CHAPTER LV. THE PRISONER AT CATTARO
So much occupied and interested were the little household of the villa in Bramleigh's departure—there were so many things to be done, so many things to be remembered—that L'Estrange never once thought of the messenger from the Podestà, who still waited patiently for his answer.
“I declare,” said Julia, “that poor man is still standing in the hall. For pity's sake, George, give him some answer, and send him away.”
“But what is the answer to be, Ju? I have not the faintest notion of how these cases are dealt with.”
“Let us look over what that great book of instructions says. I used to read a little of it every day when we came first, and I worried Mr. Bramleigh so completely with my superior knowledge that he carried it off and hid it.”
“Oh, I remember now. He told me he had left it at the consulate, for that you were positively driving him distracted with official details.”
“How ungrateful men are! They never know what good 'nagging' does them. It is the stimulant that converts half the sluggish people in the world into reasonably active individuals.”
“Perhaps we are occasionally over-stimulated,” said George, dryly.
“If so, it is by your own vanity. Men are spoiled by their fellow-men, and not by women. There, now, you look very much puzzled at that paradox—as you 'd like to call it—but go away and think over it, and say this evening if I'm not right.”
“Very likely you are,” said he, in his indolent way; “but whether or not, you always beat me in a discussion.”
“And this letter from the Podesta; who is to reply, or what is the reply to be?”
“Well,” said he, after a pause, “I think of the two I 'd rather speak bad Italian than write it. I 'll go down and see the Podestà.”
“There 's zeal and activity,” said Julia, laughing. “Never disparage the system of nagging after that. Poor George,” said she as she looked after him while he set out for Cattaro, “he 'd have a stouter heart to ride a six-foot wall than for the interview that is now before him.”
“And yet,” said Nelly, “it was only a moment ago you were talking to him about his vanity.”
“And I might as well have talked about his wealth. But you 'd spoil him, Nelly, if I was n't here to prevent it. These indolent men get into the way of believing that languor and laziness are good temper; and as George is really a fine-hearted fellow, I 'm angry when he falls back upon his lethargy for his character, instead of trusting, as he could and as he ought, to his good qualities.”
Nelly blushed, but it was with pleasure. This praise of one she liked—liked even better than she herself knew—was intense enjoyment to her.
Let us now turn to L'Estrange, who strolled along towards Cattaro—now stopping to gather the wild anemones which, in every splendid variety of color, decked the sward—now loitering to gaze at the blue sea, which lay still and motionless at his feet. There was that voluptuous sense of languor in the silence—the loaded perfume of the air—the drowsy hum of insect life—the faint plash with which the sea, unstirred by wind, washed the shore—that harmonized to perfection with his own nature; and could he but have had Nelly at his side to taste the happiness with him, he would have deemed it exquisite, for, poor fellow, he was in love after his fashion. It was not an ardent impulsive passion, but it consumed him slowly and certainly, all the same. He knew well that his present life of indolence and inactivity could not, ought not, to continue—that without some prompt effort on his part, his means of subsistence would be soon exhausted; but as the sleeper begs that he may be left to slumber on, and catch up, if he may, the dream that has just been broken, he seemed to entreat of fate a little longer of the delicious trance in which he now was living. His failures in life had deepened in him that sense of humility which in coarse natures turns to misanthropy, but in men of finer mould makes them gentle, and submissive, and impressionable. His own humble opinion of himself deprived him of all hope of winning Nelly's affection, but he saw—or he thought he saw—in her that love of simple pleasures and of a life removed from all ambitions, that led him to believe she would not regard his pretensions with disdain. And then he felt that, thrown together into that closer intimacy their poverty had brought about, he had maintained towards her a studious deference and respect which had amounted almost to coldness, for he dreaded that she should think he would have adventured, in their fallen fortunes, on what he would never have dared in their high and palmy days.
“Well,” said he, aloud, as he looked at the small fragment of an almost finished cigar, “I suppose it is nigh over now! I shall have to go and seek my fortune in Queensland, or New Zealand, or some far-away country, and all I shall carry with me will be the memory of this dream—for it is a dream—of our life here. I wonder shall I ever, as I have seen other men, throw myself into my work, and efface the thought of myself, and of my own poor weak nature, in the higher interests that will press on me for action.”
What should he do if men came to him for guidance, or counsel, or consolation. Could he play the hypocrite, and pretend to give what he had not got? or tell them to trust to what he bitterly knew was not the sustaining principle of his own life? “This shall be so no longer,” cried he; “if I cannot go heart and soul into my work, I 'll turn farmer or fisherman. I 'll be what I can be without shame and self-reproach. One week more of this happiness—one week—and I vow to tear myself from it forever.”
As he thus muttered, he found himself in the narrow street that led into the centre of the little town, which, blocked up by fruit-stalls and fish-baskets, required all his address to navigate. The whole population, too, were screaming out their wares in the shrill cries of the South, and invitations to buy were blended with droll sarcasms on rival productions and jeering comments on the neighbors. Though full of deference for the unmistakable signs of gentleman in his appearance, they did not the less direct their appeals to him as he passed, and the flatteries on his handsome face and graceful figure mingled with the praises of whatever they had to sell.
Half amused, but not a little flurried by all the noise and tumult around him, L'Estrange made his way through the crowd till he reached the dingy entrance which led to the still dingier stair of the Podestà's residence.
L'Estrange had scarcely prepared the speech in which he should announce himself as charged with consular functions, when he found himself in presence of a very dirty little man, with spectacles and a skull-cap, whose profuse civilities and ceremonious courtesies actually overwhelmed him. He assured L'Estrange that there were no words in Italian—nor even in German, for he spoke in both—which could express a fractional part of the affliction he experienced in enforcing measures that savored of severity on a subject of that great nation which had so long been the faithful friend and ally of the imperial house. On this happy political union it was clear he had prepared himself historically, for he gave a rapid sketch of the first empire, and briefly threw off a spirited description of the disastrous consequences of the connection with France, and the passing estrangement from Great Britain. By this time, what between the difficulties of a foreign tongue, and a period with which the poor parson was not, historically, over conversant, he was completely mystified and bewildered. At last the great functionary condescended to become practical. He proceeded to narrate that an English sailor, who had been landed at Ragusa by some Greek coasting-vessel, had come over on foot to Cat-taro to find his consul as a means of obtaining assistance to reach England. There were, however, suspicious circumstances about the man that warranted the police in arresting him and carrying him off to prison. First of all, he was very poor, almost in rags, and emaciated to a degree little short of starvation. These were signs that vouched little for a man's character; indeed, the Podestà thought them damaging in the last degree; but there were others still worse. There were marks on his wrists and ankles which showed he had lately worn manacles and fetters—unmistakable marks: marks which the practised eye of gendarmes had declared must have been produced by the heavy chains worn by galley-slaves, so that the man was, without doubt, an escaped convict, and might be, in consequence, a very dangerous individual.
As the prisoner spoke neither Italian nor German, there was no means of interrogating him. They had therefore limited themselves to taking him into custody, and now held him at the disposal of the consular authority, to deal with him as it might please.
“May I see him?” asked L'Estrange.
“By all means; he is here. We have had him brought from the prison awaiting your Excellency's arrival. Perhaps you would like to have him handcuffed before he is introduced. The brigadier recommends it.”
“No, no. If the poor creature be in the condition you tell me, he cannot be dangerous.” And the stalwart curate threw a downward look at his own brawny proportions with a satisfied smile that did not show much fear.
The brigadier whispered something in the Podestà's ear in a low tone, and the great man then said aloud—“He tells me that he could slip the handcuffs on him now quite easily, for the prisoner is sound asleep, and so overcome by fatigue that he hears nothing.”
“No, no,” reiterated L'Estrange. “Let us have no hand-cuffs; and with your good permission, too, I would ask another favor: let the poor fellow take his sleep out. It will be quite time enough for me to see him when he awakes.”
The Podestà turned a look of mingled wonder and pity on the man who could show such palpable weakness in official life; but he evidently felt he could not risk his dignity by concurrence in such a line of conduct.
“If your Excellency,” said he, “tells me it is in this wise prisoners are treated in your country, I have no more to say.”
“Well, well; let him be brought up,” said L'Estrange, hastily, and more than ever anxious to get free of this Austrian Dogberry.
Nothing more was said on either side while the brigadier went down to bring up the prisoner. The half darkened room, the stillness, the mournful ticking of a clock that made the silence more significant, all impressed L'Estrange with a mingled feeling of weariness and depression; and that strange melancholy that steals over men at times, when all the events of human life seem sad-colored and dreary, now crept over him, when the shuffling sounds of feet, and the clanging of a heavy sabre, apprised him that the escort was approaching.
“We have no treaty with any of the Italian Governments,” said the Podestà, “for extradition; and if the man be a galley-slave, as we suspect, we throw all the responsibility of his case on you.” As he spoke, the door opened, and a young man with a blue flannel shirt and linen trousers entered, freeing himself from the hands of the gendarmes with a loose shake, as though to say, “In presence of my countrymen in authority, I owe no submission to these.” He leaned on the massive rail that formed a sort of barrier in the room, and with one hand pushed back the long hair that fell heavily over his face.
“What account do you give of yourself, my man?” said L'Estrange, in a tone half-commanding, half-encouraging.
“I have come here to ask my consul to send me on to England, or to some seaport where I may find a British vessel,” said the man, and his voice was husky and weak, like that of one just out of illness.
“How did you come to these parts?” asked L'Estrange.
“I was picked up at sea by a Greek trabaccolo, and landed at Antivari; the rest of the way I came on foot.”
“Were you cast away? or how came it that you were picked up?”
“I made my escape from the Bagni at Ischia. I had been a galley-slave there.” The bold effrontery of the declaration was made still more startling by a sort of low laugh which followed his words.
“You seem to think it a light matter to have been at the galleys, my friend,” said L'Estrange, half reprovingly. “How did it happen that an Englishman should be in such a discreditable position?”
“It's a long story—too long for a hungry man to tell,” said the sailor; “perhaps too long for your own patience to listen to. At all events, it has no bearing on my present condition.”
“I'm not so sure of that, my good fellow. Men are seldom sentenced to the galleys for light offences; and I 'd like to know something of the man I'm called on to befriend.”
“I make you the same answer I gave before—the story would take more time than I have well strength for. Do you know,” said he, earnestly, and in a voice of touching significance, “it is twenty-eight hours since I have tasted food?”
L'Estrange leaned forward in his chair, like one expecting to hear more, and eager to catch the words aright; and then rising, walked over to the rail where the prisoner stood. “You have not told me your name,” said he, in a voice of kindly meaning.
“I have been called Sam Rogers for some time back; and I mean to be Sam Rogers a little longer.”
“But it is not your real name?” asked L'Estrange, eagerly.
The other made no reply for some seconds; and then, moving his hand carelessly through his hair, said, in a half-reckless way, “I declare, sir, I can't see what you have to do with my name, whether I be Sam Rogers, or—or—anything else I choose to call myself. To you—I believe, at least—to you I am simply a distressed British sailor.”
“And you are Jack Bramleigh?” said L'Estrange, in a low tone, scarcely above a whisper, while he grasped the sailor's hands, and shook them warmly.
“And who are you?” said Jack, in a voice shaken and faltering.
“Don't you know me, my poor dear fellow? Don't you remember George L'Estrange?”
What between emotion and debility, this speech unmanned him so that he staggered back a couple of paces, and sank down heavily, not fainting, but too weak to stand, too much overcome to utter.