light on the rounded contour of her cheek showed that it was turned up just the least in the world more towards him; and still her eyes were fixed on the ground, so entirely off guard as to be of no use whatever in giving her notice of any menacing movement on his part. The opportunity was irresistible.
“I think as cousins at parting we ought!” said Beppo, suddenly catching her round the waist, and meaning merely to have his share of that inviting cheek which the moonbeam was kissing. But somehow or other, from some little movement which she made to avoid the attack, his lips came down, not on the cheek but full on hers. “Ah, Giulia! if you would be my own!” he whispered, as not till after a second or two she drew away her face from his.
“That can never, never be,” she said, with a deep sigh and a wistful look into his face; . . . . “and this,” she added, hastily, “must never be again! And now farewell, Beppo! God bless you!”
“Let me walk with you to the house.”
“No! we part here. If we never meet again, I shall never, never, never forget the spot!” she said, with a little tremor in her voice. “Let me go! Good night, Beppo!”
And with a sudden movement she stepped past him, and saying again, “Good night! God bless you, Beppo!” she set off running along the path as fast as she could run.
Beppo flung himself down at the foot of the cypress-tree, and remained there for some hours, immersed in attempts at working out the logical problem which had been submitted to him. He did not succeed at all to his satisfaction in obtaining any clear and distinct conclusion; but he nevertheless remained with a very strong coniviction that his cousin spoke the truth in saying that she did not hate him.
Giulia arrived at the kitchen-door at Bella Luce quite out of breath with running. She saw that there was a light within it, and a little tap brought la sposa, who, as the priest had said, was patiently waiting for her, to open the door.
“His Reverence has kept you late, child. It is time you were in bed!” said the mistress, letting her in.
“He had not time to speak to me all day. It was only just before I came away that he called me into his study,” said Giulia.
“And I hope you will be a good girl, and abide by all the good advice he gave you.”
“I hope so, Si’ora Sunta.”
“And now, child, you must make haste to bed. Vanni will call you in the morning. Good night, and good-bye, and I wish you good luck and happiness.”
“Good-bye, Si’ora Sunta!”
The next morning before the sun had heaved his great disc clear of the Adriatic, Giulia was seated by the side of the farmer in his calessino, and Beppo, concealed by a corner of the house, was watching her departure with a full and heavy heart, though surely with a less heavy one than it had been before the meeting under the cypress-tree.
CHAPTER IX. LA SIGNORA CLEMENTINA DOSSI.
The small episcopal and maritime city of Fano is situated on the flat sandy shore of the Adriatic, a little to the north of the equally episcopal and maritime city of Siniguglia, and a little to the south of the equally episcopal and maritime cities of Pesaro and Rimini. The new railroad running in a direct line from Bologna to Ancona, a distance of about a hundred and twenty-five miles, passes through no less than ten episcopal cities, most of them situated on the coast. Notwithstanding, however, the original profession of St. Peter, and the honoured memory of that profession, which has always been preserved by the Church, it would seem as if episcopacy and maritime enterprise did not go hand in hand together. For these Adriatic cities, as the episcopal element in them has become more and more preponderating, have become less and less maritime.
A strong family likeness prevails in this group of neighbouring cities; but they have also their special characteristics. Fano is one of the least unprepossessing among them to a stranger. It is not so dirty as Pesaro or Rimini, but it is still more sleepy. There are fewer mendicants in the streets, but then there are fewer living creatures altogether. The ecclesiastical establishments of Fano, comprising a wonderful assortment of convents and monasteries of both sexes, and of all sorts and colours, would seem to intimate that their spiritual interests were those uppermost in the minds of the inhabitants. And certainly the little town seems to have retired altogether from any active interest in any other matters.
Cities were placed by their founders on sea coasts with a view to the various valuable advantages afforded them by the “water privilege,” as the Americans say, of such a location. Yet Fano has not only wholly declined to avail itself of any such, but has taken care to make it manifest to the most cursory observation, that she owns no connection, or even acquaintanceship with the ocean, her near neighbour. I take it that the notorious restlessness of the Adriatic was too much at variance with the habits of sleepy tranquillity cultivated by the men of Fano.
The little town is entirely surrounded by a lofty wall, in which, one jealously small gate opens towards the coast. But even that does not afford the Fanesi any glimpse of the restless and sleepless monster which is so near them. The look-out from it is bounded at the distance of a few yards by a lofty ridge of sand-hills, arid, parched, pale brown mounds, solitary and desolate-looking. And the stranger who, having learnt that the Adriatic was somewhere in the neighbourhood, should surmount these and make his way to the shore, at the distance of perhaps half a furlong from the city gates would find himself in a solitude as complete as that of any mourner who ever went
ἀκεων παρα θινα πολυφλοισβοιο θαλασσης.
Fano and the Adriatic are forcedly neighbours; but they have agreed to see as little of each other as possible.
It seems absurd to anybody who has ever visited this very episcopal little city, to speak of