House of the Vestal Virgins, below him in the Forum, and his thoughts turned to those pagan maidens of two thousand years ago who had lived under vows and of the ghastly punishment that the violation of their vows had brought upon them. Walled up alive, horrible thought! It made him shudder. He wondered if the religious orders of the Christian church had conceived their idea of celibacy from the vestal virgins. When one came to think of it the vow was the same, chastity and sworn obedience to that binding rule of celibacy. The frightful physical punishment of the transgressor had been done away with, but there still remained the mental punishment, the widespread disgrace, the dishonor and the cold shoulder of the world, towards the fallen Religious. Could he ever ask Margherita to share this? Ah, even if she were willing, he had no home to give her. Stern, cold duty was ahead of him. An Estori had never broken his word. There had been soldiers of his name as well as princes and statesmen and cardinals; brave, true men, who had given up everything that life held dear to fight for their king. The "Ave Maria" rang out from the old bell-tower above him just as the sun set. It aroused him like a bugle call to arms; he must answer it, for was he not a soldier too and in the service of the "King of Kings"? He turned his back upon the city and walked bravely up the hill. CHAPTER IX AN UNEXPECTED BLOW "Spirit of Earth and Air and Fire, They had both acknowledged their love, and it was useless to deceive themselves or each other longer. Estori had no idea how to grasp the tangled situation. He was of a dependent disposition. If he retracted he would lose the esteem, regard and support of every friend he had, with the exception of his new acquaintance, the artist Fauvel. He would be thrown upon the world without resources and without influence. There would be nothing for him to do unless perhaps he became a common tradesman on a starvation salary. He could not expect Margherita to marry him under such conditions. His monastic training had unfitted him for any walk in life where he would be obliged to earn his bread. Fauvel had hinted, that he might engage lawyers and try to recover his own property. But he was legally of age when he had signed it away, and such a proceeding would involve notoriety and, besides, it would leak out that it was done for a woman, and Margherita's name might be dragged in, and even if he won his suit they would begin life under a cloud. Now he was in good repute with his superiors. Church dignitaries kept kindly, watchful eyes upon him, which he understood meant favor in the future, and since the death of the old Prince a friendship had sprung up between his cousin Daniele and himself. Permission was never refused him to be with this cousin, and much of the time that he was supposed to spend at the Palazzo Estori was passed in the company of Margherita and Fauvel. He was one of those easy-going creatures who are content with the present and confide in the future, very young for his years and to youth, though shrouded in a monk's cowl, hope turns her shining face. There was more than a year yet before he would take his priestly vows, and during that time some opening might present itself by which it would be made easier for him to assert himself and renounce the cloister. But he suffered in his conscience, for he was now leading a false life. One by one he omitted little pious practises. He became thoughtful and taciturn, and his smile lost its ingenuous radiancy. As for Margaret, she was contented to drift with the knowledge that she possessed the love of any one so beautiful and unusual; the very barrier gave it a glamour and romance, and their secret was wonderful and interesting. She carried her head high as she went from place to place where the nuns or the bureaus would send her, and at last she found an Irish lady who wished to be accompanied sightseeing twice a week and although she only received 2 lire each time they stopped out for luncheon where she enjoyed a wholesome, appetizing meal, for the table at the Scottis' was very meager. This was a little encouraging, and it made her look brighter, so that one day Fauvel said to himself, "She just escapes being extremely pretty." Towards the middle of May, Donna Bianca Salviate went to Sweden to live for two years with a married daughter. It was with genuine regret that Margaret bade her good-by, and to Estori the departure of his dear "Madrina" was an actual grief. Margaret was fairly comfortable at the Scottis', but her evenings were terribly dull, for she was their only boarder and she had nothing in common with them, so after dinner she would shut herself in her room and read or study Italian until bedtime. Sometimes she would open the big wardrobe and look with a little sigh at the pretty dresses hanging there, for living as she did she had no opportunity to wear them. One of her chief solaces was the weekly visit of Giacinta, who came with her linen. The faithful woman would overlook Margaret's apparel, brush and mend, and care for her in a general way that only one so lonely could appreciate. She enjoyed teaching the well-behaved boys of Madame Tardieu, and often Fauvel would ask the latter and herself to his apartment for afternoon tea. Usually Estori would happen in also and assist them in filling the water kettle, and sugar bowl, and although he could not be persuaded to taste the tea, there was always vermouth on the sideboard. The young monk considered the artist the cleverest and most generous-hearted person he had ever known, though he could not approve of some of his ideas and moral or lack of moral convictions. He kept his friend supplied with his red roses, also he presented him with quantities of oranges. His mother owned a large grove of orange trees south of Naples and lately she had sent him crates of the luscious fruit to be divided among his companions at the convent, and two big sacks had found their way by a trusty messenger to the Vicolo San Nicola da Tolentino. The friendship between the two deepened now and grew, and Estori, knowing he was more than welcome at the studio, scarcely let a day pass without coming in, while Fauvel had been shown all over the monks' garden and through as much of their convent as a layman was allowed to enter. About this time the Marchese Pallavicino arrived in Rome prior to starting with his family for Algiers, and during these days his step-father claimed Estori. Once they went to the Vatican where the Marchese had an interview with the Cardinal Secretary of State, the nature of which Estori did not know, for he waited in an ante-chamber while the Marchese was closeted with the Cardinal. Soon his mother was expected, and he was looking forward to seeing her with untold joy; she had last seen him as a boy; what would she think of the grown man? The spring was advancing, and Fauvel longing for a breath of country air, invited him to join Madame Tardieu, her boys, Margaret, and himself for a day's excursion out to Frascati. The Father Superior had met the artist, "the nephew of a Belgian Bishop," and had readily given his permission, for Fra Felice was rarely refused a request. They were all to meet in front of the Grand Hotel, where a carriage would be in readi ness. Estori was the first to arrive, and while he stood waiting for the others he noticed a man whom he tried to avoid recognizing. He was Angelo Dompi, a sort of factotum of his step-father's, a gossip and busy-body. Estori was much annoyed. He was going with the full sanction of his Superior, to accompany the artist on a rural jaunt, but he had not mentioned that there were others included in the invitation, and some of them ladies. This man had once made trouble for him, as a boy, at home, and it was with a vague apprehension that he now saw him. Dompi came forward and he was obliged to speak to him, after which Estori made some pretext for going into the hotel, in hopes of getting rid of him, but when he came out again Dompi was still there, and watched the whole party drive off. On reaching Frascati, they went first to the Monastery of Grotta Ferrata to see the famous frescoes of Domenichino, and after studying them and the antiquity of the building which dated from the year 1002, they drove to the Villa Aldobrandini, stopping on the way to buy some of the "Vino vero di Frascati." Leaving the carriage in the town, they ascended the terrace where the mountain stream has been caught and made to run in a regular channel, emptying its cascade into marble basins as it flows down the hillside. Beside one of these basins, about halfway up, they seated themselves and spread out the luncheon. "This country air gives me an appetite," said Margaret; “I am ashamed of the way I am eating." She was enjoying every moment. How happy she might be, she thought, in the society of these |