The Turquoise Cup, and, The Desert | Page 9

me the happiest days of my youth.
You are the image of Nora Blake, yes, her very image. I kiss the images
of saints every day," he added, "why not this one?" and he bent and
kissed Lady Nora's hand.
There was so much solemnity in the act that an awkward pause might
have followed it had not Miss O'Kelly been Irish.
"Your imminence," she said, "since you've told us your age, I'll tell you
mine. I'm two-and-twenty and I'm mighty tired of standin'. Let's go aft
and have our tay."
They had taken but a few steps when Lady Nora, noticing the cardinal's
limp, drew his arm through her own and supported him.
"I know the whole story," she whispered. "You loved my
grandmother."

"Yes," said the cardinal, "but I was unworthy."

IV
They had their tea, two white-clad stewards serving them. The cardinal
took a second cup and then rose and went to the side. He crumbled a
biscuit along the rail.
"I have often wondered," he said, "if my pigeons come for me or for
my crumbs. Nora Blake used to say that her poor were as glad to see
her without a basket as with one. But she was a saint. She saw things
more clearly than it is given to us to see them."
The women looked at each other, in silence.
"No," said the cardinal, after an interval, "they do not come; they are as
satisfied with Pietro's crumbs as with mine. Love is not a matter of the
stomach;" and he brushed the crumbs overboard. "Perhaps the fishes
will get them," he added, "and they will not know whence they came.
Anonymous charity," he continued, coming back to his chair, "is the
best. It curbs the pride of the giver and preserves the pride of the
recipient. Open giving is becoming a trade. It is an American invention.
Very rich men in that country offer so much for an object--a college--a
hospital--a library--if some one else will give so much. The offer is
printed in the newspapers of the land and its originator reaps
much--what is the word I wish?--acclaim? no; kudos? no;--ah, yes,
advertisement; that is the word. Thank God that charity does not thus
masquerade in Italy. There are men here, in poor old Venice, who give
half their goods to feed the poor. Are their names published? No. The
newspapers reason thus--'Here is a gentleman; let us treat him as one,'
We have no professional philanthropists in Italy. After all," he added,
"mere giving is the lowest form of charity. If all the wealth of the world
were divided the world would be debauched. Binding up wounds,
pouring in oil and wine, bringing the wronged man to an inn, giving
him your companionship, your sympathy, so that he shows his heart to
you and lets you heal its bruises--that is your true charity."
"That's what I'm telling Nora," exclaimed Miss O'Kelly; "she's forever
drawing checks. There was my nephew, Nora's cousin, Phelim. He
gave away all he had. He gave it to the piquet players in the Kildare
Club. 'Aunt Molly,' he said to me, 'piquet has cost me fifteen thousand
pounds, and I am just beginning to learn the game. Now that I know it a

bit, no one will play with me. Your bread cast on the waters may come
back, but it's ten to one it comes back mouldy, from the voyage.'
Phelim is the flower of the family, your imminence. He is six foot three.
He was out twice before he was two-and-twenty. The first time was
with Liftennant Doyle of the Enniskillens. 'Twas about a slip of a girl
that they both fancied. The Liftennant fired at the word and missed.
'Try your second barrel,' called Phelim, 'I'm still within bounds' (that's
pigeon-shootin' talk, your imminence). The Liftennant laughed and the
two went off to the club, arm in arm, and they stayed there two days.
There's waiters in the club yet, that remembers it. The next time Phelim
was out, 'twas with a little attorney-man from Cork, named Crawford.
There was no girl this time; 'twas more serious; 'twas about a horse
Phelim had sold, and the little attorney-man had served a writ, and
Phelim went down to Cork and pulled the little man's nose. Whin the
word was given the attorney-man fired and nicked Phelim's ear. Phelim
raised his pistol, slow as married life, and covered the little man. 'Take
off your hat!' called Phelim. The little man obeyed, white as paper, and
shakin' like a leaf. 'Was the horse sound?' called Phelim. 'He was,' said
the little man 'Was he six years old?' called Phelim. 'At least,' said the
little man. 'None of your quibbles,' called Phelim. 'He was six, to a
minute,'