydarkened, took on a frown, expressed dissent, expressed disapprobation,till, finally, with an impatient movement, he interrupted, andbegan--speaking rapidly, heatedly--to protest, to remonstrate.
"Ah," thought Maria Dolores, "the priest is to be made a bishop, sureenough,--but a missionary bishop. It isn't for nothing that he lookslike an early Christian martyr. He is going to some outlandish, savagepart of the world, where he will be murdered by the natives, or die offever or loneliness. He is a man who has listened to the Counsels ofPerfection. But his unascetic friend Prospero (one would say Juneremonstrating with December) can't bring himself to like it."
John remonstrated, protested, argued. Winthorpe, calmly, smilingly,restated his purpose and his motives. John pleaded, implored, appealed(so the watcher read his gesture) to earth, to heaven. Winthorpe tookhis arm, and calmly, smilingly, tried to soothe, tried to convince him.John drew his arm free, and, employing it to add force andpersuasiveness to his speech, renewed his arguments, pointed out howunnecessary, inhuman, impossible the whole thing was. "It's monstrous.It's against all nature. There's no _reason_ in it. What does it _rhyme_with? It's wilfully going out of your way to seek, to create,wretchedness. My mind simply refuses to accept it." It was as if MariaDolores could hear the words. But Winthorpe, calm and smiling, would notbe moved. John shook his head, muttered, shrugged his shoulders, threwup his hands, muttered again. "Was ever such pig-headed obstinacy! Wasever such arbitrary, voluntary blindness! I give you up, for a perverse,a triple-pated madman!" And so, John muttering and frowning, Winthorpeserenely smiling, reiterating, they passed round the corner of theCastle buildings, and were lost to Maria Dolores' view.
My Friend Prospero Page 19