Dr. Merrick took them up, and slank noiselessly from the room, murmuring as he went some inarticulate words to the effect that he had only desired to serve her.  As soon as he was gone, Herminia’s nerve gave way.  She flung herself into a chair, and sobbed long and violently.

It was no time for her, of course, to think about money.  Sore pressed as she was, she had just enough left to see her safely through her confinement.  Alan had given her a few pounds for housekeeping when they first got into the rooms, and those she kept; they were hers; she had not the slightest impulse to restore them to his family.  All he left was hers too, by natural justice; and she knew it.  He had drawn up his will, attestation clause and all, with even the very date inserted in pencil, the day before they quitted London together; but finding no friends at the club to witness it, he had put off executing it; and so had left Herminia entirely to her own resources.  In the delirium of his fever, the subject never occurred to him.  But no doubt existed as to the nature of his last wishes; and if Herminia herself had been placed in a similar position to that of the Merrick family, she would have scorned to take so mean an advantage of the mere legal omission.

By this time, of course, the story of her fate had got across to England, and was being read and retold by each man or woman after his or her own fashion.  The papers mentioned it, as seen through the optic lens of the society journalist, with what strange refraction.  Most of them descried in poor Herminia’s tragedy nothing but material for a smile, a sneer, or an innuendo.  The Dean himself wrote to her, a piteous, paternal note, which bowed her down more than ever in her abyss of sorrow.  He wrote as a dean must,—­gray hairs brought down with sorrow to the grave; infinite mercy of Heaven; still room for repentance; but oh, to keep away from her pure young sisters!  Herminia answered with dignity, but with profound emotion.  She knew her father too well not to sympathize greatly with his natural view of so fatal an episode.

So she stopped on alone for her dark hour in Perugia.  She stopped on, untended by any save unknown Italians whose tongue she hardly spoke, and uncheered by a friendly voice at the deepest moment of trouble in a woman’s history.  Often for hours together she sat alone in the cathedral, gazing up at a certain mild-featured Madonna, enshrined above an altar.  The unwedded widow seemed to gain some comfort from the pitying face of the maiden mother.  Every day, while still she could, she walked out along the shadeless suburban road to Alan’s grave in the parched and crowded cemetery.  Women trudging along with crammed creels on their backs turned round to stare at her.  When she could no longer walk, she sat at her window towards San Luca and gazed at it.  There lay the only friend she possessed in Perugia, perhaps in the universe.