CHAPTER XXVI.

THE FESTA OF CORPUS DOMINI

When old Teresa set out the big bowl of coffee and milk and the long rolls of bread and small pats of butter before the guest on that bright, sunny morning she wished him _buona festa_.

It was Corpus Domini. The procession was the great day of the year in Santa Lucia, as in every other village, or little borgo, throughout the Apennines.

The _sindaco_, old Marco Simonetti, who was a _libero pensiero_, yearned to have it suppressed. He would have forbidden banners, music, colours, lights, public services, masses and vespers. But the villagers were not of the same mind. They loved the gay processions which gave the girls an opportunity of showing off their finery, and they attended the mass said by their dear old Don Mario. Most houses had open doors and a full table that day, and at nightfall there were dancing and illuminations in the little piazza.

Already the old church bells were jangling, for since dawn Gaspardo, the hunchback who acted as sacristan, had been tugging the ropes, announcing to Santa Lucia the one day of its year.

Ambrose sat in the small, bare room where the flies buzzed noisily in the sunshine, awaiting his host’s appearance. Don Mario did not break his fast, of course, till after he had said mass.

The Englishman sat in a low chair with folded arms, his face turned to the little garden where, through the open door, showed the wealth of roses, magnolias and lemons, the lilies and stocks and sweet-smelling carnations, while the little pergola was well-shaded by a leafy vine--a vine that was cool and restful.

Santa Lucia was waiting in eager expectation. The people knew how very peacefully and piously the _festa_ began. Then how good-natured and gay it quickly became, for they, ignorant peasants as they were, mingled the sacred with the profane in a strange jumble. With devoutness they would one moment sing “O salutaris” as they followed the Host, and the next would hum waltz music or sing snatches of comic songs as they jumped around in the dance.

In the gloomy old church, now gay with lights and decorations, many men and women had assembled. All was hushed. Those who spoke whispered.

They were awaiting the revered old _curato_--the director of their _festa_.

But they waited, and waited so long that everyone began to wonder.

Gaspardo, in his frayed black gown, came into the presbytery and whispered with Teresa. Then he ascended the stairs to the _Signor Reverendo’s_ room.

A minute later Teresa approached their English guest, saying with great concern:

“_Scusi tanto, signore_, but the _padrone_ is out. It is very strange that he does not return, when he knows to-day is the _festa_.”

“Oh, I suppose he has gone out for a walk, and is detained,” replied the Englishman. “I am in no hurry; I will wait till his return.”

And rising he went forth into the piazza where many people had assembled in the bright sunshine, and where he received their good-natured greetings because he was the _curato’s_ friend.

A drum and some battered brass instruments were piled beneath a tree, and a stall had been set up for the sale of sweetmeats to the children. All were dressed in their best. Most of the young men had their jackets slung on one shoulder and their shirts well ruffled above the trouser-band. Some wore jays’ wings in their broad-brimmed hats set askew; others were in their everyday clothes, well brushed, with polished boots. The girls were in bright colours, many of them with freshly plucked flowers in their hair, a gay, laughing, chattering throng, full of anticipation of the day’s merriment.

Santa Lucia was in _festa_. On that one day in the whole year she forgot her troubles, the oppression of the Government and the landowner, the brutality of the _fattore_, or agent, and the black starvation which was so often endured through the dark months of winter.

Gradually the crowd in the piazza was increasing. The little church was now filled to overflowing, and everyone waited--waited for the coming of Don Mario, without whom the religious festival could not proceed.

A man, a carter, approached John Ambrose, doffed his hat politely, and inquired if the _Signor Reverendo_ were indisposed.

“Oh, no,” replied the elderly Englishman in excellent Italian. “Not at all. He went out this morning for an early walk, and has not yet returned. He will, no doubt, be here in a few minutes.”

The carter explained this to a group of men standing near, and quickly the rumour spread that the _curato_ was absent--mysteriously absent.

The first feeling was one of distinct antagonism. Don Mario knew that it was Corpus Domini, and at least he should be present. It was his duty. The Government paid him to be there, to fast, to say mass, and to conduct the procession and the subsequent _festa_. It was really too bad to keep half the village waiting in the church while he leisurely took his morning stroll.

An hour passed, but the _curato_ did not come--another hour--and yet another--even until the noon-day sun rose high in the cloudless heavens, the people waited, wondering--and still wondering.

Then wonder gave place to anxiety. Something must surely have happened, they whispered among themselves. What could have occurred?

Don Mario would never wilfully desert them like that.

The whole piazza was agog. The _festa_ was forgotten in the intense anxiety as to what had befallen their beloved _curato_.

Old Mr. Ambrose held counsel with Teresa and Gaspardo.

“The _padrone_ must have gone out very early,” declared the old crone. “I was up soon after four, but I heard nothing. He must have gone out before then.”

“Something has happened to him,” the hunchback declared huskily. “He is always so very particular that Corpus Domini should be kept well, and that the people shall be satisfied. He gives ten lire to the man who keeps the sweet-stall, so that the children shall have sweets distributed. I cannot understand.”

“Well, what shall we do?” asked Ambrose, himself alarmed at his friend’s non-appearance.

His secret fear was that Don Mario had descended the hill during his walk, and had perhaps fallen into the hands of a couple of carabineers awaiting him. Scotland Yard might have suspicion of him, and if so, they would request the _Pubblica Sicurezza_ in Rome to effect his arrest. And yet, as he reflected, he suddenly recollected that the Italian Government never gave up their subjects for offences committed abroad.

The thought was a gratifying one. And yet if Don Mario were a free agent he would hear the _festa_ bells of his own church still ringing, and they would surely recall him to duty, even if he had forgotten.

Gaspardo, the crooked, sun-tanned old fellow who had never been beyond the confines of the commune, urged that a party of men be sent forth to search the adjacent woods, for, as he put it, “an accident may have befallen our dear _curato_, and he may be lying somewhere insensible.”

Ambrose was silent. He knew not what to do. Perhaps if the party went forth they would ascertain that Don Mario was already on his way to Rome, handcuffed between two carabineers. If so, might it not be his own turn next?

He knew well that Scotland Yard had discovered the friendship between Richard Goodrick and Don Mario, who lodged in Denbigh Street. They had searched, and failed to find the priest. Perhaps they had now been successful, and had preferred some charge against him. Who could tell?

“But this absence of your master is not exactly unusual, is it?” he asked of the hunchback.

“Oh, he has been absent often--for weeks and weeks at his own home away in the north,” was the sacristan’s reply. “But we always have a deputy, generally young Don Lippo, who comes from the Abruzzi. He has never before left us without a word.”

“Except once, Gaspardo,” interrupted the old _donna di casa_. “You remember about three winters ago, when he suddenly disappeared just like this, and six days later we had a letter from him bearing a foreign stamp. It was English, old Faello said. So he had evidently gone to England.”

“Bah! they say so, but I don’t believe it. The _padrone_ goes to see his brother somewhere in Novara. He never goes abroad. That is only gossip,” said the hunchback.

“But he goes strolling about o’ nights, Gaspardo,” declared the old woman. “You know he does. You know what they’ve been saying of late about his midnight walks.”

“The _sindaco_ and his friends say that--because they must say something against everybody. I know all about it. They’ve been busy hinting that he has a clandestine love-affair--he, at his age! Oh! really it is too funny!”

“Yes, they say he goes down the hill in the night to meet somebody of the opposite sex,” snapped the old crone. At this John Ambrose pricked up his ears.

“How long has this rumour been current?” he inquired of the old man.

“Oh! about three months, I think, _signore_. Of course, it is only spread in order to prejudice him. They have never been able to say who the woman really is--and if they could, they certainly would.”

“But the fact remains that the _padrone_ does go out very often at nights--on wet nights also, they say. Well, where does he go?” asked Teresa.

“How can I tell, woman? If he has been watched, as you say, then the watchers must know,” replied the hunchback quickly.

“But they are saying all sorts of things out in the piazza,” declared Teresa. “The only way is to tell them to search the woods--if the signor Inglese agrees.”

John Ambrose had no other course than to agree. He recognised that the attitude of the village, deprived of their _festa_, was becoming threatening. A quarter of an hour ago, while in the piazza, he saw the black looks of the disappointed men. A lad started to strum upon a mandoline, and was roughly cuffed for playing music.

The little flags waved in the summer breeze, but there was no music, no gaiety, no laughter. The village had become sulky in its bitter disappointment.

At two o’clock a large party of men assembled, and under the leadership of a tall, swarthy giant, Vincenzio Canterelli, who kept a _trattoria_ and wine-shop, and was known to all in Cencio, went down the hillside to search the woods.

Ambrose, standing beside the low wall of the piazza and looking over the sunlit valley below, watched the party with their dogs break up into smaller parties and go forth in different directions in search of the missing priest.

Most of the men of Santa Lucia descended to the plain to assist, leaving the women to chatter, gossip, and form all sorts of wild theories as to the _curato’s_ absence.

The Englishman overheard some strange rumours during that long, anxious afternoon--rumours which caused him to ponder deeply. That Don Mario was in the habit of taking nocturnal rambles was evidently common knowledge, and though a love affair was hinted at, yet there seemed no tangible evidence of his ever being seen in conversation with any woman.

The long, hot hours dragged by, but the men did not return. From the piazza the women watched the tiny groups moving like insects over the green country deep below. And as the time passed, and the sun sank slowly over the Maremma and the distant sea, the anxiety increased.

Something had certainly happened to Don Mario. A dark shadow had fallen upon the village of Santa Lucia.

Evening fell, but no one had the heart, or even dared to light those little lamps hung around the piazza. The drum and the brass instruments still stood piled against the tree. The sweetmeat stall had been removed. The day was over--it had passed for the first time for ten centuries without the feast of Corpus Domini.

Men were arriving home jaded and fagged after a fruitless search. For a great many miles around the whole of the country-side had been examined with scrupulous care--the quarries, the precipitous rocks, the woods and streams had all been patrolled to no purpose.

Night was closing in and Don Mario was still missing. He had mysteriously and absolutely disappeared.

It was late; indeed, the moon had risen before the last search-party came up through the narrow mediæval gateway, which led, steep down, to the road to Rome.

They were shouting, and quickly the village became aroused. The people rushed from the piazza to the old gateway.

Then they saw, by the flickering lamps, that a dozen men were carrying gently something upon boards.

“We have found him!” the men were shouting excitedly. “We have found him!” cried Vincenzio. “But----”

And the outburst of the anxious villagers drowned the rest of the man’s sentence, as they turned with their burden up the narrow lane towards the small white presbytery.

John Ambrose dashed towards them, a lantern in his hand.

He held it high as he looked upon his friend’s white, upturned face, then uttering a cry, he let the lamp drop from his nerveless fingers upon the grass-grown stones.